Minding Everyone's Business

[poetpear]

Week Two Critique: since feeling is first - e e cummings

Week Two Critique: since feeling is first – e e cummings

I used to teach this poem as an example of how to interpret poetry through paraphrase.  The tactic was relatively simple: restate the poem in your own words, in the same order of thoughts, by simply replacing some of the connotative words with either synonyms or more concrete and less cryptic phrasing. The strategy results in a poem that reads something like the following presentation. Since…

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[poetpear]

Occasional

We live from scene to scene, as in a play, With disregard for most that intervenes – It seems We hope that each event we designate As ow(n)ing some significance above And certainly beyond the ‘normal’ scope, Will constitute ‘enough’ by all accounts So that proximity itself to holidays Can leave us in a constant special state. As such, the eye is shielded from the growth, The incremental…

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[poetpear]

Week 2 Revision: Leap of faith

Week 2 Revision: Leap of faith

Time comes when man must manage His most doubtful certainties, Assigning concrete status To an abstract tapestry. Or maybe more a canvas splashed With colors never brushed So that the function makes the form – In him and God, he trusts – Yet  God is mere suggestion, More than wish but not as firm: He’s grounded in terrestrial Despite the bright celestial turn. In order to maintain the faith That…

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[poetpear]

Week 1 Revision: The Manifests are Myriad

Week 1 Revision: The Manifests are Myriad

“Explain to me just why we love?” He asked, eyes wide with expectation. “Not sure my answer serves your purpose” Arms enfolded over chest. He then continued, elevated Diction and a dimpled chin, Pontificating further… “The creatures of the world subscribe somehow to principles to procreate and heed that call, and we all know the virus that is life and which continues to pervade the planet,…

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[poetpear]

Week 1 Critique: “Auspex,” by James Russell Lowell

Week 1 Critique: “Auspex,” by James Russell Lowell

“Auspex,” by James Russell Lowell, may well be my favorite poem of all time, and is certainly my favorite choice to accommodate my definition of poetry and to illustrate what I think poems should be and do.  The title is pertinent and perfect to the occasion.  The individual words have been chosen to heighten their denotative and their connotative meanings, and the usage of those words and…

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[poetpear]

Diversion

To take one’s mind off ought to be As easy as to shed one’s clothes. Sometimes the world infringes on And commandeers more than it knows.

Of course, the world is cognizant That it may do more than intrude: It may and does quite overwhelm, Becoming more than interlude.

But this same world will also feign Indifference as she barrels through A race as frantic and as fraught As any we are subject to

When we encounter attitude That elevates itself beyond The height that circumstance demands – And so we see that we’ve been conned. The world is NOT autonomous. It is a force that we create. Why do we make it animate When we control the aim and rate?

We have the power to rank and choose Those elements that will become The driving forces of our days It makes no sense to cut and run

When what comes next is not a guess – We can embark upon a ride, Within the locus of control – The power lies in “to decide.”  

[poetpear]

Diversion

To take one’s mind off ought to be As easy as to shed one’s clothes. Sometimes the world infringes on And commandeers more than it knows.

Of course, the world is cognizant That it may do more than intrude: It may and does quite overwhelm, Becoming more than interlude.

But this same world will also feign Indifference as she barrels through A race as frantic and as fraught As any we are subject to

When we encounter attitude That elevates itself beyond The height that circumstance demands – And so we see that we’ve been conned. The world is NOT autonomous. It is a force that we create. Why do we make it animate When we control the aim and rate?

We have the power to rank and choose Those elements that will become The driving forces of our days It makes no sense to cut and run

When what comes next is not a guess – We can embark upon a ride, Within the locus of control – The power lies in “to decide.”

[poetpear]

Many Questions - One Answer

I have not been to heaven – yet, But I confess my world construct Incorporates divinity. An irony, again, as life Prevents first hand accounts as much As one who has been glorified No longer garners earthly grasp As he has transferred realms withal.

Nor have I been to Portugal, Or anywhere for that matter Beyond my birthplace boundary. The point remains that what I call The world is always limited To what I know and where I’ve been. The question then is whether what I think and feel is somehow less,

Or more important, not enough. “I could be in a nutshell bound,” Prince Hamlet noted, tongue in cheek, “And count myself a king of space As infinite as any realm.” Or words or thoughts to that effect. And if he’s right then all of us Live lives that truly supersede The individual constraints

That shackle or confine the man To that small corner of a world Beyond the reach of fathoming. The point then stands that none of us, Or all of us are subject to A global understanding more The same than in some stark relief. We share the essence, share the soul.

[poetpear]

The Emperor’s Old Clothes

Before I became Emperor, the public paid no never mind. To what I wore, or where I went.  My brand was bland Enough to inundate the population with the magic mirrors Which made certain not a soul could see the sense of me. Coincidental consequence, the earliest ensemble Was filled with fulsome hues and sharper shades That surely shone as bright as brilliance legally allowed.

Then came the coronation, and the drama commandeered The crowd to great confusion, as the crown came into view, And visual acuity completely compromised By that vivacity which worldly titles translate to A general consensus of what qualifies as cool. So that compelling patterns, once proliferating – true – Are overwhelmed by popular appeal and common view.  

Thus incrementally, by dark degrees, we tried to track A path to reach the pinnacle of fashion and of fame, But finding nothing substantive, we settled for a ruse, A counterfeit of culture, animatedly maintained By power of persuasion that the false was flatly true. We were not what we’d done or where we’d been, But all at once we transcendentally became a whim.  

So whittle while you work the people said, and wear your best. A man is made of more than where he sits or how he’s dressed. I nakedly contended that I knew how to invest And circumvent the steps that make delusion manifest. Before I walked around a blushing nude, I once possessed A moral compass made of stainless steel, yet now I’m stressed. The clothes are precedent. I’m just an outfit duly pressed.

[poetpear]

Wrush - by PJR

Languish.  What a word, and what drama.

The legacy knows nothing of what’s earned,

As fire knows not anything it’s burned,

The effort is an everlasting comma.

Butter knows no more than to be churned,

The churner being no more than a tool,

And bears the brunt of all the work, by rule,

And makes its way, no greater lesson learned.

A student through the lens of you, the school,

With myriad debts, naught to be repaid,

Will graduate his way through your arcade,

And make their way to some glass vestibule.

There is no trophy, triumphant cavalcade,

Or prize to this, as there is nothing after.

Though we’ll remember tears, and blood, and laughter,

We understand the sacrifice we’ve made.

I’m not the architect, I’m merely drafter,

Content to keep this pen to empty paper,

And once I’m done with this, my life, my caper,

I’ll watch my work in silence from the rafter.

[poetpear]

Toll Taking

It takes its toll, this taking leave Of senses, and of fingertips, As well as sidelong glances: Some provoked by awkward shyness; Others mere reaction to the disconnect That sees a young adult, a child Wield  the power to decide she’s Reached the end of her one chance.

Resilience can be bolstered, Over time. Supported by the strength Of muscular connections with each child. That is, the act of building up the other Serves as catalyst for our own marshalling Of powers in reserve.  They may stay ready For the next installment of despair - A dismal feature of careers at school.  

Too many times I’ve dragged my feet To services that strive to heal Or salve some consolation on a wound. But while it works to some extent, Especially for those peers whose pain is raw Within their walls of innocence, it takes its toll. Too many times I’ve offered trite condolences That fall far short of truth, or satisfy.

Nothing can compare to that despair That parents, brothers, sisters, friends endure. Part duty, part compulsion makes me move And pay proper respect for loss of life. But each successive instance saps my store Of hope and faith, and makes me less prepared To face the next adversity.  I feel a guilt At ever having focused on myself.

Of course, it’s not about the grieving here, But more about the grief, the antidote To unicorns and rainbows flying free And letting anyone at all surmise That our one trek through life should be without The balanced quantities of love and hate, Despair and joy, and light and dark. Perhaps, Such sadness can remind us when to dance,  as well? 

[poetpear]

Mourning In Chinatown - by PJR

Nine, Twenty-nine, and crying as

I make my way down Vine Street towards the

Chinese Catholic Church in Chinatown I don’t

Belong in for more than just the two reasons

Seasons notwithstanding, he seemed to hold

Such high regard for his garden and yard

Arms folded always asking the last of his

Sons to finish mowing when he could.

We’d visit, mostly summer, mostly afternoon

Because there were hours once he returned

That son would work himself the way his father

Did.  No lesson, no reward.  Because.

Now, here, kneeling in this pew, I feel there isn’t quite

An emotion I’ve had equally measurable to this.  And then

My father tells me “sometimes we do because we must.

And when that’s not enough, sometimes we just pretend”.

Twenty-nine, and she at twenty-seven, laying

Next to me, asking “when will everything just

Work?” and knowing I won’t answer more than

Just a stupid look, and smirk, and exhale.

“You know”, she says “My father is 52 and

Doesn’t know what he wants to do when

He grows up.  Sometimes it takes a while before it clicks.

And you can’t compare a pear and teddy bear”.

How right she is, and always will be,

Looks me in the eye and asks “when will everything

Just work?” and I look at her, and pause,

Exhale, and smirk. “I don’t know

When, but know it must”.

“But why?” she asks.

“Because”.

[poetpear]

P(h)ew

P(h)ew

Because

it’s not nearly as hard to tell,

for me,

who needs to be here.

Bring me to your knees

it’s then I know the sweat from your shins.

It’s then I know your daughter’s fruit cup,

your son’s stuffed animal — distractions.

It’s then I know why you’re here nine-to-five,

why you pick the kids up from school,

suddenly.

It’s not nearly as hard, for me, to tell

who needs to be here

and who’s here to smirk, shirk and exhale.

For me, it’s not nearly as hard to tell

who needs to be here.

it’s then I see the bruises on your palm

and your temple.

the permanence to those wrinkles on your lips

from asking “when…”

it’s then I wish you could hear the collective

sound of everyone here asking

the same thing.

and all I think you truly need to know,

because I know you’ve been wondering

in between your asking —

the answer is no. you

don’t need to compare what a teddy bear and a pear

say about how much

you care about them. You’ve raised

them better than that.

[poetpear]

To Come of Age

As if the navigation route through life

were wrought with road signs –

notifying boys which way to turn,

and girls the proper path

in their ascent to womanhood

– or manhood   –

As if a signpost flashed a list

of options that would lead

invariably to head of household,

chairman of the board,

or paragon of virtue

– or hero    –

As if point B were somehow raised

to standard visible above the tree line

making certain that a subject

always kept a spatial sense

of relative position between

here

– and destiny   –

as if we all weren’t walking blind,

reliant upon smells and sounds

we hoped would lead to where

we thought we’d be

at any given point

before we died.

As if?

[mindingeveryonesbusiness-blog]

Tessellations

In the beginning  )and the end(

when technically there was no discernible light - as rods and cones

and irises, or optic nerves, had yet no vessels to inhabit -

the lengths and widths of one man’s span

or for that matter, one woman’s

appears to have been beyond the ken,

so unpredictable the many paths

a mind may make -  or take - reactive

to the ebb and flow of force outside

the locus of control a single soul

can deign to reign upon withal.

That is, the limits and the edges -

the periphery - at farthest distance pales,

creating the illusion, and feeding the delusion

that anything - or everything - resides

within an individual’s grasp.  In other words,

we think we may become as much as we imagine,

mistaking all the mist around the edge

for ambiguity, instead of just obscurity.

So, since the colors fade at the horizon,

predominant the pastel grays, and purple shades,

so are we ruled by limitations

limiting what we may fathom.

Perhaps perception has a hand in our objective truth,

and our life span(s) are merely tessellations, inter/locking,

over/lapping repetitions of a single shape,

geometric, or amoebic, in that one life

dovetails, slot by slot, with many others,

autonomy being then no more than hubris.

If then, this two dimension fate rolls on

and I  )and you(  are really nothing more than links

or cogs in the machine, oblivious

our static state within an endless press

of rows and columns, all of which

comprise the length and width of this, our race,  

then each of us is one small dot

upon a butcher paper roll of finite size,

and any single life contents itself

within the confines of its ordinal assign.

Considering the population of this viral race

continues to increase in exponential ways,

then reason says the individual shrinks

in each successive generation, at least

as his percentage of the total space diminishes

through no fault of his own.  His efficacy

remains as fixed in time and space

as does the area of that same shape

which he inhabits, but which likely

constitutes a measure tinier in mass

than he can comprehend, as he is blind

as to the borders which imprison him.

If each of us is nothing more than solitary

link in the procession of humanity, then

all the talk of free will is a lie and wasted breath

since all are locked in place by tessellations

shaped and sculpted, ensuring that no gap

of light or space pokes forth a fearful face.

But such a view deliberately obscures a simple fact

that life is lived in more than two dimensions.

Being so, one must consider how much height

and depth may decorate a life and thereby shift

and make the shape that stands upon a horizontal plane

become more than itself, and add a 3rd dimension,

strain to make the depth and height the operant condition

and thus establish primacy of measure in the vertical:

that is, though we may not have jurisdiction

over items east and west, nor north and south;

we do exert free exercise upon the peaks

and valleys that we build, or find, or seek.

Each life’s a tessellation from above, in bird’s eye view,

though where we live is lateral; that is, a stance

on terra firma commandeers our point of view

and shades how much we may divine the breadth

in all directions, noting even the degree by which

a single footstep throws a pulse of energy. And thus,

invisibly, our mere existence alters all topography.

The landscape may be changed, but imperceptibly,

and one’s apparent influence may never manifest itself

proportional to his soul’s legacy as seen eons ahead

by one endowed with vision from afar to see behind and still

to trace the path that one proud ancient heart from distant past

has made up to the point wherein the seer lies.

The moral is not simple.  Do not speak of ripples in the water

equating them with shapeless but observable effects.

Instead, dance reckless in each waterfall, and climb

each mountain you can build, and scale each wall

you’ve built by brick, or stone, and speculate that every breath

may be the one that made the rock to fall, or arrow to fall short,

allowing one pure heart an age ago to live and also breathe

upon an ember bringing it to flame, and warmth, and maybe

even to destruction somewhere down the lane beyond the reach

of voice, or eyesight, anything that tries to tie the here and now

with there and then.  In fine’ we only get one chance,

and we are land-locked, bound by limits only wizards

in the sky can see, the truth prevailing for our one plane sight

subsumes the heavenly perspective, yet we know, we think

that some celestial supertruth is precedent,

The worst thing then will never be damnation, since

at least to reach an ultimate, a destination, and an assignation

denotes that all the tallies have been made and so a life

has been definitively lived, if all for naught.

Much worse to trudge unto the end of days and having

shirked the chance to face the horror, call

the art of breathing relative of life, when one brave step,

or one kind kiss, or hug, or sidelong glance

communicating brotherhood or sisterhood

facilitates the first brave flight that leads great Caesar,

Long ago, to commit to cross his Rubicon, and there

by influences the course not just of past, but present too,

and future, as row upon row of patterned truths march on.

A tessellation we, and you and me, and he and she.

but four dimensions obfuscate the scene,

and what seems a procession marches on.

[poetpear]

Chase Utley, You are the Man!

Harry Kalas made that declaration in 2006, before the Phillies had officially done anything but posture and occasionally bluster that they might be capable of greatness.  Long before the Four Aces, and before even a playoff win of substance since 1993, Chase Utley scored from second base on a swinging bunt single back to the pitcher.  By the time the Braves made the obvious and routine play at first, Utley was already taking advantage of a random and unlikely opportunity.  

It will be plays like this, scoring from second on a ground out to the pitcher, that will objectify the Chase Utley legacy as a member of the Philadelphia Phillies in the 2000′s.  Chase’s career has been great, though statistics will not tell the whole story.  In fact, for this fan, one who started watching the Phillies as an eight year old in 1969, Chase Utley’s greatness is specifically constituted by the fact that he was more than the sum of his statistics. 

Chase was the king of going from first to third, and first to home, on plays that called for such aggressiveness only because of where the ball was hit, and who was fielding it, and what the score was at the time, and how many innings were left to play, and who was winning and by how much.  In other words, most of the time Chase’s calculated risks were not so risky.  He was aggressive because his head was in the game, and because the odds were in his favor. 

Let’s be honest.  Chase was an average fielder with an average or below average arm who made more Gold Glove plays than some of the guys who actually won the award.  It was standard operating procedure to see Chase complete a bare hand flip, sometimes behind his back or through his legs, to the sure bare hand of Jimmy Rollins on the centerfield side of second base, because he knew that Rollins could handle it and complete the double play.  It became ho-hum normalcy to see Utley complete the play at first on a slow roller that didn’t allow a transfer of the ball from the glove to the hand, so Chase perfected the sweep and flip in one fell swoop by somehow shoveling the ball to Howard at first base.  Another favorite involved Utley tagging the runner in the baseline between first and second before flipping to Howard to complete the double play.  Again, the fact that all of Utley’s fans can picture each of those plays is testament to the smoothness and regularity with which he deftly performed the feats.  There have been better fielders at second base, but Utley developed these particular strengths to obscure some of his limitations. 

I do not like that the most successful era in Phillies baseball has come to an end, but I am astute enough to know that this era ended long before Utley was traded to the Dodgers.  In fact, it is long overdue that the Phillies give one of their all time greats a ticket out of town, because he still wants to play, and the team is it is presently constituted will not support such an ambition.  We certainly have no reason to cry for Chase, or for the end of his tenure here.  

I truly hope that Chase devises a way to put up two good years of numbers in 2016 and 2017, because I think two quality years will be enough to punch his ticket to Cooperstown.  Five home runs in a World Series will help, and his numbers prior to the deterioration of his knees had him on an HOF track.  Two good years of numbers, and perhaps a playoff run by the Dodgers, might certainly compensate for the last three down seasons. 

I wish Chase well.  The most respectful thing the Phillies could do was to afford him an opportunity to extend his career for a team that might be playoff bound for the next few years.  I lament the fact that one of my favorite Phillies is moving on, but to be honest, I will dance a jig if this tough transition leads to the next run of fun and greatness.  

You see, my fandom goes back to 1969.  My childhood is characterized by Phillies teams that often had the chance to lose 100 games. Then, the great run in the late 70′s that culminated in a World Series in “80, when I was in college and could really enjoy the crazy delirium.Then, a return to the fall classic in ‘83, was followed by a decade of mostly unsightly baseball.  Lightning in a bottle flamed in 1993, but then another extended period of haplessness ensued. 

Throughout most of my four decades as a fan, I have had precious little to savor, and only rarely did a career as colored by pluck, and grime, and dirt, and savvy, and boisterous love of the game grace my television screen the way that Chase Utley’s career has done.  Forget that Chase epitomized the best of what Philly fans want from a ballplayer; Utley captured in his demeanor the standard that parents and people set for almost a generation on how they want anyone to carry himself as a professional.  I know people love to point out that Chase didn’t talk much, but I will contend that such a criticism is simply not accurate.  I am roughly twenty years older than Chase Utley, and I sucked as a baseball player, but I contend that for more than a decade Chase Utley’s manner and style of play was screaming at us all; it was singing at the top of its lungs; he was talking to us by showing us.

What I heard his actions saying was, “I have a right and a responsibility to get better every day.  I am being paid to bring my best, to leave as little to chance as possible in a game predicated on failure.  I hope to play in such a way that my game represents what you would do if you had the chance to play such a timeless game.” 

“I want to play with a passion and an intensity so obvious that an announcer who has called thousands of games will say, ‘Chase Utley, you are the man!’”  

[poetpear]

I plan to ask for friends and acquaintances to help me share this document as far and wide as possible, as I have a picture in my head of how we as a citizenry can rise above and live out the creed dictated by our forefathers, and referenced hopefully by Martin Luther King, Jr. some two hundred years later:  “We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights; that among these rights are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness.”  

Please add to this document as you see fit.  The minute I post it, I hope to relinquish all ownership, thereby sharing it as a gift to any and all who wish to contribute in conveying a message regarding the free and open acceptance of ALL of us who count ourselves as residents of these United States of America.  

All contributions are to be accepted, whether they be stories, descriptions, poems, songs, anecdotes, or personal essays.  The only request is that your contribution be personal, original, and genuine.  

To the lady at the bookstore who checked out my items on Saturday, “Thank you for seeing my as a customer, and not as white customer.  After hearing and reading about the policemen who were shot for no reason in New York, and after reading and hearing for the hundredth time that race relations in the US are fractious, and tenuous, and mistrustful, it occurred to me that you are a black woman, and I am a white man, and our pleasant interaction on Saturday as you did your job and as I bought a gift was entirely oblivious to skin color.

When I was a child, in the 1970’s, I don’t think we could have had that encounter in quite the same way.  You would have been very aware of my whiteness, and I would have been incapable of talking to a cashier who was Black, rather than to a black cashier.  I acknowledge that I am the majority representative here, and that the minority has often been treated unfairly, but I think it important to note the reality of our exchange on Saturday is just as important, and just as true as the distrustful dynamic that prevails in many of our cities.  

Does it matter that a large portion of the country lives under a different set of conditions than do the most populous urban centers of our country?  In the middle school in which I work, we largely watch students who talk, and learn, and play with other students.  I won’t deny that pigmentation will occasionally play a role in an incident that unfolds, but in talking to parents and students, the truth is that race is rarely a primary concern.  Oh, a few years back we had an incident of the ugliest kind of racism at the high school, but even in that case the distilled fact was this: two bigoted students, who were the product of their respective environments, fell prey to an ‘easy’ and ‘handy’ epithet.  The message scrawled on a bathroom wall was not one that was endorsed by the school, the community, or society at large. In fact, the community so quickly and comprehensively rejected the message that the students - black, white, and Hispanic - joined forces rather immediately to renounce the sentiment.

About a year ago, I made a blog entry in response to an incident that happened across the street from my rural, homogeneously white neighborhood.  An African-American woman, with two children, broke down in my neighbor’s driveway.  The lady knocked on my door, and I was able to get her car started and to provide advice on how she could make it to her destination.  When she thanked me too profusely, it occurred to me that such an incident would have been fraught with consternation a generation ago.  The woman would have been rightly distrustful of the white people who opened the door, and might very well have been left stranded because the door would not have been answered at all.  In fact, the woman would likely not have made the trip in the first place, at least not with two children and no other adult.

Is it pertinent that in the town in which I live, one which harbored remnants of the KKK just one generation ago, before public sentiment rejected their very existence and delivered the message that their objective of hate was no longer welcome on the premises - is it pertinent that bigotry here is uncommon, and that when it rears its head the most likely response from the proximal audience is disbelief and instantaneous rejection?  My children grew up in a neighboring town with much more diversity, and they have often noted that they never see color first, and often see no color at all.  Being human, they recognize when people are not the same as they are, but the baggage of bigotry does not accompany their introductions.  

Please share your thoughts on the specific issue of race, or the broader issue of acceptance and fairness for all the people of the country.  

I would like this to be a document that you can edit, repost, and share as broadly as possible.  Let’s see if we can get a cacophony, an orchestra, a collage of experiences, perspectives, and sentiments that might help a broader segment of the population to believe in the hope, the wish, the dream that might take shape if we can only set aside petty differences and focus efforts on providing remedies for the forces that drive us into factions.  The document might get long and unwieldy, and so who cares if it does...