Thought of the Day #2

How about that Superbowl? Or, as L. calls it, "The Guacamole Bowlie." Which we did consume, along with two bags of fancy chips. We enjoyed the game immensely, staying awake for the whole thing. I sometimes think the only way I've affected L.'s life is that now she watches football.

Thought of the Day

Since I stopped working on Thursday nights, I don't get much time to blog anymore. So, with some trepidation, I hereby launch "The Thought of the Day."

I think--as I was shelving some Norman Mailer--that we tend to make too much of artists. Of their biographies, I mean. We idolize them, and the more whacked out they are, the better. Plato warned us about the poets! When I was in college, Dylan Thomas, Allen Ginsberg and the Beats--all those guys we admired for their lifestyle as much, if not more, than for their poetry. In recent times we've seen Mozart, who was probably a fairly conventional sort, transformed into a wild genius and eccentric by "Amadeus." Before, people who listened to Mozart were considered stuffy--now they are thought to be "with it" and sort of rebellious. For every weird artist, however, there are sober and thoughtful ones who also produce great art.

The herd mentality of this adulation first hit me when I read Dan Wakefield's New York in the Fifties. He describes people standing five and six deep at a Greenwich Village bar-- watching Dylan Thomas drink. It struck me as very silly.

Murray Bodo

Sometimes, writing seems awfully silly. Reading, too, for that matter. I have been much preoccupied with all the mundane details of material life, from basement refinishing, to buying and selling automobiles, to financial planning, etc., etc. But I did get to see Murray Bodo last weekend. And he reminded me (us) of the power of poetry. He was quite vigorous, even with a cold. I had seen a picture of him on the 'net which made me think that perhaps he was getting on in years, and his visit here would be mainly honorific. But he is an exceptional teacher. He gave two longish talk/readings on Saturday, had two sessions with students Monday, followed by a dinner and readings Monday night.

And he is an excellent reader, at least of his own poetry. He read his pretty much as I would have read them. Which makes me worry less about how my poems would sound. Perhaps I fret too much over punctuation and graphics. Maybe we're all used to a modernist free-verse style, so mine would come out all right. Anyway, he encouraged us to write--not to have a literary career necessarily--but to write.

Update

Back to work. It's September, albeit an exceptionally beautiful one. Sept. 11 was a trifle warm, but the next day-- cool, bright, and clear-- couldn't help but make one think of 9/11/01.

Well, change rears its Ugly Head. I will no longer work Thursday nights, my usual blogging night. I may have to confine blogging to the Saturdays I work. Even today my time was limited. I had a necessary, but stimulating, research job. As someone in the business has said, "Librarians like to search. Everyone else likes to find."

Just ran across another good line from Mark Steyn: "The invention of the faux-childlike faux-folk song was one of the greatest forces in the infantilization of American culture." And the infantilization of American Catholic worship, I will add. L. has re-joined the parish choir; she would love to have me join her, but I just can't. I can't sing that stuff on a regular basis. And--I'm not singing in the community chorus either. No more Christmas carols right after Labor Day!

Another good line: "Salt, with its lips of blue fire...Like true love and gasoline." Is that great, or what. It's from a poem by Leroy Quintana, of whom I know very little. Google him yourself. (I did take out a line in the middle, but I don't think I'm doing violence to the poem's meaning. Or its aura, anyway.)

Following Francis

I had the pleasant experience today of looking for--and finding--an old poem. I couldn't remember how it went, even how it started, which is unusual. I looked for it a few weeks ago on some old disks, but it turns out to have been written on the back of a magazine. I found it in my desk at work. I remember writing it, in the main, on my lunch hour on a bench behind Old Main. Even more surprising, I still like the poem, so here it is. (It helps if you have some knowledge of St. Francis' life. )


FOLLOWING FRANCIS
(in late middle age)

I'm an old soldier, too,
And a failed one;
But lepers I don't hug,
Nor would I beard a pope or sultan.

Not for me the grand gesture:
Naked in the public square?
A whole life lived in thrall to one command?
I like to keep my options open...

But somehow my blind alleys ended here,
And for each good thing I get,
Truly I am grateful;
This feels like winter, but
strangely blessed--

So while I weakly ponder mysteries
Have patience, Saint,
And send me down that angel
With the holy violin;
Though I have started late
on noble pathways
Please remember, Francis--
You died young.