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.

Enjoyable Day

It's been an acceptable summer so far. The biggest disappointment has been that I've not yet been to the beach. But I am living with it.

Thursday R. and I were on a workday junket. We arrange them now whenever we can. We have proved to be a couple of companionable old coots, and I have less of a conscience over missing a day's drudge work. Truly, it has been both enlightening and enjoyable to get out among my formerly unseen professional colleagues. It was a glorious Philadelphia summer's day, humid and hazy; moonroof and no A/C for us two as we tooled around. We managed to get lost in Montgomery County and I quoted Larkin--"lost lanes of Queen Anne's lace"--and R., a former English teacher, was pleased. All those years of teaching literature and now, at last, a poem-spouting prole! We were visiting art installations in local libraries. Best find was a Henry O. Tanner not 10 miles from here, "Jesus and Nicodemus," but not quite the same as the one here. This one was definitely a night shot. Very blue.

After our tour we went to R.'s and hauled his broken washing machine up the cellar steps. Quite an operation for two old f...ellows. I was thinking this morning if we had been unsuccessful, the day would have seemed a futile waste. As it was, everything turned out lovely. I cut some of R.'s flowers for L., and took them and him home for dinner. We spent the evening conversing on the deck. Most enjoyable.

Hedonista

The shaded porch, the jewel-cut lawn,
The sidewalk baking in the sun;
The yellow squash, blue dragonflies,
The clouds where silver liners run.

The red, red rose, black bumblebee,
The fuzzy spikes of corn;
The daisy head across your lap,
With counted petals torn.

The fireflies, the glass of wine,
Your voice softly in the dark;
The orange moon ascends the sky,
The end of day to mark.

Eternal question, love or not?
Your languid form allows no clue;
But your eyes, my love, your merry eyes,
Betray your secret longing too.

Belated Memorial Day Thoughts

So, walked over to the Methodist cemetery next door to the college last week. It was very beautiful up there where I stopped--a perfect site for the dozen benches placed there. They're set up pew-like facing a cross, so I imagine one could hold a prayer service right there in the cemetery. There was a strong, warm breeze whipping up all the flags placed for Memorial Day. "The famous dead, hard honors won, see they their pennants fly?" I would rate a flag, if there's anyone around then still doing those things. I want Psalm 138 on my tombstone, "Forsake not the work of Thy hands."

L., for some reason, thinks that's awful. She had a tough time around her father's death. Perhaps she thinks my interest in funereal details macabre. Or dilettantish-- her father was a real veteran. Patton's Third Army. One shudders to think what he saw. He never mentioned his service, but he would take L. as a child to war movies. Maybe he was trying to convey something of his experiences to her. He would have nightmares, she says.

When I see young men acting in their heedless or arrogant ways, I try to feel tolerance for them. They may be using that energy and rude elan someday to fight for me. As they are, now, in Iraq and Afghanistan. And I am grateful.