Poetry Sunday - Old Misunderstandings

Old Misunderstandings

I have a fear that in three thousand years,

When science texts become the bible,

But people stay the same

As they came three thousand years ago

when tribal,

That when they read about our quantum deeds

And quirky quarks with spin and charm

They'll be alarmed.

Religiously they'll say it is not so

But libel.

Our scientists, then, will likely be condemned

In that time for preaching lies

When all they tried

To metaphorically record

The grand, uncertain plan or story

Of something they didn't understand

In all its glory.

Quote for St. Patrick's Day

The English language brings out the best in the Irish. They court it like a beautiful woman. They make it bray with donkey laughter. They hurl it at the sky like a paint pot full of rainbows, and then make it chant a dirge for man's fate and man's follies that is as mournful as misty spring rain crying over the fallow earth….  Rarely has a people paid the lavish compliment and taken the subtle revenge of turning its oppressor's speech into sorcery.

T E Kalem

Quote of the Day

Before John le Carré became a writer, he was an agent for both MI5 and MI6.  While still in the service, he got to know John Bingham, the famed British counter-intellignce agent.  Described as a “genius” agent,  Bigham ran a brilliant operation convincing British Nazi sympathizers that he was a representative of the Gestapo looking for people who could be relied on to help in the event of an invasion.  See The spy who turned Hitler’s British supporters into unwitting double agents.  In any event, Bingham ended up being part of the inspiration for le Carré's George Smiley.

Anyway, with this context I present you with the quote of the day (adding to the discussion, perhaps, about the current revelations of NSA surveillance and drone strikes):

SIR – John Bingham and I were indeed close friends and colleagues. I had, and shall always have, unqualified admiration for his intelligence skills and achievements. He was a most honourable, patriotic and gifted man, and we had wonderful times together.

And surely there can be few better tributes to a friend and colleague than to create – if only from some of his parts – a fictional character, George Smiley, who has given pleasure and food for thought to an admiring public.

But Bingham was of one generation, and I of another. Where Bingham believed that uncritical love of the Secret Services was synonymous with love of country, I came to believe that such love should be examined. And that, without such vigilance, our Secret Services could in certain circumstances become as much of a peril to our democracy as their supposed enemies.

John Bingham may indeed have detested this notion. I equally detest the notion that our spies are uniformly immaculate, omniscient and beyond the vulgar criticism of those who not only pay for their existence, but on occasion are taken to war on the strength of concocted intelligence.

David Cornwell (John le Carré)  
London NW3

Letter to the Daily Telegraph March 5, 2014.

1st Graders Homework

First grader's homework...aka parents' worst nightmare.

For Poetry Sunday, this is from Renee who heard it from her 12th grade history teacher and has stuck with her since.

When you get all you want and you struggle for pelf,

and the world makes you king for a day,

then go to the mirror and look at yourself

and see what that man has to say.

For it isn't your mother, your father or wife

whose judgment upon you must pass,

but the man, whose verdict counts most in your life

is the one staring back from the glass.

He's the fellow to please,

never mind all the rest.

For he's with you right to the end,

and you've passed your most difficult test

if the man in the glass is your friend.

You may be like Jack Horner and "chisel" a plum,

And think you're a wonderful guy,

But the man in the glass says you're only a bum

If you can't look him straight in the eye.

You can fool the whole world,

down the highway of years,

and take pats on the back as you pass.

But your final reward will be heartache and tears

       if you've cheated the man in the glass.

                       Dale Wimbrow, (c) 1934               

 

Stay Connected to (U.S. Drone Killings) Metadata

Finally, you can keep up to date with U.S. signature strikes. After being rejected by Apple five times, data artist Josh Begley finally received approval for his app, now named "Metadata+". You can find it on the AppStore as a free download.

Back in 2012, he submitted an app, originally called "Drones+" that would alert iPhone users when and where a U.S. drone killed some people, hopefully enemies. Apple rejected it, but after 4 more resubmissions he finally got approval. The current app says nothing about drones. Apple wouldn't approve an app reporting that our military actually kills people, but would approve one that had no content. So Begley did just that. "Metadata+" is an empty app which promises "real-time updates on national security".

Metadata+ gets its name from the metadata it gathers to report on the killings. Ironically, metadata is also what the military uses to target the killings. According to a former drone operator, there normally is no personal observation of the targets, just metadata from phones or other devices which "geolocates" the target.

It would be nice if we could compare our killings to our enemies' killings, like the Arabs vs. Israelis or the numerous other 'terrorist' attacks that ageless enemies have used to justify response killings. Currently we have JSOC secret military operations in 75 countries with a fighting force of over 25,000, so that would be a lot of metadata. Incidentally, there has been an incredible expansion of our secret military operations since the Obama administration.

As the documentary "Dirty Wars" reports, we could be on our way to forging some endless wars ourselves with so many attacks in so many places. Nothing creates bitter enemies more than having your sons or daughters as "collateral damage." To date, four U.S. citizens have been killed. Perhaps as testament to the accuracy of our metadata, only one of those were targeted.

Interestingly, Harvard law professor Jack Goldsmith writes he is also concerned about our greatly expanded secret killing brigades—not over the loss of innocent lives, however, but that "One day JSOC operation will make a notorious mistake that will cause the United States awkward embarrassment….". Snowden, it has been speculated, has just such information, but has refrained from releasing it yet.


Metadata+ iPhone App from Josh Begley on Vimeo.

One last thing: here is an articulate Josh Begley giving his graduate thesis. I put a lot of links in this post, but if you wish the core, I'd recommend watching the Josh Begley graduate thesis.

Pittsburgh: Well, Just Look at You.

I first noticed it in the upward mobility information.  Taken as a whole, America isn't really the land of opportunity.  When it comes to intergenerational mobility, we are close to the bottom of the world's industrial countries.  The UK does worse than we do, but that's because they haven't shed the old class structure that we love so much in Downton Abbey.

But, America is nothing if not diverse.  And, as shown in a recent study by the National Bureau of Economic Research, it turns out that, depending on what part of the country you look at, upward mobility changes significantly.  Thus, Upward mobility is lowest in the Southeast and highest in the Great Plains. The West Coast and Northeast also have high rates of upward mobility.  In any event, to my surprise, out of the top 50 population areas, Pittsburgh was ranked second in the country for absolute upward intergenerational mobility.  

But then more stuff starts popping up.  On February 4, 2014, Politico Magazine published two articles on Pittsburgh.  One item, The Political Makeover of a Rust Belt City, is about the new mayor, Bill Peduto, changing Pittsburgh from an old boys network to a new progressive city.  The second item, The Robots that Saved Pittsburgh, describes how Pittsburgh, after decades of trying to remake itself, now has a new economy, based on a rapidly growing robotic, artificial intelligence, health technology, advanced manufacturing and software industries.  It looks like Pittsburgh is on the cutting edge of everything.

Also from Politico, two photo essays:  From Steel City to Roboburgh, the reinvention of Pittsburgh, and Robots at Work, a visit to CMU's Robotics Institute.

Pittsburgh, yes, just look at you.

Dr. Bronowski and the Dangers of Certainty

This meditation, The Dangers of Certainty: A Lesson from Auschwitz, touches on several recurring themes in this blog: (1) the moral dangers of certainty; and (2) science's disavowal of any claim to final knowelge, or as  Jacob Bronowski  says in the old TV show, "The Ascent of Man," science is always at the brink of the known.  It demands that we always consider Oliver Cromwell's plea: “I beseech you, in the bowels of Christ, think it possible you may be mistaken.”

This was published in a New York Times feature called "The Stone," described as "a forum for contemporary philosophers and other thinkers on issues both timely and timeless."  This online feature is usually worth checking out.

Poetry Sunday - On Poetry That Doth Not Rhyme

On Poetry That Doth Not Rhyme

Deliver me from wasted time
On poetry that doth not rhyme,
And even worse, I prithee ban
Unruly verse that doth not scan.
Presumptuous poets place their faith
In unctuous freedom's flair to saith
Whatever shard doth pierce their head
Without regard to theme or thread.
For florid, free-form composition
Invokes esprit with erudition
To breach beyond harmonious life
Unleashing catastrophic strife
Upon the page, whence tortuous hour
Again I wage uncertain scour,
Unmeasured, of prosodic scraps
In hopes rhapsodic tenor maps
Missed metered lines so broke I rue
The reader-writer pas de deux.
Shake, break, (sigh) concentrate!
'Tis prose so lithe, but such a weight,
Where any line may stop or start
At any length
'cause
   fine
by
art.
Unfettered by constraint, their muse
Reins no restraint to feign, confuse,
And all the sundry parts of speech
Are numbly scattered out of reach
Of any sense I can decipher
Without the patience of a lifer.
The best lack all conviction
Apart from thwacking diction.
The worst have artfully a plan
That only God can understand,
And need eternity's extent
To finally agree what's meant.
I know, there's Yeats and Wallace Stevens,
A few more greats who have their reasons,
But genius hath laid bad example
For would-be bards to gad and trample
Nature, disadvantaged pressed
By thought not oft, nor well express'd.

In rhyme no words are left to roam.
Companionship doth lead them home.
None indiscriminately stroll
Aimlessly without a goal.
All poets should consider God
Obeys our laws, and yet we're awed
By lyric power, boundless grace
From fragrant flower to starlit space.
So if you freely write obscura,
I suggest that you secure a
Rhyming dict. and ruling meter
Stick with discipline, and either
Stop, or practice rod and fettered
Laws, like God, until you're better!

Spielberg's Next Big Project: Obama

Steven Spielberg has unveiled his plans to direct a new Lincoln-style presidential biopic -- this time centered on President Obama.   And he's decided to go with his already proven star, Daniel Day-Lewis, as the lead.

Home Depot Magnate Threatens Pope On “Culture of Prosperity” Remarks

In a story that seems to have been ripped from the headlines of The Onion, Home Depot founder, Ken Langone, told CNBC that, in discussions with Cardinal Timothy Dolan about fund-raising for the restoration of  St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York City, he shared with Dolan that he knew one potential seven-figure donor (“I have this friend”) who is upset about statements from the Pope criticizing market economies as "exclusionary,” and claiming that a "culture of prosperity" leads some to become "incapable of feeling compassion for the poor."  According to Nolan, this fellow toff said of the Catholic Church, “You come to us who have been blessed, who are wealthy, and yet we sense that perhaps the Pope is less than enthusiastic about us.”  Clearly, the message was:  if you want our donations, lay off the economic justice stuff.

I have several random and unrelated observations about this episode.  One is the obvious humor here.  Langone’s only slightly veiled threat directed at the Pope is a little like Dino and Luigi Vercotti threatening the British Army:

 

Luigi: Well suppose some of your tanks was to get broken and troops started getting lost, er, fights started breaking out during general inspection, like.

Dino: It wouldn't be good for business would it, Colonel?

Langone:  Well suppose your donations started dryin’ up.  That wouldn’t be good for business would it, Your Holiness?

And, if Langone doesn’t like what the pope is saying about the wealthy, what about Jesus?  If he doesn’t want to hear any criticism, maybe he should be reordering his priorities altogether.

 “But woe to you who are rich, for you have received your consolation.”   Luke 6:24.

“No one can serve two masters, for either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve God and money.”  Matthew 6:24.

“Sell your possessions, and give alms. Make purses for yourselves that do not wear out, an unfailing treasure in heaven, where no thief comes near and no moth destroys. For where your treasure is, there you heart will be also.” Luke 12:33-34.

“One thing you lack,” he said. “Go, sell everything you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.”  At this the man’s face fell. He went away sad, because he had great wealth.  Mark 10:17-22.

And Langone shouldn’t look for any consolation from Jesus’ mother, Mary:  “He has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly; he has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty.” Luke 1:52-53.

 

Or, from James, known as the brother of Jesus.

For the sun rises with its scorching heat and withers the grass; its flower falls, and its beauty perishes. So also will the rich man fade away in the midst of his pursuits.   James 1:10-11

Come now, you rich, weep and howl for the miseries that are coming upon you.  …  You have lived on the earth in luxury and in self-indulgence. You have fattened your hearts in a day of slaughter.  James 5:1,6.

Finally, I’m astounded by how whiny and thin-skinned this guy is.  According to the Bloomberg Billionaires Index, at the end of 2013, the net worth of the world’s 300 most wealthy people $3.7 trillion in U.S. dollars.   This is a gain of $524 billion from last year.  And yet, Langone clearly feels put upon.  Will no amount of money and privilege satisfy this guy?  I’m reminded of Upton Sinclair’s famous dictum:  “It is difficult to get a man to understand something when his salary depends on his not understanding it.”

*  *  *

P.S.  For an extras bonus, from Pope Francis’ apostolic exhortation issued on November 24, 2013:

While the earnings of a minority are growing exponentially, so too is the gap separating the majority from the prosperity enjoyed by those happy few. This imbalance is the result of ideologies which defend the absolute autonomy of the marketplace and financial speculation. Consequently, they reject the right of states, charged with vigilance for the common good, to exercise any form of control. A new tyranny is thus born, invisible and often virtual, which unilaterally and relentlessly imposes its own laws and rules. Debt and the accumulation of interest also make it difficult for countries to realize the potential of their own economies and keep citizens from enjoying their real purchasing power. To all this we can add widespread corruption and self-serving tax evasion, which have taken on worldwide dimensions. The thirst for power and possessions knows no limits. In this system, which tends to devour everything which stands in the way of increased profits, whatever is fragile, like the environment, is defenseless before the interests of a deified market, which become the only rule.

Ken Langone

Pope Francis

New Year Resolutions

New Year's resolutions started with the Romans. Julius Caesar introduced the Julian Calendar in 46 BC and Romans, in general, began celebrating the new year on January 1. Astronomically, there is no reason January 1 is better than any other day for a New Year's resolution. The new year could start on any day, but it's useful to be consistent. A new year's resolution, therefore, as long as it doesn't concern writing dates, has the same weight as one made on any day.

Janus, however, is the god of doorways, gates, beginnings and transitions. He is often depicted as having two faces—he looks to the future and to the past. Thus, January, especially the beginning of the month, was a time of reflection on the past and the future. (In medieval Europe, the new year drifted from Dec. 25 to March 25 at various times and places, but was restored to January 1 in 1582 with the Gregorian calendar. Protestant Europe lagged, especially the British who did not reform the calendar until 1752—Washington was born Feb. 11, 1731, but in 1752, his birthday became February 22, 1732.)

The Romans' reflections on the new year were generally resolves to be good to others. As the empire embraced Christianity, these moral reflections became rituals of prayer and fasting. (As Myk reminded us with the Holly and the Ivy, Christianity may be seen as adding new, hopefully rich, language to religion.)

Perhaps the height of New Year resolutions came with Jonathan Edwards, Puritan theologian. At 19, before graduating valedictorian from Yale, he created 70 resolutions which he reviewed weekly, for 35 years. Thus, he read and reflected on his 70 resolutions 1,800 times before his death in 1758. Among his resolutions are:

• Resolved, in narrations never speak anything but the pure and simple verity.
• Resolved, Never speak evil of any, except I have some particular good call for it. 
• Resolved, Never to suffer the least motions of anger toward irrational beings.
• Resolved, Never to give over, nor in the least to slacken, my fight with my corruptions, however unsuccessful I may be.
• Let there be something of benevolence in all that I speak.

Somewhere through history—I believe it was when someone made a New Year's resolution to eat more Peanut-Butter Rice Krispie Treats, and, that same year, another resolved to refrain from eating Peanut-Butter Rice Krispie Treats—that resolutions changed from reflections on life to make-a-wish. Currently the top New Year's resolutions are:

• Spend more time with family and friends
• Exercise more
• Diet more
• Quit smoking
• Enjoy life more
• Quit drinking
• Get out of debt (my favorite)
• Learn something new
• Get organized
• Help others

As a result, resolutions have become a powerful drag on modern lives. One survey suggests that 7 out of 10 people will lose more than $1,000 in failed self-help products and services related to this new type of New Year resolutions—that juicer, club membership, treadmill that don't quite pan out as wish fulfillers.

I think my New Year resolution is reflecting on this blog as a conversation both past, present, and future.

Poetry Sunday - The Glories of Provence

You may recall that mother and dad took a trip to Provence in October, 1995. You may also recall that dad wrote a Chaucer-like homage to the pilgrims on that trip and delivered it at the final banquet. It must have been a fine performance. Myk rediscovered the poem and, though it's a bit long and about people we don't know, felt it should be considered for Poetry Sunday. I agree—if for no other reason than the creed of the last stanza—it captures the feeling of dad and, hopefully, of all of us.

The Glories of Provence

by John L. Harvey 

 When that October with his sun so mellow
Starts causing summer's green to turn to yellow…
And as the earth cools the year unravels,
Then do Americans long to go on travels;
So, gathered part by Yale and part by chance,
Our band of thirty made its pilgrimage to France. 

Starting with A, we have the Auchinclosses,
Quiet Hugh and Laurie, who his boss is.
Another doc's Stan Sneider from Miami;
Of radiation he's a well-known swami.
As for his misses, Marion's her handle.
The way this married pair holds hands — why, it's a scandal! 

By now it's obvious that dropping names
Is much this bard's most favorite of games.
To further exorcise this harmless mania
I'll bring on the quintet from Pennsylvania.
First, Madame Haight, known to the world as Polly,
With step so light and eye so bright and jolly.
The Harveys next I'll briefly dwell upon.
Their names are plain ones: Mary, hers — his, John.
One daughter's theirs and sons who number seven.
The offspring of a marriage made in heaven.
I'll bet, though, when those brats began to yell
The neighbors thought that marriage made in hell.
Smiling Lou Conyngham come next through the door,
Bringing Pennsy total up to four;
And finally … but hold! the panel sticks.
It's Jack! Did I say five? He makes it six. 

Here's to Peggy Elting, prettier than the law allows!
Enough to make those Sénanque monks forget theirs vows.
Jane Roche and Nancy Fry — ha, what a pair!
I lunched with them at L'Oustau de Baumanière.
The food? Trés bon! Mais oui! You bet!
But better the talk — so tête à tête à tête. 

Let's now salute the Weisners, Ros and Bernie.
When trouble comes, I hope she's my attorney.
She smiles, she jokes, she all good will extends;
Above all, she excels at making friends.
Once Bernie's taken off his tennis whites
They go to plays and concerts on most nights,
While through the years — and on this you can rely—
He's quietly made Ros a full-fledged Eli. 

Here's to Gert Gifford! She's one who'll never bore you;
And wherever you've traveled, she's been there before you.
Next comes the Moores — you know them, Gene and Edie.
Are they a well-matched couple? Yes indeedy!
Gene's flashing smile, his baritone so booming …
And straight-backed Edie, model of good grooming,
Blessed further, as I learned the other day,
With a most discerning taste for vin rosé. 

And now two more have come to join the party:
Madame Merriam, née Marjorie, known as Martie;
Also Madame Pollock — name-tag Madeleine,
They both come from Connecticut: Darien.
I swear their dual ambiance so excels
That time stands still. That's shipboard time: two belles. 

Here's to Dorothy Schmidt who found in old Marseille
A town one up on Tanafly, N.J.
Before my song moves on to other matters,
I gve you that dissimilar duo, the Willstatters.
Trudy's a mover — loves to shop and chat —
While Dick prefers to nurse a beer and squat. 

Let's turn now to my most particular pets.
Those ladies who are slaves to cigarettes.
The bus is stopped, so we may look or feed;
For them, it's more a chance to poke a weed.
Viceroys are the vice of Martha May;
Ann Marshman makes each day a Luckies day.
The other side's that, in either one, one never
Can find a single other fault whatever.
(Parenthesis: as a husband, truth to tell,
I think I handled that one rather well!) 

From A I've come to Y, for Yale and youth.
Embodying both, the Ormistons forsooth!
Though John's legs limp, his spirit's ever bright,
And lissome Jane fills up her space with light.
We pilgrims all agree: they never fail
To stand for all that's best in youth and Yale. 

Let's now give thanks for all the many pleasures
We tasted as we trod our daily measures.
The weather first — it's really been parfait:
Le ciel si bleu, l'air pur, le beau soleil!
Merci pour Aix, pour Aries, pour Avignon des Papes,
Pour le train ride in Marseille — ah, quell lagniappe!
La route Cézanne! La Montagne Ste. Victoire!
Les rues de Roussillon et Gordes! Le Pont du Gard!
Ah, la Provence! Si douce! Aussi si belle!
It makes me want to sing out a cappella
With thanks for all her wines — rouge, blanc, rosé —
Mais sûrtout mercy pour Le Pigonnet;
Her gardens, her Bernard, her cozy nooks
For drinks or cards or talks, her air deluxe.
"No place like home," they say — but I say, "Well,
Few homes I know compare to this hotel." 

Now let me ask you all to kiss the air
To our chauffeur, le formidable Jean-Pierre.
Dans un moment I"ll ask for your applause
For one who's made our stay her constant cause.
And happy it's been — so near to the euphoric
We'll simply overlook how high-caloric.
Yet save for our bellies, there's been little to extend us,
For Moira Black so deftly mother-henned us. 

The moment now has come to thank Françoise.
Her thoughtfulness, her knowledge and her poise.
The width and breadth and depth of information
She gave us made each day a revelation.
Spiced by her English-French and French-English gymnastics
Not to mention her enthusiastics:
"So fabulous!" "Magnificent!" "Unreal!"
She also somehow manages to deal
With Good King René et Phillippe the Fair
In terms that make one think that she'd been there.
The Gothic, Romanesque, the arch that's broken…
On these and so much else she's so well-spoken
That as a guide one can't imagine betters.
So, dear Françoise, we're all of us your debtors. 

I'm almost done. I've saved the best for last:
A man whose sense of present and of past
We all salute … and meanwhile bless the day
La France sent us that chèrest maître, Georges May.
He speaks to us with learning served with flair.
Serious of course but also debonair.
Some scholars hold the creed that what you know
Is all that counts. This scholar proves that isn't so
But that within the education biz
What counts more than what one knows is what one is.
So let us all, his students, now extend
Our thanks to Georges: our teacher, mentor, friend! 

As for your bard, excuse his cockeyed rhymes
And meter too — at worst they're minor crimes.
In all of this, the one thing I intend
Is to amuse and never to offend;
And thus this doggerel poet makes his end.

Poetry Sunday -- an offering

I don't know if the following is poetry or prose.  I wrote it several years ago after I heard one time too many the phrase:  "I'm not really religious -- but I'm spiritual."

Spirituality is individualistic. Religion exists in community.

Spirituality tends toward the spooky, esoteric and ethereal. Religion is realistic and pragmatic.

Spirituality includes beliefs that the affairs on earth are being controlled from an alien spaceship parked behind a cloud.  Religion – at least all the major religions – believes in some version of the golden rule:  do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

Spirituality offers a refuge from the world. Religion is engaged in the world.  It builds hospitals, runs schools, delivers relief to people in need, and assists the poor and marginalized.

Spirituality appeals to celebrities and the well heeled. Religion is for all people.

Spirituality focuses on self-improvement. Religion is concerned with the needs of others.

Spirituality emphasizes feelings. Religion calls for action.

Spirituality is self-indulgent.  Religion demands discipline and sacrifice.

Spirituality is trendy and likes to turn political correctness into religious precepts.  Religion is backed by centuries of tradition.

Spirituality is smug and proud of itself.  Religion teaches humility.
  
Spirituality produces book tours. Religion has produced – just to name a few -- Notre Dame Cathedral, the Golden Temple of Amritsar, and the Blue Mosque in Istanbul; the poetry of William Blake, Dante, Rabindranath Tagore, Gerald Manley Hopkins, Milton and Rumi; the music of Bach, Hayden, Mozart and Schubert; the sculptures of Michelangelo; the paintings of El Greco, Titian and Raphael, the novels of Walker Percy, Flannery O’Connor, Fyodor Dostoevsky and Graham Greene and a long line of great thinkers from Augustine to Averroes to Reinhold Niebuhr.

In other words, religion builds civilizations; spirituality, not much.

The Creepy Christmas Song Revisited

Another take on the Christmas Classic (sorry, you have to endure an ad):

Christmas Quotes of the Day

"The record is fragmentary, inconsistent, and uncertain...But there can be no doubt as to what elements in the record have evoked a response from all that is best in human nature. The Mother, the Child, and the bare manger: the lowly man, homeless and self-forgetful, with his message of peace, love, and sympathy…"
— Alfred North Whitehead

"Who among us will celebrate Christmas right? Those who finally lay down all their power, honor, and prestige, all their vanity, pride, and self-will at the manger, those who stand by the lowly and let God alone be exalted, those who see in the child in the manger the glory of God precisely in this lowliness."
— Dietrich Bonhoeffer

And, of course, the line that has sat in our basement forever:

"We have to become clear in the presence of the manger in the stable of Bethlehem how we want to think, from this point on, about what is high and low in human life."
— Dietrich Bonhoeffer

Poetry Sunday - Acme Bar and Grill

Acme Bar and Grill

by Stephen B. Harvey

On occasion we go out to a local spot

Juke and talk a bit, drinking beer followed by a shot

A burger joint with sticky chairs and a lengthy wooden bar

Playing with some local band with twanging old guitars

Waking from the empty house where we pass our days

The kids are gone, the spark as died, we’re set within our ways.

I come here on a Friday night, to the bar and grill

To open up my eyes again and give myself a thrill

It’s not too hard to notice the cute ones here and there

The ones without their boyfriends, the ones with streaked blond hair.

And if I had that one right there, sitting at that table

I wonder if could keep it up; I wonder if I’m still able.

The brown eyed girl who’s sitting beside that struttin’ queer

She stares at me and other guys while nursing a cold beer

The cute one at the bar who smiles while giving me a glance

I’m sure if we were alone outside I’d get inside her pants

The blond one too, the one with rouge smeared on her pasty face

I’m sure she’s quick but lacks the social grace

But I think I like the one in black, her skirt above her thigh

The one I am more than sure been givin’ me the eye.

She’s tall and light and has good teeth, black paint upon her nails

Her number’s on the bathroom wall so I’m sure to get some tail.

My mind is wild and crazy now I need good stiff drink

I wish I’d left my golden band on the bathroom sink

The girl I’m with is old and worn about the seams

While I’m still 21 years old wearing tight blue jeans

Ah, this song I know from many years ago, an old forgotten dance

It’s when I met another girl; I thought I take a chance

So I look beside me at the woman staring to the crowd

I see she eyes of some younger guy so I ask her right out loud

To dance with me for old time sake, to spark that old desire

In trying once again to catch that passion and that fire

I grab her hand and with a jerk I spin her to the floor

And reignite the evening time of many years before.

So Long, Tom Laughlin, 1931 - 2013

Everyone has heroes growing up.  One of ours was Billy Jack, the principal character of a movie bearing the same name.   Tom Laughlin produced, wrote, financed and starred in the movie.  When adjusted for inflation,  it is the highest-grossing independent film of all time.

Billy Jack was the complete package.  Half-white, half-Navajo, he was a former Green Beret and Vietnam veteran, a hapkido master, a lover of denim and a student of a Native American shaman.  In one scene, he participates in the ancient sacred snake ceremony in order to obtain a vision.  (It doesn't seem to help much, though.)  He does, however, suffer from a serious case of PTSD, and is liable to erupt into violence at any moment ("I just go BERSERK!").  

He also endorsed and supported practically every liberal viewpoint imaginable.  As Roger Ebert observed:  "the movie has as many causes in it as a year's run of the New Republic. There's not a single contemporary issue, from ecology to gun control, that's not covered, and toward the movie's end you're wondering how these characters -- who are just ordinary folks in a small Southwestern town -- managed to confront every single ethical hurdle in a few weeks of living."

Even when I saw the movie, I knew things were being ladled on pretty thick.  Now, the movie is almost unwatchable.  But that does keep it from being a fond memory. 

Poetry Sunday - On Poetry That Doth Rhyme

It's Sunday once again
For fictive things to pen.

Here is a little poem which has a companion which I'll save for later. Appropriately, it is about poetry. This is not a particularly subtle nor sensual poem, but it's fun, hopefully, for children of all ages. Call your kids. You get to make your own, and then decide which one you like better.


On Poetry That Doth Rhyme

I don't prefer to waste my time
On reading words because they tune,
And even worse, there's no excuse
For singsong verse like Mother Duck.
Our language, I affirm, is wrought
So no rhymed term promotes deep view,
As humdrum bards but place their faith
In slotting words to make an octet.
Forsaking head, they beat retreat
To think instead by using tootsies.
As rhyming replaces thinking and thinking's replaced by fun,
One need select a pattern, a rhyming word, and fini!
Unbuckle! profound adventure from selfsame sound.
Break! novel thought from a jingle round.

If poetry is using words to go beyond them,
Then notably, why choose mere turds for rhyming bond when
Life most clearly dressed, oft fails in rhymingness.

More Festive Holiday Music

Clear away!