Here's this year, as well as all previous back to 2006.
This hasn't been a great year of music for me. Maybe I'm wrong, maybe I'm getting old, maybe I'm out of touch. Or maybe I haven't been looking in the right places because the new album (and last album?) by Slow Dakota has moved me.
PJ Sauerteig (Slow Dakota) is headed to NYU law school but not before giving us a thoughtful and Christ-haunted album called The Ascension of Slow Dakota (or Spotify). Check out "The Lilac Bush" with the lyrics also posted below. Wonderfully done.
One day I came close
To giving up my ghost:
I put my chin inside
A mouth of knotted rope!
But instead of stopping,
My heart began to fly.
A dove perched on my shoulder
And whispered in my ear:
“Each day God comes home
With lilacs from His bush;
He picks them all for you,
His chosen darkling thrush!”
Around 1992 the African Nobel Prize winning poet, Wole Soyinka, spoke at Southern Illinois University campus and I got to attend my first poetry reading as a budding poet and undergrad. After hearing of the death of Muhammad Ali the memory of that reading and the refrain "ohh Ali, Ali" from his poem "Muhammad Ali at the Ringside, 1985" has been ringing in my ears in Soyinka's remarkable voice. I want to introduce it to you. I believe this is only a part of the poem (I can't find the text online), but it's wonderful.
Audio Download: Muhammad Ali at the Ringside
UPDATE: Nick Roark posted the text in the comments so I added them here. Thanks Nick!
The arena is darkened. A feast of blood
Will follow duly; the spotlights have been borrowed
For a while. These ringside prances
Merely serve to whet the appetite. Gladiators,
Clad tonight in formal mufti, customised,
Milk recognition, savour the night-off, show-off
Rites. Ill-fitted in this voyeur company,
The desperate arm-wrap of the tiring heart
Gives place to social hugs, the slow-count
One to ten to a snappy "Give-me-five!"
Toothpaste grins replace the death-mask
Rubber gumshield grimaces. Promiscuous
Peck-a-cheek supplants the Maestro's peek-a-boo.
The roped arena waits; an umpire tests the floor,
Tests whiplash boundaries of the rope.
The gallants' exhibition rounds possess
These foreplay moments. Gloves in silk-white sheen
Rout lint and leather. Pack Rabane rules the air.
A tight-arsed soubrette checks her placard smile
To sign the rounds for blood and gore.
Eased from the navel of Bitch-Mother Fame
A microphone, neck-ruffed silver-filigree,
As one who would usurp the victor's garland-- stabs the air
for instant prophesies. In cosy insulation, bathed
In tele-glow, the distant homes have built
Their own vicarious rings-- the forecast claimed
Four million viewers on the cable deal alone;
Much "bread" was loaded on the scales
At weighing hour-- till scores are settled. One
Will leave the fickle womb tonight
Smeared in combat fluids, a broken foetus.
The other, toned in fire, a dogged phoenix
Oblivious of the slow countdown of inner hurts
Will thrust his leaden fists in air
Night prince of the world of dreams.
One sits still. His silence is a dying count.
At last the lens acknowledges the tested
Hulk that dominates, even in repose
The giddy rounds of furs and diamond pins.
A brief salute-- the camera is kind,
Discreetly pans, and masks the double-talk
Of medicine-men-- "Has the syndrome
But not the consequence." Promoters, handlers
It's time to throw in the towel-- Parkinson's
Polysyllables have failed to tease a rhyme
From the once nimble Louisville lips.
The camera flees, distressed. But not before
The fire of battle flashes in those eyes
Re-kindled by the moment's urge to centre-stage.
He rules the night-space even now, bestrides
The treacherous domain with thighs of bronze,
A dancing mural of delights. Oh Ali! Ale-e-e...
What music hurts the massive head tonight, Ali!
The drums, the tin-cans, the guitars and mbira of Zaire?
Aa-lee! Aa-lee! Aa-lee Bomaye! Ali Bomaye!
The Rumble in the Jungle? Beauty and the Beast?
Roll-call of Bum-a-Month. The rope-a-dope?
The Thrilla in Manila?-- Ah-lee! Ah-lee!
"The closest thing to death" you said. Was that
The greatest, saddest prophesy of all? Oh, Ali!
Black Tarantula whose antics hypnotise the foe!
Butterfly side-slipping death from rocket probes
Bee whose sting, unsheathed, picks the teeth
Of the raging hippopotamus, then fans
The jaws' convergence with its flighty wings.
Needle that threads the snappy fangs
Of crocodiles, knots the tusks of elephants
On rampage. Cricket that claps and chirrups
Round the flailing horn of the rhinoceros,
Then shuffles, does a bugle, tap-dances on its tip.
Esu with faces turned to all four compass points,
Astride a weather-vane; they sought to trap him,
Slapped the wine each time. He brings a message--
All know the messenger, the neighborhood is roused--
Yet no one sees his face, he waits for no reply,
Only that combination three-four calling-card,
The wasp-tail legend: I've been there and gone.
Mortar that goads the pestle: Do you call that
Pounding? The yam is not yet smooth--
Pound, dope, pound! When I have eaten the yam,
I'll chew the fibre that once called itself
A pestle! Warrior who said, I will not fight,
Yet proved a prophet's call-to-arms against a war.
Cassius Marcellus, Warrior, Muhammad Prophet,
Flesh is clay, all, all too brittle mould.
The bout is over. Frayed and split and autographed,
The gloves are hung up in the Hall of Fame--
Still loaded, even from that first blaze of gold
And glory. Awed multitudes will gaze,
New questers feast on these mementoes
And from their shell-shocked remnants
Re-invoke the spell. But the sorcerer is gone,
The lion withdrawn to a lair of time and space
Inaccessible as the sacred lining of a crown
When kings were kings, and lords of rhyme and pace.
The enchantments is over, but the spell remains.
-Wole Soyinka, "Muhammad Ali at the Ringside, 1985" in The Muhammad Ali Read, Ed. Gerald Early (New York: Harper, 1998), 227-229.
Our Woodstock poetry group, Atrocious Poets, was brought in to interact with our local and amazing art show, 4th Fridays. Artists come from far away to show their stuff.
We read some poetry inside, some outside. Some poems were our own and some from famous poets. Our fearless leader, Sophie, was sitting at an old Royal typewriter and writing "Atrocious Poetry While You Wait." The response blew us away. She wrote dozens of poems. My specialty was reading outside at an entrance point where everyone who entered funnelled in. I wrote one poem in particular I was excited to use and it really only served the purpose of this event. Here it is for you, and it should be read aloud in the style of a carnival barker.
For an event like this I wanted the poem to be quick to grab attention but not for long. It's an introduction to the rest of the show.
Ladies and gentlemen
boys and girls,
welcome to the greatest show
Come one, come all
come short, come tall
step right up and pay the price
to see these wonders captured
by untamed imaginations,
by hearts enraptured.
Enter the scenes
these artists have made,
leave the week’s work
and worries behind
and find in what
you see displayed
beauty and truth
for heart and mind.
Now go, enjoy,
drink deep this night
we hope in art
you may see light.
The night was a huge success and it was really just us dipping our toes in the water in preparation for a few other things we want to do the next show we participate in. Can't wait!
Carl Sandburg: The great Chicago poet who looked carefully at his city and wrote everyman sort of poetry about them. Here one about the "Clark Street Bridge" which is near the famous corn cob buildings and a hundred other urban wonders. This bridge is only a few blocks from where we stay in Chicago during Elijah's crohn's treatments and was directly on our path back to the train station. Sandburg was the first to call Chicago the "City of Big Shoulders."
DUST of the feet
And dust of the wheels,
Wagons and people going,
All day feet and wheels.
Now. . .
. . Only stars and mist
A lonely policeman,
Two cabaret dancers,
Stars and mist again,
No more feet or wheels,
No more dust and wagons.
Voices of dollars
And drops of blood
. . . . .
Voices of broken hearts,
. . Voices singing, singing,
. . Silver voices, singing,
Softer than the stars,
Softer than the mist.
What poems do you write about your city, your streets, the people you meet and see along the way? Don't just go where you are going. Truly see the marvels around you as you go and then sit and write something beautiful about it.
I've been looking into some Thomas Hardy poetry recently and quite enjoy his work so far. "Though frequently described as gloomy and bitter, Hardy’s poems pay attention to the transcendent possibilities of sound, line, and breath—the musical aspects of language." Here's one to get you started if you don't know him.
I look into my glass,
And view my wasting skin,
And say, ‘Would God it came to pass
My heart had shrunk as thin!’
For then, I, undistrest
By hearts grown cold to me,
Could lonely wait my endless rest
But Time, to make me grieve,
Part steals, lets part abide;
And shakes this fragile frame at eve
With throbbings of noontide.
Thomas Hardy as found in Great Short Poems
I heard Dana Gioia read this poem at a lecture and fell in love with it. I have a particular fascination with issues of darkness and light when it comes to writing, and the darkness particularly associated with the night.
I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,
But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.
I've found some great deals on good poetry for your Kindle or Kindle app. Happy National Poetry Month!
- The Selected Poems of Donald Hall ($2.99) - I paid full price for hardback a while back and I really like Hall. This deal is pretty rare in my experience with newer poetry books.
- The Best of Poetry ($2.99, 200 poems)
SCOTT CAIRNS (all $2.99)
DOVER THRIFT - POETRY BOOKS (all $0.99) - Dover Thrift Edition books are made to be super cheap and therefore accessible to many. I have a number of paperback Dover books from years ago.
Especially for my Christian friends, the poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins is a great place to go for devotional poetry. And it serves as a nice bridge toward enjoying poetry for Christians who only know the poetry of hymns. Also listen.
The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs —
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.
Today is the beginning of April, National Poetry Month. As a lover of poetry and a poet, I've launched a poetry project with Joe Holland called Dry Bones Poetry. It's a free PDF with original poetry by the two of us and some other friends. Please enjoy, share with others, and let us know what you think at email@example.com.
I just want to give this a hug. Follow the poem below.
I ATE THE COSMOS FOR BREAKFAST
—After Thich Nhat Han
It looked like a pancake,
but it was creation flattened out—
the fist of God on a head of wheat,
milk, the unborn child of an unsuspecting
chicken — all beaten to batter and drizzled into a pan.
I brewed my tea and closed my eyes
while I ate the sun, the air, the rain,
photosynthesis on a plate.
I ate the time it took that chicken
to bear and lay her egg
and the energy it takes a cow to lactate a cup of milk.
I thought of the farmers, the truck drivers,
the grocers, the people who made the bag that stored the wheat,
and my labor over the stove seemed short,
and the pancake tasted good,
and I was thankful.
Gregory Wolfe of Image Journal interviewed Christian Wiman, a poet I've come to love who speaks a lot about Christ and faith, suffering and struggle. He has an amazing story, told in part here. This is a solid interview and, hopefully for many of you, introduction to a wonderful living poet.
Wiman looks like, and in some ways sounds like, a cross between the profundity of Tim Keller and the postmodern searching of Rob Bell. Please take that in a generous way as that's how I intend it. If you like what you hear, you should check out his poetry. Most of my readers would thoroughly enjoy his recent book, My Bright Abyss. Enjoy.
I write words, I speak--
My inflamed heart bleeding truths
to dare, spur, and seek.
Edgar Allan Poe was born this day, January 19, 1809. Much of his poetry expresses longings unfulfilled, sadness, and darkness. One writer has said, "Poe never lost contact with the terrible pathos of his time....he explored the heart of darkness." His poetry is worthy of our consideration on his birthday, so here is "A Dream Within a Dream," where we feel with Poe our inability to keep hold of the golden sands of time against the pitiless waves.
A Dream Within a Dream
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow —
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand —
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep — while I weep!
O God! Can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
It is said that Martin Luther King's "Dream" speech was inspired, at least in part, by reading Langston Hughes' poem "Dream Deferred." Here is Hughes' "Harlem" from his montage of "Dream Deferred" (published 1951, found in his Collected Poems) and then MLK's full speech (1963). As you can see by the text, Hughes is not only speaking of his day, but also ours. And the pairing together the fears of a dream deferred to the proclamation of a dream hoped and longed for is a powerful thing.
by Langston Hughes
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore—
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
The only sound I can add to this is silence...
In college I got into the short stories of Ernest Hemingway through the influence of my English professor. One of my favorite stories, which continues to haunt me whenever I come across a similar place in the world (or a similar condition of my heart), is "A Clean, Well-Lighted Place." It was also possibly the favorite short story of Hemingway and James Joyce said it's one of the best short stories ever written. The way Hemingway loads only 4 pages of text with so much weight is remarkable. This is a well-lit but dark story about loneliness, the fear of nothingness. It is one of the rare pieces of writing that has stayed with me over time. Here's how it begins...
It was very late and every one had left the cafe except an old man who sat in the shadow the leaves of the tree made against the electric light. In the day time the street was dusty, but at night the dew settled the dust and the old man liked to sit late because he was deaf and now at night it was quiet and he felt the difference...