Category: Poetry

Simeon

From W. H. Auden’s For the Time Being: A Christmas Oratorio, musings of the Righteous Simeon, who held the Christ child at the temple and then prayed the Nunc Dimitis: “Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace, according to Thy word; for mine eyes have seen Thy salvation, which Thou hast prepared before the face of all people, a light to enlighten the gentiles, and the glory of Thy people, Israel. Continue reading “Simeon” →

Poetry roundup

Part of an occasional series, I point to poetry I’ve encountered and enjoyed in one way or another.

Most of this material is copyrighted, and I don’t care to get permission for use, so I’ll link to Writer’s Almanac, which did have permssion.

Let’s start with love and romance.

Poor Gerald Locklin can hardly get started with a new girl without an old friend showing up, but as he says, “I’ve Always Enjoyed Her Sense of Humor.”

In Complaint, James Wright utters sentiments that make me cringe. I guess it’s a sort of love, but a sort I’d sooner avoid.

In Half-Rack at the Rendezvous, William Notter paints what for me is a vivid, frank and believable picture of two passions and their connection: devouring ribs and “delirious honeybees working wisteria” (wink, wink).

Having been married for nearly 40 years now, I am touched by Epithalamium, by Thomas Lynch, involving the end of a marriage after some 70 years.

Personal relations short of love.

William Notter in Breakfast at the Road Runner Cafe does some people watching a feebly reaches out. What’s he supposed to do? Charles Bukowski’s the finger reminds us of how common a less friendly approach has become. It puts me in mind of how much public affairs coverage proceeds these day: Fox fingering MSNBC and vice-versa.

Reverie and despair.

In I Ride the Greyhound by Ellie Shoenfeld, the locutor is not alone, but (it seems to me) might as well be. Dorothea Tanning in Secret chooses to be alone when she need not be.

Three male poets reflect variously on aging and death:

  • Brotherhood (X.J. Kennedy) is somber, but I’ve been there, too.
  • Maybe if the Jobholder (David Ignatow) would tune in one of the bread and circus channels instead of reading some stupid book, he wouldn’t have noticed what he has noticed.

My final choice seems the most theological and sacramental too me: The Gardener by Ken Weisner.

Your taxonomy of these poems might vary.

P.D. James, The Children of Men

Netflix a while back sent me (at my request) the 2006 film adaptation of P.D.James dystopian The Children of Men. I actually had time to watch it tonite.

I’m not really into thrillers, and there was too much of that for my taste. There was also way too much of “the F word,” mostly in its adjectival form. Surely with a bit of imagination they could have conveyed “these are desperate revolutionaries” or “these are fascist, xenophobe soldiers” some other way. (The nudity is not erotic and is, in my judgment, necessary.)

But the premise was a fascinating one.

Alfonso Cuaron directs this Oscar-nominated film version of P.D. James’s classic dystopian novel, a futuristic drama set in a world in which humans have lost the ability to reproduce and subsequently face certain extinction. Things change when a single woman mysteriously becomes pregnant, prompting a conflicted government bureaucrat (Clive Owen) and his ex-wife (Julianne Moore) to join forces to protect her. Michael Caine co-stars.

Overall, I recommend it. Just be sure the kiddies are down for the night, and don’t play it too loud.

While at the Oasis tonite, I picked up Bishop (now Saint) Nikolai Velimirovich’s Prayers by the Lake and read two gems, XXXVIII and XXXIX. After watching the movie, how could I not notice the opening of XXXIX?:

Do you know, my child, why the clouds are closed when the fields are thirsty for rain, and why they open, when the fields have no desire for rain?
Nature has been confused by the wickedness of men, and has abandoned its order.
Do you know, my child, why the fields produce heavy fruit in the springtime, and yield a barren harvest in the summer?
Because the daughters of men have hated the fruit of their womb, and kill it while it is still in blossom.
…

(Note that (1) this is a prayer, and not necessarily literal; (2) if taken literally, it says that our sin confuses nature, not that God screws up nature to punish us; (3) that point 2, and the prayer in its entirety, is evocative of how Orthodox Christianity differs from many other Christian traditions.)