June 30, 2008
Murree Monsoon
This poem still needs work. I like some of the images in it that I did not expect. There are some things I would have liked to put in that did not get in (perhaps a sonnet cycle is in order). I like the mouse image, but it probably does not work with all the other wet or watery images (but I needed the rhyme).
Critique as you like. I can take it.
Murree Monsoon
That gentle chill that seeped into our house
From grey clouds that rolled, wet, down verdant hills
Is steeping still. A feeling like a mouse
Which ventures out only when all is still
And nibbles memory. The kettle's on
And, soon, sweet tea, like that which warmed us there
Will chill and warm again, and bring days gone
Rolling gently back, to hang in the air,
Condense and drip, drip, drip down to a floor
Of wet dark earth and brown, bent and pungent
Needles, whose broken scent now pierces more
Than then. I wonder where those feelings went
Which come back now and roar through mental tracts
Like those glorious muddy cataracts..
Posted by jackdas at 12:51 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
April 14, 2008
Dog Dying, A Hopeful Sonnet
Looking at this picture with friends this weekend, reminded me just how much of a funny looking dog Bruno was. He was a lovely dog too, even if rather stubborn. I owe him a debt for love shown to me, for love shown to my father. "Love shown" makes it sound like a choice; dogs, likely, are hardwired to love, even if a bit needily. Still, nonetheless, the love is real, which is easily demonstrated by when it is spurned, and a dog sadly goes and lays down in a corner, ears down, with sad, sad eyes.
I have written about Bruno before on the blog here. The poem below continues some of the themes expressed in the first one. This is not the poem of Bruno's dying that I wanted to write, which involved echoes of Aslan on the Stone Table, but perhaps that will come later. This one is far from perfect, emphasized by a rather abrupt end. Perhaps, I will work out the kinks of this one some time and also do an Aslan one, in the mean time...
Dog Dying, a Hopeful Sonnet
Dear Bruno, I do not know the answers
Of how it might have been if that First Fruit
Remained unplucked. Would life have surged? The curse
Unheard, would, then, your namesake teeth be moot?
Indeed, would we have come to this sad place
At all? Me muzzling your weakened growl,
Lifting you to this table. Its small space
Bearing the weight of years, of love. A howl,
Like the long, plaintive howls you barked all night
To the pristine, cold moon, barks from from my soul,
Tinged with regret, which only comes with might,
To choose to love, then not. A dog gives all.
But when the New Sun rises in the East.
I'll be a true Master and you my Beast.
P.S. This sonnet was spurred along by reading the last chapter of The Last Battle by Lewis. It is evident that the man knew and loved dogs. And, oh the entire chapter just makes me ache with longing for heaven and the New Earth.
P.S.S. I cannot definitivelhy say at all that our pooches and other pets will, indeed, be there, though Lewis had a theory that they might be raised by virtue of our shared love and life with them, but it sure would be nice. There are going to be beasties there, right? Might as well start the population with our beasts.
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February 19, 2008
rocketship
do you ever feel
like a rocketship
ready
to fly
but worrying about
o-rings that might fail
the foam that just might
come away upon ascent
detritus of a hasty life
but still
but still
what a thing it is
to be
ready
to fly
Posted by jackdas at 9:21 AM | TrackBack
August 30, 2007
After Much Waiting, The Haiku Contest Results
I do apologize for the waiting, but the first delay was an attempt to get more entries, the second to hear back from some truly extraordinary judges. I ended up receiving 6 entries and having an equal number of judges, whose judgment I truly value.
George is a writer who has recently begun a program of graduate studies and a thoughtful and lively new blog. Jacob is a writer and a poet and a sensitive thinker about issues of culture and faith. Tim, who is a member of my house church, generally has more creative projects going than this guy has plates spinning. He has a fun business (make sure you check out the gallery), which incorporates many of his talents, even it ain't all fun and games to man a booth at several weddings and a high school prom of a weekend. Louise, is a former student worker at the library I used to work at, an uber Kurt Vonnegut fan (she is truly in mourning), and now the very comptent editor of Lewis and Clark Community College's student newspaper, The Bridge. I have a distinct feeling that I am one day going to be saying about her "I knew her when..." Kirstin is a wonderful writer and the editor of catapult, to which I submit pieces upon occasion. And last, but certainly not least, Aaron is writer and poet, whom I am just getting to know and who runs an impressive poetry series at the Schlafly Tap Room, which I encourage you to attend if you are in the St. Louis area. Thank you to all of you judges for bringing such talent, judgment, and energy to this contest, and for taking the time to read haiku.
And now, without further preamble, the results....
Best Autumn Haiku
Heidi Harbin
Grey clouds, ominous
over golden, harvest fields-
a time to gather.
Runner Up: (tie) Heidi Vincent and Laura Wachsmuth
Best Winter Haiku: (tie)
Heidi Vincent
Frost buries the pane
chilly snap of a bough's branch
Winter takes its kill
Laura Wachsmuth
Throw a little snow
up into moon-lit branches
crow wings flood the night
Runner Up: Heidi Harbin
Grand Prize Winner: (tie)
Heidi Vincent and Laura Wachsmuth
Runner Up: Heidi Harbin
After six judges each assigning scores out of 10 to each haiku, Heidi Vincent and Laura received identical scores on their autumn and winter haiku respectively. They both scored a 94 out of a possible 120 points for the winning scores for their pairs of haiku. And to the commenter on a previous post who lamented the use of spreadsheets in judging, well I agree in principle that poetry should have no use for spreadsheets, yet it was the simplest way to quantify scores and try to fairly determine who received the most consistent recognition across a panel of diverse judges.
Congratulations to Heidies Harbin and Vincent and to Laura. And many thanks to each of you entrants who participated. I truly enjoyed reading your pieces which follow and conducting the contest. Here's hoping for even more entrants for Haiku Contest II to be held sometime in the dead of the coming winter for spring and summer haiku.
Ah, and the prizes. Well, in response to the tie, each winner will get a Toblerone or chocolate bar of her choice, and to the four extant prizes listed here and here, I am going to add this and this. Laura and Heidi V, you are just going to have to negotiate how to divide them.
And now on to the the point of all of this and to some lovely haiku...
Susan August
harvest peacekeeper -
scarecrow stands where the fields merge
to exchange their crops
waiting in the stream
dates from an old calendar -
ice is gathering
Heidi Harbin
Grey clouds, ominous
over golden, harvest fields-
a time to gather.
Discount-store fruit-cake
Mistletoe hid in pocket.
Christmas mis-givings.
Angela Heirendt
The bright heavens hold
Arms replete with painted leaves:
Rapturous embrace.
Hush of silent pond
Winter dusk sunlight descends
With sparkles of frost
Carol Lah
Eating toblerone
Leaves crunching under my feet
Cool breeze runs through hair
Rolling balls of snow
Sledding on rough icy hill
Toblerone on mind
Heidi Vincent
Winter shakes Autumn
And her leaves fall to her feet
She turns, blushing spring
Frost buries the pane
chilly snap of a bough's branch
Winter takes its kill
Laura Wachsmuth
Whisper autumn's here
A single leaf turns and falls
Red on withered green
Throw a little snow
up into moon-lit branches
crow wings flood the night
Posted by jackdas at 1:23 AM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
August 27, 2007
With Three Judges Reporting...
51
48
44
42
40
37
32
Posted by jackdas at 1:40 AM | Comments (4) | TrackBack
August 23, 2007
Haiku Contest: The Judging Has Begun
Well, it has begun. The haiku have been submitted to the judges, and the results will be announced early next week.
Here are several of my own following the rules of the contest and reflective of my spending some of my youth in small towns in St. Louis' Metro East. The challenge of haiku is to focus on one or several evocative images to create an entire picture. Every word can be important. For example, for the last word in the second line of poem two, I mulled over using "feel" or "take" or "drink" or "know" with each conveying a slightly different meaning. Pretty cool, huh. Well, enjoy, even if these are a tad dark.
how is such bounty
mixed with death, harvest queen, masks
candy in the streets
dark, frozen corn stalks
beneath a leaden sky, feel
the rabbit's warm blood
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August 14, 2007
Get Those Haiku In...
Let's just say that currently we have more judges than entries, and that ain't a good thing. I'm a bit, er, nervous. Plus, we don't want to eat up Internet bandwidth if everyone sends them in at once, do we?
Posted by jackdas at 12:56 PM | Comments (5) | TrackBack
August 12, 2007
Contest, Part II...We've Got Judges
Here is where we put to the test the question of whether haiku contests are like baseball fields. I have built one; let us see if they will, indeed, come. As of yet we have four people whom I've asked who have said "Yes" to being judges, one strong maybe, and yours truly. That makes a potential of 5-6 judges total, which is good because it makes the judging all the more unbiased, and hopefully well-rounded. Alas, as of yet, I have no entries!
In case you were curious, here is how the judging will work. Each judge other than myself will get haiku with only a number on them, not knowing who has written them. They will assign each individual haiku a score from one to ten, so the top possible score for a pair from one judge is 20. I will add up the scores from all the judges and the pair of haiku with the highest aggregate score will be the winner. Also, there will be honorable mentions for the best autumn haiku and winter haiku respectively. All haiku will be published here for our enjoyment without scores or ranking (aside from the winner of course).
Here we go! Here we go! Get those submissions in by noon on Wednesday, August 15th. The prizes await, plus a bonus prize recently discovered whilst cleaning my office has been added. It is the 30 card set of post cards of Japanese scenes which is pictured above.
Posted by jackdas at 12:51 AM | TrackBack
August 8, 2007
A Contest
This was going to be a Facebook contest only, but I had to bring the blog into the fun. I don't want it to become the resentful older brother.
In response to the fantastic success of the elucidate the band name contest that just occured (on my Facebook page), I thought I would set up another one. Having just finished discussing haiku in a non-western lit class I was teaching, I thought that this was just the thing.
So, your assignment, should you choose to accept, is to write two haiku, one each for the upcoming autumn and winter seasons, preferably focused on these seasons in St. Louis, but that is not an absolute stipulation. Please send your haiku to neil.e.das@gmail.com by a week from today, August 15th. And the winner will be announced on Monday, August 20th. Judging will be done by me and at least one other esteemed judge in a impartial manner. All haiku will be posted here. And the winner, you ask, what does the winner get? Oh, just you wait.
First, though, even though this site indicates otherwise, the haiku for this contest must consist of three lines with 5-7-5 syllables respectively. Each haiku should have a kigo or seasonal word in it. And preferably there should be a cutting word, or pause after the second line, which sets up the ending. Here is the Wikipedia article on haiku.
Enough with the rules...what are the prizes? Well, the deserving winner will get to pick 3 out of the 4 items listed and pictured below.
*A rare complete copy of the second Ghetto Monk anthology consisting of essays, poems, reviews written by local authors and edited by Jeremy Huggins. This copy also includes the CD of original music that came with the publication. High quality all around.
*A cool, Asian looking red box (actally made in Poland) suitable for, well, storing loose change, though only a little, or jewelry or what not. And the cicada shells currently inside it can totally be optional.
*Pristine paperbacks of the first nine books in the A Series of Unfortunate Events book series by Lemony Snicket.
*A regular sized Toblerone.
OK, remember you only get your choice of 3 out of 4 prizes, so dream wisely, get writing, and tell your friends. And, yes, the prizes will be shipped (if necessary) anwhere in these united states.
Posted by jackdas at 9:21 AM | Comments (3) | TrackBack
July 3, 2007
Pied Beauty & God's Grandeur
As I put up my new banner with the dragonfly which is looking slightly to the right, I want to share a poem that greatly shaped my aesthetics when I read it in graduate school and wrote a paper on it. It taught me to see the beauty of the variegated, the assymetrical, the diverse, and to give praise to the creator. The poem is by Gerard Manley Hopkins.
Pied Beauty
GLORY be to God for dappled things—
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough;
And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.
All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.
Also, do you ever get despondent over the mess that humanity seems to be making of the planet? Do you get weary because of the sadness of history? Then, perhaps another poem by Hopkins may remind you of the presence and grandeur that we Christians believe is still undergirding it all (or brooding it over it), the person who is still shaping a billion, billion stories to his good purposes. One day all things will be made new. Rest in that thought.
And, oh yeah, this second poem is a sonnet, I suppose, but of a different form than I am accustomed to writing.
God's Grandeur
THE WORLD is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.
Posted by jackdas at 12:36 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack
June 25, 2007
John 8
Below is the poem I promised to post last week in response to this discussion, in which Kirstin, the editor of Catapult, has recently weighed in about her reasons for publishing the controversial article.
The poem was written for a poetry class in 1994 in which we were to keep the same end words in each stanza we wrote. I am not really pleased with how this poem reads, even though I haven't done anything to fix it in the intervening decade or so, but I do like some of the images in it.
John 8
It was an odd time to make an ending,
When so much was beginning.
Fresh silence soothing the fever of the night.
Clean sunlight washing the dusty temple yard.
And a young Rabbi softly rending its ancient stony walls.
But they had brought the woman there to make an ending,
When so much was beginning,
With scalpel-stones to excise her cancer in the night,
With harsh light to expose her temple's filthy yard,
And have the Rabbi raze her crumbling, ruined walls.
And the woman knew it was her ending,
When so much was beginning.
No dawn would soothe her fevered night.
No light could wash her cluttered yard.
And the Rabbi's word would start the battering of her walls.
And the Rabbi made an ending,
When so much was beginning.
His scalpel cut the stone throwers' cancer in the night.
His light exposed their hidden dusty yards.
And His word softly slammed their hardened rocky walls.
And so there was an ending,
And so much was beginning.
The Dawn had soothed the fevered Night
And stones patterned the dusty Temple yard,
And the Rabbi had softly razed its ancient stony walls.
Posted by jackdas at 1:23 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
May 15, 2007
The Tension of Loving Beauty in a World of Pain
How can we sink into an appreciation of beauty and goodness when there is so much ugliness and pain in the world? How can we eat well, paying attention to aesthetics as much as nutrition, when so many starve? How can we go on elaborate vacations when millions will live short lives within a circle of a few miles of their birthplaces? What do an appreciation of poetry and music and art have at all to do with the everyday, desperate problems of billions?
This post does not ultimately present an answer to these questions, except to say that, perhaps, fundamentally beauty and goodness remind us that this is a good world, that it is a world that is worth redeeming. I think that it is entirely appropriate, then, that we appreciate, partake of, and create beauty and goodness where ever we may, to even expend resources of time and money to this end. The trick, though, is to know that these are truly but foretastes, and that we also must work to invite others, to bring others, to the Feast. And this will certainly also require paying attention to how we use our resources. I don't have any guidelines, really, except to turn down the messages of our culture, pay attention to what the Bible says about money and possessions, and listen to the Spirit.
Here is an old work about the same themes. It was written in Pakistan in 1993, just after I had finished reading Anne of Green Gables for the first time. OK, since I have already confessed that, I might as well go ahead and say that I eventually read the entire set of 6 (the seventh somehow wasn't in that set), though I only really remember the first three. This poem has appeared on the blog before and is a bit archaic in its style and, er, not very subtle, but I still like it.
Avonlea
In Avonlea, a gentle breeze
Blows softly through mid-summer leaves,
And tickles ripples from the lake,
Then playful dances on its way.
In Africa, no breath of breeze
To comfort wraith-like, naked trees,
To blow back life to fill the lakes,
And drive the stench of death away.
Does God reside in Avonlea;
In bright and good His rule confine,
While death and night unchallenged rule
Without the bounds of sovereignty?
Or, did He share the agony
To hear discord in His symphony,
Forsake pure joy to take on pain,
Anemic of His majesty?
I will cherish life's Avonleas
As foretastes of eternity,
But not lift long their joyous cup,
Lest, giddy, shun the cup He took.
Posted by jackdas at 6:16 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
May 2, 2007
You Ever Just Want to Go...
...to a place that you love, a place where you experienced truth and fellowship and beauty, and just stay there. I have had that impulse rather a lot in my life.
Of course, that place that you are thinking of is never quite the same when you return. And the impulse to check out, to sink into goodness, now matter how beautiful or true or warm it is and simply stay there, is, while we share this "veil of tears" with others, perhaps nothing short of disobdience. Still, I cherish those times when they are given. Here is a blog reprint of a poem written at InterVarsity Christian Fellowship's Cedar Campus.
cedar reflection
gentle waves lapping on the beach
breeze rushing gentle through the trees
gentle blue meets grey of choppy swells
at the horizon of my view
and friends stand gentle at my side
with gentle, glad or thoughtful talk
or silence rich and meaningful
and God is near
and whispers healing, soothing, gentle words
as praises rise for blessing and care so evident
and hearts are filled with joy and rest and gentle love
and long to stay the hand of time
prolong the sabbath,
end the journey
and savor more this sample of that final rest
but beyond the horizon of my view
beyond the ships that ply the lake
and bear witness to a greater world
are countless lives that never taste the Rest at all
and gentle words and gentle sights and sounds
drown in the curse of fallen life
Posted by jackdas at 12:55 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
November 1, 2006
I've Tried to Quit Reading the Lord of Rings so Much, But I Just Can't Kick the Hobbit
So, I was hobbit for Halloween, which one remains to be seen, but I was shooting for a Samwise look. The link above explains some of how I view Sam and Frodo's differing destinies/callings. That entry also has the original versions of the poems I present below. I originally thought "Samwise" was a name that highlighted his wisdom. It does not. Instead it means "half-wise," as in "semi-wise" or "dim-witted." So, while keeping my point intact about Sam's eventually evident wisdom (organic, practical, hard-won) I changed the poems to correct my mistake.
__________________________
Shire Folk to Samwise About His Naming
And we all smiled to hear the Gaffer’s son
So named. Should not one born to earth and root
Indeed, have such a name, the “half-wise” one?
Why, then, this reaching for a foreign fruit?
Why should a gard’ner ever tend to more
Than to roots of glorious taters. Thanks be
For those, for simple fruit and flow’rs. Why put store
In more, in your fancies wild and airy?
Dear, simple Samwise you, of all, should know
Strange, wondrous weeds will grow from wand’ring seeds.
Lad, be planted here. Think of only how
To care for Roses. Have no other need
For wizard dreams and mountains cold and Elves,
For old, fool Hobbits who forget themselves.
Gandalf Sets The Record Straight
Dear, Samwise, all now see you are ill named.
True wisdom ever shoots from lowly roots.
Of those who faithful stand and seek no fame
You now belong to taste its well-earned fruits.
Your love of tree and earth, all living things,
Of holy Elves and song, and wizard tales,
Your guileless keeping of the guilty ring,
Your simple wisdom praised in Lorien’s vale,
By Lorien’s glorious Lady and her gifts,
Bring to the Shire its Healing and its Rest.
With Rose and Oak now golden Mallorn lifts
Its leaves to bless, and Elanor, gold-tressed,
Your joy begins. So, Ringbearer, through thee
To Iluvatar may praise and glory be.
__________________________
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August 31, 2006
Frodo's Ringbearer Sonnets
Well, with the first of these image modifications, I run across the problem of copyright again. I will settle for just saying that the image of Frodo is from a Lord of the Rings movie poster, the text is mine. The second image and text are all mine. If you prefer poetry straight, the sonnets by themselves are printed below. Melkor is the angelic spirit that rebelled against Iluvatar, of whom Sauron is only a servant.
The first poem is an imagined part of the conversation that Bilbo had with Frodo as he gave him the sword Sting and the mithril coat in Rivendell, when he also famously, and rather startlingly in the movie, flipped out.
The second poem is an imagined conversation between Galadriel and Frodo as they meet to go to the Grey Havens in the newly redeemed shire at the end of the Return of the King.
____________________________________________________
My dear Frodo, I did not ever dream
To be my heir would mean so dark a road.
But adventures are never as they seem
In tales, wholly self-chosen. The load
Unsought is given, then sealed in our choosing.
But with the load the Unseen Giver also gives
Graces and Beauty to soothe the losing
Of homely things. So take now as you leave
Fair Mithril for without, and for within
Fair memories of sunlit days and friends,
Of glorious Elder Days, of Elves and Men
In darkness fighting for a brighter End.
Despair not. Whisper with your final breath,
If Night falls, Gilthoniel, A! Elbereth!
F R O D O
Dear Elf-friend we meet well under these trees
That bloom in part because of sorrow borne
By you and of the love and toil of he
Who, tender, bore you up, who soon will mourn
That you cannot savor the fruits of joy
Which bloom in field and hearth since Elven-home
Has stretched to bless the Shire. For pain alloys
Each joy you feel vicariously alone.
But know your pain has brought you close to me.
You feel the holy ache we feel who knew
Undying Light beyond the Sundering Seas.
You will be healed. The root of Melkor’s fall
Will die and Iluvatar be All in All.
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Bilbo's Ringbearer Sonnets
The imagined monologues in these sonnets both take place in Rivendell. And, hence, the picture above, which is actually J. R. R. Tolkien's own version in pen and ink and watercolor. I should say watercolour. It is definitely very stylized, but I like it. Oh, "Iluvatar" is from The Silmarillion, a book detailing the early history of Middle Earth. It is the name of God.
Addendum
Elbereth is one of the names of Varda who is spouse of one of the Valar, or spirits through whom Iluvatar creaes and upholds the world. She functions as analogue to the Virgin Mary and is revered by the Elves.
________________________
Gandalf to Bilbo as the Fellowship Leaves
My dear Bilbo, you know it must be so;
The burden has moved on. It came to you
For one purpose alone, for him to go,
Full-knowing of the Dark he must walk through,
To give it up into the Cracks of Doom.
For you it was a treasure far too great.
And taken once again it would consume
You from within. And even now it waits,
Subdued within these holy walls, to rise
Again and chain the neck on which it hangs,
And drag it to the Dark where its lord lies.
Your task must be to wait, not hear the clang
Of swords, but help to bear the pangs of fear,
To plead the Grace of Elbereth be near.
________________________
Elrond to Bilbo as They Leave for the Grey Havens
Dear, faithful tenant of my homely house,
Who melds the joys of Shire and Elven-home,
The time has come. The secret power aroused
Through you was raised ever to be cast down.
But its failing also begins the end
Of all things, foul or fair, wrought by the Rings
Of Power. This home I made to blend
The Good of Middle Earth with holy things
Must also pass. So, Ringfinder, now come
And taste the Joy for which we long have ached.
The homely joys we leave, as such, are done,
But, I perceive, Iluvatar shall take
Up each reflected image of His face
And make anew a joyous, homely place.
________________________
Posted by jackdas at 12:59 AM | TrackBack
August 28, 2006
Smeagol
The following is a blog repeat for a slow blog week, but hopefully it will be new to some of you all. It is part of a larger sonnet cycle dedicated to the Ringbearers in the Lord of the Rings.
Smeagol a ringbearer? Well, yes and no. He physically bore the ring, but could not bear to resist the temptation it proffered, and so it enslaved him to his ultimate ruin. In my sonnet cycle, which needs revision to make it more accurate, each of the true ringbearers, Bilbo, Frodo, Samwise, have two sonnets, a "before" and "after" vis a vis the ring, if you will. I gave Smeagol/Gollum only one sonnet, because, of course, there was no "after" for him.
This sonnet is an imagined plea from either one of Smeagol's relatives shortly after he got the ring and began his murderous spiral towards damnation or a plea by Gandalf when he imprisoned Gollum for the good of Middle Earth, and it should be added for the good of Gollum. Admittedly, the language rather heavy-handedly makes connections to the Christian faith, but I do not think this is an unwarranted tack to take.
Posted by jackdas at 4:14 PM | TrackBack
August 3, 2006
Upon Making Falafel-Three Sonnets-An Experiment in Researched Poetry
Like a hundred other things, I came late
To falafel, like modern Hebrews did
In that great breathing in to forge a state,
Fast taking them up, as if in a bid
For credibility, hoping chick peas
And spice and bread might feed a dream, a wish
To be at home, at peace, within the East,
Make memories of borscht, geflite fish.
So they learned from brother Mizrahim,
More distantly from Arab brother foes,
The tricks to soak and mash and fry, to thin
With lemons tahini sauce. Oh, if woes
Could be forgotten over meals, I know
The wonder of falafel might make it so.
________________
I have not had to soak and mash, a mix
Makes short work of tasks that once took a day.
I wonder whether I will ever fix
My hours to learn from process, to be paid
With well-won satisfaction and with taste
Of long ages. But even now as I
Lift up my knife to dice with worried haste
I taste a piece of cucumber and sigh.
Feeling its coolness on my tongue, I dream
Of coolness only half-remembered now,
In evening, in a Garden, near a stream.
I wake, and read my box and wonder how
A food that's kosher, vegan, and halal
Could do anything but unite us all.
_________________
It is really not all that hard to see
As I strain grease from well-browned batter
Why it is that these bring delight and glee.
It's grease! It's batter! You see those matter
In culture after culture. Think funnel cake.
Think Najavo fry bread and pakoras.
They all take work, but aren't that hard to make
They're market treats that take on even more
Wonder when made at home and children press,
Impatient around their mothers, like pups
Outside Old South kitchens. I clean my mess
And think of harder things, of shattered cups
And shattered lives and dreams. It's hard to keep
My thoughts on falafel while Beirut weeps.
___________________________________________________
Some reference articles. Fascinating reading.
*A History of the Mideast in the Humble Chick Pea
*Israeli Cooking at Epicurious.com
*Falafel (Wikipedia)
____________________________________________________
Addendum
The mother whom I hovered impatiently around while she baked has now been at home with Jesus twenty years to the day. I will post a picture tomorrow...
...here you go.
Norma Lee (Bodenbach) Das
Posted by jackdas at 9:55 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
April 26, 2006
depression heart (haikus)
she can feel its mass
getting heavier, denser
as the moments pass
collapsing matter
sucking even light itself
into its dark maw
Posted by jackdas at 4:56 PM | TrackBack
January 31, 2006
Reprint-"Return"
This is a poem that I posted once before on my blog, but not alone. It is actually part of a much larger "journey poem" that needs a fair bit of work. Since I have been reflecting about Pakistan in recent posts, I thought that this poem about the last time I actually went there (1992-93) might be good to post. In all honesty, I think I rather need to reacquaint myself with Pakistan, its culture, and the its culture inside of me even more.
return
i stand and breathe
my last few gulps of air duty-free
shuffling up the aisle of this airlock
between atmospheres
soon i will be complete
torn into a duality
that appears unseamed in separate hemispheres
that tears each time they meet
at the touching of my sleeping eastern flesh
with east
i walk from the door
and I am me
in ways that i have not been for years
as thick warm eastern air enfolds me
and fills my lungs
displacing stale indifference
and leaves me coughing
sputtering
amidst these warm embraces
invading my protesting western space
amidst these cluttered streets
breaking life into me
more honest and complete
it may take some time to breathe
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September 16, 2005
The Misfit Finds His Calling
"She would of been a good woman,"
The Misfit said,
"If it had been somebody there to shoot her every minute of her life."
And so too do I
So need his wonderful ministry.
Those violent slugs to the chest
Boring clean through smugness,
Making holes to ooze out self pity,
To tear light into the darkness.
He should start a radio show.
Come into my home.
Not be so hard to find.
So that it would not just be
Down lonely, indulgent roads
That I meet by
ACCIDENT
His ministry of violence.
His violent mercy.
Posted by jackdas at 10:46 AM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
September 15, 2005
haiku
misty rainy day
within its grey folds hidden
possibilities
________________
misty rainy day
within its soft folds hidden
possibilities
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August 19, 2005
Confluence, Part II
confluence point
he had followed the gravel road on a whim
past the last gas station in missouri
on the approaches to the bridge
a checkpoint charlie of sorts
for gas refugees from the land of lincoln
past the lock and dam
where the adventurous and poor
trolled the turbulence with fishing lines
hoping for catfish, cursing the gar
that penciled the waters
the road snaked through farmland
on a reclaimed flood plain
which just as often was rereclaimed
by the rivers themselves
now it was sodden with large puddles from the summer rains
which sometimes slipped a corner over the road
he liked that
and didnÕt really care that his wild charges through
were muddying his chevy
hey, if it wasnÕt just a prizm
now of chocolate hues
it would actually be cool
plus he really wanted to see
the meeting of the waters
but how could it really be a point
as if it were a dot on a blank page
where two crisp lines became one
an angle, acute, tidiness
too tidy
confluence implied so much more
flow, fullness, chaos
he knew that now
fluid dynamics was not a blow off course
and so it was
a drunken line traced between two shades of muddiness
tumbling into one
and just there was the point
concrete benches and signs and paths
forever fixed beside, upon, beneath
the deluge
_________
Posted by jackdas at 5:23 PM | TrackBack
August 17, 2005
Confluence, Part I
he had not been known for perfection
but with that date he had come pretty close
that first date
a tiny bouquet of flowers
homegrown, simple
tied with a simple string
held in a tiny bottle
a hand drawn map tracing their itinerary
a film
a movie would not do
foreign, french, subtitles
he had forgotten now where they had dined
it was good to forget some things at least
it had all ended
at the meeting of the waters
by union station
he had remembered his mother talking of it
fountains, figures, flowing water
romantic
and it had been
the perfect endpoint
near where the old lines had all ended
at the junction of trains and lives
this symbol of the wedding of waters
two figures, male, female
with attendant nymphs and sprites
forever reaching across a span
the waters mixing at their feet
the mists blessing their naked bodies
and they too had stood
on the lip of the fountain
facing each other across the span
of shy distance
debating whether to take the plunge
into its waters
they never did
but he always remembered themselves there
smiling, hair wet, eager
lacking only the nerve to kiss
Posted by jackdas at 4:14 PM | TrackBack
January 14, 2005
Broken Poem
As noted before, this segment is for poems that don't quite work. If you have suggestions for a fix, post away. There are several bits that may be clunky or opaque. I think the last stanza is a bit cheesy, except I really like the last line. This is a "broken" poem in more ways than one. As I post it now, there has been significant healing since the time when it was penned, with thanks to God.
traffic reports
living in the suburbs
she in the city center
i hear the commentaries on woe
of a thousand mini dreams deferred
of smooth commutes
subsumed in loss and fumes
i do not feel that pain
as i roll through barren fields
through barren towns
their dreams forever deferred
to loss and rust
i only feel the pain of hearing names
of streets and ways
that intersect her world
that take her places
and then to home
i too have streets and ways
that i take
and a home
i just need to get a map
to find some place to go
and find some way
whenever I cross the river
to stop dreaming of old bridges
Posted by jackdas at 9:48 AM | Comments (2)
January 11, 2005
Ringbearers III
Reviewing the blog, I realize that I never did post my complete sonnet cycle about the ringbearers from the Lord of the Rings, leaving out, of all people, Frodo. The previous poems were posted in October if you want to review them. Here are some imaginary conversations that fit into spaces in the story.
Bilbo to Frodo in Rivendell
My dear Frodo, I did not ever dream
To be my heir would mean so dark a road.
But adventures are never as they seem
In tales, wholly self-chosen. The load
Unsought is given, then sealed in our choosing.
But with the load the Unseen Giver also gives
Graces and Beauty to soothe the losing
Of homely things. So take now as you leave
Fair Mithril for without, and for within
Fair memories of sunlit days and friends,
Of glorious Elder Days, of Elves and Men
In darkness fighting for a brighter End.
Despair not. Whisper with your final breath,
If Night falls, Gilthoniel, A! Elbereth!
F R O D O
Galadriel to Frodo in the Shire
Dear Elf-friend we meet well under these trees
That bloom in part because of sorrow borne
By you and of the love and toil of he
Who, tender, bore you up, who soon will mourn
That you cannot savor the fruits of joy
Which bloom in field and hearth since Elven-home
Has stretched to bless the Shire. For pain alloys
Each joy you feel vicariously alone.
But know, your pain has brought you close to me.
You feel the holy ache we feel who knew
Undying Light beyond the Sundering Seas.
You will be healed. The root of MelkorÕs fall
Will die and Iluvatar be All in All.
Posted by jackdas at 4:36 PM
October 25, 2004
A Hetero Talks Straight
I am not straight.
Crooked in a thousand different angles
Of lust and pride and hate,
I cannot claim to rule
The lines of your existence
More Incongruent than my own.
So, let us kneel and work and wait.
Let us, together, submit to pains
Of Bending.
Let us weep and wait,
Together,
For the Ending,
That brings the world in line,
In great joy,
With Straight.
Posted by jackdas at 3:09 PM
October 22, 2004
Ringbearers IV
These are the final poems in the Ringbearer cycle. And they are my favorite, perhaps because Sam is my favorite character in the stories. He is simple and yet deep, deep in loyalty and faithfulness. He is unlearned, yet full of wonder and curiosity, that lead him to experience piercing joys, and also pain. Of all the hobbits, he perhaps best represents the ordinary life of most Christians;to be obedient when called upon in situations big or small, and accept and enjoy the blessings of hearth and home, while keeping ever mindful that our hearts' true home is across the sea.
Frodo was called upon to embark on a different course. He, almost like a missionary or priest (or in some ways like the great High Priest Himself), is called to bear great suffering, even special suffering, which in essence precludes him from being able to experience the domestic joys that Samwise does at the end of the tale. In some ways it is tragic, yet gloriously tragic. He does experience great joy in the Shire, if only vicariously, and is given the gift of partaking in deep healing and joy sooner than his friends.
This is discourse is not meant to bifurcate Christians into ordinary and super Christians. That dichotomy is false; we are each called to obedience. Yet, I think it is clear that our calls may, indeed, be radically different, and some (Paul, Francis, Theresa, to name only a few of many) may be called to be holy, suffering, wanderers, in ways above the common lot. In a conversation last night with my good friend Kraus, we each wondered whether we thought we were more likely to be like Frodo or Sam. The answer we each gave to that question ultimately is not so important. What is important is that we each accept whatever call we are given with obedience.
Shire Gossip Concerning Sam
And did some laugh to hear the Gaffer's son
So named? How could one born to earth and root
And sod claim such a name? Such names are won.
And only through great toil come to their fruit.
Why should a gard'ner ever tend to more
Than to roots of glorious taters. Thanks be
For those, and fruit and flow'rs. So why put store
In more, in your fancies wild and airy?
Dear, simple Samwise you, of all, should know
Strange, wondrous weeds will grow from wand'ring seeds.
Lad, be planted here. Think of only how
To care for Roses. Have no other need
For wizard dreams and mountains cold and Elves,
For old, fool Hobbits who forget themselves.
S A M W I S E
Gandalf to Samwise at the Grey Havens
Dear, Samwise, you now see you are well named
True wisdom ever shoots from lowly roots
Of those who faithful stand and seek no fame
You now belong to taste its well-earned fruits.
Your love of tree and earth, all living things,
Of holy Elves and song, and wizard tales,
Your guileless keeping of the guilty ring,
Your simple wisdom praised in Lorien's vale,
By Lorien's glorious Lady and her gifts,
Bring to the Shire its Healing and its Rest.
With Rose and Oak now golden Mallorn lifts
Its leaves to bless and Elanor, gold-tressed,
Your joy begins. So, Ringbearer, through thee
To Iluvatar may praise and glory be.
Posted by jackdas at 9:10 PM
October 18, 2004
riding an elevator alone
they are not meant to go fast
not the best ones at least
but rather get there slow
like a meander down a path
their meander is the path
made new each winding trip
made new with each finding
with each sucked down sip
of joy
but sometimes
they are just this
fast runs down well known hills
with heart and stomach thrills
from speed and secrets
quick joyous hits
of serendipity
but now
i simply ride alone
and contemplate the empty space
with wise and frugal lips
that sadly smile and think
itÕs such a waste
Ah, snogging! Sigh...
Posted by jackdas at 1:11 PM
October 17, 2004
Ringbearers
Smeagol 
Gollum
For a seminary class I took on Tolkien, we were permitted great latitude for our final project. It could be a formal paper or something more in the realm of creative writing. I chose to write poems on the Ringbearers in the the Lord of the Rings. In the Lord of the Rings, not counting the Elder Days, there are four ringbearers. Three we are familiar with because they are are the heros; Bilbo, Frodo, and Samwise each bear the ring for a time. The saddest "ringbearer," though, is Smeagol. He does not "bear" the ring out of goodness, as his desire to possess it for himself rules him. However, in a very real sense he bears the ultimate effects of the ring in ways that the others only begin to feel. The true cost of the ring is bourne out tragically in his spirit, mind, and body.
For Bilbo, Frodo, and Samwise, I crafted two sonnets each, one for before they took the burden of the ring and one for after they had endured and its destructive pull. For Smeagol, there was no "after" sonnet, but only the descent into Gollum and death. In the Lord of the Rings, we get whispers that Gollum may still be able to be redeemed. When I first read the books, I so hoped he would be. My sonnet envisions an imaginary speech either given to him by his mother after he first acquired the ring or perhaps a pleading by Gandalf in his firm but benevolent imprisoning of him.
S M E A G O L
My dear Smeagol, indeed, you still are dear
To me, my son, please hear me if you may.
Turn from the Dark, from things that crawl in fear
Of Light into the earth. Look to the Day,
Though it may hurt you for a while. Repent
Of whatever deed it is that chills your heart.
Warmth will return; the Daylight is not spent.
My son, see Light again. Come take your part
Again in wholesome meals, in wholesome talk
Around the table. I will make amends
If you will but start; just begin the walk
Towards your healing. There are much worse ends
My dear son, than to feel chastising pain.
Smeagol, repent. Come back to love again.
G O L L U M
Posted by jackdas at 1:32 AM
October 14, 2004
Watching Hoosiers in the Himalayas
Well, I might as well start with the best I've got (in my estimation at least). I was in Pakistan twelve years ago. It was my day off. It was dark and cold and I was watching Hoosiers in an empty classroom. My family was on the other side of the world in the Midwest, both of which, I would soon learn, I loved more than I knew...
Watching Hoosiers in the Himalayas
I never thought I would ache for Illinois.
Especially here in this cherished place,
Amidst these swaying pines that whisper joy,
Of windswept hills and cold alpine spaces,
Amidst these pines that wreathed in monsoon mists
Transform the world medieval once again,
That silent stand like monks in sacred trysts.
Yet in this cherished place there comes this pain
For rich, dark, furrowed fields a world away
For harvest leaves that dying golden fall
On silent walks of silent towns that stay
More silent still when winter carpets all
And winter snowdrifts sweep, and families keep
To glowing houses. I watch this screen and weep.
Posted by jackdas at 8:08 PM | Comments (3)