Seven Stanzas at Easter by John Updike

Apr8

April is National Poetry Month. I saw this portion of a poem on several of my friends’ Facebook pages over the Easter weekend, and I was reminded that Jesus was truly man, truly God, physically died and was resurrected in a physical human body. And for this we praise God, and for through this we realize hope.

Make no mistake: if he rose at all
It was as His body;
If the cell’s dissolution did not reverse, the molecule reknit,
The amino acids rekindle,
The Church will fall.

It was not as the flowers,
Each soft spring recurrent;
It was not as His Spirit in the mouths and fuddled eyes of the
Eleven apostles;
It was as His flesh; ours.

The same hinged thumbs and toes
The same valved heart
That—pierced—died, withered, paused, and then regathered
Out of enduring Might
New strength to enclose.

Let us not mock God with metaphor,
Analogy, sidestepping, transcendence,
Making of the event a parable, a sign painted in the faded
Credulity of earlier ages:
Let us walk through the door.

The stone is rolled back, not papier-mache,
Not a stone in a story,
But the vast rock of materiality that in the slow grinding of
Time will eclipse for each of us
The wide light of day.

And if we have an angel at the tomb,
Make it a real angel,
Weighty with Max Planck’s quanta, vivid with hair, opaque in
The dawn light, robed in real linen
Spun on a definite loom.

Let us not seek to make it less monstrous,
For our own convenience, our own sense of beauty,
Lest, awakened in one unthinkable hour, we are embarrassed
By the miracle,
And crushed by remonstrance.
— from John Updike’s Seven Stanzas at Easter

Always Marry an April Girl by Ogden Nash

Apr7

A poet looks at the world the way a man looks at a woman.

~Wallace Stevens

Praise the spells and bless the charms,
I found April in my arms.
April golden, April cloudy,
Gracious, cruel, tender, rowdy;
April soft in flowered languor,
April cold with sudden anger,
Ever changing, ever true —
I love April, I love you.

I’m not an April girl, but for those of you who are, this poem seems appropriate. In George MacDonald’s Phantastes, he indicates that he believes that the time of year we’re born does have some effect on our disposition and personality. I’m not sure I agree, but who knows? Maybe April Girls are changeable and spring-like.

The Voice of the Grass by Sarah Roberts Boyle

Apr6
Here I come, creeping, creeping, everywhere;
By the dusty roadside,
On the sunny hillside,
Close by the noisy brook,
In every shady nook,
I come creeping, creeping, everywhere.

Here I come, creeping, creeping everywhere;
All round the open door,
Where sit the aged poor,
Here where the children play,
In the bright and merry May,
I come creeping, creeping, everywhere.

Here I come, creeping, creeping, everywhere;
You can not see me coming,
Nor hear my low, sweet humming,
For in the starry night,
And the glad morning light,
I come, quietly creeping, everywhere.

Here I come, creeping, creeping, everywhere;
More welcome than the flowers,
In summer's pleasant hours;
The gentle cow is glad,
And the merry birds not sad,
To see me creeping, creeping, everywhere.

Here I come, creeping, creeping, everywhere;
When you're numbered with the dead,
In your still and narrow bed,
In the happy spring I'll come,
And deck your narrow home,
Creeping, silently creeping, everywhere.

Here I come, creeping, creeping, everywhere;
My humble song of praise,
Most gratefully I raise,
To Him at whose command
I beautify the land,
Creeping, silently creeping, everywhere.

Lo, the Earth Is Risen Again! by Samuel Longfellow

Apr5

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Samuel Longfellow was Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s younger brother, the youngest of eight children, and he was an ordained Unitarian minister. He wrote a number of hymn lyrics, this poem being one of them.

Lo, the earth is risen again
From the winter’s bond and pain!
Bring we leaf and flower and spray
To adorn our holiday!

Once again the word comes true,
Lo, He maketh all things new!
Now the dark, cold days are o’er,
Light and gladness are before.

How our hearts leap with the spring!
How our spirits soar and sing!
Light is victor over gloom,
Life triumphant o’er the tomb.

Change, then, mourning into praise,
And, for dirges, anthems raise!
All our fears and griefs shall be
Lost in immortality.

George Herbert, b. April 3, 1593

Apr3

April is National Poetry Month.

I’ve posted poems by George Herbert, the seventeenth century Christian poet, on this blog numerous times. He’s one of my favorite poets. If one were to spend the entire month of April just reading through the poems of Mr. Herbert, one a day, it would be devotional enough to last you through the season and to bring you to an awareness of poetry of faith.

Other Links:
More poetry by George Herbert.
The God of Love My Shepherd Is by George Herbert at Rebecca Writes.

Colossians 3:3 OUR LIFE IS HID WITH CHRIST IN GOD

My words & thoughts do both express this notion,
That Life hath with the sun a double motion
The first Is straight, and our diurnal friend
The other Hid, and doth obliquely bend.
Our life is wrapt In flesh and tends to earth,
The other winds towards Him, whose happie birth
Taught me to live here so, That still one eye
Should aim and shoot at that which Is on high:
Quitting with daily labour all My pleasure,
To gain at harvest and eternal Treasure.

The Wind of the World by George MacDonald

Apr2

The greatest thoughts of the greatest thinkers have all passed through fire. The greatest poets have ‘learned in suffering what they taught in song.’ In bonds Bunyan lived the allegory that he afterwards wrote, and we may thank Bedford Jail for the Pilgrim’s Progress.

~George MacDonald
Chained is the Spring. The night-wind bold
Blows over the hard earth;
Time is not more confused and cold,
Nor keeps more wintry mirth.

Yet blow, and roll the world about;
Blow, Time---blow, winter's Wind!
Through chinks of Time, heaven peepeth out,
And Spring the frost behind.

This little poem, or piece of a poem, came from chapter twelve of Phantastes by George MacDonald, and I especially liked the idea of heaven peeping out through the chinks of Time. I don’t really understand Phantastes, but I do get inklings of ideas and images that are delightful.

Happy Second Day of April: Poetry Month.

My Future by Robert W. Service

Apr1

“The compliments of the season to my worthy masters and a merry first of April to us all. We have all a speck of motley.”

~Charles Lamb
"Let's make him a sailor," said Father,
"And he will adventure the sea."
"A soldier," said Mother, "is rather
What I would prefer him to be."
"A lawyer," said Father, "would please me,
For then he could draw up my will."
"A doctor," said Mother, "would ease me;
Maybe he could give me a pill."

Said Father: "Let's make him a curate,
A Bishop in gaiters to be."
Said Mother: "I couldn't endure it
To have Willie preaching to me."
Said Father: ""Let him be a poet;
So often he's gathering wool."
Said Mother with temper: "Oh stow it!
You know it, a poet's a fool.

Said Father: "Your son is a duffer,
A stupid and mischievous elf."
Said Mother, who's rather a huffer:
"That's right - he takes after yourself."
Controlling parental emotion
They turned to me, seeking a cue,
And sudden conceived the bright notion
To ask what I wanted to do.

Said I: "My ambition is modest:
A clown in a circus I'd be,
And turn somersaults in the sawdust
With audience laughing at me."
. . . Poor parents! they're dead and decaying,
But I am a clown as you see;
And though in no circus I'm playing,
How people are laughing at me!

No Joke, But Rather Poetry

Apr1

“Poetry is like making a joke. If you get one word wrong at the end of a joke, you’ve lost the whole thing.”
–W.S. Merwin

“The first of April is the day we remember what we are the other 364 days of the year.”
–Mark Twain

“April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.”
– T. S. Eliot, The Waste Land, 1922

April is National Poetry Month, and I intend to give you a gift this month: a poem a day and a suggested poetry book or poetical thought each day. If I miss a day, forgive me. If my poetical selections displease you, again forgive. If you enjoy deceptively simple poetry and light verse that’s not always so light and meaning cloaked in the language of poetry, you might have a good time celebrating National Poetry Month with me.

Reading Lolita in Tehran by Azar Nafisi

Mar27

Reading Lolita in Tehran: A Memoir in Books by Azar Nafisi

This book is one that I might have enjoyed more had I discovered it on my own rather than hearing about it for ages before I finally tried it out for myself. Published in 2003, Reading Lolita has gotten rave reviews, has been recommended widely and repeatedly, and was a best selling memoir. Maybe it was just too inflated for me to appreciate the book for what it was.

Reading Lolita starts out well. In the fall of 1995, the author is meeting with a group of students, all female, in her apartment after she resigned from the university where she was a professor of English-speaking literature. One of her former students reminds her: “She reminded me of a warning I was fond of repeating: do not, under any circumstances, belittle a work of fiction by trying to turn it into a carbon copy of real life; what we search for in fiction is not so much reality but the epiphany of truth.” This rather pithy statement seems like a good truth to keep in mind, but in this book there is a fine line between reality, epiphany, and truth. And the line, to extend the metaphor, gets really blurred by the end of the story.

Next, the author introduces her girls, the group who have come to discuss literature in a place where they can do so openly and honestly and without veils and chadors that hide not only their bodies but also their ideas and dignity as persons. Eight women including the author herself. Ms. Nafisi describes them vividly: Manna the poet, Mahshid the sensitive lady, Yassi the comedian, Azin the fashionable divorcee, Mitra the artist, Sanaz the conformist, and Nassrin, the one that the author calls a Cheshire cat.

But after the introductory chapters, maybe even within the first few chapters, the book becomes scattered and sometimes incoherent. The narrative moves from the Thursday morning literary society to insights on Nabakov and The Great Gatsby to the history of Ms. Nafisi’s feud with the Islamic purity police to someone that the author calls her “magician.” The Magician is a sort of literary hermit who’s decided to withdraw from society as long as the Islamic Republic of Iran continues to shame and persecute intellectuals, but who also wields great influence as entertains carefully selected guests in his apartment and gives them advice and counsel? He’s a shadowy figure, and I never was sure whether he was an imagined character (for some literary purpose?) or whether he was real.

The timeline of Nafisi’s narrative jumps around like a cat (yes, on a hot tin roof), and the book is structured around the books and authors that the women read and discuss together: Lolita by Nabakov, The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald, Daisy Miller by Henry James, and Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. Although Nafisi mentions and sometimes discusses other books and other authors these four define the four sections of the book. I’m not sure why these four, but I suppose it’s because these are the books that resonated with Ms. Nafisi’s students. Of the four I’ve read Austen and Fitzgerald, and dabbled in Henry James (but not Daisy Miller). Of course, I found the allusions to and commentary on the books I have read more illuminating than those I haven’t. (Nabakov just sounds tawdry and distasteful.)

I had trouble keeping the women and their individual stories straight in my mind. I had a hard time figuring out the chronology of Ms. Nafisi’s life and story. I sort of understand why the women identified so strongly with Lolita; like women in the Islamic Republic, Lolita is a victim of misogyny and abuse and entrapment. But why Daisy in Great Gatsby or Daisy Miller? Both of these ladies are rather careless exploiters of others, rather than being helpless victims or overcoming societal expectations.

Maybe I read too fast. Maybe I wasn’t patient enough to tie the narrative together and mine the diamonds out of it. Nevertheless, it just won’t go on my personal list of all-time great memoirs.

Garlic and Sapphires by Ruth Reichl

Mar25

Garlic and Sapphires: The Secret Life of a Critic in Disguise by Ruth Reichl.

Ruth Reichl was a food and restaurant critic for the New York Times in the 1990’s. Apparently, as I learned from reading this book, this position is more powerful than one might imagine. Restaurant reviews and the number of “stars” awarded to a restaurant in NYC can make or break a restaurant. Who knew?

So, since she became a powerful force with her job at the New York Times, Ruth Reichl also became an immediate celebrity in the restaurant world. Her picture was posted in all the restaurant kitchens, and all of the waiters and managers and other workers were warned, even given a bounty, to spot her coming. Which makes it difficult to get at the truth about a restaurant and its food and its service to regular, non-food critic customers.

That’s when Reichl began to don elaborate disguises in order to visit the restaurants on her list, incognito. Not only did she disguise herself, she imagined, with the help of an ex-drama coach and old friend of her mother’s, an entire persona for herself as she visited restaurants as Molly the retired high school teacher, or Betty Jones the poor spinster, or Brenda the redheaded extrovert, or even her own mother (deceased). The disguises enabled Reichl to do her job, which was to write an unbiased and honest review of a given high dollar restaurant, but they also gave her insight into herself, the kind of person she was able to become, the kind of person she wanted to be, and the core of her own identity.

I thought Ms. Reichl’s food memoir was interesting and insightful, especially in the chapter where Reichl becomes Emily Stone, a “dried-up prune” of a woman with an entitled attitude and a chip on her shoulder. When her dinner companion tells her, “These disguises have gone too far. I hate the person you’ve become,” Reichl realizes that “if Brenda was my best self, Emily was my worst.” All of the people she pretends to be are really at least partly herself. It made me wonder again about actors and actresses and the stress of pretending to be people who may be drawn from the worst aspects of one’s own secret self.

I did enjoy reading about Ms. Reichl’s adventures in New York City restaurants that are all so expensive and exotic that I will certainly never visit them myself. Eventually I’d like to read some of her other books, Tender at the Bone, Comfort Me with Apples, or Save Me the Plums. This book, Garlic and Sapphires, does include recipes (which I will probably never try since I’ve grown a deep aversion to cooking in my old age) and a few of the articles that Ms. Reichl wrote for the Times when she was their food critic. Ruth Reichl went on to become editor in chief of Gourmet magazine.