the kindlings

Bard's Delight - Christmas Special

2008-12-23T23:17:00.002-07:00

On the Morning of Christ’s Nativity

(1629)


I THIS is the month, and this the happy morn,
Wherein the Son of Heaven’s eternal King,
Of wedded maid and Virgin Mother born,
Our great redemption from above did bring;
For so the holy sages once did sing,	5
That he our deadly forfeit should release,
And with his Father work us a perpetual peace.

II That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable,
And that far-beaming blaze of majesty,
Wherewith he wont at Heaven’s high council-table	10
To sit the midst of Trinal Unity,
He laid aside, and, here with us to be,
Forsook the Courts of everlasting Day,
And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay.

III Say, Heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein	15
Afford a present to the Infant God?
Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain,
To welcome him to this his new abode,
Now while the heaven, by the Sun’s team untrod,
Hath took no print of the approaching light,	20
And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?

IV See how from far upon the Eastern road
The star-led Wisards haste with odours sweet!
Oh! run; prevent them with thy humble ode,
And lay it lowly at his blessèd feet;	25
Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet,
And join thy voice unto the Angel Quire,
From out his secret altar touched with hallowed fire.

The Hymn I It was the winter wild,
While the heaven-born child	30
All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies;
Nature, in awe to him,
Had doffed her gaudy trim,
With her great Master so to sympathize:
It was no season then for her	35
To wanton with the Sun, her lusty Paramour.

II Only with speeches fair
She woos the gentle air
To hide her guilty front with innocent snow,
And on her naked shame,	40
Pollute with sinful blame,
The saintly veil of maiden white to throw;
Confounded, that her Maker’s eyes
Should look so near upon her foul deformities.

III But he, her fears to cease,	45
Sent down the meek-eyed Peace:
She, crowned with olive green, came softly sliding
Down through the turning sphere,
His ready Harbinger,
With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing;	50
And, waving wide her myrtle wand,
She strikes a universal peace through sea and land.

IV No war, or battail’s sound,
Was heard the world around;
The idle spear and shield were high uphung;	55
The hookèd chariot stood,
Unstained with hostile blood;
The trumpet spake not to the armèd throng;
And Kings sat still with awful eye,
As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.	60

V But peaceful was the night
Wherein the Prince of Light
His reign of peace upon the earth began.
The winds, with wonder whist,
Smoothly the waters kissed,	65
Whispering new joys to the mild Ocean,
Who now hath quite forgot to rave,
While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave.

VI The stars, with deep amaze,
Stand fixed in steadfast gaze,	70
Bending one way their precious influence,
And will not take their flight,
For all the morning light,
Or Lucifer that often warned them thence;
But in their glimmering orbs did glow,	75
Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go.

VII And, though the shady gloom
Had given day her room,
The Sun himself withheld his wonted speed,
And hid his head of shame,	80
As his inferior flame
The new-enlightened world no more should need:
He saw a greater Sun appear
Than his bright Throne or burning axletree could bear.

VIII The Shepherds on the lawn,	85
Or ere the point of dawn,
Sat simply chatting in a rustic row;
Full little thought they than
That the mighty Pan
Was kindly come to live with them below:	90
Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep,
Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep.

IX When such music sweet
Their hearts and ears did greet
As never was by mortal finger strook,	95
Divinely-warbled voice
Answering the stringèd noise,
As all their souls in blissful rapture took:
The air, such pleasure loth to lose,
With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close.	100

X Nature, that heard such sound
Beneath the hollow round
Of Cynthia’s seat the airy Region thrilling,
Now was almost won
To think her part was done,	105
And that her reign had here its last fulfilling:
She knew such harmony alone
Could hold all Heaven and Earth in happier union.

XI At last surrounds their sight
A globe of circular light,	110
That with long beams the shamefaced Night arrayed;
The helmèd Cherubim
And sworded Seraphim
Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displayed,
Harping in loud and solemn quire,	115
With unexpressive notes, to Heaven’s newborn Heir.

XII Such music (as ’tis said)
Before was never made,
But when of old the Sons of Morning sung,
While the Creator great	120
His constellations set,
And the well-balanced World on hinges hung,
And cast the dark foundations deep,
And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep.

XIII Ring out, ye crystal spheres!	125
Once bless our human ears,
If ye have power to touch our senses so;
And let your silver chime
Move in melodious time;
And let the bass of heaven’s deep organ blow;	130
And with your ninefold harmony
Make up full consort of the angelic symphony.

XIV For, if such holy song
Enwrap our fancy long,
Time will run back and fetch the Age of Gold;	135
And speckled Vanity
Will sicken soon and die,
And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould;
And Hell itself will pass away,
And leave her dolorous mansions of the peering day.	140

XV Yes, Truth and Justice then
Will down return to men,
The enamelled arras of the rainbow wearing;
And Mercy set between,
Throned in celestial sheen,	145
With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering;
And Heaven, as at some festival,
Will open wide the gates of her high palace-hall.

XVI But wisest Fate says No,
This must not yet be so;	150
The Babe lies yet in smiling infancy
That on the bitter cross
Must redeem our loss,
So both himself and us to glorify:
Yet first, to those chained in sleep,	155
The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep,

XVII With such a horrid clang
As on Mount Sinai rang,
While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake:
The aged Earth, aghast	160
With terror of that blast,
Shall from the surface to the centre shake,
When, at the world’s last sessiön,
The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne.

XVIII And then at last our bliss	165
Full and perfect is,
But now begins; for from this happy day
The Old Dragon under ground,
In straiter limits bound,
Not half so far casts his usurpèd sway,	170
And, wroth to see his Kingdom fail,
Swindges the scaly horror of his folded tail.

XIX The Oracles are dumb;
No voice or hideous hum
Runs through the archèd roof in words deceiving.	175
Apollo from his shrine
Can no more divine,
Will hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving.
No nightly trance, or breathèd spell,
Inspires the pale-eyed Priest from the prophetic cell.	180

XX The lonely mountains o’er,
And the resounding shore,
A voice of weeping heard and loud lament;
Edgèd with poplar pale,
From haunted spring, and dale	185
The parting Genius is with sighing sent;
With flower-inwoven tresses torn
The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.

XXI In consecrated earth,
And on the holy hearth,	190
The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plaint;
In urns, and altars round,
A drear and dying sound
Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint;
And the chill marble seems to sweat,	195
While each peculiar power forgoes his wonted seat.

XXII Peor and Baälim
Forsake their temples dim,
With that twice-battered god of Palestine;
And moonèd Ashtaroth,	200
Heaven’s Queen and Mother both,
Now sits not girt with tapers’ holy shine:
The Libyc Hammon shrinks his horn;
In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn.

XXIII And sullen Moloch, fled,	205
Hath left in shadows dread
His burning idol all of blackest hue;
In vain with cymbals’ ring
They call the grisly king,
In dismal dance about the furnace blue;	210
The brutish gods of Nile as fast,
Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste.

XXIV Nor is Osiris seen
In Memphian grove or green,
Trampling the unshowered grass with lowings loud;	215
Nor can he be at rest
Within his sacred chest;
Nought but profoundest Hell can be his shroud;
In vain, with timbreled anthems dark,
The sable-stolèd Sorcerers bear his worshiped ark.	220

XXV He feels from Juda’s land
The dreaded Infant’s hand;
The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn;
Nor all the gods beside
Longer dare abide,	225
Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine:
Our Babe, to show his Godhead true,
Can in his swaddling bands control the damnèd crew.

XXVI So, when the Sun in bed,
Curtained with cloudy red,	230
Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,
The flocking shadows pale
Troop to the infernal jail,
Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave,
And the yellow-skirted Fays	235
Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze.

XXVII But see! the Virgin blest
Hath laid her Babe to rest,
Time is our tedious song should here have ending:
Heaven’s youngest-teemèd star	240
Hath fixed her polished car,
Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending;
And all about the courtly stable
Bright-harnessed Angels sit in order serviceable.
John Milton. (1608–1674).

The Bards Delight

2008-12-12T16:43:00.002-07:00

A timely reflection I think considering what may be coming over the next four years. It was written for Britain but has its applications for us on this side of the pond. Note the ordering of title.

Obligations of Civil to Religious Liberty

Ungrateful country, if thou e'er forget
The sons who for thy civil rights have bled!
How, like a Roman, Sidney bowed his head,
And Russell's milder blood the scaffold wet;
But these had fallen for profitless regret
Had not thy holy Church her champions bred,
And claims from other worlds inspirited
The star of Liberty to rise. Nor yet
(Grave this within thy heart!) if spiritual things
Be lost, through apathy, or scorn, or fear,
Shalt thou thy humbler franchises support,
However hardly won or justly dear:
What came from heaven to heaven by nature clings,
And, if dissevered thence, its course is short.

William Wordsworth
1770 - 1850

Letter of His Holiness Pope John Paul II to Artists, 1999

2008-11-24T08:41:00.000-07:00

Here is a link to Pope John Paul II's Letter to Artists. I think it would be really good for us to read this and discuss it. Perhaps we could do this asynchronously via comments on the blog, that way we don't have to wait for our next meeting.

Letter of His Holiness Pope John Paul II to Artists, 1999

Poem of the...Week

2008-09-17T19:11:00.004-07:00

On His Being Arrived to the Age of Twenty-Three

by John Milton

(1631)


HOW soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,
Stolen on his wing my three and twentieth year!
My hasting days fly on with full career,
But my late spring no bud or blossom shew’th.
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth,	5
That I to manhood am arrived so near,
And inward ripeness doth much less appear,
That some more timely-happy spirits indu’th.
Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,
It shall be still in strictest measure even	10
To that same lot, however mean or high,
Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven,
All is, if I have grace to use it so,
As ever in my great Task-master’s eye

Antiquus, where art thou?

2008-09-04T22:09:00.006-07:00

Apparently the old mainstay of the Kindlings blog has better things to do than produce extended musings on literature, politics and culture. I hope he has some good excuse, like getting conned out of all his money in a Dublin pub and being unable to afford an internet connection. Too bad. I'll try to start filling the massive void Antiquus has left by posting some literary inspiration, a good poem or link at least once a week. Our "sketchpad" has fallen to the wayside for now, but why not toss in some genuinely dead poets to fire up our tardy muses?

Today I'll leave you with one of my favorite carpe diem poems, "To His Coy Mistress," by Andrew Marvell. Arowbee might pick up some good lines from this poem - for some reason I think it suits his thematic interests.

In convincing his mistress of the urgency of love-making, Marvell paints eternity as a vast desert, where physical beauty is eradicated rather than perfected. So much for the new Heaven and the new Earth, I guess. Marvell should have picked up better theology, being raised by a Church of England clergyman...

T.S. Eliot, a fan of these metaphysicals as most of you know, alludes to the "roll our universe into a ball" passage in his own "Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock."

But enough fun facts. I'll post the poem. If you've got the time, read and enjoy. We won't discuss it unless someone really wants to. Oh, while I'm on the topic of discussion, whose idea was it to read and discuss that Orwell essay, anyhow? Whoever it was sure wasn't there, ready to talk about it. For shame!

To His Coy Mistress

HAD we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime
We would sit down and think which way
To walk and pass our long love's day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side	5
Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.	10
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,	15
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, Lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.	20
But at my back I always hear
Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,	25
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song: then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:	30
The grave 's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires	35
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapt power.	40
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun	45
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

Thought of this song...

2008-08-31T11:50:00.001-07:00

"Why should the fire die?" by Nickel Creek. Reminds me of this site, for some reason.

Happy Birthday, John Milton?

2008-07-14T17:22:00.004-07:00

Well, he was actually born on December 9, 1608, so it's not quite the day of his birth. Still, I think you all might enjoy Stanley Fish's latest article on the occasion of the Ninth International Milton Symposium, celebrating 400 years of Milton's presence in the world. It's a birthday worth celebrating early.

"Tradition and the Individual Talent"

2008-04-30T17:46:00.002-07:00

Here's the reading for our next meeting - T.S. Eliot, "Tradition and the Individual Talent"

Dignum et Justum Est, Take 2

2008-04-29T18:55:00.000-07:00

It looks left nor right,
Observing not
That they observe,
Forging regardless
Of fathom.
Legend often spoken,
It draws trawlers
From anchor. It owns
Not their tenors;
Their scrawling
Wakes wash too quickly. Only
Their nets seem
Impediments. Regal
It moves, impervious
To grimy
Faces peering from portholes.
Its lidless eyes
Take in, yet
Alter not
Their gaze.

"Lepanto," G.K.Chesterton, 1915

2008-04-24T10:24:00.000-07:00

"Lepanto," G.K.Chesterton, 1915

Dignum et Justum Est

2008-03-13T23:13:00.007-07:00

It looks left nor right,
Observing not
That they observe,
Forging regardless
Of fathom.
Legend often spoken,
It draws trawlers
From anchor.
It owns not their tenors; their scrawling
Wakes wash too quickly. Only
Their nets seem
Impediments. Regal
It moves, impervious
To the grimy faces peering
From portholes. Its lidless eyes
Take in, yet alter not
Their gaze.

Take 2

2008-03-10T15:20:00.001-07:00

A Black Hole
By Drogo

Who needs a scope to see the dark-
ness deep within my soul?
I simply need to be alone
to see there's a hole.

This hole of seeming emptiness
Yet pulls with all its might,
And seems to take in anything
Except for any light.

When the light will ignite it bright,
Darkness will screech and rebel.
Why is it I still long for that
Which makes my soul hell?

Sketching on the sketchpad

2008-02-26T14:20:00.002-07:00

A Black Hole
By Drogo

Who needs a scope to see the dark-
ness deep within my soul?
I simply need to be alone
to see there's a hole.

This hole of seeming emptiness
Yet pulls with all its might,
And seems to take in anything
Except for any light.

When the light does burn it bright
The darkness does rebel.
Why then do I still long for it
That makes my life hell?

GK Finally Recognized for Brilliant Mustache

2008-02-07T23:39:00.001-07:00

Kindlings, for the purposes of solidarity, I call for a revival of the traditional writer's 'stache amongst our membership. What worked for Chesterton must work for us as well. See Mustaches of the Nineteenth Century for the skinny on this overlooked quality of our favorite portly Catholic thinker, writer, and poet.

image licensed under Creative Commons Noncommercial Attribution 3.0 U.S.

Culture and Catholic Literature

2008-02-01T15:00:00.000-07:00

A friend sent me the following link. It's an interesting interview with Greg Roper, UD alum, professor, and writer.

Antiquus

http://www.zenit.org/article-21636?l=english

Online Writer's Conference

2008-02-01T10:47:00.000-07:00

Check out this article at CatholicExchange about an upcoming online writer's conference.

Culture for Catholic Writers

2008-01-29T16:19:00.000-07:00

You might want to read this quick interview.

Creating a Culture for Catholic Writers

A problem for which, I am proud to say, we work at the remedy.

FYI Fellas

2008-01-23T09:21:00.001-07:00

This looks good.

Interview with Allan Carlson, author of Third Ways

2008-01-10T15:37:00.001-07:00

Found this interesting. I'm going to have to look into this guy's book. I find it particularly interesting that Belloc and Chesterton continue popping up in discussions about economy these days. The pair tend to be more recognized as Christian apologists.

Antiquus

http://www.isi.org/books/bookdetail.aspx?id=5afd5e0b-5e25-4c61-9ae4-705e3c37e030#interview

Vive le Resistence!!

2007-12-27T13:37:00.001-07:00

This is an encouraging essay about certain trends underway in the arts today. I don't know if you've heard of a group called the Derriere Guard. If not, you should check them out. I don't have link though. The Derriere Guard is a network of artists, poets, sculptors, architects, and musicians who have found new inspiration in classical realism. The group is dedicated to bringing art back to its native land of beauty. Something which the Kindlings can support with a lusty "Here, here!"

Antiquus

www.newbohemia.net/Library/Articles/NewRenaissance.htm

You're Welcome, Fellow Aged Catholic Writers

2007-12-11T16:00:00.000-07:00

Just got the following email from Dappled Things. This is good news for Antiquus and yours truly. Can anyone honestly believe the timing of this announcement was coincidental when it so nearly corresponds to my 36th birthday--the very one which would have put me over the edge of the age restriction?

No way.

Dear Friends,

I have some very important news to share with you about Dappled Things.

Since its inception, Dappled Things (www.dappledthings.org) has sought to provide a venue for emerging writers and artists to engage the culture from a Catholic perspective. In order to safeguard this mission, we have followed the policy of only receiving submissions from contributors between the ages of 18 and 35. However, throughout the past two years we have received comments from many readers and potential contributors who wish Dappled Things would accept work from persons of any age. This desire is understandable, as there are almost no other venues that specialize in creative work inspired by the Catholic tradition. Still, we have hesitated to remove our age limits because we do not want a situation in which more experienced writers and artists crowd out those who are still at the start of their careers.

After much deliberation, we have concluded that opening up the magazine to creative Catholics of all ages need not undermine our mission. We will remain committed to seeking out and publishing the work of emerging writers and artists, but we will now welcome submissions without regard to a person's age. By doing this, we hope Dappled Things will become a locus of the best creative talent available within the English-speaking Church. We want Dappled Things to be a magazine of which the Church can be proud (in a completely non-sinful way, that is) and through which Catholics can offer an alternative to the often confused culture that surrounds them.

If "The Golden Compass" and "The DaVinci Code" are works that characterize the "wisdom" of our age, we hope that Dappled Things will become a venue where those with a more profound vision -- the Tolkiens, Lewises, Waughs, and O'Connors of the future -- will be able to become known and share their work with the world. So whether you are a reader seeking material that will enrich your mind, soul, and imagination, or a writer who hopes to share some truth and beauty with the world, we hope you will join the Dappled Things community. To submit your work, please visit our website for instructions.

Sincerely in Christ,

Bernardo Aparicio
President, Dappled Things

P.S.: Now that we are in the season of giving, might you consider promoting this effort by giving your friends and family gift subscriptions to Dappled Things for Christmas? Not only will it be a completely unique and affordable Christmas present, but it will support the work of those who would win back imaginations from the Dan Browns and Philip Pullmans of our world. Or would you consider making a donation, no matter how small? Donations following our recent appeal have been incredibly scant, and we are struggling! Your support is crucial to the future of the magazine. You can subscribe or donate online via PayPal, or send us a check, payable to Dappled Things Magazine, to the following address:

Dappled Things Magazine
c/o Katherine Cybulski
5850 Cameron Run Terrace, # 516
Alexandria, VA 22303

Thanks and God bless!

Read this.

2007-12-08T15:29:00.000-07:00

Here's an interesting post on the 'contemporary' revival of interest in real sonnets. Not a bad trend.

Into Our Own

2007-11-26T15:45:00.000-07:00

This was the poem read at the 11/24 meeting:

Into Our Own
A response to Robert Frost

One of my wishes is that those blue eyes,
So bright and pure they scarcely show the sties,
Were not, as 'twere, a mirror's sight of gloom,
But showed the way into the other room.

I should not be withheld but that some day
Into their vastness we should find the way,
Fearless of ever crossing desert land,
Or waters where levees used to stand.

I do not see why we should e'er turn back,
Or those should not set forth upon our track
To overtake us, who should wish to see
And long to know wherefrom we have our glee.

They would not find us changed from them they knew-
Yet much more full of Him we know is True.

By Bill Haley

Mark's Quote From Johann Wolfgang Van Goethe

2007-11-02T10:21:00.001-07:00

All,

I saw this, and am steeling my resolve. Why is this so hard to commit wholly?

Maybe this is only my problem.

Hope you find this worthwhile. Emphasis is mine.

The words of Johann Wolfgang Van Goethe say it all

"Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness. Concerning all acts of initiative and creation, there is one elementary truth the ignorance of which kills countless deeds and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one's favor all manner of unforeseen incidents, meetings and material assistance which no man could have dreamed would have come his way. Whatever you can do or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it. Begin it now."

Perhaps my uninspired attempts at writing have to do with my lack of commitment to it? Commitment to seeing success spring from it?

It's noteworthy, if nothing else!

Good News!

2007-10-02T11:09:00.001-07:00

Today I got an email from Dappled Things informing me that I'm officially published.

Dappled Things is an online (now print as well) literary magazine for young Catholic writers/artists. As of my next birthday, I am no longer a young Catholic (I turn 36 this year). So, this was my last chance to get in.

My poem is called "Bread from Heaven". I hope you enjoy it.

On the virtue of home-brew...

2007-09-24T21:32:00.001-07:00

A tyrant does not fear the critic’s pen,
But rather drunken words of poets, caught
By hungry ears—a rhythmic viral spin
That leaps to mind with menace fraught.
(It takes a little just to rhyme the truth—
From there, you doubt your words and turn to drink,
Until your words out-tumble, blunt, uncouth;
In unassuming minds they spread). We think
That poets deal in piddling privacies
Of loves and hates, but not the goods of states,
Ignoring all the petty piracies
That liquored lyric oft perpetuates:
It may improve a humble government
To study what the bards who drank have meant.

Three Mexican Directors talking to Charlie Rose

2007-08-04T23:23:00.000-07:00

We watched this at our writer's meeting today. It was really worth the time.

The Bards Delight

2007-08-03T20:20:00.000-07:00

The following is from a collection of poems by Wordsworth entitled Ecclesiastical Sonnets.

I saw the figure of a lovely Maid
Seated alone beneath a darksome tree,
Whose fondly-overhanging canopy
Set off her brightness with a pleasing shade.
No spirit was she; that my heart betrayed,
For she was one I loved exceedingly;
But while I gazed in tender reverie
(Or was it sleep that with my Fancy played?)
The bright corporeal presence - form and face -
Remaining still distinct grew thin and rare,
Like sunny mist; - at length the golden hair,
Shape, limbs, and heavenly features, keeping pace
Each with the other in a lingering race
Of dissolution, melted into air.

William Wordsworth
1770-1850

Book Recommendation

2007-07-25T23:00:00.000-07:00

I higly recommend a short little book by German Tomist Josef Pieper entitled Only the Lover Sings: Art and Contemplation. You may have heard of Pieper's most famous text: Leisure, the Basis of Culture. He was a post WWII German philosopher who taught in Germany and wrote a great deal on Aquinas and Plato. But he also wrote many other wonderful little books, and I do mean little. Only the Lover Sings is only 76 pages. You could knock it out in a day and it'll only cost you eight bucks.

You can find it at www.ignatius.com
The reference number is OLS-P

In succinct Pieperian style, here is his preface to Only the Lover Sings:

"These meditations define a great arc, spanning the distance from Augustine's marvelously formulated insight that 'only he who loves can sing' all the way to the anguished cry of Holderlin's ode entitled 'Wherefore Poets in a Time of Distress?' The intent here is to make one thing clear: that music, the fine arts, poetry - anything that festively raises up human existence and thereby constitutes its true riches - all derive their life from a hidden root, and this root is a contemplation which is turned toward God and the world so as to affirm them."

2007-07-06T22:39:00.000-07:00

The following sums up more eloquently than I ever could why I maintain that the artist must never be motivated, MERELY, by money. The vineyard of the artist is the culture and his vocation, as John Paul said in his Letter to Artists, is beauty. I'm not saying we're here to reform but we're not here simply to entertain either - if we consider ourselves artists. I believe there's a place for simple entertainment. Eudora Welty wrote an essay considering whether the artist ought to be in the business of reforming society at all. I don't know the title or where or when it appeared but if I find it I'll share it with the Kindling. Here's the quote:

"The drama of contemporary culture is the lack of interiority, the absence of contemplation. Without interiority culture has no content; it is like a body that has not yet found its soul. What can humanity do without interiority? Unfortunately, we know the answer very well. When the contemplative spirit is missing, life is not protected and all that is human is denigrated. Without interiority, modern man puts his own integrity at risk." Pope John Paul II, Madrid, 3 May 2003.

My own view is that the artist has some degree of responsibility, and a moral one at that, to help bring man into that place of interiority. This can be achieved on a grand scale such as Lord of the Rings or on a very simple one like the film Once. Both works put us in touch with what is essentially human. And when we've come in contact with what is essentially human the heart can then be opened up to what is suprahuman, or divine. I suppose the main question for each of us is: What kind of writer am I called to be?

That is, of course, assuming we are called to such an impractical endeavor. If so, then we must first ensure that we ourselves do not suffer this lack of interiority.

2007-07-04T14:24:00.000-07:00

I'm posting a poem I just finished yesterday. It's a bit lengthy but if you have the time to look at it I'd appreciate any feedback you might have. I'd like to submit this one (which is why I'm posting it here now rather than wait to show you at the end of August.) Some of the references will make fuller sense if you've read Matthew Arnold's famous poem Dover Beach in which the poet finds in the sea, once an analogy for faith, the ebbing of belief and hope until all that's left is merely human love.

Antiqus

Dockweiler Beach

I

The Lord God will wipe away tears from all faces.
Is 25:8

I came to find myself upon this strand
My chest to test against the sea,
To find if once for all I'd been unmanned
Or if some virtue held with me.

When last I left my print upon this shore
I was thirteen and broken as
A wave against the stone my father bore
Upon his cloak of fresh-laid grass.

I threw myself into the breaking waves,
My body lithe and taut with youth,
As though to throw a stone at Him Who saves,
For death belied His promised truth.

In raucous foam I thrashed about until
A tranquil light appeared above;
Around in all directions azure hills
Illumined with empathic love.

II

Whoever therefore is not illuminated by splendors as great as those to be found in created things is blind...
St. Bonaventure

Yet ceaseless seasons change their lights and years
Have run their course through heaven's tract.
Forever marching forth titanic spheres
Prohibit man from turning back.

A silver dusting now adorns my head
As silver marks the span of time
Since then, when burdened with that mortal dread,
On ocean waves I sought to climb -

And climbing sought to reach a safer height
Above the frightful risk of love;
On rolling swells I grieved his vanished light
With grief the sea alone could move.

Now love has died again, a living death
This time - my own - for she still lives
While vanquished I now labor for my breath
And suffer what the mind relives.

Above and west hangs heaven's glowing lamp,
The ocean flicks up drops of light,
Smooth sand beneath my feet is cool and damp,
The green waves cresting brilliant white.

A thought descends from where a sea-gull glides:
Was Arnold right? and Sophocles?
Is hopelessness supplied by edgeless tides,
Are faith and love just vanities?

As hunted men who fled across dank moors
In ages past were left to try
Their waning hope against cathedral doors,
To nature's church I bring my cry:

O saving sea! Receive me once again!
Dissolve the tears on land unshed,
Unleash your fearsome force upon this pain;
"Crucify!" is the word I said.

With thunderous crash the heaving brine denied
The light; tumultuous and cold
The ocean's undercurrent, unespied,
Secreted me within its hold.

Then - umbral light, opaque, a gleaming glaze
Above my shadowed eyes, and air
Where sea gives way; indigotic hues and haze
Combine and issue everywhere.

III

Father, you are holy indeed,
and all creation rightly gives you praise.
Liturgy of the Eucharist, Eucharistic Prayer III

So far from Dover Beach where, it is said,
The note of ebbing faith was heard to moan,
I see creation readied on its own
As though to offer thanks and praise instead.
Organic sacramentals find their place:
The ocean like a cobalt altar cloth
Unfurled across the table of the world,
Impervious to time's consuming moth;
A humid, misty incense lightly whirls
Toward the open heart of cosmic space;
Surrounding wavelets gleam like lighted wicks,
Or souls of those deceased as yet unclaimed
By heaven's righteous Judge; they wait unnamed
The promised whitened tablet He'll affix.
In tune with all of this, pelagic hymns
Transform the grating roar the poet found
So sad - a dreary tone of sundry rocks -
To modern man's enlightened ear this sound
Convinces him that all creation mocks
Belief in sacred light that never dims.
Yet listen twice, you'll hear the hope of man
Suggesting all subsists within a plan.

Let Sophocles abide Aegean woe
And tragedy, yet waters also laugh;
I've scanned Earth's shores and found faith's afterglow
Where Arnold only heard its epitaph.
I find no basis now for man's regret
Since I and something more than I have met.
Ah, Lord! such love attends this natural mass!
What alchemy converts our skeptic eyes
but Faith, which through the world (not from) does pass
Believing what creation testifies.

Book Review of The War of Art

2007-07-03T09:13:00.000-07:00

A couple of posts ago I mentioned that I was reading a book by Steven Pressfield called The War of Art. In this post, I want to briefly review and reflect on the book, but, just enough to “free the prisoners” of my thoughts on the book; this is not the definitive review/interpretation of the book. I am very interested in hearing what other readers think, so please comment on this post.

The book’s title is obviously a play on the title of Wesley Snipes’s movie, er...Sun Tzu’s book, The Art of War and it is a particularly fitting title for a book on writing by a man whose body of work consists mostly of historical war novels set in ancient times. Like Sun Tzu’s book, The War of Art presents very practical, very solid, straightforward advice about its subject; like the Wesley Snipes movie, the appeal wears off rapidly and the last third is barely coherent.

In the first part of the book Pressfield introduces a concept he calls “Resistance”, which is broadly defined as anything that keeps us from our work. Our work, Pressfield says, is what we were meant to do on this planet. Don’t read that wrong. He’s not saying that we’re called to be ants in a hive, he’s saying that each us has a particular job to do, a special vocation. For some, it could be writing; for others it could be painting or starting a business or being a mom. Our work is the thing that we are uniquely suited for and that we must do for our own sake and the sake of the universe. We avoid this work at our peril. Resistance is anything and everything that we put in the way of doing our work. It’s all the excuses, neuroses, diseases, relationships, and rationalizations that we give in to instead of doing what we’re supposed to.

His litany of the many ways Resistance manifests itself was easily the best part of the book. It was, if you’ll forgive the expression, shock and awe. I was had like Bagdad. He named every one of my evasions and left me with nowhere to run. He kicked my ass. And his recommendation for overcoming Resistance is tough love at its finest. Basically, his advice is “Man up, Nancy. Get over yourself and do your work.” So far, so good, but then the book starts to go wonky.

Pressfield is dead on target about what’s wrong with most writers, artists, and people: we are afraid of our own potential greatness so we sabotage ourselves. Everything he says about Resistance rings true, even if the term itself is inexact. What he has to say about muses and the gods (they’re real…kinda), the evolution of man (we are inexorably getting better), and God (a.k.a. the Universe), does not ring true. It rings inconsistent and potlucky. The world view he proposes as response to Resistance is a syncretistic, new-agey mess.

For Pressfield, art comes from resisting Resistance and doing one’s work. The manly advice he gives at the beginning of the book seems to be heavily influenced by his study of ancient Sparta and stoics. That’s fine as far as it goes, but what is glaringly absent (at least from this Catholic’s point of view) is a sense of grace. His notion of cooperating with the muses is profound, but not as profound as Tolkien’s idea of man as sub-creator. His notion of work is noble, but not as noble as Josemaria Escriva’s.

To sum it all up, I recommend this book, especially the first two thirds, but with reservations. For anyone who is used to exact terms and a consistent worldview, this might be a bit tiring—it was for me. But for anyone who needs a good kick in the pants to start writing, working, starting a photography business and getting out of the corporate world, this is a great motivator.

This link is bi-locating here.

Once trailer

2007-06-25T08:57:00.001-07:00

Here is the trailer for the movie that Tom and I were talking about at the last meeting. It's a great movie. If you go to the official site, http://www.foxsearchlight.com/once you can listen to the soundtrack.

Links from 6/23 meeting

2007-06-23T14:23:00.001-07:00

I enjoyed the meeting so much today. I appreciate being invited and am indebted to all of you for allowing me to participate. And Rob, thanks for letting the rest of us say something on occassion.
I found it refreshing to hear our divers opinions on what we have written, how to write and what's worth reading. As I told Jamie, I had been looking for a writing group, and consider it good fortune to have stumbled amongst such a group of intellectuals. I hope I can contribute something of value; and that I'll be invited again.
I really need your command of grammar to tighten up years of writing in bullet point fashion for the business world. It has destroyed my ability to write a cohesive paragraph.

Here are the references I talked about today for your reading pleasure:

The War of Art by Steven Pressfield is the book that propelled me from thinking about writing to actually tapping keys.

Jim Butcher's blog on his website: http://jimbutcher.livejournal.com/
Read from the bottom post to the top post. Alternatively, I copied into a word file for easier reading: email me and I will e-mail it back to you. This is about Storycraft I discussed. This is particular to writing short stories and novels, not directly to screenwriting.

Once again, I am honored to be a member in training, and hope you'll invite me to the next one.

2007-06-20T14:00:00.000-07:00

Alright, so it's free verse. What the hell? I'm just glad to have access to this darn sketchpad again.

Cameo

"The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation."
-A Man Said to the Universe, Stephen Crane

When twilight touches the lips of horizon
To kiss the day goodnight,
I see the universe has let me in
On a little secret -
Mine is only a cameo appearance
In the staged play of the cosmos.
I am lying to myself
When, sleepless at 2:00 A.M.,
I rise from bed to Tchaikovsky's Fifth
To run my pen across a page
Like Olivier walking Hamlet on stage
Hoping to render of this world of ugly masks
One thing beautiful.
Inevitably a heavy train rumbles through town
Blowing black industrial comedy into the blasted night,
Striking me mute and impotent
At the climactic moment
Of my love scene with Ophelia.

The meaning of the secret is this:
When given the choice to write or sleep
It is much more sensible to sleep.

Digby

"A Sort of Song," by William Carlos Williams

2007-05-13T01:40:00.000-07:00

Let the snake wait under
his weed
and the writing
be of words, slow and quick, sharp
to strike, quiet to wait,
sleepless.
--through metaphor to reconcile
the people and the stones.
Compose. (No ideas
but in things) Invent!
Saxifrage is my flower that splits
the rocks.

2007-05-04T22:21:00.000-07:00

Long time nothing new here...
Congratulations to Arowbee on the pending publication!

Winter

2007-03-01T20:45:00.000-07:00

The tree stands bare.
The wills of a thousand leaves
Fasten none; all dance
At the whims of breezes.

Unfettered foliage
Flutters windward,
Eddies in devil-spins,
Then settles earthward.

The myrtle shades none,
Nor the laurel.
Vanes spinning
Become compasses.

Daughters of memory,
Grace the air with a tremor:
Summon these shambles
Into a forgotten shape.

Eden

2007-03-01T01:12:00.000-07:00

In every place, and at all times, a Garden flowers forth.
It blooms and blossoms, heaving hearts and earth,
cracking concrete, splitting stones, and penetrating asphalt,
it pushes life through every fractured surface.

It is here in the city of rough rooftops
and hardscaped valley ways and
there, by the shadowy factory
coughing out steel-belted air,
soot-covering dreams and
weighing down old widow’s conversations.

It is in a field, on a farm,
where young lovers sow secrets and
where the fresh freshness of
sun-blessed growing things lingers
like the smell of baked brown bread.

It is in salt-sprayed cottages by the sea
where misty maidens mend nets and men
cast glances, reeling
at the thought of just one kiss.

Wherever young Adam greets Eve with gratitude,
delighted by the suitableness of this woman,
Wherever, Eve, with laughter, receives her Man,
there is the Garden—their Garden— and
no curse, no thistle, no felonious foe
can choke this saxifrage seed.

Somewhere, someone is falling in love
tonight for the very first time
and there—like a buried promise—Paradise stirs.

RDD
2/07

The Bards Delight

2007-01-19T19:07:00.000-07:00

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west;
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by.

This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

William Shakespeare
1564-1616

Why I Still Love Christmas - a Reflection

2006-12-28T12:05:00.000-07:00

Jewish convert and Carmelite martyr of WW II St. Edith Stein said of Christmas: "The very word diffuses a charm which few human hearts can resist." Granting this as true a question arises. Why? Why are even non-believers drawn into the "Christmas spirit"? Why do even the most unhappy and Scrooge-like people stuff a few bills into the buckets of the Salvation Army when they hear those tinkling bells? What is this charm St. Edith speaks of?

At root, Christmas is a feast of love; not the Lennonite "all you need is love" but authentic human love. Christmas triggers something in us that makes us helpless to deny a phenomenon that presses itself upon us with all the urgency of an important fact. Indeed, when we reflect upon this insistent "thing" occurring within us we become aware that it is, in fact, a fact; the most basic fact of human existence - our need to love and be loved. It's important particularly to note our increased sense of the need to love. Stampedes at Wal-Mart notwithstanding, people generally are kinder, even (dare I say it) more charitable. We see each other more as neighbor at the end of December than we do at any other time of the year, during which we are more likely to look upon each other as annoying hindrances to a speedy and well planned day free of the presence of others (with the exception of those with whom we share our home.) Not so at Christmas. Not only do we suffer the presence of others, we actively seek it out. Even the homeless, against whom we arm ourselves with lethal excuses, are welcomed into the warm glow of this mysterious Christmas beneficence that, despite ourselves, wins over our hearts. Most soup kitchens will say they have no shortage of volunteers from Thanksgiving to Christmas. The charm of Christmas indeed.

Sadly, we also see the tragic manifestation of the effects of a lack of love at this time of year. Those who, for myriad reasons, have felt uninvited to the feast suffer greatly at Christmas. Many people report feeling depressed. More suicides occur during the Christmas season. Like blood in a clogged artery, for these people the free flow of divine love somehow is stopped on its course through human channels leaving their hearts deprived of its life source. Their condition becomes acute at this time because in the face of the Christmas fact, the human need for love, many find that need unmet. Some despair of ever being healed. Love is the root of Christmas, the surprising bud that breaks into blossom in the midst of winter releasing a fragrance without which we know we cannot live. But this fragrance can only be found where man knows he is not alone. Thus, Christmas reminds us not only of our own humanity and its concomitant vulnerability but it makes us see the same humanity in others. Moreover, Christmas tells us something about the nature of that humanity: namely, that it is very good.

In this year's special edition for the Christmas octave, Magnificat prints a short essay by James Monti entitled "Christmas with the Saints." In it, Monti notes that in the December 23, 2005, Spanish edition of the Vatican newspaper L'Osservatore Romano "there appeared a photograph of Pope Benedict XVI kneeling on the floor in a room of the Apostolic Palace, admiring with delight the miniature creche beneath a Christmas tree bedecked with lights, tinsel, and Christmas balls." Such a photo is worth noting. At first glance, it seems merely a photo opportunity showing the Holy Father doing his papal duty. Closer scrutiny, however, reveals a certain oddness. Here is an elderly man in white cassock, a shock of even whiter hair smoothed back over his head, a man who is the leader of over a billion people worldwide, a man once called John Paul's "pit-bull" and now called by some our "German Shepherd," here is this man in relation to whom none can remain ambivalent kneeling like a boy told to do his prayers before what for many American families amounts to little more than a sweet pastoral cultural icon. How many dads kneel before the creche in their home and lead their family in prayer? How many world leaders kneel at all? Pope Benedict, who is both spiritual father and world leader (in that order), is showing the way to find "delight" in Christmas.

Christmas, after all, is a feast. In Catholic nomenclature, we call it the Feast of the Nativity of the Lord. The word feast has the connotation of abundance. One of the definitions offered for the word feast by the Random House College Dictionary is "any rich or abundant meal." As a verb, a definition offered is "to gratify or delight." Thus, it is seldom that you will find anyone gloomy at a feast. At the masque in Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing, even Don Pedro is unable to indulge his aching ego after his proposal of marriage is politely refused by Beatrice. Feasting will have its way with us. It is an occasion charged with irresistible delight. This fact is rather unfortunately attested to by the number of ill-considered liaisons that occur in the wake of Christmas parties. What is essentially an agapic love rooted in a general attitude of thankfulness for the goodness of human life is sometimes confused because this love can flow all of sudden so freely through our hearts and with such ebullience that we experience it somewhat viscerally, which renders it to our emotions as a romantic love for a particular person. There is also often a keen sense of desire that presses us to find fulfillment though there is none since it is a desire for the infinite. Of course, large quantities of alcohol cause great confusion in these matters. It's generally a good idea for men and women not to go a'tippling together at Christmas time.

Returning to my erstwhile point about feasting it occurs to me that I have never seen a person crying at a Christmas mass. I have seen it on Good Friday. To that, of course, one must contend that to compare Christmas to Good Friday is to compare life to death. Yet, in the fact of Christ, the two are not mutually exclusive. They are opposite sides of the same coin - love. To be born is to die. Two other feast days intrude upon the Christmas octave bearing this very message. The feast day of St. Stephen, the first martyr of the church, and the feast day of the Slaughter of the Holy Innocents. To be born is to die. But how invaluable were those deaths of the early church! Invaluable because of the fact of Christmas. That was a time when, in more precise terms, to be born in Christ, which was to be really born, was to be killed. It is not inconceivable such a time may return. Just as weeping is fitting on Good Friday, Christmas is a time to rejoice. As Ecclesiastes tells us, there is "a time to mourn, and a time to dance" (3:4). It could be said our Good Friday weeping is the indecipherable echo of our Christmas rejoicing.

Like everything Christ did, and like all the points along the slow turn of the liturgical cycle, there is something organic, something very human about Christmas. At this purely human level, we rejoice because "a child is born." One has to be inhuman not to experience the joyous wonder brought about by a new human life. Yet, also like everything Christ did, Christmas does not unfold only on a human plane. There is a suprahuman dimension to this birth. No doubt this could be said of every birth and good parents of faith would make the same claim with the birth of their own children. But I can forget the supernatural fact of human creation when it is in the crib of my neighbor. When my friend calls to tell me a child is born, I am joyful. He calls to include me in the feast of this good news and I delight in the abundance. The next day I go back to work and my busy schedule and forget that good news almost entirely. My friend's news is indeed good but it is usual. It is not life-changing for me except in a contingent way. That birth does not compel me to contemplate it, dwell within its meaning, ponder it in my heart weekly, daily, hourly. That baby is not the resolution of all my restlessness. Seeing him or her is not to find what my heart is perennially seeking except in a momentary, analogous way. This fact in no way diminishes or belittles the significance or importance of the birth of my friend's child. It is what I expect it should be. In fact, it highlights the fact, always good to recall, that we humans are creatures and we musn't look laterally to find fulfillment. We must look up to the One Who came down.

This good news, so ancient and ever new, is inescapable and unforgettable. Christ's birth is the central fact of history. Everything a man thinks, believes, does, and is is in relation to that birth because it is that birth, that word spoken from heaven into human history, that creates the epistemological context for all inquiry and knowing. The Incarnation is the centerpiece of all human endeavor. Neutrality is impossible in relation to this event that will not stop unfolding. All of man's effort to find and possess his destined course can be summed up as either an attempt to enter the manger scene like the Magi or an attempt to burn it to ashes like Herod. There are none left unaffected by the Christian claim of the Incarnation.

In Evelyn Waugh's Brideshead Revisited, Charles Ryder, an agnostic, has a conversation with his friend Sebastian Flyte, a nominal Catholic. Charles says, "But, my dear Sebastian, you can't seriously believe it all. I mean about Christmas and the star and the three kings and the ox and the ass." Sebastian says, "Oh yes, I believe that. It's a lovely idea." Dissatisfied Charles continues, "But you can't believe things because they're a lovely idea." "But I do," Sebastian replies. "That's how I believe." This is why churches are packed at Christmas. The human heart is inexorably drawn on by its desire. Ultimately, that can lead us all to only one place. The Christmas story on the whole seems incredible. Yet it sounds no more incredible than the idea of giant planets flying around each other in space at incomprehensible speeds without ever crashing into each other. The Incarnation is an idea beautiful to contemplate. And it is beauty, finally, that compels. "Man will be saved by beauty, or nothing," Dostoevsky said. Pope Benedict XVI put it this way: "the beautiful is knowledge in a superior form since it arouses man to the real greatness of the truth. True knowledge is being struck by the arrow of beauty that wounds man. Being struck and overcome by the beauty of Christ is a more real, more profound knowledge than mere rational deduction." Beauty is the fulfillment of all human longing and something in us tells us that we shall find that beauty in Christ. That is how we believe. "Beauty and love form the true consolation in the world, bringing it as near as possible to the world of the resurrection" (Pope Benedict XVI). The beauty of it all...the loveliness of the idea... This is why the Holy Father can kneel and admire "with delight" the creche beneath the tree just as he may have done as a boy at home. This is our reasonable cause for joy. This is why we all feel a little younger at Christmas. This is why, like Mary, we travel many miles to be with others. A phone call or greeting card simply won't do. Presence is needed. I need yours and you need mine. Christmas at once exposes our deepest vulnerability (in many ways) and satisfies it. It mysteriously reveals to us the deepest longings of our human hearts and then draws them into a divine heart, where we find the comfort of knowing we are not alone and that in time, and then beyond time, those longings will be fulfilled ceaselessly. It is a feast. It is a redemptive feast. And even if, for most people, this lovely idea is only grasped for a day, what a beautiful day it is.

This is why I still love Christmas.

Digby Figworth

Two Donkeys

2006-09-14T18:15:00.000-07:00

I have a little donkey on my desk that is supposed to remind me to work like the donkey at the water wheel Escriva (Opus Dei) wrote about. It's sort of an "action figure" that my wife bought at Target, but I'm not a donkey--I'm an ass. At least, that's what I've always thought. But we can debate that some other time....

Enjoy.

Asinine Thoughts of Mine

The donkey on my mantle must wonder
exactly what it is I do all day.
I do not show what burden I’m under;
I do not pull a cart, eat any hay.

While he is always busy in the fields,
I sit at a computer typing words.
A different kind of green is my life’s yield
from his that feeds and fattens all the herds.

I often wish that my own sweat and toil
could be as simple as that of an ass.
That I could stain my hands in dark black soil,
that I could be the cause of God’s green grass.

But, no. It seems that wasn’t meant to be.
For I am not a donkey, I’m just me.

RDD
09/14/06

A Neo-Drapeauvian sonnet

2006-09-13T11:36:00.000-07:00

Waste

If I had done the things I said I'd do
to get out of the things I simply loathed,
perhaps I'd be a wealthy man. It's true
my kids would be well-shod and better clothed.

If I had spent the time I said I'd spend
on things I truly thought to be worthwhile,
Perhaps by now I'd have a screenplay penned
(and an IMDB writer's profile).

If I enacted all the schemes I thought
would make the world a better place,
The world might be a better place. It's not
that unreasonable to think that grace

could build on nature, even if it's mine.
After all, rotten grapes make the best wine.

RDD
09/13/06

Mahfouz Dies

2006-09-01T23:06:00.000-07:00

Just heard that Naguib (sp?) Mahfouz died recently. Mahfouz was an important writer from Egypt. The only middle east writer I know of who had a substantial following in the west. I'm not too familiar with his work, having read only one novel, the title of which escapes me. I remember liking it. Mahfouz struck me as a good story teller and the book was a window onto a culture and way of life that is very foreign to a westerner. Writers are probably the only people in the middle east who can provide us in the west with a veiw of those people that is human and honest. They offer the only alternative to news, from middle eastern or western outlets. I remember thinking I'd like to look at some more of Mahfouz's work. That was many years ago. His work was prodigious. 33 novels, 13 anthologies, several plays, and 30 screenplays. Of his novels, people generally cite The Cairo Trilogy as the pinnacle of his work; Palace Walk, Palace of Desire, Sugar Street. If memory serves, Mahfouz was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature within the last decade. At any rate, his voluminous output stands as a reminder to me of how important it is to always be writing, if we would be writers.

A Tardy Farewell

2006-08-25T22:48:00.000-07:00

I received a note today in the mail informing me that an important person in my life died last summer, June 20, 2005. His name was Sal Mennuti. The note came from his sister Josephine whom I never met although she and Sal were very close. Sal lived in a small town called Humboldt, about 100 miles north of Phoenix. I happened to be up in Flagstaff the other day for work and after a refreshing walk in the woods I headed back down the hill. As I approached the Prescott exit along I-17, twilight was all but gone and darkness was pooling over the hills I recognized so well. It's in those low hills that little Humboldt sits. I thought about Sal and wondered if all was well with him. I had written him a letter the previous week and still had not heard back from him. Not only was Sal my only friend with whom I could still exchange hand written letters, he was always very prompt in responding. In years past, I would have pulled off of I-17 at the Prescott exit and rolled through those lazy, undulating hills until I saw the Exxon station which meant that I was at Main Street. Main Street in Humboldt is a very short drive and then you're onto dirt roads. Sal's house was always open and I'd come to know his dogs, different ones over the years, through my visits. My favorites were the mother/daughter tandem of Anna and Tasha, although Anna, a very large and heavy dog (try to imagine a kanine version of an Italian grandmother) had a rather discomfiting habit of shoving her nose forcefully into crotches. She had a skin problem that caused her nose to itch and that was her way of finding relief. I have to give props to Snitter, too, a little rat terrier and the first dog of Sal's I met. Snitter was one of his favorites, too. He rescued her from the pound. Snitter was a little skiddish because she had been abused. Both of her front legs were permanently bent because a previous owner had broken them. Sal's dogs meant a lot to him because they were the only immediate "family" he had. He was always seeking out the ones from the pound with a past history of abuse.

Over the years, my spontaneous stops in Humboldt decreased because Sal was rarely home. I'd roam through his empty, hopelessly messy, constantly under construction house always ending up in his library. I'd peruse the shelves a while, then leave a note and go. The other day, as I passed under the large green sign pointing the way toward Humboldt, I was tempted to follow. It had been over a year since I last saw Sal. But it was dark and I wanted to get home with enough of the night left to get some work done. So I continued on to Phoenix, only wondering at his slow response.

Humboldt was more than a place where a friend lived. It became a sort of personal retreat for me. Sal moved up there from Phoenix a little more than a decade ago. He was fed up with city life in Phoenix. Humboldt is tiny and unremarkable, except to the people who live there. But something about the place was special to me. I did a lot of soul searching up there over the years, walking along the dirt roads and out across the hills, maybe into the Agua Fria riverbed, or over to the old smokestack and furnace whose skeletal remains stand as a memorial to the mining days when Humboldt was booming, or sometimes I'd sit in the middle of a field on the remains of a concrete staircase that led up to what was once the schoolhouse where the miners children were educated. Only those few steps remain. I especially liked it in winter; sometimes snow on the ground, the crisp, clean early morning air. In the evenings, I liked walking down the dirt road from Sal's house to a field where someone kept their horses. In the winter, I enjoyed watching plumes of vapor billowing out of their large nostrils, or seeing them shake the early morning frost from their manes. At night, millions of stars were visisble. Mostly, I just liked the quiet. I went there to be quiet. A rooster crowing here, a dog barking there once or twice, a horse winnying or stomping its hoof on the turf. It reminded me of Longfellow's poem My Cathedral:

Like two cathedral towers these stately pines
Uplift their fretted summits tipped with cones;
The arch beneath them is not built with stones;
Not Art but Nature traced these lovely lines,
And carved this graceful arabesque of vines;
No organ but the wind here sighs and moans,
No sepulchre conceals a martyr's bones,
No marble bishop on his tomb reclines.
Enter! the pavement, carpeted with leaves,
Gives back a softened echo to thy tread!
Listen! the choir is singing; all the birds,
In leafy galleries beneath the eaves,
Are singing! listen, ere the sound be fled,
And learn there may be worship without words.

Humboldt is a place I'd go to hear creation praying, to hear it proclaim, as Augustine noted, that it was made. I didn't know it then, but I was searching for God. I only shared Humboldt with two people. The first a girl from Texas I'd met along the French Riviera during my wanderings through Europe. We took a long walk at twilight and ended up in a starry, starry night alongside the cool running water of the Agua Fria which has its spring in Humboldt. It's dry by the time you get to Phoenix. We sat there with our feet in the water and talked a good while about life and dreams. The other was a girl I dated for a while. Instead of star-gazing we argued. The first of many. It disturbed the peace of the place. I doubt either of these women understood the secret I was letting them in on. For the most part, I kept Humboldt to myself. Sal and I would usually catch a movie, or if the Arizona Shakespeare Company was performing, we'd take in a play or two. Sal was a man with many hats. At 67, he still only needed four or five hours of sleep a day. That was true for the nearly 20 years I knew him. When he moved to Humboldt, he decidedd he wanted to be an R.N. He was always learning something new and excelling at it. He got his R.N. degree and took a job at the VA hospital, the graveyard shift. He'd sleep from 7:00/7:30 - 11:00 then get up at go to the VA. He did this for nearly a decade. After his night shift, if school was in session he'd head off to one of his teaching jobs, either his Latin class at the tri-city prep school in Prescott Valley or his Spanish or Italian class at Yavapai college. He spent Saturday afternoons taking care of an old, homebound woman in Humboldt. He was the director of two book groups that met twice a month which meant he was reading at least one book a week. He was an actor, and landowner. We used to joke that Humboldt was going to change its name to Mennutiville because he kept buying up the property. He had a love for languages and contined to learn. In addition to Spanish, Italian, and Latin, Sal also knew ancient Greek. Most recently, he'd been studying Hebrew with a local rabbi. He also studied music. He learned to play the piano and a few years ago he began learning how to play the recorder. He kept it in an old tube sock.

Sal was also a homosexual. I didn't know this when I met him at the Arizona Country Club in 1988. I was 20 and I had just returned from a futile attempt at education at the University of Arizona. Cynical and jaded, I took a job at the club bussing tables. Sal worked as a waiter and bartender, just for something to do. He was also teaching part-time at Arizona State then. He was always working. Sal must have been about 49 or 50 at this time. There was nothing about him to indicate he was gay. I was drawn to him simply because he was the only really alive person I had ever met in my life. Till his death, he remained the most alive person I knew. I began engaging him in conversation because it became apparent to me that he had something I wanted and lacked - knowledge and charisma. I was a shy, withdrawn, melancholy, brooding young man who was apt to spend his off hours locked up alone in his room writing angst filled poetry on subjects like death, or the cosmos, or the inadequacy of human love. Sal turned all of that on its head. Here was a man whose very being was a constant, resounding Yes! to life. By his mere presence, he took all of my pseudo-profundity and self-pity and threw it back in my face showing me what a hoax I was. Sal had been a Fulbright scholar as a college student and graduated at the top of his class. He introduced me to something I'd never heard of before - the Classics. The first book he gave me was a worn copy of The Epic of Gilgamesh. It still stands on my bookshelf next to the other great poets of antiquity that Sal introduced me to; Homer, Sophocles, Virgil, et al. And then, of course, there was Shakespeare. I still remember his mock disgust with me whenever he asked me if I'd read this or that book. I always answered no because, at that point, I hadn't read any books. It was all new and fascinating.

It became clear to me that my coworkers were making jokes about me in connection to Sal. Sal never came right out and told me he was gay but he didn't rebut the jokes and comments. He let them have their infantile fun. Sal was the only homosexual I've known personally. Somehow it didn't matter. He wasn't a gay rights activist, he never seemed to be part of that subculture, he never made any sort of advance toward me and, as far as I know, he wasn't sexually active when I knew him. We had a de facto "don't ask, don't tell" policy long before Bill Clinton. I just wanted to hear about the next great poet I should read. There was only one time when Sal told me a little about this part of himself. He initially wanted to be a priest but it was while attending a prep school for boys he began to realize he had inordinate desires. He tried to fight it. In those days, the understanding was that the mere condition of having homosexual desires meant you were living in mortal sin. With that understanding, the priesthood was impossible. The struggle continued into college. He chased girls, maybe had sex with them, even got engaged at one point, if memory serves. Finally, he couldn't handle it anymore. At the top of his class with only his dissertatin to complete for his Ph.D, Sal dropped out to come to grips with this problem. A lot of alcohol was invovled. Finally, he admitted he was gay. I remember him saying that even at age 50, he was still learning to accept himself. That was the only time he talked about it. The jokes contined at work but I didn't care. The people we worked with were bitter and cynical. Their hearts were hard and their minds were dead. For the first time in my life, I had met someone who was really alive and I wanted to know the secret. He was so full of vitality and energy and a joy that was as irrepressible as bubbles in champagne. He was everything I was not and wanted to be, except for the gay part. While all the other waiters, cooks and dishwashers were drudging joylessly through their day, Sal would come gliding into the kitchen reciting some lines of Shakespeare or singing some showtune or other at the top of his lungs. The whole crew either scoffed or laughed at him like he was crazy. He answered them with his cheery grin that seemed ever on his face and a spark in his eyes that I can still see. And off he'd go again, never weighed down by the mediocrity surrounding him. He somehow managed to fly above all the brokenness of the world. I can still hear him quoting Thoreau's famous lines from Walden, very dramatically, of course, "I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately....I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life." The degenerate morons we worked with sneered sardonically, applying their own perverted interpretations to Sal's words. I had no idea what he was talking about. I had never heard of Thoreau or Walden. But Sal's presentation of those words set my heart alight. "I want that, too!" something in me said. "How do I do it?"

Perhaps above all, Sal was a performer. His life was a great drama and he lived it that way. He had done some acting in community theater and sometimes I thought that he really never stopped acting. He was eccentric, too. Back in the country club days, he used to drive an old beat up Volkswagen bug with seats that had no covers, just springs. Instead of buying his own shoes, which he could clearly afford, he would go to the golf shop and take home pairs of discarded golf shoes, take off the spikes, and wear them as loafers. For nearly a decade while working for the VA, I don't think I ever saw Sal wearing anything other than scrubs. All of his towels were VA, too. He was remodelling his house, adding on and creating a home with no interior doors, just arched doorways. But that eccentricity poured into his personality in delightful ways. Sal could light up a room like no one else I've known. The mood always lifted when he came in and dropped down a notch when he left. There was something refreshing, life-affirming about his presence. You just felt good about life after an hour or even 30 minutes with Sal. This quality is probably what made him a great teacher as well. That, and the fact he loved to teach.

Sal's other great quality was being in the moment. The past was unchangeable and gone and the future was unknowable. He wasn't irresponsible, quite the contrary. But there was really no other time but now for Sal. It was for this reason it was great fun watching Shakespeare with him. If the performance was a comedy, his laughter would rise above the rest of the crowd. Sometimes he was the only one to get the joke. During a drama, there were several "Huh's!" and "Oh, my's" and "Uh-oh's" said aloud. He was always completely into whatever he was doing, always deep in the event of the moment.

The second book Sal gave me was Thomas Merton's Seven Story Mountain. A paperback copy even more tattered than Gilgamesh. I still have this book, too. It now needs a rubber band to hold it together but I keep it because it's important to remember our beginnings. This was the beginning of my search for God. Seven Story Mountain made a great impression on me then although my taste for Merton has decreased as I've grown older. I think Sal knew I was searching and placed some signposts along the way. But we never talked seriously about God, at least not that I remember. That was too bad. We went to mass together once in Humboldt in a little building that used to be the bank. Last I saw, it had changed into a Protestant church of some kind. I wish I knew Sal's thoughts about God. I think he knew I underwent a conversion of some sort during the time we knew each other but he never asked about my thoughts or beliefs either. We pretty much stayed on literature and how important it is to "Gather, ye, rosebuds while ye may." He was constantly telling me that. He was the greatest example I've known of St. Irenaus's claim that "the glory of God is man fully alive."

Early on in our friendship, I gave Sal the nickname "Mentor." And he, in turn, called me his "student." Over the years, right up until our last correspondence last year, we continued to address each other and sign our letters this way. The student never overtook the mentor but I gained much ground. In recent years, I could cite books and writers with whom he was unfamiliar. I used such opportunities to rib Sal as he used to rib me, feigning disgust when he didn't know the book I was talking about. But he was always my mentor. I learned more than he probably ever knew because of our meeting in the most inauspicious of places in 1988. He planted a seed that grew and bore much fruit in my life. It's not the kind of fruit that many people value, or even see. But I do. And I will be eternally grateful because it was Sal's inspiration, his love for life that showed me the difference between living and merely existing and it was his tutelage that led me to the University of Dallas where my life of the mind deepened and became a life of the soul. Thoreau also wrote the following in Walden:

"However mean your life is, meet it and live it; do not shun it and call it hard names. It is not so bad as you are...The faultfinder will find faults even in paradise. Love your life, poor as it is. You may perhaps have some pleasant, thrilling, glorious hours, even in a poorhouse...Cultivate poverty like a garden herb, like sage...Things do not change; we change. Sell your clothes and keep your thoughts. God will see that you do not want society."

This, I think describes Sal's philosophy of life pretty well. He was not poor but he lived liked it. I don't think I ever saw Sal wearing any item of clothing that was new, in 20 years. His house was modest, and hopelessly dusty. The only new thing I know of that Sal ever owned was a Jeep he bought three or four years ago. He owned 12 or 13 houses in Humboldt and rented them all out for $300/month. That's all he would charge his tenants. He knew he would never make his money back on those properties at that rate. In some cases, he exchanged labor for rent. One of his tenants was a carpenter who was having trouble making rent. So Sal put him to work building the additions on his small house in lieu of rent money. This is why the work was taking so long. And Sal certainly never lacked society. Everyone in Humboldt knew him, and many in Prescott.

My last correspondence with Sal was in the Spring of 2005. He invited me up as usual. It had been a long time since I'd been to my "retreat." A long time since I had roamed around that quiet little town. A long time since I had heard Sal's laughter and shared a meal of pasta and Italian sausage with him in his dimly lit, half completed kitchen. A long time since I walked through that front door, always unlocked, with an old sock stuffed into the hole where a deadbolt used to be. With a hot Phoenix summer coming, a weekend in Humboldt sounded good. But part of it frightened me. There were things I knew I needed to think about that I didn't want to think about. And Humboldt was a place for thinking. So I busied myself with distractions and I didn't go. Now I wish I had. I also wish Sal had written to me when he knew he was ill. His sister Josephine wrote in her note that Sal died of cancer. She and her husband were with him through his decline and death. I'm glad about that. But I wish he would have contacted me. I wish I could have looked on his face once more, his face that seemed hardly changed with age, a face that always shone with a resounding Yes! to life. I wish I could have wandered through his chaotic, half-finished house with no interior doors. I wish I could have scanned the dusty shelves of his library one last time. I wish I could have said good-bye, and thanks. Thanks for being really alive. Thanks for embracing life and living it dramatically. Thanks for being your own man and showing me what truly counts. Thanks for encouraging me to pursue my dream, and to care less about what others think. Thanks for teaching me what good books are. Because of you, I've got shelves full of them. Farewell, my friend, my mentor. I will miss you.

Requiescat Louis "Sal" Mennuti
May your voice be heard with the choirs of heaven.

Size Matters: Pluto Is Banished

2006-08-24T21:19:00.000-07:00

Did you feel that? It was our universe getting smaller. Today the International Astronomical Union (IAU) voted to demote the Milky Way's most distant planet, Pluto, to "dwarf planet" status. That screech you heard was Clyde Tombaugh in his grave. He was the American astronomer who discovered the ninth planet of our solar system in 1930, or at least he thought he had. But in this age that lives by the slogan Question Authority, the IAU decided there was no authority when it came to defining what a planet is.

More than a year ago, feeling that the ninth planet was shrimpy, the IAU began a debate over the "planetary" status of Pluto. A panel of 19 astronomers was formed to discuss the issue. The discussion was necessary, of course, because of all the "radical" new discoveries since 1930, not the least of which being the discovery scientists have made regarding the near absolute license they now can take in tinkering with terminology. The debate over this icy ball was quite heated. No compromise position was reached among the panelists in over a year of haggling. The IAU regrouped and called back a smaller group of six who met behind closed doors (where was the hew and cry from the media over this sinister and archaic insistence upon privacy?) and created a new category, the dwarf planets. Or, the dwarf planet, given that Pluto is the only member of this lowly new category. Some preferred the designation of Plutons to describe all the "rubble" floating around the outer regions of space. Pluto would be included in this category. This certainly seems a lesser sentence than banishment. Slaves to melancholia that they are, the media are reporting this decision on Pluto as a demotion of Earth's most distant satrapy. No doubt the media view the IAU's decision as planetism of the worst sort. But looked at another way, Pluto has been elevated. After all, even though Pluto must suffer the politically incorrect indignation of being called a dwarf (Tolkein's Gimle did not change this), it is truly the only one in its class.

To give the media some credit, however, one must pause to reflect how odd it seems that an obscure and, until now, largely unknown body of scientists suddenly gathers together, takes a vote, and - poof! - our solar system now contains only 8 planets. (Imagine the cost of next year's textbooks, all of which will have to be bought new.) On what authority does the IAU act? Is the IAU's a voice from on high, spoken ex caelo? Why should any of us respect this announcement? Does it amount to anything more than an announcement? My guess is it does not. People like Pluto. It's a fun word to say. Try it. Pluto. Pluto. Say it aloud. Play with it a little...go on. Pluuuuuuuutoooooooo. It's fun. Personally I like Pluto just because of the name. Pluto reminds me of Plado. If you could get past the smell (which can only be described as toxic), those little yellow cans were full of colorful, creative fun (I never had any Plado of my own but my friends did and I made the most of it when I had the chance.) Of course, there's also the obvious Walt Disney connection, from back in the days when we could feel good and get sentimental about Walt Disney Productions. One astronomer from Northern Ireland, Jocelyn Bell Burnell, who made the official announcement of Pluto's excommunication held up a stuffed Pluto the dog under a red umbrella. "It could be argued that we are creating an umbrella called 'planet' under which dwarf planets exist." Reporters report waves of laughter undulated through the room in Prague where the IAU gathered for this auspicious occasion. "Hails of derisive laughter, Bruce!" (If you don't get it, don't ask.) What I want to know is what are these pinheads laughing about? Where's the outrage?! This is nothing more than naked prejudice. I'm sure patriarchy is at the root of this debacle! Or some animus against the southwest. This is personal for us Arizonans. Pluto was dicovered by the 24 year-old Clyde Tombaugh while he was working at the Lowell Observatory in Flagstaff, a mere 200 miles north and approximately 5,500 - 6,000 feet in elevation from where I am now seated. Pluto is Arizona's contribution to the cosmos. Maybe they hate us because we're beautiful, with our clear skies and starry nights (that is, as long as you're about 129 stone's throws away from the Phoenix city limits, the city being so overdeveloped and, thus, overlit, not mention so smoggy that you're lucky if you can see Orion's belt.) I demand equality for all planetary bodies, especially the round ones with moons. Everyone, join with me! Let me hear you Arizona! Weeee shaalll ooovercoooooommme! Was anyone else's interest piqued by the incessant focus upon roundness in this debate? Next thing you know, the IAU will be probing Santa. Does his belly TRULY shake like a bowl full of jelly? Is a bowl full of jelly sufficiently round to be appropriately compared to Santa's belly? What exactly is the density and mass of Santa's belly? Does it dominate its environment? Perhaps we should redefine the word "belly." I hope they don't do that. I'm no Santa, but decades of determined beer drinking, almost entirely stouts and lagers, have gone into forming this delicately rounded shape I call my body. Keep your laws off my body, IAU!!!!

Strict definitions are still in progress but the IAU did make some firm statements on what qualifies a planet as a planet. A planet must orbit a star but not be a star itself. A planet must be large enough for its own gravity to pull it into a spherical shape. And a planet must have "cleared the neighborhood around its orbit." In other words, to be a planet, the object must have enough gravity to pull all debris into itself, thereby forming itself into a planet. So far so good for Pluto. However, there seems to be a problem with Pluto's orbit. It isn't round enough. It's oblong. Thus, it overlaps Neptune's orbit and is actually closer to the sun than Neptune during this time. So, Pluto is disqualified from planet status. Or, at least from adult planet status. It remains a planet apparently, but a different, newly "discovered" kind of planet, a dwarf planet. Which, I suppose, means that Pluto meets the roundness qualification but not the size qualification. There is another icy object flying around the outer limits of space called Xena. Xena was discovered in 2003 by Mike Brown of the California Institute of Technology. Xena is not a planet either. It has the size, but lacks the roundness. But it was Xena, in part, that foiled Pluto's membership status in the galaxy. The real riddle here is the IAU's obsession with roundness and size. I wonder what the male/female representation of the IAU is. Freud would have a holiday with this one. The way I see it, if Clyde Tombaugh called it a planet, that's good enough for me. Much science in the latter half of the nineteenth century suggested something significant was there.

Perhaps there is something more pernicious going on at the IAU. Maybe the IAU is a secret society of Hell-deniers. The scientists who make up this organization, of course, know that in classical mythology Pluto is associated with Hades, the god of the underworld. The classical pagan's idea of the underworld was more lucidly developed in Judaism as Gehenna. In Christianity we speak of Hell. Certainly every card-carrying member of the IAU knows what foolishness such beliefs are. Since the Enlightenment, science has been about nothing if not proving the empirically non-evidential nature of these ideas.

Among the Olympians, Pluto is the third brother. His inheritance was the underworld, often called by his other name, Hades, or Tartarus. Edith Hamilton, in her classic book "Mythology," offers a description of Pluto as everything scientists despise. The underworld, represented by Pluto, "is vague, a shadowy place inhabited by shadows. Nothing is real there. The ghost's existence, if it can be called that, is like a miserable dream." Hades is the place "where the wicked are punished and the good rewarded." Much like our former Olympian in space, the mythological Pluto was reached only by a long and treacherous path. Hamilton, citing Virgil, writes that the "path down to it leads to where Acheron, river of woe, pours into Cocytus, the river of lamentation. An aged boatman named Charon ferries the souls of the dead across the water to the farther bank, where stands the adamantine gate to Tartarus (the name Virgil prefers.) ...On guard before the gate sits Cerberus, the three-headed, dragon-tailed dog, who permits all spirits to enter, but none to return." And after all that travail, "each one is brought before three judges, Rhadamanthus, Minos, and Aeacus, who pass sentence and send the wicked to everlasting torment and the good to a place of blessedness called the Elysian Fields." Passage to Pluto also costs money. "Charon will receive into his boat only the souls of those upon whose lips the passage money was placed when they died..." Surrounding Pluto's palace, which no poet endeavored to describe, are "wide wastes, wan and cold, and meadows of asphodel, presumably strange, pallid, ghostly flowers. We do not know anything more about it. The poets did not care to linger in that gloom-hidden abode." Neither, it seems, do modern astronomers. Pluto has, to a large extent, defied modern technology's demand to know. He has hidden himself from our probing cameras in shadow, ice, and distance. Unlike Saturn, brazenly showing off with his rings like a peacock seeking a mate, or even his neighbor Neptune who has entranced us with his mesmeric shades of beautiful azure, unduplicated anywhere on earth, even among the most pristine beaches of Hawaii, Pluto has remained largely shrouded in mystery. And mystery is an insult to the thinking of modern science. If the mystery cannot be debunked, it must be defined, or redefined, out of significance. The pagan Greeks' descriptions of their shadowy Pluto are more captivating after all these centuries because they get nearer the truth. And that is because the road taken is the road of imagination. We need shadowy, unknown places like Pluto in our universe. How sensible it seems to us who, like Hamlet, understand the mystifying truth that "there are more things in heaven and earth, International Astronomical Union, than are dreamt of in your philosophy" to imagine an opaquely lit, distant place far beneath the unknown recesses of the earth, as Homer describes it, where the ethereal, ghost-like spirits of the dead must go and make a reckoning of their lives. Contrary to popular belief, scientists like those who make up the IAU lack imagination precisely because they don't value it as a path to fruitful knowledge. They rely instead on technology. Like an ambitious, young journalist hot on the trail of a great rumored scandal involving a beloved and well respected member of society, determined to find out the sordid facts, scientists send their unimaginably expensive machines (built with our tax money and the ever-increasing tuition dollars of college students) off into space to probe the dark, unknown spaces of space, demanding to know what's there, what it's made of, and what its measurments are. Imagination is the path chosen by the solitary walker in the woods in Robert Frost's famous poem. The scientists path of technology is an asphalt road driving straight through a concrete tunnel. Pluto's insistence upon distance and darkness made that old Olympian an enemy of science which claims that if a thing can't be known in an elemental sense, it must be dismissed. No scientist wants to remain within a darkness he cannot explain.

It's not the decision, per se, that bothers me as much as the arbitrariness of it. The IAU is a small association far more insignificant and far less influential than the heavens upon which they have made their pronouncement. Perhaps astronomers were envious of their colleagues in biology getting all the attention. After all, if biologists like Peter Singer can muck about with definitions of human life, surely astronomers can rearrange definitions, too. Sadly, this is the ethos of scientific inquiry today. When a change in thinking is desired, for whatever reason, but that change cannot be effected scientifically in a credible fashion, in no small part due to the enduring power of imagination, simply activate the scientist's escape hatch. Invoke evolution. As Michael Shara of the American Museum of Natural History said in an interview with Jeffery Brown on the Jim Lehrer Newshour, "We ignore the current set of definitions of the evolution of the Solar System." He goes to some lengths to invoke a carte-blanche version of evolution. "That's what astrophysics is all about, and that's what we want the third or eigth or tenth graders to understand, that there's an evolutionary process, that there is evolution actively at work here." It remains unclear where this evolution is precisely taking place. Is it occurring in space, or is it simply the current mood of astronomy creating a sudden need for a new definitional understanding of planets? Shara's comments seem defensive. The astrophysicist doth protest too much. Shara agrees with the decision to excommunicate Pluto from the panoply of planets. He seems to be hinting at what Catholics would call Tradition. But the key word in his statement is "current." In other words, definitions are never static. While I understand this viz. the nature of discovery, this doesn't seem to be the case with Pluto. The IAU, which should offer the most help in understanding these new understandings, has remained smugly reticent about the claimed "radical" new discoveries that undermine Pluto's nearly century-long status as a planet. And suddenly upending the common understanding of what a planet is and calling it evolution is disingenuous. Indeed, Alan Stern of the Southwest Research Institute, who was also part of the same Newshour interview, offered this riposte to Shara. "...to craft a definition around how something evolves is something that would probably be very short-lived." Perhaps, in 50 years, the IAU will realize that its predecessors made a mistake and reinstall Pluto as the Miky Way's ninth planet. Or, perhaps the IAU will continue finding evolution so industriously at work on its definitions that the solar system will eventually be totally unoccuppied by planets at all. Definitions are always the trip-wire for progress. Far from discovering that things actually ARE something, science seems to favor a nominalist approach to phenomena. Thus, new categories can be created to fit the needs of progress. Yet, nominalism is simply mystery stripped of imagination. Ergo, "dwarf planet." And just like that, by fiat, a century of scientific belief and what was probably the greatest achievement of Clyde Tombaugh's professional life is undone.

And so we must bid farewell to mysterious Pluto, that place both real and imagined, a potent mix of fire and ice. Science says you are no longer worthy of your Olympian birthright. You mystified us too long. You've conjured up too many half-formed thoughts of mortality and judgment, hidden behind the veil of poetry. Your created, sacramental place has been revoked by usurpers who have taken the throne of creation and subverted it into a crucible of uncreation. Alone now, apart from us, you must glide along your lonely oblong course through those dark distant regions, watching the rest of us from the gallery of space. Your only company, gloomy, hardened moons that will float about you continuously as harsh reminders of your bansihment. For brief spans of time, when you share a path with your neighbor Neptune, you'll remind us how you once kept watch for us along the rim of the galaxy. Though not stripped completely of your status as planet, you are now a dwarf. Little more than a little star. Yet, be comforted. Little stars have played big roles in the story of the world. The voices of children through the ages can be heard singing sweetly a cheerful song about a little star as they fade into that deep sleep known only in childhood, while imagination and wonder fill their floating minds. And their singing will remind us, too. There are, indeed, more things in heaven and earth...

Twinkle, twinkle, little star;
How I wonder what you are!
Up above the world so high
Like a diamond in the sky,
Twinkle, twinkle, little star!
How I wonder what you are.

Requiescat Pluto.

Wartime Partisan Blues

2006-07-09T19:29:00.001-07:00

"Fightin' terr'ism's
Our country's charism,"
We heard the burning Bush say.
The Muslim fright
Set him alight,
Now prophecy illumines the way.

Or is it megalomania
Bombing Mesopotamia?
Did the Bush spontaneously combust?
No need to guess,
Reporters say yes;
In media America must trust!

"The mission is done,"
The Bush said having fun
On a mighty ship in the sea.
With a little more time
Prophecy refined:
"We'll stay till Iraqis are free."

Meanwhile Hussein
Done gone insane,
They found him half nude in a hole.
He still thinks he's king
But the amazing thing
Is how long he survived eating mole.

Ossama Bin Laden
Remains untrodden
Surpassing Houdini's escapes.
On his scrawny behind
From his medieval mind
He makes anachrounous tapes.

So now we debate
How long mom's must wait
For their beloved brave sons to return.
Dad's also cry
For daughters who die.
The Bush remains hard to discern.

The media aspire
To put out the fire
But the flames cannot be snuffed;
They beat and they beat
Accusations repeat -
By ol' Rummy they're daily rebuffed.

Of an avian theme
Cable pundits dream
Their sleep stirred by hawks and doves.
From out of the sky
Here's mud in your eye.
The lawmakers take off their gloves.

The Dems hate the war
They once voted for,
They fear the protesting mob.
Republicans, too,
Wish it were through -
Iraq is not worth a lost job.

Oh, sedulous Powell,
You made Cheney howl
With your sobering call for patience:
"You break it, you own it."
Events now have shown it
To be the commonest of sense.

Alone on the lawn
The Bush burns on
While we await the next prophecy.
Meanwhile let's pray
For the lambs in the fray
On the altar of democracy.

Tom Jay
July 2006

Poet Laureate

2006-07-03T09:48:00.000-07:00

A nice piece on the new poet laureate from WSJ/New Criterion.

http://www.opinionjournal.com/editorial/feature.html?id=110008594 - (Updated with correct link)

I wish I could be sealed in holiness

2006-05-29T16:06:00.000-07:00

Accuse not Nature, she hath don her part;
Do thou but thine, and be not diffident
Of Wisdom, she deserts thee not, if thou
Dismiss not her, when most thou needst her nigh

Paradise Lost VIII 561-564

I wish I could be sealed in holiness
Impervious to woman's quick'ning touch.
Nature, upon her form, bestowed too much,
Concupiscent eyes burn straight through her dress.
Tonight, before my Lord, I must confess
Surrendering within desire's hot clutch,
And beg He douse the flame that burns with such
Intemperance, the cause of deep distress.

The flame is bless'd that burns with holy oil
And fashions one from two in wedded life;
The nuptial gift enshrined in solemn vows
Doth image Him Who first did us espouse.
'Tis good desiring union with a wife,
That love may find you worthy, wait and toil.

Tom Jay
April 2006

Pride disavows surrender so complete

2006-05-08T11:45:00.000-07:00

Here's one of my Lenten sonnets. This will give you an idea of the format I have in mind. In this instance, the response comes from C.S. Lewis.

"But now what had been an ideal became a command; and what might not be expected of one? Doubtless, by definition, God was Reason itself. But would He also be "reasonable" in that other, more comfortable, sense? Not the slightest assurance on that score was offered me. Total surrender, the absolute leap in the dark, were demanded. The reality with which no treaty can be made was upon me [...] In the Trinity Term of 1929, I gave in, and admitted that God was God, and knelt and prayed..."

C.S. Lewis
Surprised by Joy

Pride disavows surrender so complete.
Without dialogue, how can I proceed?
Some manifest rights must be guaranteed,
Arrangements made to forestall this retreat.
Damascus roads, with history replete,
Still threaten me with God's perduring greed
For souls resisting His covenant deed -
No quarter given, no terms of defeat.

Retreat offends the privilege of youth
To laugh at time, negotiate truth.
Yet youth's inheritance is quickly spent,
A choice appears then: submit or dissent.
This Oxford prig came finally to see
Man's only treaty is a bended knee.

Bad poetry

2006-05-08T01:04:00.000-07:00

Here's a valuable bit of analysis. Interesting since poetry reviews are rare in mainstream publications, even on the web. Interesting, too, how a piece of bad, deceptive art can have a life of its own. http://www.eppc.org/publications/pubID.2615/pub_detail.asp

p.s. Tom, what happened to that last poem you posted? and Rob - in order for you to get your substantial Kindlings monthly stipend, you have to post at least once a month. Do it for the children!

More on the call for Catholic artists and writers

2006-04-17T15:27:00.000-07:00

Joseph Bottum has an interesting take on today's blog entry at http://firstthings.com/ (Monday, April 17). The chorus for a Catholic literary revival is growing. I usually don't agree with Bottum and I know Tom feels the same, but his perspective is noteworthy given his position as editor of First Things.

Hope we get to meet tonight after Fr. John's potluck. I have an idea for a Aeflop fable.

The Kindlings: A Reflection

2006-04-06T11:41:00.000-07:00

The Kindlings

Recently, some friends and I decided to stop cursing the darkness of modern society and start rubbing some sticks together in hopes of generating a little light and a little heat for the cold, dark world in which we find ourselves. We formed a writer’s group called the Kindlings designed to help one another grow in our craft and to encourage one another in our respective campaigns in the Culture War. We’re not that impressive so far, but the fact that we’re drilling means something.

I had a few ideas in mind when I first proposed the idea of a writer’s group to my friends. Originally, I hoped the group could mimic in some way the famous Inklings of which both J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis were members. Those two seemed like good models of the kind of writer I wanted to be: profoundly Christian, and earnest beer-drinkers. Also, I had heard somewhere of a “famous” cardinal prophesying that the revival of the Church would begin in the American Southwest. Since I’m from Phoenix, I thought maybe I could have a part in this revival—I loved the image of the Church, like a Phoenix, rising from its own ashes, and since I’m a good boy, I wanted to do my part. Exactly what my part will be remains to be seen.

The word kindling kept coming to me as a possible name for the group. Its obvious resemblance to the Inklings satisfied one of my hopes, and the association with fire seemed to make it an appropriate match for the other hope as well.

The more I considered the name kindling, the more I liked it. I liked that it was both an action and a noun. What is kindling? It’s the act of setting fire to something else. What is kindling? It’s the small pieces of wood that are too small for anything other than being used to start bigger fires.

The original meaning of the word “holocaust” is “an offering that is wholly consumed by fire”. Since WWII, the term is also associated with the murder of millions of Jews. How strange that holiness and death are so closely associated in one word. What a fascinating juxtaposition!

Christ and the Christian artist marry both of these ideas in their persons. The artist is meant to be a light to the world—a reflection of the Light of the World—and yet the world hates him, just as it hated Jesus.
In some sense, the Christian artist is like Isaac, who carries the kindling for his own sacrifice up the mountain. Our art, our lives are the kindling we carry.
These may seem insignificant or too small for anything worthwhile. Nevertheless, we trust that God will accept our offering and that the Holy Spirit will ignite both with the fire of his Love so that our small role in the culture can lead to something bigger than ourselves and that somehow we can make of ourselves “an offering wholly consumed by fire”.

Beast of Burden

2006-04-04T18:44:00.000-07:00

Here's the rewrite. Thanks for your input. I'm glad Steve pointed out the inconsistency about the fence. I noticed that, too. I've also tightened up the meter.

Tom

Beast of Burden

I saw a donkey by a fence
Munching sprigs of brittle grass.
No equine splendor marked the frame
Of this lean, undistinguished ass.

Then the donkey looked at me
With wizened eyes of ancient birth
Revealing scenes of faithfulness
And hidden, unsuspected worth.

I saw him on salvation's path
Carrying humbly in his seat
A tired young mother full with child
Grown weary on her swollen feet.

It was he, not the stately horse
(When the world would no longer wait)
The Prince of Peace called upon
To bring redemption through the gate.

That meek procession saved my life
Two thousand vernal Passions hence.
I whispered "Thanks," into the ear
Of that donkey by the fence.