Dear March - Come in!

Posted March 1st, 2010 by Jen in family life, features, poetry, the ranch
6 Comments »

How are things in your part of the world? It may not feel like spring, but I know it’s coming, the calendar tells me so. And also the sky, the birds, the tiny signs of life I see poking through the ground.

Are you still covered with snow? Is the wind chilling you to the core? Take heart, it’s March! That means April and May are just around the corner. Are you thinking about what you’ll plant in your garden this year? I am, and I hope to add a few things to the mix this year. We started some vegetables last week, but here in Central Oregon, the rule of thumb on when to plant outdoors is “when the snow is gone from Black Butte,” which tends to be about June 1st!

Here is a lovely poem by Emily Dickinson, one of the greatest poets to ever write about nature, next to David. Enjoy these lines, and enjoy your March.

Dear March, Come in!
by Emily Dickinson (1830-86)

Dear March, Come in!

How glad I am!

I looked for you before.
Put down your hat —

You must have walked —

How out of breath you are!
Dear March, how are you?
And the rest?
Did you leave Nature well?
Oh, March, come right upstairs with me,
I have so much to tell!

I got your letter, and the bird’s;

The maples never knew
That you were coming, — I declare,

How red their faces grew!

But March, forgive me —

And all those hills
You left for me to hue;

There was no purple suitable,

You took it all with you.

Who knocks?
That April!

Lock the door!

I will not be pursued!

He stayed away a year, to call

When I am occupied.
But trifles look so trivial

As soon as you have come,
That blame is just as dear as praise

And praise as mere as blame.

Technorati Tags: nature, March, Emily Dickinson, outdoors, poetry

I Am From

Posted February 13th, 2010 by Jen in family life, features, poetry
16 Comments »

I AM FROM
By Jennifer @ Diary of 1

I am from dusty country roads,
From Vick’s Vapor Rub
And handmade clothes.
I am from the dirt floors of a house built from corrugated iron and boards,
With unshaded lightbulbs dangling from cords.
I am from the mint patch, Arizona honeysuckle, and big blue sky,
The black walnut grove, blooming yucca, and tumbleweeds piled high.

I am from clothes on the line and Kick the Can,
From Andy and Nelda,
The Appalachian and the artisan.
I am from Heather and Nancy and Becky,
From pride and poverty and poetry.
I’m from you’ll catch a cold and don’t hold open the refrigerator door,
Revival meetings, The Old Rugged Cross, and stories of the saints of yore.

I am from Tucson and Scots-Irish and English blood,
From clans and crests
And ‘Touch not the cat but a glove.’
I’m from fresh peaches and blackberries picked by my hand,
Fried okra and black coffee cooked in a pan.
I’m from Great Uncle Fran who could stand on his head,
And Great Granddad who carved the presidents now dead.
I’m from the hillbilly, Confederate, Merchant Marine,
The carpenter, the teacher, and ghosts that are seen.

I am from Mama’s stitched up album,
Careful labels on each photo
Tell where I’m from.
Old black and whites with yellowed corner tape
Reveal my photographer mother with an eye for landscape.
I am from the snapshot of a small girl by the mailbox and mesquite,
A lovely memory from a lonely street.
I am from books and words and walks,
From designs in the clouds and the circling of hawks.
Where are you from?

I wrote this poem in response to the meme over at Chrysalis. Tonight is the last night to enter her contest, but I hope you’ll write your own and share it with me. The template for this poem is here, and the original poem of this style by George Ella Lyon is here.

Technorati Tags: family life, I Am From, poetry

October’s Party

Posted October 2nd, 2009 by Jen in education, features, poetry
4 Comments »

This painting Autumn Leaves by John Everett Millais (1856) fits the following poem so well. I can just imagine that these are my own four children gathering leaves and admiring their beauty. These girls in the long velvet dresses may not be thinking of jumping in the pile of leaves, but that would be the first thing my own kids would do.
As I’ve been searching for some enjoyable fall activities for the kids, I came across the poem “October’s Party” by George Cooper. It’s a great one to have children memorize, especially if there is a fall festival where they can recite it for a group. Here is the poem, full of delightful personification and imagery.

October’s Party
by George Cooper

October gave a party;
The leaves by hundreds came—
The Chestnuts, Oaks, and Maples,
And leaves of every name.
The Sunshine spread a carpet,
And everything was grand,
Miss Weather led the dancing,
Professor Wind the band.

The Chestnuts came in yellow,
The Oaks in crimson dressed;
The lovely Misses Maple
In scarlet looked their best;
All balanced to their partners,
And gaily fluttered by;
The sight was like a rainbow
New fallen from the sky.

Then, in the rustic hollow,
At hide-and-seek they played,
The party closed at sundown,
And everybody stayed.
Professor Wind played louder;
They flew along the ground;
And then the party ended
In jolly “hands around.”

Isn’t that just entertaining to read aloud? I love it!

Hark, I hear a robin calling!

Posted April 3rd, 2009 by Jen in arts & crafts, france/french, poetry
2 Comments »

Hark, I hear a robin calling!
List, the wind is from the south!
And the orchard-bloom is falling
Sweet as kisses on the mouth.

In the dreamy vale of beeches
Fair and faint is woven mist,
And the river’s orient reaches
Are the palest amethyst.

Every limpid brook is singing
Of the lure of April days;
Every piney glen is ringing
With the maddest roundelays.

Come and let us seek together
Springtime lore of daffodils,
Giving to the golden weather
Greeting on the sun-warm hills.

-   Lucy Maud Montgomery, Spring Song

The painting above is called Le Poème de l’âme - Le Printemps (The Poem of the Soul - Spring) by Anne-François-Louise Janmot (1814-1892), and can be found at the Musée des Beaux-Arts, Lyon, France.

Are you hearing robins in your part of the world? I think Montgomery’s poem pairs perfectly with this painting, don’t you? I love Lucy Maud Montgomery, and in fact, just today, my daughter watched the Anne of Green Gables movie. Anyway, spring is in the air, and I do believe I have spring fever. Mark Twain describes it best:

It’s spring fever. That is what the name of it is. And when you’ve got it, you want - oh, you don’t quite know what it is you do want, but it just fairly makes your heart ache, you want it so!




Happy 80th, Mom

Posted March 15th, 2009 by Jen in family life, poetry, the ranch
11 Comments »

My mother is now officially an octogenarian. I pray the 80s will bring her peace, grace, beauty, and good health.

Here she is making her way down our driveway with a few of the kids this week, who love to go for walks with Grandma. Or be walked, as you can see a blue leash dangling by LIttle L’s legs, which he had attached to his belt loop for Grandma to “walk him.” She now limits herself to the long driveway for fear of getting lost in the forest. I must say, I do feel quite proud that our sometimes scraggly junipers qualify as a forest.

This poem she wrote over 50 years ago fits this scene and the future in heaven she looks forward to:

AN OLD FAMILIAR STREET

Will I suddenly find myself walking
Down an old familiar street,
That once had something lacking
But now is quite complete?

Will heaven be the earth again,
But me a different man–
With eyes to see things hidden now,
With wings to carry out a plan?

Will flowers be even sweeter then?
The wind at my command?
Will secrets fill me full of glee
That now I could not stand?

Will that day surely come
With its enchanting feat
When I’ll walk with distant friends
Down an old familiar street?

I don’t have any profound thoughts to write this morning in honor of my mother’s 80th birthday, just a few random memories from childhood:

She read to us often, and not the usual children’s stories, just whatever she happened to be reading. She loved books about the saints, Christian missionaries, animal stories, the Bible, biographies…

She planted a mint patch and would send us kids to pick mint for her tea. We’d eat some leaves along the way.

The Arbor was a special place to be. She built, along with my dad, a little arbor with a table and benches inside. Crawling up every side of the arbor were climbing vines of her favorite kind, of which I cannot remember the names but were special to her.

I remember discovering a nest of baby birds in the arbor - they loved it there, too.

For a year or two, my mom hosted a small poetry club in the arbor for my sister and me and our neighbor friends (mostly 6-10 year olds), and called it the Little Rhymers. I still have the poetry book she made for our club with its hand-stitched cover, filled with the endearing poetry of our little hands.

Her Boston Baked Bread was one of my favorites, as well as her homemade ice cream.

She was a most creative soul and I never realized the blessing of this until much later in life.

Happy Birthday, Mom!

When Kids Explore: The Black Feather

Posted February 16th, 2009 by Jen in family life, poetry, the ranch
9 Comments »

Little L was so delighted to find a feather during our last hike about the property. Never mind we find them all the time, each new discovery still holds a bit of magic.

Here’s a little poem I wrote for him:

The Black Feather
Today I went out to explore
I found a feather on the forest floor
I had the urge to search for more
Creation has unlocked a door. 

Enjoy your day exploring and investigating your world! We’re off for another hike…

Technorati Tags: Central Oregon, childhood memories, family, bird feather, nature, outdoors

Morning

Posted April 11th, 2008 by Jen in poetry
11 Comments »

I am barely squeaking this one in…SmallWorld’s Spring Poetry Contest. Ends April 10, which as I write, West Coast Time, is over in 6 minutes.

This poem is called Morning, which I liken to Spring. If you take the stages of a day, then morning would be spring in my calendar of thinking. This poem was written by my mom many years ago, I’m not sure how many, but at least 30.

MORNING

It cometh not with observation,
It cometh from afar,
Like bells within a silence
To the void where you are.

The earth has turned to catch the sun,
And tiny you and I
Respond to God’s arithmetic
With a giant sigh.

It is slow addition
From waste to arctic waste,
Vast oceans etch a silver trail
O’er hidden icebergs, chaste.

It laps the shores around the world,
It falls on flower and stone.
It creeps up steps and windows
Invading cot and throne.

From continent to continent
It picks its singing way.
Regardlessly it multiplies
‘Til stars break into day.

B.P. Daniel (1929 - )

Tags: morning, poem, poetry, spring

The Sun Broke Through

Posted February 15th, 2008 by Jen in family life, poetry, religion
4 Comments »

The Sun Broke Through
by me, with apologies to the real poets out there

The sun broke through, we must find a trail,
Explore the woods, the creatures, the mountains.
Creator God, how do You know
Just when I need those glimmering rays of hope?
How does the crack of a branch under my foot,
The white tail of the deer flitting out of sight behind the Juniper,
The rock, dancing in the shadows, up to the blue, blue sky,
How does this beauty of the house of God
Bring back to my soul the virtue and serenity
My impoverished spirit is desperate for?
Now I flicker, now I leap, now I know, as best I can know.

photo: our property (can you see the jackrabbit in the center?)

Technorati Tags: poetry, beauty, God, woods

Winter Fun

Posted December 29th, 2007 by Jen in family life, holidays, parenting, poetry
10 Comments »

My husband and I took our kids and a few of the cousins ice skating on Christmas Eve. We survived with only a few bumps and bruises, remarkable considering that between just the two of us, we managed seven children under the age of 10 on the ice.

I must admit that my husband was not overjoyed when I suggested ice skating! I only bring this up because I want to encourage you to push past the common hindrance to enjoying winter sports: BBRRRR!!! He actually was so happy in the end that we went ice skating, mostly because the kids had beaming faces and have talked about it for days. As you can see from the pictures, this was an indoor ice rink, and really not that cold. Just bundle up and do it!

A quick note on ice skating safety. One of the skate guards noticed my four year old daughter, pictured above with me, and commented on how she was gaining courage and wanting to go faster, even though this was her first time ice skating. A Canadian, he said, “You Americans have a lot to learn! In Canada, the little children have to wear helmets on the ice.” He recommended putting a regular bike helmet on the littler ones at least. Think about it, a hard fall on the ice is no more forgiving than a hard fall on concrete.

There is a winter wonderland across much of the country and so much fun to be had! One of my sisters in Michigan just took her family on a skiing vacation to Boyne Mountain and, living in Oregon, I worked hard to resist the temptation to poke fun at Michigan’s mountains. They all had a fantastic time even without supersized mountains. Now, if you do happen to be in Oregon and want to ski, be sure to visit my friends at Berg’s Ski Shop for all your gear, and go experience some real altitude.

And don’t forget about snowshoeing, sledding, and snowboarding. Or just building a snowman! My kids’ personal favorite is a good old fashioned snowball fight. I am definitely in the winter mood, and if I don’t get myself and the kids out despite the weather, we all get cabin fever. My rule of thumb is that if it’s above freezing, (32 degrees Fahrenheit), out we go. An investment in high quality gloves, hats, coats, and boots is well worth it, especially if it means the whole family can play outside in winter weather for at least an hour at a time.

I know many of you are either stuck inside because it’s truly treacherous outside, or at the other extreme, you live in a location where it simply doesn’t get wintery. I found a great website, Apples4theteacher.com, with a slew of winter games and activities for kids that can be done indoors and still give your kids some winter fun. You’ll find winter crafts, stories, puzzles, coloring pages, and more.

If your family has a favorite winter past-time, would you share it with me? I’ll leave you with a wintery poem by that classic Scottish writer, Robert Louis Stevenson.

Winter Time
by Robert Louis Stevenson
from A Child’s Garden of Verses

Late lies the wintery sun a-bed,
A frosty, fiery sleepy-head;
Blinks but an hour or two; and then,
A blood-red orange, sets again.

Before the stars have left the skies,
At morning in the dark I rise;
And shivering in my nakedness,
By the cold candle, bathe and dress.

Close by the jolly fire I sit
To warm my frozen bones a bit;
Or with a reindeer-sled, explore
The colder countries round the door.

When to go out, my nurse doth wrap
Me in my comforter and cap;
The cold wind burns my face and blows
Its frosty pepper up my nose.

Black are my steps on silver sod;
Thick blows my frosty breath abroad;
And tree and house, and hill and lake,
Are frosted like a wedding-cake.

Ode to Veterans

Posted November 10th, 2007 by Jen in family life, holidays, poetry
8 Comments »

November 11, 2007.

Thank you, all veterans of all times.

I remembered an old poem my mom wrote, and rummaged around this morning and thankfully found it. Her father was a WWI veteran. He spent the last decade of his life confined to a wheelchair, the result of mustard gas from the war. My grandpa died before I had the chance to meet him. But, thanks, Grandpa.

ODE TO VETERANS
by my mother

Have you survived the overflowing banks
of spring?
Tramped the long road of summer to the end?
Withstood the heartbreak and chill all
autumns bring?
Seen winter come, and still have breath to
spend?

Then I salute you, veteran of earth’s day.
You who have flown from dawn to set of sun.
Soon you will rise beyond the Milky Way
The toast of all in heaven, the long race won.

In Memory: On the Threshold

Posted April 20th, 2007 by Jen in poetry
0 Comments

It’s been a very painful week. Today, Friday, April 20, 2007, has been marked as a day of mourning for the 32 victims of the massacre at Virginia Tech. In memory, here is a poem by Horatius Bonar (1808-1889) called On the Threshold. I was trying to find some words that would be hopeful, encouraging, and perhaps reassuring to the grief-stricken left behind.

No expression can capture perfectly what each family member or friend is enduring, but I hope this poem is helpful. I know that many of those who were killed on Monday had a faith in Jesus Christ - they’ve passed the threshold to the throne of grace.

On the Threshold

I’m returning, not departing;
My steps are homeward bound,
I quit the land of strangers
For a home on native ground.

I am rising and not setting;
This is not night but day,
Not in darkness, but in sunshine,
Like a star, I fade away.

All is well with me for ever;
I do not fear to go,
My tide is but beginning
Its bright eternal flow.

I am leaving only shadows
For the true and fair and good,
I must not, cannot, linger;
I would not, though I could.

This is not death’s dark portal,
‘Tis life’s golden gate to me,
Link after link is broken,
And I at last am free.

I am going to the angels,
I am going to my God;
I know the hand that beckons,
I see the holy road.

Why grieve me with your weeping?
Your tears are all in vain,
An hour’s farewell, beloved,
And we shall meet again.

Jesus, Thou wilt receive me
And welcome me above;
This sunshine which now fills me
Is Thine own smile of love.

Horatius Bonar

Sans Souci Way

Posted April 14th, 2007 by Jen in poetry
1 Comment »

With April being National Poetry Month, I’ll continue to highlight some poetic pieces, mostly drawing from the expansive creativity of my own family. My cousin, Dick Smith, wrote this beautiful piece I’m featuring here. I was missing Michigan today, so this work is perfect. I’ll begin with Dick’s introduction:

Introduction to Sans Souci Way

Sans Souci is French and means “without care.” It is also a tiny unincorporated community on the shores of the St. Clair River. The setting is on Harsens Island, a part of Clay Township, Michigan. There is a large State wildlife refuge located there where the geese, ducks, and other waterfowl stop in the spring and fall migrations. The birds come in, in great and small “V” formations to a safe resting place, a “home” along the way. For them a home is more than a place, it is part of a life journey, a verb, and so too perhaps it should be for us. We have just assisted the Township in making a grant application to the State to build a 3.0 mile pedestrian/bicycle trail (2 paved, 5 foot wide shoulders along the highway). The Township hopes the project will help promote tourism. Unfortunately the application was not funded.

Sans Souci Way
by Richard O. Smith II

Across the ancient sturgeon depths, on the south of the great blue northern channel, where a heron and a ferry lands, my first footsteps on a Clay pathway lightly tread. There foot by foot my arrogant hopes, like tied up driven dopes lay shoulder by shoulder along the way. Across the marsh, across the fenlands to the olde French trade of Sans Souci, I find a day of passing. Here the commerce on the waters passed from birch bark to cavernous steel, still silently plying the deep blueways, tollways in mind, tolls in time. Great chevrons home the atmospheres and flow to feed upon the flats and rest from nomad quests. Here the path of clay consciousness comes too, to rest from maddening quests in silted wild and creature shallows of Little Muscamoot Bay. A world away, a pause in time, the sub lime slime, a crayfish crawls all cares to a mud castle lair beside my toes a squishing. There prescient schemes do drift to dreams and it is cumulously noble to know nothing at all ~ ~ ~ while breezes blow clear through my ears.

photo credits:
http://www.harsensisland.com/photos.html
http://www.darlor-watch.com

Good Friday

Posted April 6th, 2007 by Jen in poetry, religion
1 Comment »

“Stay, don’t go,” is what my heart would want to say. But it’s the Father’s will, and today, I’m so grateful beyond understanding (I can never know all He suffered) for the sacrifice over 2000 years ago.

The crucifixion of Jesus Christ took place in A.D. 30, on the Friday of the Jewish Passover week. This day is now celebrated by Christians worldwide as Good Friday. Even on the cross he reigned, and today is such a day to observe the ultimate triumph, as well as the passion, the suffering, the humiliation. This is a day of remembrance, mourning, and grief, a day to suffer with Him. I can suffer with Him as I contemplate and consider the injustice of the world, and have compasssion today. I can meditate on the hardship and heartache of the oppressed today, and pray for them.

GOOD FRIDAY
by Christina G. Rossetti

Am I a stone and not a sheep
That I can stand, O Christ, beneath Thy Cross,
To number drop by drop Thy Blood’s slow loss,
And yet not weep?
No so those women loved
Who with exceeding grief lamented Thee;
Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly;
Not so the thief was moved;
Not so the Sun and Moon
Which hid their faces in a starless sky,
A horrow of great darkness at broad noon–
I, only I.
Yet give not o’er,
But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock;
Greater than Moses, turn and look once more
And smite a rock.

photo: Christ of Saint John of the Cross by Salvador Dali

Lilium longiflorum

Posted April 3rd, 2007 by Jen in poetry, religion
2 Comments »

Ahh, the lovely Easter lily has arrived! I got mine today and just admired its stark white beauty and trumpet-shaped flowers, and my heart rejoiced in the symbolism of resurrection life. Here it is, that white-robed apostle of hope, on my back deck as the sun sank low.

A wonderful poem by American poet Anne Porter, in her mid-nineties when the treasury this is part of, Living Things: Collected Poems, was published (talk about a late bloomer), begs to be read:

AN EASTER LILY

[Ahem, the first verse
is now missing
because I was kindly informed
by a commenter below
That I was violating copyright law.
This beautiful verse
used to be about
A Paschal moon
Shining into our homes
With radiant ceremony]

…here’s the rest of the amazing poem,
I’m so sorry I can’t post all of it:

I for my part received
An Easter lily
Whose whiteness
Is past belief

Its blossoms
The shape of trumpets
Are mute as swans

But deep and strong as sweat
Is their feral perfume.

by Anne Porter

Though native to the Ryukyu Islands of southern Japan, I love the fact that the Easter Lily Capital of the World is on the southern coast of MY state, Oregon!

I’ve been savoring these days leading up to Easter, this most glorious of all Christian holidays. I’m trying to incorporate traditions into my family, and when holidays come around, I’m always on the lookout for a meaningful observance to weave into our life. I didn’t grow up with traditions, and even as a child I was very sad about that. I want my own children to be grown and say to one another, “Don’t you remember when we always picked out an Easter lily for our table, and one for Grandma, too?”

Take pleasure in this week, and hold onto your traditions or create new ones.

(I’m ready for my closeup, Mr. DeMille.)

Lucy Faull

Posted March 31st, 2007 by Jen in poetry
0 Comments

Mom had great fun in the late 1960s early 1970s with her poetry group, The Rimers of Tucson, Arizona. She was the youngest of the group, and I don’t think any of those folks are alive anymore. One special lady from that pack of poets was Lucy Faull, from whom I inherited my middle name. Here’s a poem Mom wrote for Lucy:

LUCY FAULL

Strong
And sure
Her words come
Through. Echoing
Stars that shone for you.
Treading paths alone and
New. Celebrating, fasting,
Feasting, living every moment–
Do you see a rose pushing through snow?
That’s how Lucy’s spirit is sure to go.

B.P. Daniel (1929 - )

The power of words, and Doors

Posted March 30th, 2007 by Jen in poetry
0 Comments

THE POWER OF WORDS

Words cannot imprint
The world on me.
Only life can register
A blackbird in a tree.

Yet when the blackbird’s gone,
Words can make me see
His red wing flash in summer
Just as it used to be.

Words are not the same,
But they will have to do.
Life keeps disappearing.
Words bring it back to view.

B.P. Daniel (1929 - )

I had promised a March Madness of my mom’s poetry, and here we are with just a day remaining of her birthday month! So, I’m squeezing a few more in today and tomorrow, and I hope you enjoy these.

DOORS

When I am tired of opening and closing doors,
Of doing all life’s endless little chores,
I steal away to the fastness of my mind,
And manufacture doors of another kind.

I pile up words, hinge them with a phrase,
Then swing away, into my choice of days.
It is I who decide what weather there shall be,
And who shall sit with me beneath the tree.

It is an empire fit for a king and queen,
This land of words, that lies behind, between,
Just out of sight, in the forest of the mind.
Forever through its pathways would I wind:

Seeking to capture in its branches, taut and
still,
Songs that would haunt the lonely whip-poor-
will.

B.P. Daniel (1929 - )

Photo credits: Emily Blaylock (one of our wonderful nannies who took these photos on our last vacation to Victoria, B.C.)

An old familiar street

Posted March 29th, 2007 by Jen in poetry
0 Comments

AN OLD FAMILIAR STREET

Will I suddenly find myself walking
Down an old familiar street,
That once had something lacking
But now is quite complete?

Will heaven be the earth again,
But me a different man–
With eyes to see things hidden now,
With wings to carry out a plan?

Will flowers be even sweeter then?
The wind at my command?
Will secrets fill me full of glee
That now I could not stand?

Will that day surely come
With its enchanting feat
When I’ll walk with distant friends
Down an old familiar street?

B.P. Daniel (1929 - )

In Him we live and move and have our being

Posted March 20th, 2007 by Jen in education, poetry, politics/world news, religion
8 Comments »

I thought I’d take the Apostle Paul’s tactic with Athens, and quote some poetry for Germany.

Around A.D. 50, Paul went to preach in Athens, then eminently famous for learning, philosophy, and fine arts. And godless idolatry. The Athenians actually had an altar with the inscription, “To the unknown god,” just in case they missed one in all their god-worshipping.

Paul loved these people, and in an effort to teach them the truth about the Creator and the need to worship Him alone, Paul reached out to them with the words of one of their own poets, Epimenides (c. 600 B.C.), and said, “For in him we live and move and have our being.” Acts 17:28. These words speak to humanity’s complete dependence on God, not an image, a philosophy, or human hands.

So, on to Germany…I must say I was inspired by commenter John’s post at Principled Discovery. Regarding the German homeschool case of Melissa Busekros, which I’ve written about here and here, John gave a historical context of the intellectual elitist mentality in Germany:

Many people do not realize that prior to what took place in the late 1930’s and early to mid 1940’s Germany had become the most intellectual and erudite nation on the planet. It is this very mentality that spawned the horrible dilemma of WW2 and the Holocaust that is now part of our World history.

Germany reminds me of Athens, I must say. Intellectual, erudite…And John ended his comment with these words: Every civilization that has forgotten God has failed.

Well, the Apostle Paul was probably the greatest teacher and most successful evangelizer of all time (besides Jesus), and if he quotes Athenian poetry to Athenians, I can’t go wrong quoting German poetry to Germans.

The obvious choice is Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749-1832). I must tell you that young Goethe had a terrible time in school, and ended up receiving an excellent private education AT HOME, by his PARENTS! Take that to heart, you homeschool-prohibitors.

Goethe is one of the greatest literary figures of Germany, and gets ranked with Shakespeare and Dante as one of the three most important poets of all time. Goethe’s most famous work is the poetic drama, Faust.

Excerpt from Faust, Part 1
(Gretchen asks Faust, “Do you believe in God?” Faust cannot answer her in the words she wants, but describes what he feels in his heart)

Der Allumfasser,
    Der Allerhalter,
    Faßt und erhält er nicht
    Dich, mich, sich selbst?
    Wölbt sich der Himmel nicht dadroben?
    Liegt die Erde nicht hierunten fest?
    Und steigen freundlich blickend
    Ewige Sterne nicht herauf?
    Schau ich nicht Aug in Auge dir,
    Und drängt nicht alles
    Nach Haupt und Herzen dir
    Und webt in ewigem Geheimnis
    Unsichtbar-sichtbar neben dir?
    Erfüll davon dein Herz, so groß es ist,
    Und wenn du ganz in dem Gefühle selig bist,
    Nenn es dann, wie du willst:
    Nenns Glück! Herz! Liebe! Gott!

And in English:

The all-embracing one,
    The all-preserving one,
    Does He not embrace and preserve
    You, me, (and) Himself?
    Does the sky not arch above us up there?
    Does the earth not lie firm down here?
    And do not with kind glance
    The eternal stars rise?
    Do I not look at you eye to eye,
    And does not everything press
    Upon your head and heart
    And weave in eternal mystery
    Invisible and visible around you?
    Fill your heart, as big as it is, from that
    And when you are completely blissful in the feeling,
    Then call it what you like:
    Call it happiness! Heart! Love! God!

Goethe

Learned men and women of Germany, do not worship intellectualism or philosophy, but worship God, “the all-embracing one, the all-preserving one,” as your own poet has said.
************
To comment, click on the title above, then go to the bottom of the post and add your comment.

Happy 78th, Mom!

Posted March 15th, 2007 by Jen in poetry
1 Comment »

Mom adds another year every ides of March, and here she is at 78! I caught her by a great old Juniper tree on our property that is about as much a character as she is. She said this particular tree “looks like it could be the backdrop for a horror movie.” Well, maybe at night it might look scary, but it’s one of my kids’ favorite little fort areas. For her birthday, we’ll spend the morning hiking around at Smith Rock, because it reminds her of Stone Mountain (where she lived for a bit and of which she has the fondest memories), and then enjoy some pumpkin pie with whipped cream.

I couldn’t find a poem she’d written about junipers, but here’s a lovely one about willows (because we grew up with a willow in our yard, not a juniper):

THE WILLOW TREE

When God made trees, so long ago,
The world was not yet full of woe.
But God in his foreknowledge knew,
And so He made the willow too.

There are trees so tall and straight and proud
They speak of courage strong and loud.
But there are moments, not a few –
For them, the willow weeps with you.

B.P. Daniel (1929 - )

And also, a birthday poem, which she wrote for herself in a way, because I’m giving her a birthday card with this poem inscribed inside! She may have forgotten that she wrote this…uh, probably not. She can forget what day it is but never a poem she’s written. She actually thought we forgot her birthday, because on March 14, she thought it was March 15.

May your birthday be:

Slow as molasses in January so you
have plenty of time to enjoy it,

Fast as an ostrich so you can cover
a lot of ground,

Sudden as a pheasant flushed to
wake you up,

Brilliant as a herd of flamingoes
to please your eye,

Chipper as a sparrow to give you
hardihood,

Wild as a wild goose to give you
adventure,

Beautiful as a swan to give you
serenity,

Strong as an eagle so you can reach
new heights,

Exotic as a parrot to show you the
strange unknown,

Wise as an owl with listening ears,

Happy as a lark singing,

Haunting as a whippoorwill so you
will remember it

The poet on art

Posted March 9th, 2007 by Jen in poetry
1 Comment »

Time to continue the March tribute to my mother’s poetry. See the in-house poet if you missed her introduction. Mom loves art as well as poetry, so her poem entitled “Art” is the perfect marriage of the two. I asked her earlier this evening if she could recollect some of her favorite artists or works. She couldn’t think of a thing, her usual answer these days. I pressed her a bit, asking about her involvement in the Blue Water Art Club in Port Huron, Michigan, in the 1950s. She remembered her art instructor, Rusty Patterson, and suddenly came up with Piranesi.

Mom called Piranesi’s work “black and white ink” and said “he drew prisons, with staircases winding about and going up.” This sounded really awful to me. Why did you like these, I had to ask. “I don’t know, they just appealed to me. They were very spacious looking.”

A bit of research on Giovanni Battista Piranesi (1720-1778) revealed an Italian artist famous for his etchings of Rome as well as the Carceri d’Invenzione (imaginary prisons). There’s a whole stack of these prints (16 total) which are said to record a series of his own visions during the delirium of a fever. Someone else called them visual metaphors for the endless creative inspiration of the past. Whatever they are, I did not find them appealing, or spacious, but that’s just me.

ART

Art is a mixture of paint and oil,
The color of forgotten soil;
The smile of loveliness long dead,
The coffin waiting in the shed,
A face against a windowpane,
A lover in a country lane,
A looking in and a looking out
The silence of an unheard shout,
The sense of an impending doom,
The unreality of a room,
The lights and shadows of all our days
Pinpointed in infinitesimal ways,
Fixed in a painted pantomime
Plucked from the gutter of merging time.
Art is a mixture in the mind
Of images that twist and wind;
Evidence of an exploring heart
Tentative, lest it be torn apart.
Here is a smile, received over there,
Coloring two bits of separated air.
Here is the shadow for this degree of light.
Some form of shading makes up our sight.
Here is the height, and the depth below,
And here is the horizon that makes it so.
Our lives are so bound in intricate ways,
Bordered with gold and indigo days,
Flushed with the sun’s most fetching red,
Of art enough cannot be said.

The in-house poet

Posted March 5th, 2007 by Jen in poetry
5 Comments »

I’ll be dedicating the “poetry” category of this blog to my mother, and will feature her amateur poetry of the past 60 years or so. My mom lives with us, so she’s the in-house poet. She celebrates her 78th birthday this month, and in her honor we’ll have a March Madness of poetry.

I’m a terrible poet, and can barely judge good poetry, but I hope I choose some that will brighten your day. Here’s Mom by an abandoned house down the lane from where we live. I took this picture two weeks ago, and ironically, there’s an enormous bulldozer out there as I write, tearing that old house down to make room for a hay shed. A subtle lesson to enjoy the old, weathered, beautiful things while you can.

The Poet

A Poet is a man who tries
To cut the universe down to size
But yet retain the sense of space
While putting it in a certain place.
A poet with a little verse
Captures and giftwraps the universe.

A poet is a man who sees
The enchanted forest in the trees.
He sees the bird of happiness fly
In the land where people do not die.
These things and more the poet doth tell
In a poem that fits in a little nutshell.

A poet is a man who stores
Ideas in his dresser drawers.
With words he combs his tangled hair
And starts the day with “Change,” “Compare.”
And when the words begin to fuse
The poet melts into the Muse.

B.P. Daniel (1929 - )