Poetry comes in many forms and from a variety of sources. I have been repeatedly listening to Steve Earle with the following lines from his song "Guitar Town." It's on the iPod, Pandora, Last.fm and a CD in the Element. As a song, the rhymes and the meter work really well — especially when punctuated by shouts of "Hey!" And since I'm not a good memorizer, I played the following several times on the way home from school today to force me to learn the lyrics. I wondered how it would play without the music:
Hey pretty baby don't you know it ain't my fault
I love to hear the steel belts hummin' on the asphalt
Wake up in the middle of the night in a truck stop
Stumble in the restaurant wonderin' why I don't stop
Gotta keep rockin' why I still can
I gotta two pack habit and a motel tan
But when my boots hit the boards I'm a brand new man
With my back to the riser I make my stand
What first caught my ear were the last two lines. Each time, I envision pair of scuffed cowboy boots slamming down on the oak floorboards, kicking up dust. In superhero fashion, the guitar player comes to life — jolted out of limbo. He rises. Fiercesome and powerful. A warrior demanding to be heard. Stomping and shouting, confessing to the urgency and daring others to respond to the internal call: "you know it ain't my fault." In a way, he's out of control but in other ways, he is in complete control. Damn!
I have a working hypothesis that any comic involving a snowman is automatically funny. My earliest recollection of this phenomenon was a cartoon from National Lampoon showing a snowman police officer lifting a sheet to reveal a puddle as a very sad snow person looked at the mess underneath. No words but huge hilarity. Of course Calvin & Hobbes make use of snowmen to great effect. There are probably a few snowman comics that are not all that funny. But here's another one that landed in my lap and it made me LOL. Not sure I even want to dissect the reason as I am content to accept it as is.A few years back, we did a study of future teachers and about their view about teaching science as well as being effective with students of color. Most striking was how strong their confidence was about their competence -- on the first day of their only course about how to teach science. Since then, I have valued the potential for self-doubt and uncertainty as powerful mechanisms to promote learning and change. I am usually untroubled when someone expresses frustration because I have a tendency to believe that such discomfort is the very force that will propel them forward. On the other hand, I recognize that confidence and persistence have great power and this power comes from successful experiences. Therein stands the tantalizing tension somewhere between the already-done and the yet-to-know.
Y
esterday this became especially clear as we prepared to hike a section of the Appalachian trail on snowshoes. It was an out-and-back trip of about an hour but the temperature was really cold. Plus, we had not been able to do genuine backcountry snowshoeing in five or more years. We had all the necessary equipment and believed we were sufficiently fit. Plus, the altitude was about 10% of what we had flourished in when we kicked powder in the Wasatch Range. Nevertheless, the bindings were awfully cold, our first attempt to ascend was far too steep, and snow was creeping into gaps in my clothing. One finger was especially cold and I was sure that if I removed that glove, it would be the color and consistency of lead. But we found a trail going the opposite direction that was open to hikers, skiers and snowshoers. Someone (and it looked like only one) had blazed a trail. Because the blaze markings on trees were white, our unknown guide must have been familiar with the route.We were finally underway having established a comfortable stride. The sky was overcast at 10 a.m. and there were no large breaks through which we could absorb spectacular views. Now we’d found our groove which coincided with the path cut into the deep snow. Toes and fingers warmed. It became fun and comfortable. However, because of the conditions, the cold could begin to creep in if we dallied in place. While the gloves were almost too warm, taking the off was not an option because of the recent memory of dull metallic flesh. As long as we pushed forward, we could deal with the elements. Having hiked far enough uphill, we broke new trails coming back down. There were several moments where the platform of the snowshoe floated on the snow’s surface so I many steps were more like glides that clomps. And I did get moving too fast, once grabbing to a tree trunk that noted my presence with a heavy dumping of snow on my head and into my collar.
It occurred to me that what made this excursion so fun was a combination of boldness and caution. First, rather than become too worried about my cold extremities I literally plowed forward. The excursion itself, in the face of bitter and indifferent surroundings, generated the heat to keep me going. And yet when there was insufficient exertion, the cold and emptiness and gray pressed in on me. All of which suggests that we have to keep moving to stay warm and alive. The trick, I suppose, is to not exert so heavily that we exhaust ourselves. But moving at the right pace is necessary to remind and ensure us that we are living.
Because there was nothing else better to do and since I knew most of the people being awarded, we watched the Kennedy Center Honors the other night. The one awardee I didn't know was an opera star, Grace Bumbry. The others were an actor (Robt De Niro), a comedian (Mel Brooks), a rocker (Bruce Springsteen) and a jazz musician: Dave Brubeck. All the tributes were great even though no one was quite able to cause any of the mega-stars to tear up. Carl Reiner and Mel Brooks look really old but they are still poking at each other in ways that only long-time friends can. Makes me long for an outlet to perform the 2000 Year Old Education Researcher.
I
was surprised by how much praise they heaped onto Dave Brubeck. In my brief and immature jazz appreciation history, Brubeck followed Vince Guaraldi who I will always associate with Christmas-time and dancing with abandon. But I never imagined Brubeck was such a trailblazer and innovator. I thought he was playing "nice" jazz with a regular beat (except for Take Five) and with a melody I could follow. But in his day, he was breaking all kinds of new ground -- even as a white guy who walked the Earth when other magnificent jazz musicians were around.
It was interesting to see who they paraded out for each honoree. For Bruce, Ron Kovic literally rolled out as the author of Born on the Fourth of July. Ben Stiller was among those going at De NIro and Jon Stewart was unable to conceal his adoration for Springsteen. But again, those who were at the center of attention seemed content but not overwhelmed. Maybe being adored that much just gets to be normal after awhile?
However, there was a moment I won't soon forget (and if I do, it's now forever on the InterWeb). It starts nicely enough when Dave Brubeck's band is performing. Great medley of very familiar tunes. Then the US Army Jazz Band joins the quintet on stage. They are in uniform and although good musicians, they are stiff as ... well, soldiers. There are some glorious cuts away to the Obamas (Michelle and her hubby) who are clearly enjoying the music. Dave Brubeck is having a pretty good time, too. But the moment is when a piece of the stage set slides back to reveal who the announcer indicates are the four sons of Dave Brubeck. The old guy is blown away. Anybody can read his lips. If you watch carefully, he almost forgets to breathe and is unsure what to do with his hands.
There is pure delight when the first son gives a jazz trombone solo, utter pride when Son #2 has a piano solo. And when the cellist's solo begins, even Dave Brubeck leans forward to take it all in: jazz cello?! As it continues, his grin becomes so large his cheeks all but squeeze his eyes shut. They conclude with a rendition of Happy Birthday because, as Herbie Hancock earlier revealed, it was Dave's birthday. The performance was really good -- but Dave Brubeck had the most fun of anyone. THAT is how to recognize someone's accomplishments!
I
was surprised by how much praise they heaped onto Dave Brubeck. In my brief and immature jazz appreciation history, Brubeck followed Vince Guaraldi who I will always associate with Christmas-time and dancing with abandon. But I never imagined Brubeck was such a trailblazer and innovator. I thought he was playing "nice" jazz with a regular beat (except for Take Five) and with a melody I could follow. But in his day, he was breaking all kinds of new ground -- even as a white guy who walked the Earth when other magnificent jazz musicians were around.It was interesting to see who they paraded out for each honoree. For Bruce, Ron Kovic literally rolled out as the author of Born on the Fourth of July. Ben Stiller was among those going at De NIro and Jon Stewart was unable to conceal his adoration for Springsteen. But again, those who were at the center of attention seemed content but not overwhelmed. Maybe being adored that much just gets to be normal after awhile?
However, there was a moment I won't soon forget (and if I do, it's now forever on the InterWeb). It starts nicely enough when Dave Brubeck's band is performing. Great medley of very familiar tunes. Then the US Army Jazz Band joins the quintet on stage. They are in uniform and although good musicians, they are stiff as ... well, soldiers. There are some glorious cuts away to the Obamas (Michelle and her hubby) who are clearly enjoying the music. Dave Brubeck is having a pretty good time, too. But the moment is when a piece of the stage set slides back to reveal who the announcer indicates are the four sons of Dave Brubeck. The old guy is blown away. Anybody can read his lips. If you watch carefully, he almost forgets to breathe and is unsure what to do with his hands.
There is pure delight when the first son gives a jazz trombone solo, utter pride when Son #2 has a piano solo. And when the cellist's solo begins, even Dave Brubeck leans forward to take it all in: jazz cello?! As it continues, his grin becomes so large his cheeks all but squeeze his eyes shut. They conclude with a rendition of Happy Birthday because, as Herbie Hancock earlier revealed, it was Dave's birthday. The performance was really good -- but Dave Brubeck had the most fun of anyone. THAT is how to recognize someone's accomplishments!
International travel continues to surprise me. Not only are the differences from my routines so astonishing, but so too are the unexpected similarities. The recent trip to Colombia reminded me how nicely I've insulated myself within my native language. What startled me was how varied the voices were among those who grew up speaking Colombian Spanish. There was husky voices and grating voices, some were high and a few were low. Also the homes we visited had subtle architectural features. Our friends' condo had open transoms over every door and tiled floors left uncovered. The combined effect was a happy home as laughter bounced off the walls, up and down the stairs, and into every room. Another house was openly framed with huge sections of local bamboo, a response to environmental issues by using local materials.
Despite the contrasts, one similarity between cities in Colombia, China and South Africa in the varieties of transportation found on the roads. All three have a higher proportion of buses and taxis than I typically see in the USA. But there are also two-wheeled wooden carts pulled by hand, large luxury SUVs, and a range of motor scooters. Unique to Colombia was that there were at least three tiers of motorcycles. While cars tended to remain in their designated lanes, cycles and scooters would fill any and all interstitial spaces. When the traffic signals turn green, vehicles sort and segregate according to horsepower: mopeds watch as they lose pole position to motorcycles and sports cars. Finally, I can report that domestic airports in Colombia are as casual as very nice American train stations. Stroll in the door, throw down a few thousand pesos and you can be in the air to another gorgeous location with very little hassle.
So many other images and so much additional information fills my head that I can't imagine how to organize and present it. We saw giant bronze sculptures of chubby people, rode a tramway over two mountains under which were tin shacks, and ate a meal that consisted of 20 "moments" several of which relied upon liquid nitrogen as part of the effect. But most stunning of all was a tiny town in the lush valleys of central Colombia. I hesitate to write about it for fear of disclosing its existence. There are inexpensive rooms to be rented and wondrous coffees to be consumed. I took pictures but they don't do justice to the glories it holds. It's best left to direct experience. Make your way past the shops and eateries, ascend the stairs, and its just over the hill past the guy offering cervezas from a cooler at the crest. Coffee bushes, palm trees, bubbling brooks and inviting trails. Since the weather is so consistent just 4°N it doesn't matter what time of year to go. Not a matter of if but simply when.
During the last presidential campaign, Sue and I were invited up to New Hampshire to meet a candidate. It's a longer story than I will tell here but Sue actually shook Barack's hand while the closest I could get was to watch him make his way to and from the house on a snowy morning. This snowfall was very heavy and wet but it wasn't especially cold. In truth, the weather was accurately forecasted; at the time, I would barely allow myself to dare believe this guy would become President.
All of this came back to me today when Sue reserved a birthday gift of a framed picture of that day. Our host is also a photographer and when Sue unwrapped the gift, I realized I probably need to take more pictures. Seeing this image was as if someone had scanned a cluster of my neurons and downloaded the image. I can feel the moisture in the air and remember happily trudging through the thick snow. In addition, I recall Beyonce's performance of At Last where she became so overwhelmed by the moment that she hurried away from the spotlight before the tears really flowed.
I googled Barack Obama New Hampshire and quickly found the text of a speech he gave shortly after we saw him. It includes lots of "yes we can." Even after nearly two years, despite the economic downturn, the legislative battles, and even the difficulties of managing wars, I confess to feeling a lump form in my throat as I read his words. While he never wanted to be a savior, he was evidently prophetic:
All of this came back to me today when Sue reserved a birthday gift of a framed picture of that day. Our host is also a photographer and when Sue unwrapped the gift, I realized I probably need to take more pictures. Seeing this image was as if someone had scanned a cluster of my neurons and downloaded the image. I can feel the moisture in the air and remember happily trudging through the thick snow. In addition, I recall Beyonce's performance of At Last where she became so overwhelmed by the moment that she hurried away from the spotlight before the tears really flowed.I googled Barack Obama New Hampshire and quickly found the text of a speech he gave shortly after we saw him. It includes lots of "yes we can." Even after nearly two years, despite the economic downturn, the legislative battles, and even the difficulties of managing wars, I confess to feeling a lump form in my throat as I read his words. While he never wanted to be a savior, he was evidently prophetic:
We know the battle ahead will be long. But always remember that, no matter what obstacles stand in our way, nothing can stand in the way of the power of millions of voices calling for change.
We have been told we cannot do this by a chorus of cynics. And they will only grow louder and more dissonant in the weeks and months to come.
We've been asked to pause for a reality check. We've been warned against offering the people of this nation false hope. But in the unlikely story that is America, there has never been anything false about hope.
Sometimes it feels brash to plan too far into the future. Although Sue had heard the line before when uttered by the Car Talk guys, the physician's diagnosis that "you shouldn't buy any green bananas" struck me as funny ... but also uncomfortably reminiscent of cautions about getting our hopes up. Clearly it is important to recognize the dangers of promises about forever. And yet, there is value in living with an awareness of finiteness. Poet Sharon Bryan has been very helpful to me by expressing a middle age view of life in this way in her poem Foreseeing:
so you know without a doubtHere in Connecticut, we just had our first hard frost. Otherwise, it's been very mild, light-jacket weather. But winter is on its way. I am eager for the first true snowfall, where the flakes are so heavy they pull eyelids down and where one thinks that if there was no traffic, the collisions of flakes with branches and pavement would be audible. And in that moments, I'll have a fleeting recollection of Barack Obama making his way, late from a previous appointment, up the walk which the Secret Service had so thoughtfully sprinkled with sand. And I won't be ashamed to hope some more.
that it has an end—
not that it will have,
but that it does have,
if only in outline—
so for the first time
you can see your life whole,
beginning and end not far
from where you stand,
the horizon in the distance—
the view makes you weep,
but it also has the beauty
of symmetry, like the earth
seen from space: you can't help
but admire it from afar
In response to Zero's suggestion, I have been making my way through Ted Kooser's Poetry Home Repair Manual. I was curious at first, then intrigued by the fresh set of ideas and techniques about writing in general. The chapters on Working with Detail and Fine Tuning Metaphors and Similies took root in my mind without my knowing it. There was also an article describing metropoems, so named because they are to be written between stations while riding the Paris subway. Combined, these lessons prompted me to pull out a cheap pad and a substantial pen while waiting for the bus.
Truly, I was not looking for a chance or reason to write a poem. But it was a bright November morning and because I was planning to be indoors on campus all day, I chose to look around rather than read something. Up the hill is the Board of Education building that was previously the town middle school and before that, the high school. At my feet, was a jigsaw puzzle piece. It was dry and firm but had sustained enough moisture to have lost its image while also hosting some fuzzy mold. For some reason, this made me wonder about opportunities I might miss that would leave a hole in my life. It also made me contemplate the dangers of moving too fast without thinking of consequences. And what could be lost in the process.
So these ideas tumbled out onto the little yellow pad. The bus filled, as it does in the morning, with one of the widest array of skin tones one could ever imagine. International students tend to cluster in an apartment complex on the edge of our town. Later on the trek, the
bus picks up a few more passengers in the parking lot of an old country general store. On this day, an Asian-American girl boarded along with a scruffy skinny boyfriend. All seats were filled so he took an unsteady position right in front of me. There was no more room to write and the views that were inspiring me were blocked. Instead of forests and ponds, a cheap carabiner with a couple of keys, clipped to the belt loop of brown jeans swayed in front of me.
The view-blocker seemed unsure of how to stand on a bus. He'd grip one strap, then switch to a horizontal bar. And if he was with the girl, he was doing a bad job of being with her. As we approached campus, I noticed him turn toward her and lean in as if he had a secret to whisper. But that was all a prelude to his collapse.
Yep, collapsed. Head into the lap of my seatmate, a south Asian women who was probably horrified by the cross-gender physical contact. He folded into me a little bit but with the heft of a mannequin. A few people moved so he could stretch out on the floor, head on someone's backpack and feet up. He opened his eyes and I recognized the combination of being too warm, standing up, and not eating. That happened to me in a chow line as a Scout years ago. The driver pulled over just on the edge of campus, radioed for an ambulance, and the boy gradually regained his composure and expressed his embarrassment. Because we were at a stop, people trickled off to walk the rest of the way to their labs or cubicles. I stayed because he was right there at my feet and I didn't want to add to his shame by scurrying off. I did vacate when the ambulance arrived, and strolled away.
Mine was not a great first aid performance but fortunately, there was no obvious bleeding or stopped breathing or wacky convulsions. Just a bony young guy with temporary loss of muscle control. Since I had no place to be, I decided to take advantage of the nearby coffee shop where I could finish my creative writing task and move on to more academic pursuits. But as I entered Starbucks, I couldn't find my pad or favorite pen. Not in a pants pocket, not tucked in my coat, neither inside my book bag nor in the outside pouch. I vaguely remembered sliding it under my leg during the slow motion descent of the tipsy passenger. Now it was gone. I've made use of found poetry before but this was the first time I'd lost it. I wondered what the finder might think.
No poem to work on and my desire to buy coffee vanished. So I turned around and continued walking toward campus. A block or so later, the only other white guy on the bus (works at the library: I once saw him reading from a Kindle) was coming toward me — and he was holding out my pad and pen. We exchange awkward scholarly chit-chat, barely speaking of the bus/ambulance incident. He went his way and I went mine. I'm sure I'll see him again on the bus but I don't have anything profound to share except to thank him for his conscientiousness. And after all that, I'm not sure I'd be all that pleased if I went back to read my SFD of a poem.
So these ideas tumbled out onto the little yellow pad. The bus filled, as it does in the morning, with one of the widest array of skin tones one could ever imagine. International students tend to cluster in an apartment complex on the edge of our town. Later on the trek, the
bus picks up a few more passengers in the parking lot of an old country general store. On this day, an Asian-American girl boarded along with a scruffy skinny boyfriend. All seats were filled so he took an unsteady position right in front of me. There was no more room to write and the views that were inspiring me were blocked. Instead of forests and ponds, a cheap carabiner with a couple of keys, clipped to the belt loop of brown jeans swayed in front of me.The view-blocker seemed unsure of how to stand on a bus. He'd grip one strap, then switch to a horizontal bar. And if he was with the girl, he was doing a bad job of being with her. As we approached campus, I noticed him turn toward her and lean in as if he had a secret to whisper. But that was all a prelude to his collapse.
Yep, collapsed. Head into the lap of my seatmate, a south Asian women who was probably horrified by the cross-gender physical contact. He folded into me a little bit but with the heft of a mannequin. A few people moved so he could stretch out on the floor, head on someone's backpack and feet up. He opened his eyes and I recognized the combination of being too warm, standing up, and not eating. That happened to me in a chow line as a Scout years ago. The driver pulled over just on the edge of campus, radioed for an ambulance, and the boy gradually regained his composure and expressed his embarrassment. Because we were at a stop, people trickled off to walk the rest of the way to their labs or cubicles. I stayed because he was right there at my feet and I didn't want to add to his shame by scurrying off. I did vacate when the ambulance arrived, and strolled away.
Mine was not a great first aid performance but fortunately, there was no obvious bleeding or stopped breathing or wacky convulsions. Just a bony young guy with temporary loss of muscle control. Since I had no place to be, I decided to take advantage of the nearby coffee shop where I could finish my creative writing task and move on to more academic pursuits. But as I entered Starbucks, I couldn't find my pad or favorite pen. Not in a pants pocket, not tucked in my coat, neither inside my book bag nor in the outside pouch. I vaguely remembered sliding it under my leg during the slow motion descent of the tipsy passenger. Now it was gone. I've made use of found poetry before but this was the first time I'd lost it. I wondered what the finder might think.
No poem to work on and my desire to buy coffee vanished. So I turned around and continued walking toward campus. A block or so later, the only other white guy on the bus (works at the library: I once saw him reading from a Kindle) was coming toward me — and he was holding out my pad and pen. We exchange awkward scholarly chit-chat, barely speaking of the bus/ambulance incident. He went his way and I went mine. I'm sure I'll see him again on the bus but I don't have anything profound to share except to thank him for his conscientiousness. And after all that, I'm not sure I'd be all that pleased if I went back to read my SFD of a poem.
