To Understand

If you stand beneath something,
You can consider it from its roots.
It's like a giant redwood tree,
With massive trunk through which a truck can drive,
That towers hundreds of feet into the sky,
Supporting a broad canopy of leaves and evergreen,
Giving shelter to songbirds and squirrels.
There is an understanding in its roots,
That ties it to the earth,
Holding it upright,
Not letting go of legs that dig deep, deep, deep
Through detritus and clay, seeking stone and water.
There is something that understands a tree,
And holds it so it won't fall down.
But still, I've seen a tree knocked over,
Its rootball sucked up from the ground,
A giant bolder of root and clay
As the tree lay on its side,
Overturned by wind.
Even then the dirt clings to the roots,
Never letting go.
The dirt will receive the tree.
It will melt again into the ground,
And its children will grow strong.
The tree will stand beneath her sons,
Who will grow mightily from the soil she nourishes
In her understanding.

Noon, Thursday, May 29, 2014

To my sons, I need to say:

Go with the one who will move your fingers to write new scripture.

Who will teach you to know God.

Who will carry you in themselves as your mother does.

Who loved you not for anything you did, but for who you are.

Not the one whose eyes show you her bed,

Nor the one whose hips distract you from her heart.

Not the one who offers you something to take,

But the one who offers you something to give.

Love the love that finds you in despair.

The one who stoops down to pick you up from the ground,

Who wipes the black tarnish from your soul

To reveal the heart of gold that lies beneath.

Love the love who loves you as your mother does,

Not the mother who left cookies on the counter,

Nor the mother who could not tell you no,

But the mother who is your home.

The one who will bear your grief in blood and shit

And wipe her tears with the mess you have made of her body.

Love the one who will call to you, and tell you to walk to her on wobbly knees.

The one who taught you to speak.

The one who fed you from her aching chest.

The one who would rather die than take food from your plate.

Love the one who loves you without end and without beginning.

Love the first if she finds you first.

Love the second if she finds you second.

Love the third if she finds you third.

She will find you, son.

And when you see her, do not look away,

Though she be marked with scars and tears,

Burdened by the weight of heaven,

And burned by the fires of hell.

Last love, you have found me.

Last love, I have been seeking you my entire life.

I have been courageless.

I have wasted the lives of other women.

I have strewn their broken bodies behind me,

A trail of blood, and stones, and tears.

Last love, I have given birth to daughters.

Last love, I have abused them.

Last love, I am not perfect. I am broken.

Last love, I walked alone on my balcony and looked down upon Bathsheba.

I sent her husband away, and I have put a seed in her belly that will rise up against me.

Last love, I am unlovable.

Last love, you are all that is left to love me.

Last love, I have been a preacher, stealing from the innocent.

Last love, I have mocked your sons.

Last love, I have sought you in bedrooms into which you wandered,

Leaving me with empty hands.

Last love, I want to be your last love,

But I am not worthy of you.

Last love, I want to save you and protect your fragile spirit,

But I am not stronger than the grave.

Last love, look at me as my mother does.

Last love, love me unconditionally.

Last love, forgive me that I did not find you first.

Last love, I will teach your sons to love your daughters.

Last love, I will open my heart to receive you

With open hands.

Last love, you have given me courage.

Last love, you have taught me to love myself.

Last love, you have filled me with all that is left of you,

And I am overflowing.

Last love, I will write the Gospel you have shown me.

Last love, I want only for you to dry your tears.

Let them fall on me.

Last love, you have found me.

Last love, I will be your last love.

Amen.
Amen.

Amen.

Nightingale

The rains have passed,
Spring has come,
And the nightingales call out to each other
Beneath the waning gibbous moon.
The air is still.
There is no fear in love making.

The Old Poet's Answer to the Young Poet's Question

Yes.

Muse

This is what you are to me:

You teach me to look at the sunset.
You teach me to listen to the laughter of children.
You teach me to savor the taste of chlorophyll.
You teach me to feel the needle break my skin.
You teach me to inhale the lingering aroma of mown wheat.

I see you in the crystal blue dewdrops on a single blade of green grass.
I see you in the psychedelic sunset of magenta, purple, yellow, red, and blue.
I see you in the movement of clouds as they billow in the summer sky before the thunderstorm.
I see you in the grey cataract eyes of an old, old man.
I see you in the infinite edges along every grain of sand.

I hear you in the roar of the Niagara, as it freefalls endlessly downward.
I hear you in the distant rhythms of Hatian voodoo drums at midnight.
I hear you in the solitary croak of the first spring toad, late at night in February.
I hear you in the clink of spoon on ceramic at a table for one in an empty cafe.
I hear you in the silent loud of underwater.

I taste you in the nectar from the honeysuckle flower, pulled out in a single drop on my tongue.
I taste you in the blood that drips from the inside of my busted lip.
I taste you in the crusted leavings from the side of my grandmother's iron skillet.
I taste you in cream and sugar and chocolate and caramel and raspberries and hazelnuts and coffee.
I taste you in the water when I dunk my face in the river and drink.

I feel you in the softness of my mother's face.
I feel you in the sand that sucks my feet downward as I walk barefoot through Illinois streams.
I feel you in the icy wind that blows snow beneath my winter doorsill.
I feel you in the fire of burning logs that warms my feet in late October.
I feel you in the crush of thumb by hammer and the comfort of mouth and tongue.

I smell you in the springtime damp that wafts through the evening breeze.
I smell you in the lakeside rot of fish and frog and moss on a July camping trip.
I smell you in the sterile sheets of a hospital bed when I lie down with no hope to recover.
I smell you in dirt my father plowed up from beneath the grass to plant tomatoes in the ground.
I smell you in the memory I have of you when you handed me your heart.

You teach me to look.
You teach me to listen.
You teach me to taste.
You teach me to touch.
You teach me to inhale,

Hard and long.

Leas Celyn

They hang the holly wreath at Christmastime,
Red and green and prickly,
To remind us of the crown of thorns,
Eternal life, and droplets of blood
In leaf and berry.

The holly grows from the ground
In thick bushes that offer shelter to sparrows,
Who make their nests in the safety of stem and leaf.
They do not die in the winter snows.
They persist through life and death.

You are the crown he wears,
Daughter of suffering,
You bring glory to him,
Ensconced on the white hair
Of the Father of Gifts.

Current

I stood on a chair in my parents' kitchen.
My mother was washing dishes.
My father was sweeping the floor.
I was cleaning years of dirt, grime, and dust
Off the metal shade of a pull-down lamp
That hung over our dinner table.
My mother was singing,
My father was in his mind,
And I was scrubbing the shade with scouring pads,
Removing decades of brown black dust,
Exposing the shiny, silver shade
That lay beneath so much dirt.
When all of a sudden,
Electricity from an exposed wire grabbed me by the hand
And held me tightly in its grasp.
I could not not move a muscle.
I could not let go.
She held my hands to that silver shade,
Sending 110 volts through my heart.
I only could move my eyes.
My mother, washing dishes,
My father, with a broom,
And no one to save me from my doom.
I thought I would die, and considered it the end,
When I was overwhelmed with a greater will to live.
I spoke to my self, in desperation,
I called to my self with my voice.
Let go.  I whispered.
Do not hold on.
I blamed the current that held me in its grasp,
But my self held the shade.
Let go. I whispered.
I took courage and purpose,
And with all my will,
With all my strength,
With desire to live in tomorrow,
I said to my self once more,
Let go,
And I lived.

The river is strong, and it will wash over you,
But I am still standing within its power.
The current is strong, and it may sweep you away,
But I will not fall.
Let go, little lamb,
I will hold on to you.

I looked at my hands where they had held the lamp shade,
And the flesh of my pinky was opened,
Skin torn open,
Burned white and black.
I still bear the scar of this memory on my body,
And remember how it felt
As the current passed through my heart,
But I did not fall from my feet.
I stood without falling,
As I stand now in this river with you,
Holding your hand in this current.
I will stand under you.
You will not fall in this love,
Nor I.

Let go, little lamb,
I will not let go of you.

Mother

Who else will feed me when I am hungry?
Who else will shelter me when I am lost?
Who else will suffer the tears of a grown man,
Who lays his head in her lap?

With your heart you taught me how to love
With kindness and compassion
With service and long suffering
With no reward.

What shall we do when you are gone?
What can we do without you?
What mercy will be shown to us?
What grace will wipe our tears?

I wish I could write a poem
As beautiful as you.

Ancient Father, Newborn Mother

In the middle of a cornfield in Illinois,

Stands a tall and ancient tree.

All other vegetation has been razed 

For miles around,

And there is nothing left but soft, tilled dirt,

Lapping up to its roots 

Like the waves of the endless Pacific

Upon a distant island.

It stands witness to ages passed,

To combines and teams of oxen,

To soybeans and wheat,

To brake and briar patch,

To elm and paw paw,

To wolf and bear,

To a thousand sapling children who never survived 

The foot of farmer.

Its branches hang in weary victory,

Shadowing the dead who rest beneath.

Its roots go deep,

Twisted, sinewy veins,

Who dig, down to draw blood

From the earth,

As soft buds emerge from stony branches

To persist.

When Leonard Cohen Gets Stuck in My Throat

I want to die
An old, old man,
But not because I want to live
A long, long time.

I just want to prove
To the weary, weary world,
That it is possible to love intently
To the very, very end.

Only Connect

Only connect! That was the whole of her sermon. Only connect the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its height. Live in fragments no longer. Only connect, and the beast and the monk, robbed of the isolation that is life to either, will die. -- E. M. Forster, Howards End

I took the last test of my undergraduate career in the English Building at the University of Illinois in Urbana, the most beautiful building on campus. As I walked up the concave marble steps of the red brick building, I ran into a professor for a different class I had had that spring. He asked where I was headed, and I told him I was on the way to take a final for my E. M. Forster class. He raised his index finger in the air and shouted, "Only connect!"

For what it's worth, I probably read more of the assignments in my Forster class than any other class in my undergrad. Generally speaking, there are two kinds of English majors: the kind who read everything, and the kind who read nothing. I was of the second variety. The fact of the matter is that most English classes at the college level have very subjective assessments, and it is not difficult to pass courses by attending class regularly, paying attention, and writing essays with supporting details from two pages of the books that you are supposed to be reading. Probably the most important and useful skill that I developed while in college was to be able to locate specific and useful information from large texts in a very short time. I became a pro at writing BS, but I didn't learn a thing.

Still, I think that most of my professors understood this. In fact, the man who taught my course on Forster, David Hirsch, was a relatively young associate professor, not too far from the college student experience himself, and one day during class he said, "I know that you guys aren't reading these books. I remember how it was to be a college student. You're busy. You've got other distractions in your life. And there just isn't time to read three novels in a week while having all of the other experiences that you want to have in college." As he said this, the entire class awoke from sleep. It was one of those rare moments of honesty that almost never occurs in American classrooms at any level. It's a kind of honesty I try to foster in my own classes.

He continued, "But I hope that one day you will return to these books. Maybe in 10 years, or 20 years, you will come back to these books and read them when you have time. If you do that, I will consider the time we've spent together as a success."

Now, some 15 years after graduating with a bachelor's degree in English Literature, I am feeling those books calling to me, and I am ready to read them.

Being an English teacher for the past decade or so has helped me to look more carefully at storytelling telling than I ever had as a student. I want to understand these stories myself, of course, but more so, I want to understand them for my students. I want to teach honestly, like my Dr. Hirsch did. I want my students to find the messages in the books that lie outside the instructor, outside the classroom, outside the curriculum or the text. Every moment is a snapshot of the message. Every book an avatar. Every person a mask on the face of god.

Recently, I met a boy who is facing one to five years in prison for selling MDMA. He's out on bond, awaiting sentencing. He's 21, and he doesn't know his dad. He's a beautiful soul who is searching for truth, for love. I'm not sure there's a difference. We met on Water Street in Kent Ohio when I approached his group of friends asking for directions to a bar. They told me to forget about the bar and to hang out with them, so I did. They took me to a campus restaurant that sells gyros, pizza, and beer, and I bought bought the five of us a pitcher of Bud Light for six bucks.

As we sat at the table, I asked them questions about the kind of music they listen to. Then I asked them what they thought of the Internet, and how they thought things might have changed by the time they get to be old guys. I asked them what they thought the purpose of life is. I asked them about their families. I asked them about their ambitions.

We shared a lot with each other. They shared their stories and I shared my attention. We were strangers, connecting over a cup of honesty. They invited me into their lives, and I received them into mine.

Before leaving, we connected to each other on Facebook, and we've corresponded a few times since our parting. Right now I am listening to music on YouTube that he recommended to me. When a person shares music with you, he's sharing a part of his soul. I am listening to this music as I type this. The music is flowing through me, into my fingers and onto this keyboard. Your eyes are seeing the music. You are connecting with me. I am connecting with him. We are connecting with each other.

The boy's name is David. He is going to be in prison for a while. If he's lucky, he may do just nine months. I told him that I would send him books. I told him I would write him letters. I want him to know that I'll be with him on the inside.

Dr. Hirsch, if you ever read this, know that you have grown in my heart since I finished that last test of my college career. For what it's worth, I liked you well enough as a teacher, and even though I didn't share much of myself with you in 1999, the seed of truth that you planted in me has grown, and the fruit of love is ripening. If we ever see each other again, you are welcome to share this fruit. It belongs to you as much as it belongs to me.

I took your class because it fit snugly into my schedule, and I needed the credits. I didn't even know who E. M. Forster was when I signed up for it. I did read Where Angels Fear to Tread, and at least part of A Room with a View, but I think I will find a copy of Howard's End tomorrow and read it over the weekend. I'll see the words with your eyes. I'm ready for it now.

When I'm finished with it, maybe I'll send it to David. He wants to share something with you, too. There's a band called Papadosio that he highly recommends. Look it up on YouTube. You'll find us there.

Night Prayer at Summer's Beginning

It was cold this winter,
And snow fell heavily.
All the graves were blanketed,
Past a child's knee.
Thick ice floated on the lakes
And hung like daggers from the trees.
We did not feel mercy
In December.
We did not feel compassion
In January,
We waited, like does beneath a briar patch,
Under the howling winds of February and March.
But in the cruelest month,
The snow melted,
The lakes unfroze,
And the sun returned
To bless our evening prayers.
Return to us in mercy,
Great spirit,
We wait upon you.
Look favorably upon us,
Warm spirit,
Our ground is bare
And ready for planting.

About That Stone

One day, you'll want to throw it at me.
Remember who put it into your hand.
Yes, words are riddles.
Life, too.

We'll get there.
Let's take the long way.
Write a book, see a movie.
Take in a sunset.

Stop for a sandwich.
Look for the Grand Canyon.
It's somewhere out west.
Later we can dip our feet in the Pacific.

In the meantime, stop asking how much you are worth.
You are worth precisely one lifetime,
Not a second more.
The deed is paid. Live in it freely.

There's time still for moonrise and sunset.
There's time still for joy.
There are many hours left to live,
And many hands to hold not holding stones.

If there were a simpler way to explain it,
I wouldn't have had to give it to you.
It's just a rock,
Though more ancient than Adam and Eve.

It means nothing but what you want it to mean.
It means the stars have been here a long time.
It means you are forgiven.
It means someone gave you a gift.

If you prefer, the stone is a heavy heart that you can see with your eyes,
And kiss with your lips.
It will teach you what to keep,
And what to throw away from you.

One for the Corner Boys

I've been trying to write a poem for you for the past hour,
To remind myself of what you taught me,
But the poem kept getting in the way of what I wanted to tell you,
Which is that I love you,
And I hope that you will love each other
In the same way.

And I wanted to end the poem there,
I've said enough, I thought,
But then I thought of how I had asked you
Always to write more,
Never to settle for enough.

It takes work to understand each other,
To bear each other's pain.
These friendships are not forged in one night of grief.
There is more grief ahead,
There will be more opportunities.

An hour will come when you will wonder,
Was this sincere?
Were we just being sentimental?
Would I be less a man to admit that I love you still,
When the shadow of grief fades?

You will offend each other.
You will take different paths.
You will avoid each other's eyes.
You will become selfish.
You will seek independence and distance.

But return to each other with open arms.
Do not cast each other away for more than a single year,
There's too much to lose.
Accept love when you need it from the arms of your brothers,
It is harder for you to take than it is for them to give.

Help Wanted: Poet

A mathematician with words.
Doing al-jabr, putting the pieces together.
It's GOTO have logic in it, the eternal Word.
Add up to equal on both sides.

That's why I like this play,
Put the four next to a three and see if we get a tree.
There's something correct about that sentence up there, ain't it?
This whole stanza feels out of place and just right at the same time.

There has to be a pattern.
Take all the names of things and stick them in an equation.
Find the limit as time approaches infinity,
To tell the end by looking at the beginning.

Once we finally get all the information,
We'll just have to wait for the processing.
There's a lot of data to sift through, yet.
Wages: one life per lifetime.

You Give the Rule Measure

Twelve inches
Is what you understand it to be,
No more.