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One of my goals for this year is to read 52 books. That’s not a book a week, but 52 books in 52 weeks. A fine distinction, I know, but this way, no false expectations.
No further adieu.
1. The Chronological Bible. For starters, I’m not sure I’ve ever read every verse of every chapter of every book. Seems to me that as a confessing follower of Him, I probably ought to. I also seem to lose steam in other such reading plans I’ve attempted. I read Atlas Shrugged‘s 1100ish pages in about 3 weeks. Surely I can give this the same effort.
2. Ideas Have Consequences by Richard M. Weaver. I’m about three chapters in already, but may start over. I fit portions of this in between other reading and may start over. And probably ought to reread later this year. Come to think of that, probably ought to revisit #1 about July as well.
3. The Dog of the South by Charles Portis. I went to the library this year looking for True Grit which was in but not in the section I was checking for it (Westerns, really?). Anyway, when I couldn’t find it, I tried Gringos and discovered a Cormac McCarthy peer. Or antecedent. Or close. From the laconic tone to the myriad scripture references (Grit‘s Mattie Ross actually defends the doctrine of election!) his better efforts are a genuine feast. (Masters of Atlantis‘s priceless premise was rather weakly executed, I think, at least compared with his other work.) Looking forward to this one.
4. That Distant Land by Wendell Berry. I really liked Wendell Berry about 3 poems into his Selected Poems. Also loved A Timbered Choir. I’ve started Distant Land already; since it’s a collection of related short stories (fitting in among his novel lore), it’s one you can pick up and put down and not lose too much. Except perhaps fines payable to the public library.
5. Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad. Another I’ve started. Makes me rue my damaged attention span. Youth filled with Bugs Bunny, Atari, and oldies tapes. Not enough time for all the flagellation required. Sigh.
6. Romans by Martin Luther. A kindly older gentleman in my church loaned me this. I’ve only peeked into it, but was prompted to some serious prayer as a result. Reformed theology, old school!
7. The Odyssey translated by Robert Fitzgerald. Did I mention my damaged attention span? Started this one, too. I’m still pondering if I should do The Iliad first. Having this one in hand will probably make the decision for me. I like the idea that Fitzgerald translated it into the English form (blank verse) likely most correlating to the original.
8. Dear Darkness by Kevin Young. Having read this poem, there was no way I wasn’t going to read the collection in which it appears. Made the missus get it for me for Christmas. And started it; it’s about half read.
9. The Wild Iris by Louise Glück. Started. It’s occasionally a little too whitebread and a bit flaccid. On the other hand, some of the poems are this good.
10. The Art of War by Sun Tzu. Finally embracing my inner ninja. Shin Tao warrior? Anyway, an alleged classic of leadership strategy. We shall see, grasshopper.
Yes, it is too much to expect reviews. Or even reports. I’m sorry.
Updated 02/04/12
I have, in the past, generally emailed an ever varying cohort of friends and acquaintances whenever a poem or article of mine is published online. I’ll probably keep that practice up, but, in addition, thought it appropriate to provide a one stop page folks can check if they a)have any idea who I am and b)care to read my crabbed thoughts as inflicted on the nearest available medium. Actually, I guess the only real concern there is letter b.
I’ll list poems from the most recent one(which link will point to the contents of the publication) and work back from there (linking older publications directly). Interspersed between the linked online poems I include my print publication. The order of appearance here roughly approximates the actual publication order.
“Autumn in an Ohio Cemetery” in Hobble Creek Review.
“Memorial to One Weary of Joy” in Rock and Sling 7.1.
“New Year’s Day” at Right Hand Pointing.
“Chrysalis” at Victorian Violet Press.
“Having Forgotten My Notebook” at Eclectica.
“Alewives” at Foundling Review.
“In Praise of Coffee” at Autumn Sky Poetry.
“Pendulum” in Tar River Poetry.
“The Crucifixion of St. Peter” in Ruminate #21.
Two triolets at Remonstrans.net.
“Aubade” and “New Year’s Day on a Country Road” at Camroc Press Review.
“Reveries While Clearing Snow” and Romanza at Willows Wept Review.
“Sotto Voce” at Canary.
“Memento” and “Coronation” at Hobble Creek Review.
“Muse, Incognito” read (awesomely) by Nic Sebastian at Whale Sound. (I recommend prolonged perusal of that fascinating project).
“The New Earth” in Ruminate #18.
“Wristwatch” at Umbrella.
“Birthing Myths” and “Pseudotriton ruber“ at Minnetonka Review (a print journal, now sadly defunct).
“Death of a Kindergarten Classmate” at The Orange Room Review (on indefinite hiatus).
“Bailout” at Every Day Poets. This was the first poem for which I actually received cash payment– three whole dollars.
“Moving” in Dash.
“Muse, Incognito” and “Mudpuppy” at Eclectica.
“All Out, All Over” in Red Wheelbarrow 2008, National Edition.
“A Weekly Apocalypse” and “Another Flesh” in Ruminate #6.
“Neighbors” in The Courier (Findlay, OH).
If one in four children are victims of some sort of abuse, then likely 25% of those who stumble by this blog have painful memories of terrible injustice and unthinkable mistreatment in their past.
If you are one such person, please know that, however unbelievable it may seem, there is hope of freedom for you–freedom from the shame, the secrets, the undeserved guilty feelings, the injustice that may persist to this day.
Bob Bixby Jr. relates good news for those who have suffered thus. Jesus, our High Priest, the Amen Himself, is willing to vindicate and emancipate you.
I’ll let the photos do most of the talking here.
“Standard” Eastern Garter Snake; Sandusky County, Ohio.
High contrast animal with “flame side;” Wyandot County, Ohio.
Olive stripeless Garter; Wood County, Ohio.
Melanistic specimen; Lucas County, Ohio.
Gray-striped possible hypomelanistic; Hancock County, Ohio.
This amazing amount of variation helps keep this very common species from being too boring a find.
For D—-, Dead By Her Own Hand
My dear, I wonder if before the end
You ever thought about a children’s game—
I’m sure you must have played it too—in which
You ran along a narrow garden wall
Pretending it to be a mountain ledge
So steep a snowy darkness fell away
On either side to deeps invisible;
And when you felt your balance being lost
You jumped because you feared to fall, and thought
For only an instant: That was when I died.
That was a life ago. And now you’ve gone,
Who would no longer play the grown-ups’ game
Where, balanced on the ledge above the dark,
You go on running and you don’t look down,
Nor ever jump because you fear to fall.
~Howard Nemerov
I’m Nobody! Who Are You?
I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Are you – Nobody – too?
Then there’s a pair of us?
Don’t tell! they’d advertise – you know!
How dreary – to be – Somebody!
How public – like a Frog –
To tell one’s name – the livelong June –
To an admiring Bog!
~Emily Dickinson
I’ve been reading a fascinating anthology of poems by the Poet’s Laureate of the United States (the office formerly known as the Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress).
One of the discoveries I’ve made in this book is Mark Strand, a poet whose name I’ve been familiar with for a while, but never taken the time to read.
After encountering the following poem, I’ve ordered his Selected Poems via our library exchange.
The Remains
I empty myself of the names of others. I empty my pockets.
I empty my shoes and leave them beside the road.
At night I turn back the clocks;
I open the family album and look at myself as a boy.
What good does it do? The hours have done their job.
I say my own name. I say goodbye.
The words follow each other downwind.
I love my wife but send her away.
My parents rise out of their thrones
into the milky rooms of clouds. How can I sing?
Time tells me what I am. I change and I am the same.
I empty myself of my life and my life remains.
~Mark Strand
Please don’t freak out. I’m not dying (that I know of). But any of us could “go” at any time. In light of that fact, I have prepared a liturgy for my funeral (much to Angela’s dismay, of course). Said liturgy includes this poem by Christina Rosetti. Please, read and consider.
The Thread of Life
1
The irresponsive silence of the land,
The irresponsive sounding of the sea,
Speak both one message of one sense to me: —
Aloof, aloof, we stand aloof, so stand
Thou too aloof bound with the flawless band
Of inner solitude; we bind not thee;
But who from thy self—chain shall set thee free?
What heart shall touch thy heart? what hand thy hand?—
And I am sometimes proud and sometimes meek,
And sometimes I remember days of old
When fellowship seemed not so far to seek
And all the world and I seemed much less cold,
And at the rainbow’s foot lay surely gold,
And hope felt strong and life itself not weak.
2
Thus am I mine own prison. Everything
Around me free and sunny and at ease:
Or if in shadow, in a shade of trees
Which the sun kisses, where the gay birds sing
And where all winds make various murmuring;
Where bees are found, with honey for the bees;
Where sounds are music, and where silences
Are music of an unlike fashioning.
Then gaze I at the merrymaking crew,
And smile a moment and a moment sigh
Thinking: Why can I not rejoice with you ?
But soon I put the foolish fancy by:
I am not what I have nor what I do;
But what I was I am, I am even I.
3
Therefore myself is that one only thing
I hold to use or waste, to keep or give;
My sole possession every day I live,
And still mine own despite Time’s winnowing.
Ever mine own, while moons and seasons bring
From crudeness ripeness mellow and sanative;
Ever mine own, till Death shall ply his sieve;
And still mine own, when saints break grave and sing.
And this myself as king unto my King
I give, to Him Who gave Himself for me;
Who gives Himself to me, and bids me sing
A sweet new song of His redeemed set free;
He bids me sing: O death, where is thy sting?
And sing: O grave, where is thy victory?
Thomas Kelly has written 790 hymns, most of which are rarely sung (a notable exception being “Praise the Savior, Ye Who Know Him”). Some of his texts, though, are overlooked gems, including one of his several hymns of the cross, “Stricken, Smitten, and Afflicted” and what seems to be a Resurrection hymn, “Look, Ye, Saints! The Sight Is Glorious.”
I say seems, because it is difficult to tell from the text if the the “fight” referred to is the defeat of the grave or, perhaps, Christ’s ultimate victory against Satan and evil. In the latter case then, this would be a hymn of Christ’s final exaltation.
Either way, a great anthem for Resurrection day (and you can hear a demo of a strong arrangement by Dan Forrest, Jr. here ).
Look, Ye Saints! The Sight is Glorious
Look, ye saints! the sight is glorious:
See the Man of Sorrows now;
From the fight returned victorious,
Every knee to Him shall bow;
Crown Him, crown Him,
Crown Him, crown Him,
Crowns become the Victor’s brow,
Crowns become the Victor’s brow.
Crown the Savior! angels, crown Him;
Rich the trophies Jesus brings;
In the seat of power enthrone Him,
While the vault of heaven rings;
Crown Him, crown Him,
Crown Him, crown Him,
Crown the Savior King of kings,
Crown the Savior King of kings.
Sinners in derision scorned Him,
Mocking thus the Savior’s claim;
Saints and angels crowd around Him,
Own His title, praise His name;
Crown Him, crown Him,
Crown Him, crown Him,
Spread abroad the Victor’s fame,
Spread abroad the Victor’s fame.
Hark, those bursts of acclamation!
Hark, those loud triumphant chords!
Jesus takes the highest station;
O what joy the sight affords!
Crown Him, crown Him,
Crown Him, crown Him,
King of kings and Lord of lords!
King of kings and Lord of lords!
~Thomas Kelly
It is a minor shame that, despite having spent the prior 18 years of my life regularly attending a Baptist Church, it wasn’t until I went to college that I encountered the great hymn of the faith, “O Sacred Head, Now Wounded.” Again, thank you Dr. Ledgerwood.
I some time ago, I started this series which, before today, had but one entry. Consider this the second. Most hymnals include no more than four verses of this text, often mixing and matching lines between the quatrains. I understand the space constraints partly at the root of this, but there are so many great stanzas here, such omissions are another minor shame.
The Latin original is generally attributed to Bernard de Clairvaux. Paul Gerhardt gets credit for translating that into German (seemingly expertly done–witness the violent consonance in the first line, “O haupt, voll blut und wunden.”), and our English is courtesy of James W. Alexander.
O Sacred Head, Now Wounded
O sacred Head, now wounded, with grief and shame weighed down,
Now scornfully surrounded with thorns, Thine only crown;
O sacred Head, what glory, what bliss till now was Thine!
Yet, though despised and gory, I joy to call Thee mine.
What Thou, my Lord, hast suffered, was all for sinners’ gain;
Mine, mine was the transgression, but Thine the deadly pain.
Lo, here I fall, my Savior! ’Tis I deserve Thy place;
Look on me with Thy favor, vouchsafe to me Thy grace.
Men mock and taunt and jeer Thee, Thou noble countenance,
Though mighty worlds shall fear Thee and flee before Thy glance.
How art thou pale with anguish, with sore abuse and scorn!
How doth Thy visage languish that once was bright as morn!
Now from Thy cheeks has vanished their color once so fair;
From Thy red lips is banished the splendor that was there.
Grim death, with cruel rigor, hath robbed Thee of Thy life;
Thus Thou hast lost Thy vigor, Thy strength in this sad strife.
My burden in Thy Passion, Lord, Thou hast borne for me,
For it was my transgression which brought this woe on Thee.
I cast me down before Thee, wrath were my rightful lot;
Have mercy, I implore Thee; Redeemer, spurn me not!
What language shall I borrow to thank Thee, dearest friend,
For this Thy dying sorrow, Thy pity without end?
O make me Thine forever, and should I fainting be,
Lord, let me never, never outlive my love to Thee.
My Shepherd, now receive me; my Guardian, own me Thine.
Great blessings Thou didst give me, O source of gifts divine.
Thy lips have often fed me with words of truth and love;
Thy Spirit oft hath led me to heavenly joys above.
Here I will stand beside Thee, from Thee I will not part;
O Savior, do not chide me! When breaks Thy loving heart,
When soul and body languish in death’s cold, cruel grasp,
Then, in Thy deepest anguish, Thee in mine arms I’ll clasp.
The joy can never be spoken, above all joys beside,
When in Thy body broken I thus with safety hide.
O Lord of Life, desiring Thy glory now to see,
Beside Thy cross expiring, I’d breathe my soul to Thee.
My Savior, be Thou near me when death is at my door;
Then let Thy presence cheer me, forsake me nevermore!
When soul and body languish, oh, leave me not alone,
But take away mine anguish by virtue of Thine own!
Be Thou my consolation, my shield when I must die;
Remind me of Thy passion when my last hour draws nigh.
Mine eyes shall then behold Thee, upon Thy cross shall dwell,
My heart by faith enfolds Thee. Who dieth thus dies well.
~James W. Alexander, from the Latin
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