January

For Mrs. J. White–rather late I’m afraid.

January beckons from across the year-divide.
She is strong, and she pledges herself to the bold.
She is not easy. She is no tender bride,
But her charms are deep; her dowry, rarest gold.

Time and a New December

In view of the passage of time, I write this. It’s much like Tolkien’s elves, time. Solemn and grey the elves passed from green home to Grey Havens, and thence to Valinor, never to awe a mortal eye again. Each one, having lived an age, bears the pregnant weight of an age’s memories. And the elves all finally go home, go home, returning from whence they came. And when they have gone, what? A new world is born.

A poem without much verse to it; lines tied together at the ends like shoestrings, with little to no attention paid to line-length or regularity of meter, like as one in haste snatches two socks from the drawer.

For Jennifer

A new December dawns today, new to all the world,
And tightly in the fog above are precious seconds furled,
Or falling all around us with the virgin snowbuds bright.
Cloud-cloaked is the sun; its hidden store of beams of light,
Is planted in the soil beyond the reach of human eyes.
Look! Snowflake upon snowflake rings with splendor as it flies,
Catch one on your tongue; it melts and others drown away:
And so is every second of the time we call today.

My most exuberant thanks to Unknowing, who can speak of poetry. I am learning to learn.

Context

The pun is mightier than the sword, for the sword cleaves the flesh of man for a moment, but a pun can trivialize very God to a generation.

How Things Sneak Up

Did I think I had spelled it correctly? I no longer know, but I am a little disturbed to find that I have spelled, though in parts, “claustrophobic” as “clausterphobic.” Nothing of much consequence, but worth pointing out lest I cause confusion. Surely the world is full enough of it without those who wish they knew better making more.

Something of a little more consequence: I recently had the chance to visit my favorite place in the progressing city of Willmar. And arriving, I laughed! Amid the muddles of my memory, my description of that certain “Favored Crossing” was grossly mistaken. I remember now–after the truth of my error has had its fun at my expense–that as I wrote it, I was thinking how cleanly each of the four branches from the intersection contrasted with its opposite along the same line, how like to semi-illuminated moons were the perpendicular streets, darkness on one side, light on the other. . . . How wrong I was!

Anyone who has seen the intersection of which I spoke (Litchfield Ave. SW and 4th Street SW, I believe.) knows that it is really very unlike my description. It is so unlike that I am in no small way embarrassed that I had believed for so long that it indeed was like my description. I guess in my case, when fancy and memory compete, fancy wins.

I intended that post to be an approximate–if somewhat romanticized–description of that real place in a real city. I failed, building instead an imaginary picture from collected puzzle-pieces of visual data. And now that picture is shaken again to pieces: The edifices before which I seemed to stand in awe are now a disjointed body of random buildings, their histories, forgotten, their characters, shattered.

But such is the meeting of the imperfect world and an idealistic imagination, is it not? Art in any form sees what is in the world and, instead of showing it “like it is” in all its bleak candidness, beautifies it by painting the perfection it approximates, the real reality it represents.

Now I really should find a copy of a certain book by Roger Scruton. Then I might know what I’m saying . . .

Sweet for the Spirit

For Laurel Sheepskinner, Her Flowery Majesty, High Queen of Bees

Active bees of swarms produce;
Roving tight battalions loose,
Hunger on the meadow-flower.
‘Neath that army’s massive power,
Shyly slouching Beauty’s-Child,
Bends herself submissive, mild.

Thence to home they bear the prize.
Fierce, the works ‘fore secret eyes:
Crawling, making, toiling on,
Cease not till the work is done.
Ancient, soulless soldier-farm,
Gathers gold and does no harm.

Sweet sleep which guards the tranquil night,
Is like this trove of bounty bright.
For sleep will fell,
Sharp fears, and quell,
Our swarming thoughts grown big by day,
And lay them resting, tucked away.

Chanson de Clauster et Phobic

How Clauster Got Phobic

Upon hearing a pun that my brother made.

Clauster, as he lay one night,
Within his tiny bed,
Got up to get a tiny drink,
But banged his tiny head.

He hollered for the piercing pain,
And made up quite the din.
And thus poor Phobic’s woken up,
And walks on Clauster in.

“Hey, Clauster!” cries indignant Phob’,
“Why for make all this fuss?
Your baby’s cries and madman’s howl,
Will be the death of us!”

Now Clauster’s head was small to start,
But now with this dumb dent,
Poor Clauster’s addled all his wits,
And all his reason spent.

He leaped up from his crouchy pose,
And clung to Phobic’s head,
And swore that never, never more,
Will he go back to bed.

Ah, Yes

An excellent plumber is infinitely more admirable than an incompetent philosopher. The society that scorns excellence in plumbing because plumbing is a humble activity and tolerates shoddiness in philosophy because it is an exalted activity will have neither good plumbing nor good philosophy. Neither its pipes nor its theories will hold water.

John Gardner

Green

I met the Color Green for the first time today.

For years (two or three) I have mowed lawns. I have dressed in green, sung “Greensleeves” while cutting the green, cared for the green, yes, and at the end of the workday I have worn more green than at the start.

I met the Color Green for the first time today.

The world is full of color. Everything is colored. (Yes, white isn’t a color; yes, black isn’t a color, but they do not exist in purity perfect enough for that here, so we must stick with calling the slightly colored off-white and off-black by the names of the real ideas which they approximate.) But how often do I think of the images before my eyes as such? Indeed, I do not even think of what I see as images, much less as colored shapes–which, by the way, is what makes drawing so much harder than it need be.

I met the Color Green for the first time today.

I was mowing in the heat of the day, pondering whatever I would, when the grass ahead of me seemed to jump from the lawn and into my vision as nothing less than the Color Green! Thenceforward until I finished I could not look at the grass as only grass: I saw it as grass-and-green. Green grass it was, and green it had been, but I had never known.

I met the Color Green today.

Green!

I Wish.

It stinks to have to think in words.

The Company of Saints

Surround me with people devoted to laud,

Our most excellent, holy, most praiseworthy God.

O place me with saints who, with tear-trembling eye,

For the joy set before them, like Jesus, would die,

To bring the more glory to Yahweh above,

And to do so right gladly, returning His love.

O then, though a pilgrim, I will feel at rest,

To reside among those who love God first and best.

The Romance of Flies (As It Were)

A fly, once speaking to his mate:

“A moment, Love, I pray you wait.”

So saying this, away he leaves,

(How skillfully his way he weaves!)

And lighting on a certain plant,

Begins to work to fill his want.

Oh, unaware is he, nor knows,

What danger lurks beneath his toes.

He trips a hair—a snap! And then . . .

He’ll never see his mate again.

Nox Nocti Indicat Scientiam

WHEN I survey the bright
Celestial sphere;
So rich with jewels hung, that Night
Doth like an Ethiop bride appear:

My soul her wings doth spread
And heavenward flies,
Th’ Almighty’s mysteries to read
In the large volumes of the skies.

For the bright firmament
Shoots forth no flame
So silent, but is eloquent
In speaking the Creator’s name.

No unregarded star
Contracts its light
Into so small a character,
Removed far from our human sight,

But if we steadfast look
We shall discern
In it, as in some holy book,
How man may heavenly knowledge learn.

It tells the conqueror
That far-stretch’d power,
Which his proud dangers traffic for,
Is but the triumph of an hour:

That from the farthest North,
Some nation may,
Yet undiscover’d, issue forth,
And o’er his new-got conquest sway:

Some nation yet shut in
With hills of ice
May be let out to scourge his sin,
Till they shall equal him in vice.

And then they likewise shall
Their ruin have;
For as yourselves your empires fall,
And every kingdom hath a grave.

Thus those celestial fires,
Though seeming mute,
The fallacy of our desires
And all the pride of life confute:–

For they have watch’d since first
The World had birth:
And found sin in itself accurst,
And nothing permanent on Earth.

- William Habington, 1605–1654

Bright Horizon

The book progresses, and the old chapter is done and committed to obscurity. Also, the responses now number above one hundred. These are a milestone.

I mean, of course, that the last of my posts from 2008 have been pushed back and away out of sight, and the number of comments now sits at 103. I owe thanks to my readers for your toleration of my bad ideas and immature expression, as well as for your faithful encouragement. By God’s continuing grace, I’ll grow and improve, and it won’t be so bad.

I don’t know that I’ll be able to keep my promise of greater volume of writing and posting as well as I have been for these last few days, due to the constraint of time, but I’ll certainly keep trying.

To say more would be vanity, save this: Thank you.

Meditations from the Face of an Infant

It was Easter evening, and my nephew Ezra lay on a blanket unattended, for the room was full of family.  I descended to him and began to watch him, and this is what I learned.

Ezra is an intelligent child. There were times during that interview when I was sure that he was speaking, only without English words. And then the questions materialized: what does he have to say? what is he thinking about? how does he think? That these questions can even be worth asking shows just what a wondrous, precious creation an infant is. I’m now immensely curious to come to know babies. They’re fascinating.

I learned a little bit about parenting, too. I have seen a great many folks coo and giggle and gurgle or talk nonsense to babies as though it made sense to them . . .

One question rises in my mind at this: how can that make more sense to a baby than English. If babies do indeed think and speak in the funny language that sounds so much like gurgling and half-words, do folks honestly think that they can speak it also. And if a baby does not think and speak in said language, and thus can find comfort in these soothing sounds which seem to come from one whom he knows is too old for this, why not talk to him in soft, beautiful English, and thus comfort him as well as expose him to the language which he, too, will one day speak. But what do I know. I’m no mother; I’m not even a father, just a lousy uncle. (No offense intended toward the non-lousy uncles in the world. I speak against myself, alone.)

. . . But as I was saying before this digression, much of this activity have I seen. And I, disagreeing with it (perhaps also for some less idealistic reasons than I have put forth here), as you can see, have opted for silence instead. Hence I chose to stare at Ezra instead of to “talk” to him. This struck me as rude. For one thing, why should it be any less rude to stare at a baby in his presence than to stare at a grown person. That I even thought it acceptable at first to do so with Ezra appalled me.

Another thing: what good can it do. As long as I’m taking his time, why shouldn’t I talk good, sensible words of wisdom or at least share some interesting anecdote. Youths, as I tend all too often to example, are hard of hearing. Why not take all the available opportunities to teach while he cannot help but listen.

These are a few things which entered my mind as I watched him, and perhaps there were more, but I have forgotten. I talked with my sisters about it later, and I learned some wisdom which will be helpful in time to come, but it doesn’t really fit with my point here.

Go Read It

Mythopoeia – J.R.R. Tolkien

Excellent.

Will you a simple lesson heed?

Then learn, and on this teaching feed:

The man who does not, will not read,

A man he is, but lost, indeed.

Flatland

I never used to appreciate the Flatlands. The rough prairie always seemed so dull and uninteresting; the bare dirt of furrow after furrow, in field after field, mile after mile would make me long for the cold old forests of the north or the red soil and sunlit sand of the southern coasts. I even lamented my lack of love for the Flatlands. I knew that these things are good, and I wished that I could learn to love them for it. No longer must I wish.

I was traveling with family on the way to a state of still more prairie and farm-field. The sun shone brightly and mildly all about. He made known his presence well, but with the gentleness of one returning to a long-lost love. And it was cheer, great, pure cheer that he brought to his mate; and even I could feel it. The prairie and fields flew by us as we went on.

Then my thoughts were turned. They went to a recent memory, a good one, a beautiful one. And as I fondly pondered this good memory and tried to keep it full in my mind, a stray thought also entered and was well received.

This thought, this good realization was, simply, that the prairie-fields’ beauty did lie in its intrinsic bareness, in its vulnerability.

What traffics with the Flatland? It seems that almost everything does. The sun daily attends it, and the rain drops its bessings on it; Man plows it and tends it and harvests from it; the fallow deer and all manner of four-footed creatures walk among it and have their being. Prairie and farm-fields are among the largest of the types of land in this country, and many, many people have their living from it.

How is this possible? Natural prairie and the farm-fields which are often made from it are bare and helpless, by themselves. Neither tree nor mountain nor hill offer it protection, but it lies exposed to the sky and all forces of Man and nature. The Flatland depends on the friendship of all those who deal with it, and in turn, these caretakers and friends do indeed provide for the weakness. Both parties need and do allow the presence and the care of each other in a beautifully open, trusting friendship.

And in this dependence on Man and the rest of nature lies the femininity of the Flatland. The Flatland, while by no means less needful or important than its protectors is not capable of caring for itself or of causing itself to produce. If the City is the heart and head of the land, then the Flatland is the womb and the blood. From the Flatland are birthed wildlife aplenty, crops in abundance, and indeed, Man himself. From the Flatland are all these fed and nurtured.

And thus I have come suddenly to love the prairie and the fields, broad and endless though they seem. I look on them now, and instead of heartache, I feel a smile creep across my face, and a spark begin to glow in my eye. I appreciate them now for what they are, the sustenance of man and beast, the great earthly mate of the life-giving sky and all in its domain. And as I love them now, I shall ever onwards.

Lessons in a Speck

In a moment, a speck-sized fiber from nowhere floated into the light and into my sight and out again. While I could see it, it drew my gaze with it from right to left, but then it was gone. And it brought truths with it, and left some for me.

I cannot see all things at once. Only God can do that. My lot is to struggle, to strive and strive to see as much wisdom as possible, but I shall never see it all. This crushes any thoughts toward pride, for of what do I have to boast if I fail to see even the obvious, the things that, verily, do hang in the air about me? Pride is to think that what I see is all that there is to be seen, and that I see by my own power. This is the greatest error, for it causes me to cease looking to see, yet I must be knowing that I am half-blind at all times, and only by God’s grace do I see what I see.

I cannot see without light. God is Truth, and He alone is Arbiter thereof. I can claim no power to see; all I can do is to seek the light, and earnestly I must.

This earthly nature around me is not an oracle, but God has given it as a teacher for me, to remind me of the truth which He has already established in His Word. Here are lessons aplenty, but these are only shallow streams fed by the perfect spring that is God’s Word.

Tears Looking Up

A face, a chin, a cheek, an eye,

All downward bent with heavy sorrow-pain:

Wide rivers flood, to seek the sky,

And waters spread across the lowly plain.

Warm, salty streams pulse yet greater and drop.

Would God might give us more tears looking up!

Great sorrows load the head to mourn,

The drooping crown with weighty weeping kneels,

And will not rise. But th’eye, forlorn,

All drowned with tears, still soothing comfort feels:

Rains—cloudy, shining, but hopeful—still drop.

God, He has given us tears looking up!

Look on Him Whom They Pierced, and Mourn

Infinite grief! amazing woe!
Behold my bleeding Lord:
Hell and the Jews conspir’d his death,
And us’d the Roman sword.

O the sharp pangs of smarting pain
My dear Redeemer bore,
When knotty whips and ragged thorns
His sacred body tore!

But knotty whips and ragged thorns
In vain do I accuse;
In vain I blame the Roman bands,
And the more spiteful Jews.

‘Twere you, my sins, my cruel sins,
His chief tormentors were;
Each of my crimes became a nail,
And unbelief the spear.

‘Twere you that pull’d the vengeance down
Upon his guiltless head:
Break, break, my heart, O burst mine eyes!
And let my sorrows bleed.

Strike, mighty grace, my flinty soul,
Till melting waters flow,
And deep repentance drown mine eyes
In undissembled woe.

- Watts

Short and Accurate

Short and accurate, he said, my teacher. Definite and simple, he seemed to imply. Thus I comply, but it isn’t only compliance that drives me;  it’s necessity in self-interest, and necessity in other-interest, and desire. I need to learn to speak and write simply and plainly and briefly, because it is good for me, and indeed, I may soon have compulsory need for it.

The need for order and diligence (which might be called discipline) is being impressed upon me. At the end of a day, I reflect on what I have accomplished, and there seldom is much, if anything: I have spent the day in waiting, in hopping from one  thing to another, in pondering things other than that to which I had set myself.  It’s a nasty, discouraging way to live. I must overcome this!

***

I was going to elaborate here about Order and Diligence, but what I was thinking was not true, so I scrapped it. I’ll think about it more and possibly get back to you.

***

Hasten first until completion, then revise. I never do manage to do so rightly. I’m sure that a lot of boredom and nonsense could be saved if I would only adopt that habit and make it my own.

Or maybe I need to learn to think out loud only occasionally, and with discretion.

I’m going to focus on writing quickly and much for a while. I beg your pardon in advance, for this will probably mean that the writing won’t be as good as that on which I spend more time. But I desperately need the practice; I need to form good writing habits, and speed and willingness to let things go without worrying them forever are two important ones. Besides, you know, you all have been so inundating me with comments, it seems that the only fair response would be to inundate you with posts.