This isn't reflective of me, really; except I'm a little blue, I have a lot of friends who are breaking up, and I heard a whale song today. It's the most mournful sound I can imagine. It really pricked my heart, so I wrote this:
When I put these glasses on,
There are blades of grass
That before I could not see,
And petals when I pass.
I see each point of starry light
Away up in the sky--
Shapes and shadows not discerned
with my imperfect eye.
O might I put some glasses on,
The face of God to see?
Or little indications that
He lives and loveth me?
For now, my vision's darkened, and
The world is cold and gray:
The blurry gloom that comes at night
When He is far away.
Kind master of the merry glee:
Prepare your gifts, good Santa Claus,
And hang them on the Christmas tree.
poetry while waiting in the car
and drumming your fingers on the steering wheel
because you are waiting for your son
or daughter
or you are afraid to go in to the hospital
or you are dropping off a friend
The table where I grew up
eating breakfast and lunch and Thanksgiving dinner
was always large enough
for one more.
On April 20, 1609, a publisher called Thomas Thorpe entered in the Stationers' Register his right to publish “a booke called Shakespeares sonnettes”. The Shakespearean sonnet is one of my favorite forms of poetry with its rhyme scheme of abab cdcd efef gg. In honor of the day I am sharing one of my original sonnets with you. It's inspired by my sojourn in Saudi Arabia and my impending 50th birthday! I invite you to write a sonnet of your own or share one of your favorites below in the comments!
Now the green blade rises from the buried grain,
Wheat that in dark earth many days has lain;
Love lives again, that with the dead has been;
Love is come again like wheat arising green.
When I am depressed I tend to invest every little thing that I encounter with an exaggerated, symbolic meaning relating to myself. You know how this works, any of you? Trees, with their scant winter limbs reaching out to the sky represent your bare naked soul thrust up to the iron-gray heaven of an unresponsive God. Or you will be eating almonds and, holding one in your salty fingers, you contemplate the hardness and brittleness you have been manifesting to your children.
The "This is Just to Say" Meme takes its inspiration from Kacy's post at Light Refreshments Served blog. Read it! She has written some hysterical spoofs of the William Carlos Williams poem, This is Just to Say. Do you remember it from high school?
This is Just to Say
I have eaten the plums
that were in the icebox
and which
you were probably saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
They were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
This is Just to Say
I already left for Church
without you
leaving you to
press your shirt
change the baby's diaper
And braid five heads of hair
Forgive me
while I sit in the driveway
and gleefully honk
the horn
I promised some posts on upcoming Book of Mormon Sunday School lessons. But I have to warn you, I've been in a blue funk lately. So I suspect my thoughts are neither inspiring nor fit for Sunday School consumption. But maybe it will help you know what not to say.
LDS Sunday School students will soon take a quick leap through 13 chapters of Isaiah which are quoted by Nephi in 2nd Nephi chapters 12-24. All too often, some uniquely Mormon interpretations are given to these chapters which merit a critical analysis. In this post I present five Mormonisms which I believe hinder a deeper and more accurate understanding of Isaiah's writings.
1. 2 Nephi 12:2,3 Popular LDS commentary on this verse identifies it as Isaiah's vision of people from many lands coming to Salt Lake City, Utah.
Many prophecies of Isaiah are dual and can be applied to more than one time, situation or people. I am aware that latter-day prophets and apostles have related this verse to the Salt Lake temple or even to the Conference Center from which the word of the Lord is issuing forth in these days. However, if we insist too strongly on this Mormon-centric view, we can miss the primary application which this verse has to the millennial reign of the Messiah. The word "mountain" as used in the Bible is a metaphor for "nation," "government," or "political system." In verses 2 and 3 Isaiah is speaking of the millennial condition when Christ shall establish the political Kingdom of God upon the earth. This will be established "in the top of the mountains," or in other words "as the head of the nations."
2. 2 Nephi 12:3 Isaiah wrote that the word of the Lord will come from Jerusalem, and the law will come from Zion, the New Jerusalem, located in Jackson County, Missouri. There will be two distinct centers of influence for God's people.
This may be, but verse 3 should not be used as a proof-text. Here we have a synonymous chiastic parallel where
the Law = the Word of the Lord, and
Zion = Jerusalem (one and the same)
For the day of the LORD of hosts shall be
upon every one that is proud and lofty,
and upon every one that is lifted up; and he shall be brought low:
and upon all the cedars of Lebanon, that are high and lifted up,
and upon all the oaks of Bashan,
and upon all the high mountains,
and upon all the hills that are lifted up,
and upon every high tower,
and upon every fenced wall,
and upon all the ships of Tarshish,
and upon all pleasant pictures (fine craft)
and the loftiness of man shall be bowed down,
and the haughtiness of men shall be made low;
and the LORD alone shall be exalted in that day.
I hope DH doesn't feel offended, but I found someone to make my heart go "pitty-pat" this Valentine's Day. It's Poet Laureate and Pulitzer Prize winner Ted Kooser. (hat tip: Amelia) Some of you young male bloggers can pick up a few tips from this guy! Kooser admits that he started writing poetry as a young man with the goal of gaining female attention. In those years," he said, "I desperately needed some sort of a gimmick, for I was thin and pimply, my palms sweated, and my breath was sour from smoking the Chesterfields that despite the claims of magazine advertising had failed to make me irresistible. I got the idea that being a poet might make me attractive. It didn't occur to me for a long time that in order to earn the title of 'poet,' I ought to have written at least one poem. Being a poet was looking the part.
Oh, Mariachi Me
All my life I have wanted nothing so much
as the love of women. For them I have fashioned
the myth of myself, the singing troubador
with the flashing eyes. Always for them
my black sombrero with its swinging tassels,
this vest embroidered with hearts, these trousers
with silver studs down the seams. Oh, I am
Mariachi me, as I had intended. I am success
and the price of success, now old and dusty
at the edge of the dance floor, still smiling,
heavy with hope, clutching my dead guitar.
Ted Kooser, Valentine's Day 2006
If you feel sorry for yourself
this Valentine's Day, think of
the dozens of little paper poppies
left in the box when the last
of the candy is gone, how they
must feel, dried out and brown
in their sad old heart-shaped box...
(Excerpt of Ted Kooser poem "If You Feel Sorry")
If this comes creased and creased again and soiled
as if I'd opened it a thousand times
to see if what I'd written here was right,
it's all because I looked too long for you
to put it in your pocket. Midnight says
the little gifts of loneliness come wrapped
by nervous fingers. What I wanted this
to say was that I want to be so close
that when you find it, it is warm from me.
Ted Kooser, "Pocket Poem," Valentine's Day 1986
First, I would have her be beautiful,
and walking carefully up on my poetry
at the loneliest moment of an afternoon,
her hair still damp at the neck
from washing it. She should be wearing
a raincoat, an old one, dirty
from not having money enough for the cleaners.
She will take out her glasses, and there
in the bookstore, she will thumb
over my poems, then put the book back
up on its shelf. She will say to herself,
"For that kind of money, I can get
my raincoat cleaned." And she will.
High in the chaffy
Taffy colored haze of the hayloft,
Up under the starry nail-hole twinkle of the old tin roof
There in a nest of straw and bailing twine
I have hidden my valentine for you
A white heart woven of snowy feathers
In which wide eyes are welcome
Open to you as you climb the rickety ladder to my love
Behind those eyes lies a boudoir of intimate darkness, darling
The silks of oblivion
And set like a jewel dead center in the heart
Is a golden hook the size of a finger ring
To hold you always
Plumpest sweetheart mouse of mine.
(Here he is reading the poem aloud, in his adorable, self-deprecating manner: (KooserBarnOwl)
Using a cobbler’s shoe last
I found one summer at a yard sale,
and the heavy leather uppers
from cast-off boots, a jigsaw,
some wood, an awl and thread,
and a few evenings sitting alone
thinking of you, I have fashioned
a pair of red valentine shoes
with heart-shaped wooden heels.
Look for my tracks on your doorstep
where I stood with sore feet
through the evening, too timid to knock.
After YearsToday, from a distance, I saw you
walking away, and without a sound
the glittering face of a glacier
slid into the sea. An ancient oak
fell in the Cumberlands, holding only
a handful of leaves, and an old woman
scattering corn to her chickens looked up
for an instant. At the other side
of the galaxy, a star thirty-five times
the size of our own sun exploded
and vanished, leaving a small green spot
on the astronomer’s retina
as he stood on the great open dome
of my heart with no one to tell.
We are all aware of Eliza's contribution to LDS belief through her poem, "The Eternal Father and Mother," which became the popular hymn "O My Father." The poem was frequently reprinted, put to a number of musical settings, and sung at formal as well as informal Church settings. Eliza popularized the concept of a mother God to such an extent that by 1873 Wilford Woodruff credited her poem as the source of the doctrine, identifying it as "a revelation, though it was given unto us by a woman--Sister Snow." [1]
The female bard Eliza treated many other principles of the Church in her poetry. One of her lesser-known poems, "The Ultimatum of a Human Life" [2] is of interest because it speaks of the Adam-God doctrine, once furiously debated, and now repudiated in the modern Church. "The Ultimatum" begins in a familiar LDS setting. The author is musing at twilight when a spirit guide appears to instruct her. This scene vividly recalls Lehi's dream in the Book of Mormon. Lehi's son Nephi likewise had the experience of entertaining an angel who had come to instruct him in religious principles. To a Mormon audience, this poetic convention gives the later instruction a powerful endorsement.
"What would'st thou me?" the seraph gently said:
"Tell me, and wherefore hast thou sought my aid?"
Adam, your God, like you on earth, has been
Subject to sorrow in a world of sin:
Through long gradation he arose to be
Cloth'd with the Godhead's might and majesty...
By his obedience he obtain'd the place
Of God and Father of this human race.
We believe in our God, the Prince of his race,
The archangel Michael, the Ancient of Days
Our own Father Adam, earth's Lord as is plain,
Who'll counsel and fight for His children again.
We believe in His Son, Jesus Christ who in love
To His brothers and sisters came down from above,
To die, to redeem them from death, and to teach
To mortals and spirits the gospel we preach. [3]
...But now I’m but a child of dust;
Thanks, thanks to Him, in whom I trust,
I’m not without his wise direction,
His smiles, his guidance and protection.
Adam, our father--Eve, our mother,
And Jesus Christ, our elder brother,
Are to my understanding shown:
My heart responds, they are my own.
Perfection lifts them far from me,
But what they are, we yet may be,
If we, tho’ slowly, follow on,
We’ll reach the point to which they’ve gone. [4]
This poem, written by Rebecca del Rio-Ruso is a stirring protest of war using the same imagery I used in my poem "I Put on Black."
DE LUTO
El dÃa que lanzaron el bombardeo (digo ellos,
porque nosotros no tenemos bombas,)
me vestà de luto.
Doble y metà en un pliegue el rojo, el amarillo, la ira y puse
La esperanza en su lugar. Almacené el verde, el azul, la anticipación,
Y el deseo en un rinconcito lindo.
El dÃa que lanzaron el bombardeo (digo ellos,
Porque nosotros no tenemos bombas,)
apilé el verde oliva, el marrón,
La serenidad y el reposo en el tocador
Y me vestà de luto.
El dÃa que se lanzaron el bombardeo (digo ellos,
Porque nosotros no tenemos bombas,)
me fijé mientras el naranja estalló
en estrellas espectaculares, como chispas de
Una hoguera del desierto. Almacene mis bufandas, mis pulseras,
Los amuletos y la risa.
Y me vestà de luto.
El dÃa que se lanzaron el bombardeo
(digo ellos,
Porque nosotros no tenemos bombas,)
me absorbió del pecho
El aire en tragos tremendos,
tragos turquesa, fucsia,
De doloridos tonos morado.
Lo sentà cuando el aire giraba encima y
Me vestà de luto.
El dÃa que lanzamos el bombardeo
(digo nosotros porque
Por mas que me rehusé lo hicieron en mi nombre)
Doblé la alegrÃa como doblarÃa una tienda de campaña de los Bedoin,
Una carpa reluciente, de flequillo,
que ondula en la brisa del desierto
Y me vestà de luto.
Rebecca del Rio-Ruso
-------------------------------
IN BLACK
The day they started bombing (they, not we
Because we do not have bombs), I put on black.
I folded away red, yellow, rage, and
Hope. I tucked greens, blues, anticipation
And desire in a neat corner
And I put on black.
The day they started bombing (they, not we
Because we do not have bombs) I stacked olive, tan,
Quietude and rest in the cabinet.
And I put on black.
The day they started bombing (they, not we
Because we do not have bombs) I watched orange
Shower up in spectacular sparks like
A desert bonfire. I put away my scarves, silver bracelets,
Amulets and laughter.
And I put on black.
The day they started bombing (they, not we
Because we do not have bombs,) I felt
The air being sucked out of me
In great gulps of teal, fuchsia, pained
Shades of purple. I felt the air wheeling over as
I put on black.
The day we started bombing (we because no matter
How I refused, they used my name anyway)
I folded up joy, like a Bedouin's tent, bright,
Fringed and billowing and put on black.
Rebecca del Rio-Ruso
and now my rss takes my words to a place where they are
not wanted
scorned, mocked, analyzed
shreds of my soul
shaken and stepped on by heavy feet
found wanting i am
breathing bearing bleeding
and now i write knowing all is judged and
scathed scalded i clutch keyboard
holding the words
girdled to my chest
but they pour forth wildly
seeking
what is not there
and now again come words of sharpness
slicing searing spears
i cower
in the day
i cover pain with clothes
and smiles
work nurture serve
my mouth makes sounds
in the night
my skin must match my
inner wounds i press
the blade close
breathing bleeding blessed
My head I bow.
You like me now.
You like me now.
I put away my chartreuse scarf,
And colored things I used to wear.
My second piercings now are bare,
I gel down my unruly hair.
I do not have a lot to say.
My makeup now is quite subdued.
I seem to cook a lot of food,
I don’t go swimming in the nude.
I nod and murmur when I should,
I shut my mouth, my thoughts I still,
My questions and my quirks I kill--
My secret longings none can fill.
The ward is suddenly so kind.
I’m not as different now, you see!
A call has been extended me
To teach Relief Society.
Sedately I walk down the aisle,
The Bishop’s wife sits by my side,
She nods at me; you smile with pride,
I feel a tearing deep inside.
I clean the toilets and the hall,
Read stories to my sweet sunbeams.
We never argue now, it seems.
I wonder where I put my dreams.
Your temple marriage now is safe,
You hold my hand that wears the ring.
I never dance, I never sing,
You would not notice such a thing.
I’m all in black,
I’ve kept my vow,
You like me now,
You like me now.
But this is what
You do not see:
I don’t like me,
I don’t like me.
Who am I?
I do not know
My heart beats fast,
Your heart beats slow--
You tell me that it isn't so
I nod my head, away I go.
Who am I?
You tell me then.
You tell me what,
You tell me when--
Though knowing is beyond your ken
That's why I've gone away again.
It is a strange anomaly
I keep your words inside of me
Although they only cause me hurt
And keep that true self in the dirt
That must be me, all veiled in black.
I wish that I could call me back.
One long, sharp needle
Of pine, assaulted by storm
Falls, to pierce the ground.
One sad, sharp tear
Of pain, I the assaulted,
You who pierce my heart.
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