effigy

he was a powerful story

So tonight I went to see Riverdance with my friend Julie. Not only was it a phenomenal show, but the performance took place in Rockford's recently refurbished Coronado Theater. My first time for both. General highlights: the fiddler and her blue violin, the uilleann piper -- I have seen/heard nothing NOTHING like him before, the "pools of the street lights" number, a sudden intense desire to learn to play the concertina, the Russians' no-way-did-that-just-happen tricks, and, as Sam would say, just smiling out loud for two hours straight. It was gorgeous. Visual highlights:

so where do you keep YOUR tooth at night?

photo friday: "natural"

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theme thursday: "purple"

This shot is admittedly recycled. I used it a couple weeks ago for photo friday's "atmosphere" entry. But I really like these -- they're crocuses blooming out from among the thorns of an as-yet-barren rosebush....

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no dreaming tonight

OPEN EYES

I was the traitor
kissing Your face
I swore I'd protect you
then cursed You away
I was the mother
who pondered Your place
on that cross
dying for me

When everything we saw
was out of our hands
When Satan claimed victory
You had other plans
See, death's not a stranger,
but life's a surprise
You didn't forsake us
You opened our eyes

I was the rich man
who gave You a grave
I was the soldier
who thought You would stay
I was the harlot
who came anyway
to that tomb
looking for You

When everything we saw
was out of our hands
When Satan claimed victory
You had other plans
See, death's not a stranger,
so life's a surprise
You didn't forsake us
You opened our eyes

And now I'm in shackles
or some lonely bed
And demons dance circles
around my thick head
The world's ledges invite me
I come crawling instead
on that ground
crying for You...

to open my eyes

When everything I see
is out of my hands
When Satan claims victory
You've got other plans
See, death's not a stranger
Life's such a surprise
You'll never forsake me
Just open my eyes

Just open my eyes...
please open my eyes...
You open our eyes...

i think you were worth the trip

So today two of my brothers came down from Wisconsin to hang and to have Matt's senior photo shoot. Highlights of the day included scraping hotcakes syrup off the roofrack, scraping Luke off the bridge, letting bikers know we liked their pants, spelling very short words like YO and OX, stoning a furry bloated floating animal corpse, and getting my guitar tuned after five months of non-use. (Come to find out -- man of many talents -- Matt can play quite a few bars from the Shrek soundtrack.)

we have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night

He remembered as though it were but a few days ago that winter night, himself too young even to know the meaning of beauty, when he had looked up at a delicate tracery of bare black branches against the icy glittering stars: suddenly something that was, all at once, pain and longing and adoring had welled up in him, almost choking him. He had wanted to tell someone, but he had no words, inarticulate in the pain and glory. It was long afterwards that he realised that it had been his first aesthetic experience. That nameless something that had stopped his heart was Beauty. Even now, for him, "bare branches against the stars" was a synonym for beauty.

~ Sheldon Vanauken in A SEVERE MERCY, (p.7)

honey from the clock

IF YOU WERE COMING IN THE FALL
:: 511 ::

If you were coming in the Fall,
I'd brush the Summer by
With half a smile, and half a spurn,
As Housewives do, a Fly.

If I could see you in a year,
I'd wind the months in balls—
And put them each in separate Drawers,
For fear the numbers fuse—

If only Centuries, delayed,
I'd count them on my Hand,
Subtracting, till my fingers dropped
Into Van Dieman's Land.

If certain, when this life was out—
That yours and mine, should be
I'd toss it yonder, like a Rind,
And take Eternity—

But, now, uncertain of the length
Of this, that is between,
It goads me, like the Goblin Bee—
That will not state—its sting.

~ Emily Dickinson

crackpots and springboards

do you remember the days
with scraped elbows resting on the stack of bricks
at the end of the yard
and the porch of the sky
with the rainbows
that spelled out our lives?

like you remember the day
with ten minutes' time and your hands on the wheel
at the end of the wait
and the threshold of now
with the hurdles
that hold up the how?

all the men that i've loved were but brothers and kings
all the songs that i've sung were but edges of things
and my right hand is empty when i'm holding on
and my silence is gold since the clay is all gone
more important is color and grass and the scraping of words
more important is knowing the brick from the boards
see, rainbows are boomerangs sent to retrieve
see, hurdles are bridges for leaving your grief

i will remember this day
thank connect-the-dot star maps and DTRs
at the end of my rope
the beginning of swing
cross the crevasse
and try not to scream

photo friday: "self-portrait"

Blogging this for three reasons. One, it's today's theme. Two, I promised Sam. Three, it's easy because I already had it (didn't we just do this a few months ago for themethursday.com? maybe I'm just losing my mind).

Self reflected in gas pump, Thanksgiving 2003.

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the envy of Pavlov

Sorry. Don't mean to alarm anyone.
This just makes me laugh.

barista inspiration for progressive poetry

The contents of my thermal mug this morning are screaming for poetic description that does justice to the myriad nuances of aging citrus. Screaming. I kid you not.

So here's the deal. I'll write the first line of this progressive-poem-to-be, and you can comment with your own line(s). I retain rights of censorship and the prerogative to tweak the final product. You retain zilch. Capische?

Here goes.

[1] When the orange juice is old, kind of sour and stale

photo friday: "atmosphere"

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the technique of pulling language

The sestina has got to be my favorite form. Or a close second or third. It's a challenging form that capitalizes on word play and magnifies the versatility of language. I wrote my first sestina in honor of someone who was born in the same campus hospital room as I (5 days apart), and who became a friend when we bumped into each other at college two decades later.

I haven't written a sestina in a while and would like to attempt another. Can you find the pattern and try one of your own?

IRON GRIP
April 1997

When I first met you, I wasn't certain
what you were or that you would have a part
in the building of me. You know it takes
more than externals. Now I can’t forget
that strangers learn to speak the same language
and find that they were born in the same place.

And find that they both seek the same place.
when you know some people, you are certain
you’ve waited your life to meet them. Language
(French class) introduced us, and apart
from you, your influence, I might forget
all I learned. To be a fluent friend takes

Practice. You’re of the race that makes mistakes.
You leave umbrellas, lose books and misplace
your watch. Those things are easy to forget.
You’ve never left, lost, misplaced me. Certain
obligations take up the première part
of your calendar. Not only language

Talks. The technique of pulling language
from the heart's well of words: whatever takes
preeminence in your heart is the part
of your life that's real. You must give first place
to things that last. And I remain certain
you'll write a book that no one will forget.

By example, forbid me to forget
my focus. Teach me well the old language
heard when iron sharpens iron. Certain
people block my vision. Every one takes
a magnifying or obstructing place,
and you’re a lens. To sharpen is your part.

We will not part, and yet we will depart.
We'll travel to foreign fields and forget
trivial college joys. We must leave this place
and dwell with strangers again. Language
must be relearned, however long it takes.
But grace will continue; that is certain.

Reunion is certain, though our paths may part.
Wherever the Lord takes you, do not forget
the Colossian language, or the Peniel place.