For the Falling Man

"...falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling,

like the descent of their last end,

upon the living and the dead. "

Today, I was asked by my principal to review a poem that a young man at our school had composed  as a remembrance of 9/11 to be read over our public address system here at school on Friday morning.  I had never actually met this student until this afternoon.  He explained that he was in the first grade in September of 2001, and just felt he had to write a poem in honor of the day. He also told me that the story of Flight 93 had really left a deep impression on him when he saw it at age 13.  He is now a junior.  We talked about the bravery of so many people who were forced to make decisions on that day. I told him that I personally remember feeling that New York City was really very close when I knew in reality that it would take me over 18 hours to drive there. Each morning I came to school in those days after, I wanted to just go there--not really knowing what I could possibly do to help anyone--but the sense of wanting to let so many there know that I was trying in my own way to help with the leaden weight they must bear was quite overwhelming.  I confirmed  that even now, he just knew he must do this probably for the same reasons. It is because we know we are all "falling through the universe" like so many snowflakes in James Joyce's lines from his story "The Dead."  And because I knew he would appreciate another poet, I shared with the young man Annie Farnsworth's poignant tribute to a man who appeared on the front page of major newspapers* and who is buried in our collective consciousness as we mourn and revere that day in September.

For the Falling Man

I see you again and again

tumbling out of the sky,

in your slate-grey suit and pressed white shirt.

At first I thought you were debris

from the explosion, maybe gray plaster wall

or fuselage but then I realized

that people were leaping.

I know who you are, I know

there's more to you than just this image

on the news, this ragdoll plummeting—

I know you were someone's lover, husband,

daddy. Last night you read stories

to your children, tucked them in, then curled into sleep

next to your wife. Perhaps there was small

sleepy talk of the future. Then,

before your morning coffee had cooled

you'd come to this; a choice between fire

or falling.

How feeble these words, billowing

in this aftermath, how ineffectual

this utterance of sorrow. We can see plainly

it's hopeless, even as the words trail from our mouths

—but we can't help ourselves—how I wish

we could trade them for something

that could really have caught you.

*Click on the title of this post to read a recent article on the photograph of The Falling Man.

My photos (click to enlarge) were taken by the Colonel in the churchyard of

 Holy Trinity at Stratford-Upon-Avon, June 2006.

Sepia Saturday: Face of a Poet

Robert Graves 1895-1985

When a memorial was placed in Westminster Abbey's Poet's Corner on November 11, 1985, poet, translator, novelist, and critic Robert Graves was the only survivor of such World War I greats a Siegfried Sassoon and Wilfred Owen. After a long and distinguished literary career, he died the following month. In her brief notes on him, Natalie Merchant introduced me to the young Robert Graves. My first experience with his writing was his book Greek Myths, and of course I, Claudius from Masterpiece Theatre. I have read his biography of T. E. Lawrence and translations of works I have taught, but I missed his children' s poetry. I must say, some of it is not exactly light hearted, but then not all of childhood is.

VAIN AND CARELESS

Lady, lovely lady,

Careless and gay!

Once when a beggar called

She gave her child away.

The beggar took the baby,

Wrapped it in a shawl,

"Bring her back," the lady said,

"Next time you call."

Hard by lived a vain man,

So vain and so proud,

He walked on stilts

To be seen by the crowd.

Up above the chimney pots,

Tall as a mast,

And all the people ran about

Shouting till he passed.

"A splendid match surely,

"Neighbours saw it plain,

"Although she is so careless,

Although he is so vain."

But the lady played bobcherry, *

Did not see or care,

As the vain man went by her

Aloft in the air.

This gentle-born couple

Lived and died apart.

Water will not mix with oil,

Nor vain with careless heart.

*A play among children, in which a cherry,

hung so as to bob against the mouth,

is to be caught with the teeth.

Graves was wounded so badly at the Battle of the Somme, he almost died. He and Sassoon were young officers in the Royal Welch Fusiliers (RWF). Wikipedia's biography is useful and informative! To hear Natalie Merchant's music set to this poem click here! From this official website, you may also select videos of several other pieces from her new CD. (See my post for June 7.)

For more Sepia Saturday posts click here.

A Milk-White Horse

Equestrienne

See, they are clearing the sawdust course,

For the girl in pink on the milk-white horse.

Her spangles twinkle; his pale flanks shine

Every hair of his tail is fine

And bright as a comet's; his mane blows free,

And she points a toe and bends a knee,

And while his hoofbeats fall like rain

Over and over and over again.

And nothing that moves on land or sea

Will seem so beautiful to me

As the girl in pink on the milk-white horse

Cantering over the sawdust course.

by Rachel Field 1894-1942

Though this may not be the one in Rachel Field's poem, this white horse is one of my favorites from the gallery of work by Heywood Hardy. The name of this painting is "Noonday - Taking a Horse to Water." I hope to take you to the wellspring of Natalie Merchant's new CD Leave Your Sleep. Listen (Equestrienne) and drink the fresh waters of her creative and inspired music set to the words of poets who were writing not merely for the children of their day, but for all who cherish and honor childhood with its mystery, magic, and melancholy.

My younger son picked right up on the hint I dropped for a Mother's Day present after I had heard Ms. Merchant discussing her latest project on NPR back in April. In fact, he had been "reviewing" the music in the days before May 9, and saying, with a huge smile and sparkle in his eyes, "I have a great present for you....I mean GREAT...Do you want it now?" I declined. Even when I did get to open it, I had little time to listen closely and pore over the poems and the commentary featured in the small book which holds the two CD's. Last week, it was vacation time. Though the sun was shining on the Gulf Coast, the gloom of the coming disaster was heavy in the atmosphere...everywhere. When I was not sleeping late or dining on seafood with best friends, or staring more deeply and more sadly at the unbelievable beauty and brightness of the beach at Seaside (as seen in my header photo), I was escaping into this music. And what a thorough escape it is! For anyone who writes poetry or music, or both, this is a must. I suggest you click on the RED link above and allow Natalie to tell you about it. Then try the PINK link for her dramatic presentation of just one of the 26 poems. (You will see other selections from the CD on YouTube as well.) Should you decide to purchase this, you really want the 2 CD version with the book (not the one with 10 or 12 selections). The photographs of the poets along with short profiles are both eloquent and scholarly. Guess which mother and son have tickets to Natalie's August concert in Atlanta?

'Tis Sweet to Know...

" 'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark

Bay deep mouth'd welcome as we draw near home;

'Tis sweet to know an eye will mark

Our coming, and look brighter when we come! "

Lord Byron

When Cameron took this sweet portrait of Gracie, he had it printed up in a sepia tone. It isn't very old, but it had to be the image for today! I know you have seen this quote more than once on my blog -- I think it is still in the sidebar somewhere--but today I guess you might say it is more about a role reversal here at Graystone. Gracie has been a patient for several days at the AU Veterinary Hospital. She had a lesion removed from her mouth last month. It was a fibrosarcoma: Not good! The CT scan showed little evidence that the cancer had spread. So, on Wednesday the surgeon removed a section of bone from her mandible with a hope of getting a clear margin. The staff of resident doctors and student interns do a really fantastic job in the ICU and call several times a day. Yesterday, the first calls reported how that she was having a lot of pain, and that she was receiving pain meds. But the last call of the day in late evening was that she seemed to be feeling much better and should be coming home tomorrow. Well, that tomorrow is here, and I will be going to collect her at 11:00 this morning. That is Nurse Lucy on the left. Nurse Paddy (our other spaniel), Head Nurse Deusey (the cat---think Nurse Ratched) and I are all ready for her. Guess who will be boohooing, if not baying, a deep mouthed welcome once she is draws near home!!

"I once was lost..."

Matthew Ryan Bedford
November 6, 1975 - November 18, 2009

"Through many dangers, toils, and snares
I have already come,

'Tis Grace that brought me safe thus far

and Grace will lead me home."

We each may have known that ominous ringing of a telephone--too early in the still darkness of a morning --the modern version of the knelling of a village's chapel bell--that stirs the heart with dread. Thursday morning, my niece so devastated she could barely talk, delivered the news of the death of her youngest brother, Matthew. Could it be any worse? Circumstances added extra agony to this story. After rehab and many weeks of being drug free, with the help and constant support of his devoted mother (my sister), his darling wife, and the joyous presence of their two year-old daughter, Matt faltered; it was a fatal lapse. After a frantic afternoon stretching into late night and a missing person's report, Matt was found slumped over in his car, dead from a drug overdose.

At his funeral yesterday, Father Wells led a Holy Conversation rather than delivering a sermon as part of the Burial of the Dead Rite I from the Book of Common Prayer. He stated that this sort of tragedy calls on each of us not to judge Matthew, but rather to understand that addiction is a terminal illness. It affects everyone, not just the user. It can be rigorously managed, but it is never cured. He reminded us too, that we must focus on the bright day represented by the banner (in the photo) which is draped over his coffin and know that he is now at peace, never to suffer the scourge of addiction again. He then invited anyone present to share a story or just thoughts on the life of Matthew. Many people spoke and told precious stories and made heartfelt comments. His wife stood, looked at the entire gathering and told us how he was a good, kind, and generous man who loved everyone present just as she knew we loved him. It was one the bravest acts I have witnessed in a long time.

After the service ended, Matthew's nephew, Zachary age 18, sang his very soulful and tender rendition of "Forever Young" by Bob Dylan. With that, we each made our first steps toward healing our many broken hearts.

'I borrow from Emily Dickinson when I say, it is the 'Hour of lead.'

However, it is this poem that best expresses the past few days spent with my family.

The bustle in the house

The morning after death

Is the solemnest of industries

Enacted upon earth, -

The sweeping up the heart,

And putting love away

We shall not use again

Until eternity.

Gentle Heroes

Armistice Day

The Eleventh Hour, Eleventh Day, Eleventh Month

Then ...the Captain March 1970

with his Miracle Tail Rotor Blades

which returned his crew and those they rescued

to safety .

*******************************************
To all Vietnam Veterans,

welcome home!

***************************************

Thanks to my son...

Operation Enduring Freedom

& Iraqi Freedom

We are so blessed that you will be here this Christmas!

**********************************************************

Thank you Colonel,

for your service and your heroism!

Yes, these and a few dollars these days will get you a cup of coffee at Starbucks!

(That's all he ever said about them for years....but I know better.)

Hardest earned ...

43 Air Medals

Bronze Star

Distinguished Flying Cross

(click on photo to enlarge)

********************************

Happy Veterans Day

and a heartfelt thanks to all of our men & women

who have served and sacrificed

**********************************************

IN FLANDERS FIELDS

John McCrae
1915

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead.

Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

Canadian John McCrae was not satisfied with this poem, and tossed it aside. A fellow officer saved it, sent it to several publications. It became the most famous poem of World War I. Even so, it has that powerful quality to transcend its time and place. The message is always the same: a soldier survives and tells the story of those who did not. How can we possibly understand the depth of feeling -- the grief -- and yes the guilt many veterans continue to bear all because they survived? Yes, there is glory, but many veterans say it pales and is hollow when they remember the "gentle heroes" who never returned.

When my husband returned from Vietnam, among his personal treasures was a manila folder of several poems composed and typed by his co-pilot, Michael. I read them over and over...and so did many people over the years. Michael died on the very day my husband was returning to the Central Highlands from his R&R in Hawaii. Michael had gone out on a rescue mission, and his helicopter took enemy fire and exploded in flames. No bodies were recovered, and he remained on MIA status for many long years. One poem, written only two months before he died, poignantly echoes the call to remember...

If you are able,

Save for them
A place inside of you

For the places

They can no longer go...

Be not ashamed
To say you loved them

Though you may or

May not have always

Take what they have left

And what they have taught you

With their dying

And keep it with your own...

And in that time
When men decide and feel safe

To call the war insane,

Take one moment

To embrace those gentle heroes

You left behind.

by Major Michael Davis O'Donnell
January 1, 1970

(Click on the Title Line of this post to visit the

In Flanders Fields Museum)

Just Like Romeo & Juliet

I grabbed a few of my Shakespeare props and had a little birthday cup of tea for the Bard accompanied by one of the first blooms from my son's little rose garden. Naturally, I turned to some of my Shakespeare and D. S. Pearson lines. D.S. is sort of my poetry portmanteau. We can have a discussion on a poem or a poet that lasts months.

Here is yet another of his creations ...a new take on one of Shakespeare's stories...

Quantum Shakespeare

say the universe explodes

or implodes

or is ripped apart

because

star-crossed

sub-atomic particles

dare

to

profess their love...

d.s. pearson

'09

"I can see him renting a room, destitute, working on a scarred desk, and writing with a quill. He probably wanted a bath, but wrote instead," said D.S. of writing this next poem.

Bard of Avon

Words

I reverentially consume

first

flowed from a quill

dipped into an inkwell

in a

rented room

beside a river

d.s. pearson

'09

Tonight as we discussed how we continue to be held in awe and inspired and always moved by his language, we wondered if the people of Shakespeare's time understood the loss when he died on April 23, 1616. I have heard the following lines used at weddings and funerals. But for this anniversary of his birth and his death, and to think "reverentially" on the writer who continues to eclipse all others, these lines we give back to the writer himself: He -- the Romeo....we --the Juliet....

Give me my Romeo; and when he shall die

Take him and cut him out in little stars

And he will make the face of heaven so fine

That all the world will be in love with night

And pay no worship to the garish sun.

from Romeo & Juliet Act III scene ii

A Poem for Earth Day. Read Aloud, Please.

My one contribution is Avebury, England, 2006.

And here are more photographs from my Ukrainian exchange student.

Click on all photos to enlarge so you can find hidden creatures,

or just see them better

A froggie





Now say a little prayer of thanks for Father Hopkins and our sweet Earth.

Gerard Manley Hopkins 1844 - 1888

Photographer unknown


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 all trades, 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 God.

Another First...and more from D.S. Pearson

A new azalea...

A very close closeup of my woolly thyme....such delicate tiny leaves

And the peppermint ivy leaf geranium....

A fairy boy in the purple pansies...

Peppermint petals of an ivy leaf geranium...

A few more peppermints...

An ancient azalea shrub blooming once again...

These are my first digital blooms! I have been practicing today.

(Click on any photo to enlarge. The thyme is especially detailed up close!)

___________________________

Here are few more poems from my dear friend....D.S. Pearson

There is a full moon tonight...

Watcher

The ashen surface of the moon

mocks me as it glides

across the night

It knows me...

this ancient thing.

2009

Waiting

Barefoot in the wee hours of the morning

I listen to the darkness

and

the turning of the earth

Stars

rush westward

Robins sleep...

and dogs sit patiently

beside me

2009

"O rare Ben Jonson"

One of my favorite professors always encouraged his students to regularly memorize a poem. Even before my younger son was born, I carried Ben Jonson's "On My First Sonne" around in my head...and in my heart. It has long been my inclination when walking through graveyards to study the number of young children that a family may have lost. The despair and power of human existence seem to float upward from the headstones. I find it at once tragic and inspirational. It was not a conscious decision to directly address my son (see the poem from March 28 post), it just seemed to flow out in first person. Now I realize, that I was composing my own joyous counterpoint to Jonson's heartbreaking elegy to his first born son who died on his 7th birthday. After reading just this poem, it is easy to appreciate the inscription marking Jonson's tomb in Westminster Abbey where he rests in Poets' Corner next to Chaucer: "O rare Ben Jonson"

The portrait is by Abraham Blyenberch, circa 1617.

On My First Son

FAREWELL, thou child of my right hand, and joy;
My sin was too much hope of thee, loved boy.
Seven years thou wert lent to me, and I thee pay,
Exacted by thy fate, on the just day.
O, could I lose all father now! For why
Will man lament the state he should envy?
To have so soon 'scaped world's and flesh's rage,
And, if no other misery, yet age?
Rest in soft peace, and asked, say, "Here doth lie
Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry,
For whose sake, henceforth, all his vows be such
As what he loves may never like too much."

Introducing D.S. Pearson

The poet is a dear friend. Godfather to my older son. Best man in my wedding.

He has been writing poetry since high school. By permission of the poet, I present to you....

redbird

morose emptiness
is

sometimes rendered

nil

by

a

Cardinal

on

one's windowsill

D.S. Pearson 4-15-08

Paininting by John James Audubon

In Honor of the Day...More Irish Poetry

After several rainy, cold days, Sun came out today as if he knew I had been feeling rather cloudy. Thank you, Sun! For my brave and oh so talented followers, let me just say that I have experienced a huge wave of both excitement at working on my blog and overwhelming insecurity every time I read one of yours. My work schedule has barely a space for much MeMe activity. (Derrick, that is a term for the many Facts About Me Lists, I presume?) Work with me here as I am often trapped in my own little world from which I am eagerly attempting escape! I have had too many ideas for this post, but Tom's comment helped me settle on one: More Yeats. I was doing a little research on the soon to be extinct species, the redhead, when I came upon this one painted by Sir John Everett Millais in 1871, The Martyr of the Solway. Margaret Wilson was actually Scottish and was drowned for not swearing allegiance to the King's rather than her church. Check out wiki for more details. Her beautiful face made me think of W.B. 's muse, Maud Gonne. As the old rock'n roll song goes, "She put the hurt on him!"

Never Give All the Heart

Never give all the heart, for love

Will hardly seem worth thinking of

To passionate women if it seem

Certain, and they never dream

That it fades out from kiss to kiss;

For everything that's lovely is

But a brief, dreamy, kind delight.

O never give the heart outright,

For they, for all smooth lips can say,

Have given their hearts up to the play.

And who could play it well enough

If deaf and dumb and blind with love?

He that made this knows all the cost,

For he gave all his heart and lost. 1905

Yeats

This is the first of several paintings of the poet by Augustus Johns. It is from the Tate Collection. Naturally, W. B. Yeats is haunting my newly created Keeping Room today. It may be that part I played in The Hour Glass during college or all the hours I poured over his works during an NEH Seminar for Teachers one summer, but he just will not rest until he is honored here. I do love his work. The critics were sometimes cruel, but he gave it right back in certain poems. Anyone who has ever been afraid to go public with an original poem should gain courage from this one:

A Coat

I made my song a coat

Covered with embroideries

Out of old mythologies

From heel to throat;

But the fools caught it,

Wore it in the world's eyes

As though they wrought it.

Song, let them take it,

For there's more enterprise

In walking naked. 1914

Edmund Burke (1729-97)

This is the week to celebrate all that is Irish. Today I have been re-reading The Dubliners and this evening listening to Christy Moore on Georgia Public Radio's The Green Island Radio show out of Savannah. So for something a little different, I offer a suggested reading for those who love language from Edmund Burke's A PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO THE ORIGIN OF OUR IDEAS OF THE SUBLIME AND BEAUTIFUL, Part V: Sections VI & VII wherein he explores "How WORDS influence the passions" and "POETRY not strictly an imitative art." This work is very rich in ideas on the nature of poetry, both reading it and creating it. I found it in my three volume set of THE FIELD DAY ANTHOLOGY OF IRISH WRITING.