free verse

THE COST OF VERSE

 

poems sometimes rhyme

but not all the time

some are free verse—

don't cost a thing

except blood, sweat and tears

of the poet who bears

her soul and works like hell

to find the rite word

(without being clichéish)

in order

to evoke music

on the page—

to play the cello

with a pen

so that Dear Reader

might hear meter

as lyrical miracle...

changes language into wine—

gladdening the heart

with fermented Art

from patient Time

sans Rhyme—

free verse is never free

something must be crushed

inspiration not rushed

sun rains rays

moist clouds break dry days

luscious sounds picked by hand

bottled, labeled, unique brand

of poe tree juice

ready to be uncorked

and drunk

with sound mind

Makeup

I just read an article in TIME magazine about the trend among males to use makeup. Joel Stein reports that since 1997 guys have increased spending for skin-care products from $40 million to $217 million. By skin-care products he means not only aftershave but also eye gels and wrinkle erasers.

A company called Menaji sells concealer and foundation for men which come in Chap Stick-style containers. None of it is called 'makeup.' They call it skin care. They come in packaging that looks like old cigar boxes. Tim McGraw uses Menaji products. Lisa Ashley is a makeup artist who sells eye cream to men like Charlie Sheen, Howie Long and Terry Bradshaw to use at home.

I don't believe in using makeup. But I might change my mind. We all need help with our looks. Just the other day our granddaughter Norah was playing with my wife's powder brush, putting powder on her own face. (Pat had let her use it.) She tried to put some on my face, but I told her that men do not use makeup. As usual she said, "Why?" (That's her omnipresent question these days.) I started to answer her, but I couldn't think on the spot what the correct answer should be. So, I said, "It's not a custom for men to wear makeup."

I've had an ongoing debate with myself about the cosmetic industry. It's a billion dollar industry. All the women I know buy lots of makeup. So, here's the question: Why do women wear makeup? It seems that women all over the world from various cultures wear makeup of some kind. Or at least they decorate themselves.

Is that what makeup is all about? Is it just decoration? If so, I guess that is consistent with Christian theology. The human body is to be treated with reverence. And decorating the body seems like a good thing as long as you don't go to extremes.

But I still wonder if female makeup has more to do with sexuality. Women want to look younger and sexier. Isn't that the rationale for makeup? You wipe away wrinkles and dark spots and blemishes. You add good smelling fragrances to lure men in your direction. You put earrings on to—well, I don't know why you put earrings on. You make your lips redder. That certainly seems like a sexual come-on: blood-red arousal of one of the two pairs of lips that women own.

I think it's all about sex. Of course one could argue that women have just been enculturated, that makeup is simply an unquestioned custom. But I don't think so. I think it's all about sex.

It's ironic that the makeup industry pushes its products as instruments of looking 'natural.' If you really want to look 'natural,' let your hair become gray, leave your wrinkles alone, allow your lips to be pale, tolerate the loss of eye lashes. Which leads one to also consider the idol of Youth and the denial of death.

I don't know what to think about all of this. I guess it's natural to deny death, to want to be sexy, and to look in the mirror frequently. Personally, I like looking old. I am old. But I don't like looking overweight. And makeup can't help me with that problem.

Just some thoughts. No makeup exam.

The Equipment

The other day I took Norah to play on 'the equipment.' That's her name for a place with playground equipment for children. This particular equipment happens to be at the elementary school that she will attend when she gets to that age. I heard her tell her dad not long ago that someday she would go to the school that belongs to the equipment (rather than the school that owns the equipment). Clearly, the 'equipment' is more central to her than the school right now.

On the day Norah and I went to The Equipment, three older girls were also playing there. They were probably a couple of years older than Norah. And of course they could do things that Norah can't yet. She was enthralled by the older girls. She watched them closely. She wanted so much to be part of their group—and to be able to perform the movements on the equipment that they were able to do. As a two and a half year old, she is obsessed with getting bigger and taller and stronger. It's the I-am-a-big-girl syndrome. Quite natural. I kept reassuring her that as she grew bigger she would be able to do what those other girls were doing.

What Norah is going through is a positive part of human development. It is a positive impulse to want to be bigger and better and stronger. Without such an impulse the human race would have become extinct. God has created us with a natural desire to excel. Perhaps the Olympic Games are the basic metaphor for this human trait.

But what begins as a natural impulse somehow gets warped. We find ourselves as adults still trying to live up to the skills and talents of others instead of accepting ourselves as we are. We have to eventually accept the ceiling of our skills and our personal traits. One of the Seven Deadly Sins is Envy. And one form of envy is the desire to have the powers and looks of others, which is at the same time a lack of acceptance of our own uniqueness.

Children have positive forces at work within them. Even some behavior that we adults see as destructive or inappropriate turns out to be healthy if we look deeply into the natural growth processes at work. Jesus gives us the key to the affirmation of the wild nature of children. He says that the Kingdom of God—the family that God gathers together—is made up of people who allow the wild forces of joyful play to be manifest in their lives. Or as he put it: You will enter God's Kingdom if you become like children. (Which is sort of like being born all over again.)

Norah also likes to go to the Equipment at the city park and at the Railroad Park and any other place that has slides and swings and other playful things. St. Paul, in the fourth chapter of the Letter to the Ephesians says that the role of Pastor is for the purpose of 'equipping' the church for service. As I look back at my years in pastoral ministry I wish I had been more playful and less serious.

Rectangle of grass

Ruth visits her mother's grave in the California hills.

She knows her mother isn't there but the rectangle of grass

marks off the place where the memories are kept…

 

Those are the first lines of a poem by Tony Hoagland entitled, "Wasteful Gesture Only Not." In my years as a pastor officiating at scores of funerals and spending quality time in cemeteries, I've heard various opinions spoken by family members about death, grief, grave sites, funeral rituals, etc. I've come to appreciate those men in overalls who stand to the side with their shovels waiting for the ceremony to end and the drifting away of family and friends so that they can get to their work of covering up the hole. I've known people who never go back to that place after that day. And I've known people who go back to visit often—sometimes too often. Mostly what I've heard is, "She is not there; she is in heaven (or—she is in my heart); I have no need to go back there." So, the grave remains unvisited, a lonely clump of earth, with no earth-bound friends.

I like Hoagland's description of the grave: the place where the memories are kept. We humans need tangible 'places' to help us be in contact with invisible realities. Perhaps that is why the great majority of Christian churches in the world are of the sacramental type. Sacraments are tangible things: you touch, smell, taste, feel, and hear the water, the wine, the bread, the oil, the hands, the rings. Sacraments are 'places' where we feel the divine Presence. We remember Jesus. We remember the table and the wine. We remember the Jordan River. We remember the healing touch. But it is a remembering which re-members: it puts the members back together again. It reconnects us with the Body of Christ (the Church), with the members of our family, the members of the body, and recreates an organic union.

When we are in grief, the most helpful thing is to remain connected. Sure, there is a necessary 'letting-go,' but not a total disconnection. The grave marks the spot where we can remain in contact with memories and realities. Of course "she isn't there." But the rectangle of grass provides a geometric geography of earthy space that keeps us grounded in reality—the reality of loss and the reality of love.

Maybe that is why Jesus said, "I go to prepare a place for you." We all need places, even if it is just to grieve.

October 14, 2010

Thursday October 14, 2010

Didn't want to leave the apartment today. Was feleing melancholy, lonely...but went to Homewood Library…to Lulu site to update my book project. Had to look up formatting requirements.

Pat and I to apartment party in Mt. Brook – free pizza and drawing for prizes. I saw an old man with white beard – older than me – and a couple of women (one from India) about our age – so everyone in these apartments is not younger than we are.

To Walmart – bought new trash can for kitchen, a red one.

Also, online, read some history of Germany. I'm trying to grasp the ups & downs, ins & outs of that history, especially in regard to the Jewish people.

I've been thinking lately that my view of 'God' is similar to Jefferson's, Lincoln's, and Einstein's: not an interventionist, but source of Order, Harmony, Design, and Justice. Not so much 'a being' as the atmosphere of existence itself. God is to existence/universe as oxygen is to us.

Cello in the library

Sitting in the public library

on a Sunday afternoon

(the day for the rest of us).

I hear the espresso machine

whining and whirling

in the corner of this large room

(yes, it's the 'plaza' room where

readers and laptoppers

can eat and drink while they study

or leisurely take in words).

The big screen TV is

mutely tuned to

the NFL game—Colts and Chiefs

(yes, the men in blue are winning).

I am reading the New York Times

Book Review section.

And I am doing what I really came

to do—listening to a young woman

play the cello.

She is very good.

She begins with a Bach piece,

then goes on to play a variety

of styles, including a piece

that sounds like a Shaker song,

and one that is totally plucked.

It's a free concert.

The live cello music

is very meditative

in spite of the TV where no. 18

leads his team to victory

and people walking through the room

and a group sitting around a table

doing some project together

that entails much discussion

and the smell of fresh coffee

wafting through the cello strings.

I close my eyes and let the music

take me places…

I feel the wind blowing through

my balding hair

and see the sea gulls

riding on waves of air…

I smell the ripe apples

on the trees

feel the warmth

of the yellow circle

in the sky…

After an hour of celloing

the musician ends her concert.

As she pulls back her long brown hair

we all applaud.

It's not every day you get to

hear live music

while watching football

and reading book reviews.

I wish I had learned

to play the cello

when I was a kid—

instead of the trumpet.

I was a good trumpeter,

but my embrasure was not great,

and it broke down after I finished

high school.

But if I had taken up

the cello

I could still be playing.

I heard Yo-Yo Ma play

in Fort Wayne, Indiana.

It was a marvelous experience.

But I'm glad my name isn't Yo-Yo.

I mean, can you imagine

the taunting you would get as a kid?

"Hey, Yo-Yo, you feeling up or down today?"

"Hey, Yo-Yo, are you strung out today?"

"Yo! Yo-Yo!"

I don't know what the library cellist's

name is.

It must have been very difficult

for her to concentrate on the music

while people were walking through

the room,

and the NFL was being watched,

and the coffee machine

was grumbling or whistling

and talking was emanating from the corner.

But I can relate.

I remember many Sundays

when I concentrated on what I was saying

from the pulpit

while a child cried

or an old lady had a coughing fit,

or a weary parishioner snored away.

It's a skill you learn over time.

After the library performance

Pat and I went to the 5:30 service

at All Saints Episcopal.

About twenty-five people there.

The older part-time priest

was in charge.

The music was led by an acoustic group—

three guitars, a mandolin, and a vocalist.

Not a praise band, mind you,

but an accompaniment group.

It was a nice liturgical service

following the Episcopal form.

The sermon was okay:

it made some good connections

to life (though I could have corrected

a couple of points).

We were not sitting in the front

because I never sit in the front

at an Episcopal or Catholic service;

I want someone else in front of me

whom I can follow

in case I stand up or sit down

or kneel at the wrong place

in the service.

Two pews in front of us

was a man and his wife.

They seemed to know what

they were doing.

But at one point in the service

when we were all standing,

there was a moment of silence;

that's when the woman tooted.

(Toot is a nice way of saying, fart.

Toot is the word we use with our

granddaughter; we never say 'fart.')

The woman tooted.

Not a loud toot, just a nice solid one.

I looked at Pat.

We were getting ready to say

the Apostles Creed

(which wasn't written by the apostles—

it didn't even appear in its present form

unto the 8^th century).

Neither Pat nor I laughed.

We continued to look sanctimonious.

But all through the Creed I kept hearing

that toot.

(born of the virgin Mary—toot—descended

into hell—toot—the holy catholic church—toot—

amen—toot).

It gives a new meaning to 'smells and bells.'

Anyway, it was a good Sunday.

Sleeping-in in the morning,

concert in the afternoon,

and worship in early evening.

I think that's the way

Jesus meant it to be.

 

Belong

We all have longings.

Some longings are beyond

our reach; some are graspable.

Buddhist philosophy teaches

that longings are to be surrendered

in order to be happy.

The Army reminds us that

we can become all we're meant

to be.

To 'be' what we are supposed to 'be'

is a basic longing we have.

Part of the answer to our

longing-to-be

is to 'belong.'

To belong is to 'be' with, among,

a part of.

To belong is to have our longing

satisfied.

We who have all fallen short

want to be long.

We all long

    to belong.

Without meaningful relationships

we beshort.

When others open their hearts

to us

and we to them,

they stretch our being,

and we be-long.

To be lonely

is the opposite of

belongly.

To belong

or not to belong—

that is the query.

To be human is to long.

To be fully human

is to belong.

The Buddhist who joins

the Army

will never be happy.

Meditate on this.

But not alone.

Be joined.

Like Adam and Eve—

cleave.