Knives and Spoons

Maybe it's a sign of this generation but occasionally phrases arise that spark in me this idea, "Hey, that would make a great blog title!" It's the transference of doing it for band names I suppose (do they even have bands in music these days?). But as I'm doing dishes this afternoon (yes, we do not have a dishwasher. And once Lucy is off the bottle... please let it be soon. No more bottles to hand wash)... Anyway the phrase "Knives and Spoons" popped into my head. This probably had more to do with the inordinate number of knives and spoons I've noticed I wash on a daily basis. So if I were to write a blog about being a post-modern housewife I would call it "Knives and Spoons".

Then it occurred to me that I may be measuring my life in terms of knives and spoons. In terms of the banal work around the house I do daily as a result of me being home with the kids. T.S. Eliot's Prufrock certainly had a similar sense about him, proclaiming "I have measured out my life with coffee spoons". It's been easy to succumb to this entrapment of sorts. Recently I've been bombarded with 4 MFA rejection letters. Part of the staying home and not working idea the Mrs and I had was so that I could work on my writing. And I have (not on the blog though). I've gotten better. Yet here I sit with four rejection letters in front of me- on my inspiration board no less. There's still one school I'm waiting to hear from -- so maybe... Regardless of what transpires I've found myself slipping into the temptation of "Knives and Spoons". Of seeing myself unapart from the daily routines. Perhaps it's the failure of MFA applications -- the embarrassment of failing anyway is certainly palpable. So I've measured my life, I've discovered, my days by the daily tasks. The coffee spoons, the peanut butter knives, the diapers, the bottles, the hours.

But the preceding line in Eliot's poem is transcendent. It's the realization of the best part of why I am staying home. For I "Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons". I have had time with my children. With my son. With my daughter. With my wife. I have had days upon days of books and building blocks and Curious George and bike rides and soccer and crawling contests and standing contests and singing and OREOs while watching LOST. And not only have I had them. But morning, noon and night I have known them. Felt them in the deepest and best parts of the chambers of my soul. And I know that I am lucky and that I am blessed. And I know that I am loved because yesterday Isaac on one of our patented early evening bike rides turned back to look at me and the Mrs and said, "It's my mommy and my daddy. And I love them."

So is it worth it, after all -- Prufrock senses us asking, I sense myself asking as I count the knives and spoons and rejection letters. I will certainly have the knives and spoons tomorrow and the next day. But I will also have the human voices that will wake me. And they are singing, often. And to me.

Inaugural Poem

I was bothered greatly by one thing yesterday. The Inaugural Poem. While I understand that not every poet can be the next Maya Angelou, I ask: can we at least attempt it? Because that was the worst poem I've ever heard. Worst. Ever. While much of it had to do with the way it was read (it is my sincere belief that poets probably shouldn't be the ones to read their own work. Poetry is a cathartic endeavour. It's art expunged. Left to interpretation. A poet reading their poem is interpolation. And it's wrong). See and hear what I mean. I did read it aloud later and it came across much better.

It suffered from a poor panoply of unpoetic words. Chesterton (and Whitman too) will argue me to the death (they win) on this but words like "tire", "pencils", "boombox" and "bus" lack depth and exegetical nuance. And "darning" pushes the edge of poetry as well. Pushes it into the mundane, the muck and mire of everyday life. Poems and Poetry is supposed to put "our heads into the heavens" (take that Chesterton. Your own words). So I was eager to hear the artist's take on yesterday. The person looking down and past and behind and through and alongside.

I was confused by the lines "We walk into that which we cannot yet see" in the middle of the poem when the ending, anti-climatic, demands that we "praise song for walking forward in that light."

Furthermore, if you want me to understand "Praise Song", don't throw at me images. Use sounds and images that inspire sounds. None of the invoked images she chose even approached the power of a song (again, Chesterton, stop talking. I hear your argument loud and clear. I don't disagree with you. I don't. There is great joy in the mundane. In the normal. But is that the function of poetry? C'mon? Is it? That's right. I'm right. Admit it, G.K.).

Overall, I was vastly disappointed with the Inaugural poem -- even upon the re-reading which did make it seem much better.

So I leave you with THE POEM to charge you forward in this new day. I still remember hearing it and being moved during that 7th grade pizza party. Take the time and read it. It's greatness lies in the unassailable timelessness of it. How it was just as striking and brilliant 16 years ago and resonated even more loudly yesterday in me.

On Metaphors

There has been so little to do and so much time over the past week... Wait. Strike that. Reverse it. The folks were in for a week, helping us with Isaac and the new house. My dad and I set to work on several projects: repairing sections of the fence, rebuilding the side of the shed, re-grouting the bathroom. We didn't get it all completed, but got a rather large portion of it all done.

Over this past weekend, we accomplished the bulk of our tasks. None of which originally included a geyser of blood, a pulled back muscle, a fear of little bugs or a tetanus shot. But as is expected when you have things to do and little time to do it, the unforeseen happens. Of note, three out of the four unforeseen events happened to me. I stabbed myself in the knee with a cro-bar. I punctured my hand with a rusty nail. I really can't deal with small bugs that flitter and flatter and creep up over your foot or your hand when you pick up a piece of wood. It was my father who hurt his back this week... golfing.

But I built something. With my own two...er... hand and a half. When we went to repair a small section of the shed apart, we found the problem went much, much deeper. One that led to a new floor and completely re-enforcing the foundation. But we rebuilt it; even added some new doors.

The poet Stanley Kunitz once told prospective poets this:

"Do something else, develop any other skill ... turn to any other branch of knowledge. Learn how to use your hands. Try woodworking, birdwatching, gardening, sailing, weaving, pottery, archaeology, oceanography, spelunking, animal husbandry — take your pick. Whatever activity you engage in, as a trade or hobby or field study, will tone up your body and clear your head. At the very least it will help you with your metaphors."

I've certainly got some new metaphors. But I'm not trying to be a poet. At least I don't think so. Who knows with school coming up. Maybe I'm an old shed that needs a new foundation. Maybe grad school is the repair job that will rip away and rebuild.

Maybe I still need to work on my metaphors.

A Merely, Mighty Inch

My sister will appreciate this post. It's a poem. In honor of Isaac's first inch of growth since his birth. Now I wrote this after his first ultrasound when he was approximately one inch big. Now, he's 21 inches. And I'm still amazed by it all.

A MERELY, MIGHTY INCH

What love is there in spaces wide,
In oceans, lands, seas and skies.
The same love is there and it fits
In all of that merely, mighty inch.

Where life begins and carries forth
To tears and love and merry mirth
Not time, nor space, nor size deters,
That love that grows.

And as it were
Reflects, really, all we know
That God was man in manner and means
How then, as now, holy heaven teamed
As divine and man were surely pinched
Into that merely, mighty inch.

Where and why and how indeed
We are left to ponder. So it seems
What was so small, yet loved so large.
God. Imaged in this finite world
Bound and formed in mortals' fall.

You're reflective of that divine call
That God 'came man, so to wrench
Us all - in that merely, mighty inch.

Because I've Had Plenty Of Time To Think

There's not a whole lot for me to do. I take pictures. I take care of the Mrs. I arrange family visits. I hold my son. And I think.

I wonder if years from now he'll wonder what happened on the day he was born. Not much, honestly. No big sporting events, no Boston team won -- or even played. Not a lot of news. Reports of his birth were the big story in our newsroom. It was pretty much his day.

I've certainly been watching too much American Idol when I see one of the nursery nurses and think to myself, "She looks a little like Antonella". I really do hate that show.

Remember "O Draconian Devil" from the Da Vinci Code? Well babies have this thing...well...let's just say the proper phrase should be "O Meconium Devil". Trust me on this.

Not a lot of famous people born on March 12. He may very well be the first. I have high hopes for this.

Interesting coincidence: March 12 is the birthday of Jack Kerouac. He's an author. Wrote "On the Road", described as ''a magnificent single paragraph several blocks long, rolling, like the road itself." I've never read it. Though I might give it a shot. But here's the coincidence. Kerouac was born in Lowell, Massachusetts. I grew up in Lowell. Lowell is my hometown. It's where I'm from. It's a coincidence, sure. But it's a fun one.

What's not a coincidence are the tales that I've been told from friends about the early hours before Isaac's birth. Several have told me stories of how they were moved to pray in hours before morning yesterday. Prayers which I am forever grateful for. Knowing that the prospect of C-section was all but definite and somehow she was able to deliver the baby herself -- shocking even the doctor -- well those prayers were answered. Thank you to those who prayed. It brings me enormous awe, quite humbling really, knowing that God is interested on such a personal level. That there is that much at stake.

Anyway, I've got highly more theoretical thoughts than Antonella and Jack Kerouac. There's not much else to do. But for now, the Mrs. and Little Man are doing quite well today. Day Two. But my thoughts from a previous day looking forward to this particular morning, serve me well right now.

WHEN YOU COME(YOU BRING MY LOVE WITH YOU)

You bring my love with you,
Whenever you should come.
Don't forget or leave behind,
My love that's grown through time.

Grasp it in your holding hands;
Hold it on your tasteless tongue;
It can't be lost, but hold still tight,
You who bring my love with life.

That it's bigger than you
I am aware.
But somehow it does fit
(like you in there).

My love for you it sits,
In such tiny fingertips.
However big you may one day be,
This love will tower over you,
Like the nearest tree.

But don't worry, you can hold my love,
And bring it with you, when you come.

So now my baby, my child, has come
And he has brought with him my love.

A Conceivable Word

Perhaps it's the poetry kick I'm on. Perhaps it's remnants of a GRE test I did quite well on. Perhaps, as an old friend would venture to say, it's my obsession with big words that I want to mean what they actually don't. With either of those options withstanding, I've got a new word.

Several times in the past week I've come across the noun cathedral. Most of you will know that word and what it represents. In these instances I've heard the word used, I've got to understand what it means(I readily admit that much of my enthusiasm for the word might come from my sentimentality towards Catholicism).

The first use of the word that struck my fancy was on this blog by another old friend who frequents this site as well. I was awed by the phrase: I am a little church(no great cathedral). At my urging, she posted on the origins of the phrase, from this e e cummings poem (I'm still not sure why cummings' name is always lowercase). It's a great poem, it really is. I see something new in it each time I go over it.

The second reference this week came this morning in church. Our pastor was speaking on the Sabbath. His sermon was titled "The Sabbath: A Cathedral in Time." He didn't qualify that phrase directly, but he did evidence the notion of the Sabbath in such a way as to make it poetically clear what was meant by the sermon title.

So my word for this week is cathedral. It's a word that carries much imagery and carries much weight. It's a word, much like the building it describes, that has a lot more going on inside it. I think that's the thing about words in general, if we take the time, we can see there's much more going on, much more at stake. Words are poetical.

To quote Walter Pater: The goal of poetry is to renew the finer edges of words.

The thing of it is: I keep using the word "poetical" to describe some of my thoughts. For example, if something strikes me, I say it's poetical.

To quote Inigo Montoya: "You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means."

A Rather Poetic Analogy

The art of versification, or, prosody. It's becoming a hobby of mine. So much so that I've already read one book on poetry, am reading another, and even ordered "Leaves of Grass" by Walt Whitman. I am slightly embarrassed by my enthusiasm, but not ashamed of it. I find myself writing poetry often and find when I write it that I am more confident of my ability to write poetry than my ability to right fiction, or post blogs (mind you, my poetry is horrible).

For me, prosody is like shooting around in basketball. Basketball is my favorite sport to play, even though I'm not great at it. I love running the court, playing defense, making that extra pass and nailing a jumpshot (there's not much better in life than hitting a jumper with a hand in your face. It's the lost art. Much like poetry). Writing fiction for me is like playing soccer, or football. Sure it's fun and I'm actually decent at it, I can hold my own (despite what OSU says), but it's not where my heart is. I step on to a basketball court and I'm at home.

Writing poetry is much like that then. Sure, it's something I'm not good at. Not at all. But it's where I feel at home. Much like a shootaround where I'm not playing an actual game, writing a poem for me, right now, is like that. I'm just working it out. Maybe I won't ever get good at it to run full-court. But I know that I could forever be happy with a basketball (read: pen), hoop (read: notebook) and visions of Larry Bird in my head (read: Eliot and Keats).

To prove my point, here's a poetry writing sample (which would've been rejected by OSU):

Ah, you are my unborn baby boy!
And now is your mother with child filled
Before me and at my side she's stilled

But there's a glow in your mother's opened eyes.
Feeling you churn in your yet unseen skin
Under these, these strong hands of mine.

I love thee and only know thee now but by
A mother's eyes, is your existence known,
Such is your life my son, on the outside.

See...my attempt at iambic pentameter. Utterly horrible, I know. It doesn't even rhyme.

On Why I Won't Tell'em Your Name

Recently, a friend started a blog. I was charged with coming up with the name for this blog. And I rose to the challenge, submitting a number of creative and interesting names. Here's the winner. Not my favorite of the suggestions, in fact one I came up with over lunch with him on a whim. But still carries much import and I'm rather proud of it. Because I want you to visit his blog, I won't tell you the name of it.

I came up with some criteria for naming a blog. Mainly because it's fun. And also because I like coming up with things like this. And I thought I did a great job with the name of my blog.

Anyway, my criteria for blog appellations were quite simple:

1) It must be representative of your blog goals.
2) Creative element. By this I insist it must have a rather poetic notion (I'm obsessed with poetic notions even though I can't describe it).
3) It must be, while not obvious, not obscure.
4) It must be a name with implications that cannot be easily exhausted.

His particular blog met all of these qualities. I maintain it must at least meet three. In case you're not familiar with the title, it's from C.S. Lewis' The Chronicles of Narnia. But you must read the books to find out its possible meanings. The title certainly has a creative element and meets his goals he laid out to me for his blog.

Now take a look at my blog's title. It meets three of the four. Perhaps only a few of my readers will recognize the song I've pulled the title from. But it's representative of this blog especially. Because, quite often, little of what I say is of any lasting value. Like this post. I must be honest, I often gloat about my blog's title and how good I actually think it is. Perhaps someday I might explore it a little more. I've been meaning to do that.

Oh, and names that were rejected for his blog:
"That Long Saturday" -- perhaps my favorite, though, again, a little obscure.
"A Sea To Stretch Myself In" -- I came up with this one this morning, but it, too, may be obscure.
"Shoulders of Giants" -- perhaps too obvious a reference and also not indicative of his blog.
"The Thing of It Is" -- that was one I rejected for this blog but I was willing to sell the rights.

On Musicians As Poets

It's not that I think you care. I know you don't. But I like music. In fact, I pretty much have to have music on somewhere at any point in the day. Last week working the overnight shifts I brought in the iPod and listened to music for 4 hours straight while working. And I'm not lying when I say I was working at my most efficient level ever here at the network. Funny thing is though, when I'm listening to music while doing something else, I hardly hear the music -- it fades into the background really.

All that said, I've gotten some new CDs in the rotation. First, I'm thoroughly disappointed with Damien Rice's lastest foray 9. Other than the title track and maybe two others, it's not very good -- at least not for my ears. No worries though, I've kept my musical interests within the United Kingdom (even my latest reading material is by a British author). And I am thoroughly ensconced in the music and lyricism of David Gray. Many will know him from that song Babylon -- which I never really liked until now. His two CDs you should pick up: Life in Slow Motion and White Ladder (featuring the aforementioned song). My favorite tune by far Ain't No Love(though The One I Love is sweeping and feels like autumn and is therefore a close second).

It's haunting. I like music that's haunting. Music that feels like it's just you, the artist, some musical instruments and a room with the lights off. Music that feels like your daringly craning your next over a precipice to see the crashing whitecaps below on a cloudy English morning. Music that gets your heart racing in that fearful sort of way. Music that feels like it's sneaking into a giant's house and your Jack. Music that, like a good book, is an adventure. I'm not much for just instrumentation doing that job. I like lyrics that do that. Musicians are, in some cases, poets. The good ones are. And like any good poet, they help me get my "head into the heavens."

Lover, By Derek Webb

These aren't my words. But I share these thoughts.

like a man comes to an alter i came into this town

with the world upon my shoulders and promises passed down

and i went into the water and my father, he was pleased

i built it and i’ll tear it down

so you will be set free

but i found thieves and salesmen living in my father’s house

i know how they got in here and i know how to get ‘em out

i’m turning this place over from floor to balcony

and then just like these doves and sheep

you will be set free

i’ve always been a lover from before i drew a breath

some things i loved easy and some i loved to death

because love’s no politician, it listens carefully

of those who come i can’t lose one,

so you will be set free

but go on and take my picture, go on and make me up

i’ll still be your defender, you’ll be my missing son

and i’ll send out an army just to bring you back to me

because regardless of your brother’s lies

you will be set free

i am my beloveds and my beloved’s mine

so you bring all your history and i’ll bring the bread and wine

and we’ll have us a party where all the drinks are on me

then as surely as the rising sun

you will be set free

A Narrative In Concert

There is something about a song that I have never been quite able to nail down. Something that has always echoed somewhere deep inside.

Tonight, I attended a concert. Two of my favorite musicians, Derek Webb and Sandra McCracken, were playing. Their role in the concert was brief, but their music, as always, was powerful. The majority of the concert revolved around another musician Andrew Peterson and a CD he made a few years back entitled Behold The Lamb.

I've been to many Christmas events. This was unlike any other. I have seen the "greatest story ever told" acted out. I have participated in more than a few of those reenactments. I have listened many Christmas' in church, and on Christmas Eve at home, to it being read aloud. I have heard many cantatas. I have participated in a few as well. But, I don't think I have ever heard it in song.

This is a difference that is clear to me, but perhaps not to you. By song, I mean to suggest a poem set to music. Cantatas are wonderful, but they are typically too stiff for me. It's not lyrical enough -- it's too musical...too polished. But the Christmas story in song....well...there's an idea.

Tonight was just that. But it wasn't just a poem. It was an epoch poem. The entire course of the Old Testament, Intertestimental Period and the "fullness of time" was represented in uninterrupted music. No talking. Just the playing of instruments and the lyrical singing of voices.

And then it hit me, why songs echo within me.

Songs have this uncanny ability to tell a story. And, frankly, there is no better story to tell in song.