More on the Mundane

"Nirvana" by Charles Bukowski, read by Tom Waits.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HVVzCURucaA

http://talesfromshangri-la.blogspot.com/2014/09/pleading-case-for-mundane.html

Kipling on Character

This is one of the most famous of Kipling's works -- and one of my most favorite poems. It explains what character looks like in daily life.

In the concrete, he describes such character traits as humility, cool-headedness, trustworthiness, perseverance, courage and risk, resignation and fortitude.

Poetry Foundation link

If—

    

If you can keep your head when all about you

    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,   

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, 

    But make allowance for their doubting too;   

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, 

    Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies, 

Or being hated, don’t give way to hating, 

    And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise: 

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;   

    If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;   

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster 

    And treat those two impostors just the same;   

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken 

    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, 

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, 

    And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools: 

If you can make one heap of all your winnings 

    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, 

And lose, and start again at your beginnings 

    And never breathe a word about your loss; 

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew 

    To serve your turn long after they are gone,   

And so hold on when there is nothing in you 

    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’ 

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,   

    Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch, 

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, 

    If all men count with you, but none too much; 

If you can fill the unforgiving minute 

    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,   

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,   

    And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

O Captain! My Captain!

This poem was written by Walt Whitman for Abraham Lincoln at his death. I read it at the funeral of my grandfather, a retired Navy Captain and pilot in WWII and the Korean War.

I found this poem a fitting tribute for my grandfather -- a Harvard-educated renaissance man, lover of poetry, graceful ballroom dancer, a veteran -- dashing and courageous. He introduced me to the poems of Robert W. Service and the stories of Bret Harte.

My father is a veteran, also, and my uncle flew combat air missions in VietNam. David's grandfather and at least one of his great uncles were veterans, as well. The USS Loeser (pronounced LOH-zer) was named after David's "Uncle Art," who was killed in WWII.

On Memorial Day we remember those who died in war. And by extension, it seems right to remember those who are and were willing to die in war.

Soldiers and farmers are frequently given as examples for believers in Scripture. I am blessed to have both in my family.

(This copy from Poetry Foundation website):

O Captain! My Captain!

Related Poem Content Details

BY WALT WHITMAN

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, 

The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won, 

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, 

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; 

                         But O heart! heart! heart! 

                            O the bleeding drops of red, 

                               Where on the deck my Captain lies, 

                                  Fallen cold and dead. 

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; 

Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills, 

For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding, 

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; 

                         Here Captain! dear father! 

                            This arm beneath your head! 

                               It is some dream that on the deck, 

                                 You’ve fallen cold and dead. 

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, 

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will, 

The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, 

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; 

                         Exult O shores, and ring O bells! 

                            But I with mournful tread, 

                               Walk the deck my Captain lies, 

                                  Fallen cold and dead.

Source: Leaves of Grass (David McKay, 1891)

Stopping by Woods

...written and read by Robert Frost -- read when he was an older man.

Whose woods these are I think I know

"The Two Uses"

Even the workaday and practical arm
Becomes all love for love's sake to the lover.

If this is nature's thrift, love thrives on it.

*The Two Uses

The eye is not more exquisitely designed
For seeing than it is for being loved.
The same lips curved to speak are curved to kiss.
Even the workaday and practical arm
Becomes all love for love's sake to the lover.

If this is nature's thrift, love thrives on it.
Love never asks the body different
Or ever wants it less ambiguous,
The eye being lovelier for what it sees,
The arm for all it does, the lips for speaking

-Robert Francis (American, born 1901)

Fine China, Fat Televisions, and Ordinary Coffee

My sister-in-law sent me this poem, and I love it.

My Grandparents’ Generation

by Faith Shearin

They are taking so many things with them:
their sewing machines and fine china,

their ability to fold a newspaper
with one hand and swat a fly.

They are taking their rotary telephones,
and fat televisions, and knitting needles,

their cast iron frying pans, and Tupperware.
They are packing away the picnics

and perambulators, the wagons
and church socials. They are wrapped in

lipstick and big band music, dressed
in recipes. Buried with them: bathtubs

with feet, front porches, dogs without leashes.
These are the people who raised me

and now I am left behind in
a world without paper letters,

a place where the phone
has grown as eager as a weed.

I am going to miss their attics,
their ordinary coffee, their chicken

fried in lard. I would give anything
to be ten again, up late with them

in that cottage by the river, buying
Marvin Gardens and passing go,

collecting two hundred dollars.

“My Grandparents’ Generation” by Faith Shearin from Telling the Bees. © Stephen F. Austin State University Press, 2015. Reprinted with permission.  (buy now)

Spring Poems: Emily Dickinson, "A Narrow Fellow in the Grass"

A narrow fellow in the grass 

BY EMILY DICKINSON

A narrow fellow in the grass

Occasionally rides;

You may have met him—did you not

His notice sudden is,

The grass divides as with a comb,

A spotted shaft is seen,

And then it closes at your feet,

And opens further on.

He likes a boggy acre,  

A floor too cool for corn,

But when a boy and barefoot,

I more than once at noon

Have passed, I thought, a whip lash,

Unbraiding in the sun,

When stooping to secure it,

It wrinkled and was gone.

Several of nature’s people

I know, and they know me;

I feel for them a transport

Of cordiality.

But never met this fellow,

Attended or alone,

Without a tighter breathing,

And zero at the bone.

Spring Poems: Robert Frost, "The Pasture"

The Pasture

I'm going out to clean the pasture spring;
I'll only stop to rake the leaves away
(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):
I shan't be gone long. -- You come too.

I'm going out to fetch the little calf
That's standing by the mother. It's so young,
It totters when she licks it with her tongue.
I shan't be gone long. -- You come too.

Spring Poems: Gerard Manley Hopkins, Robert Frost, and Mortality

(really about grieving) Spring and Fall

to a young child

MÁRGARÉT, áre you gríeving Over Goldengrove unleaving? Leáves, líke the things of man, you With your fresh thoughts care for, can you? Áh! ás the heart grows older         5 It will come to such sights colder By and by, nor spare a sigh Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie; And yet you wíll weep and know why. Now no matter, child, the name:         10 Sórrow’s spríngs áre the same. Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed What heart heard of, ghost guessed: It ís the blight man was born for, It is Margaret you mourn for.      And here is a companion poem from a different author and century Nothing Gold Can Stay by Robert Frost Nature's first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf's a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19977#sthash.bmNAsovi.dpuf

St Patrick's Breastplate

Legend says that St. Patrick wrote the words which Cecil Alexander made into an English hymn. Here is part of it:

I bind unto myself today
the strong Name of the Trinity,
by invocation of the same,
the Three in One, and One in Three.

I bind this day to me for ever,
by power of faith, Christ's Incarnation;
his baptism in Jordan river;
his death on cross for my salvation;
his bursting from the spicèd tomb;
his riding up the heavenly way;
his coming at the day of doom:
I bind unto myself today.

I bind unto myself the power
of the great love of cherubim;
the sweet "Well done" in judgment hour;
the service of the seraphim;
confessors' faith, apostles' word,
the patriarchs' prayers, the prophets' scrolls;
all good deeds done unto the Lord,
and purity of virgin souls.

I bind unto myself today
the virtues of the starlit heaven
the glorious sun's life-giving ray,
the whiteness of the moon at even,
the flashing of the lightning free,
the whirling wind's tempestuous shocks,
the stable earth, the deep salt sea,
around the old eternal rocks.

I bind unto myself today
the power of God to hold and lead,
his eye to watch, his might to stay,
his ear to hearken, to my need;
the wisdom of my God to teach,
his hand to guide, his shield to ward;
the word of God to give me speech,
his heavenly host to be my guard.

Christ be with me,
Christ within me,
Christ behind me,
Christ before me,
Christ beside me,
Christ to win me,
Christ to comfort
and restore me.
Christ beneath me,
Christ above me,
Christ in quiet,
Christ in danger,
Christ in hearts of
all that love me,
Christ in mouth of
friend and stranger.

I bind unto myself today
the strong Name of the Trinity,
by invocation of the same,
the Three in One, and One in Three.
Of whom all nature hath creation,
eternal Father, Spirit, Word:
praise to the Lord of my salvation,
salvation is of Christ the Lord.

---

Words: attributed to St. Patrick (372-466);
trans. Cecil Frances Alexander (1818-1895), 1889

God and Bread

The below is a poem recently handed to my father by his godmother, the 90 year old Irma Faye Polk of Iowa. Her mother, Mamie Hatten, copied it down long ago, and Mrs. Polk keeps it tucked in her Bible. I do not know who wrote it. [Anyone know the author?]

Back of the loaf
Is the snowy flour
And back of the flour
The mill
And back of the mill
The wheat and the shower
The sun and the Father's Will.

Isn't that lovely?

Another poem she copied long ago:

Loving enough to forgive
This the greatest test
And strangely the forgiven
Becomes the one most blest.

This last one reminds me of the curious economy of God's Kingdom that CS Lewis speaks of. To paraphrase -- he speaks of the principle that the surest way to not find happiness is to go searching for it.

The best way to find happiness is to engage yourself in life, in work, in giving and loving...and suddenly happiness rounds the street corner and falls into step next to you. But don't fix your eyes on it too closely, or like a stranger it melts into the crowd and is gone. As Lewis remarks, how true is Christ's statement, "He who loses His life for my sake, will find it."

Perhaps this is true with everything... except the search for God. Ask, Seek, Knock. Go looking for Him and -- be careful -- you just might find Him.

Kid Lit: Lunch Table Poem, Spring in Texas Poem

An Experiment Degustatory

Ogden Nash

A gourmet challenged me to eat

A tiny bit of rattlesnake meat,

Remarking, "Don't look so horror stricken.

You'll find it tastes a lot like chicken."

It did.

Now chicken I cannot eat,

Because it tastes like rattlesnake meat.

***

The wind is so strong and relentless in North Texas in the Spring. We shout when we are out on the soccer field even if we are close by one another. We wear sweatshirts with hoods and get sunburn and windburn at baseball practice. Our skirts whoosh up in the parking lot after church. Our patio umbrella gets knocked down and our bird feeder does, too. Our wind is the second stanza kind of wind.

Who Has Seen the Wind?

Christina Rossetti

Who has seen the wind?

Neither I nor you

But when the leaves hang trembling,

The wind is passing through.

Who has seen the wind?

Neither you nor I:

But when the trees bow down their heads,

the wind is passing by.