Now April once again with showers sweet
Has risen from her bed, and poets meet
Her rising with their verses, seek to heat
The chilly ling’ring winter’s grasp away
From her soft flesh, hope with it they might play
Instead. She smiles, of course; who could gainsay
Her grace what others do to it attract?
She says no word to them, replies not back
To written pleas, not uncouth or with tact,
Nor yet to spoken words they belch aloud,
Guttural cacophonies of which they’re proud;
Children will act thus when they’re allowed,
And she is old, though she is born again
Today, the pilgrimage’s ever-friend.
Leaving aside the stereotypes– Because we really ought to leave aside the stereotypes, There being no excuse for not doing better since There is no excuse for not knowing better, This day and age being what they are, And the information being yet available Despite the efforts of some to purge the archives And of others to artificially intercede– There are serpents in the land that need chasing out, Even if they were welcomed here by colors Not associated with some third king or another
Seems appropriate. Photo by Elias Tigiser on Pexels.com
Is there some saint waiting to stand beside A new Brigid, a new Colmcille, Enslaved somewhere and tending sheep, Looking for a sign that all will be well– Some boars rooting around for acorns and truffles, perhaps– An emblem in the heavens that betokens Glories yet to come when Evil is all chased away?
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One less than a full dozen years have passed And one full year since I’ve sat to the task Of writing verse that will for her praise pass– And she deserves much praise! Her smiling face, The shining heart that underlies it, grace In winning and in losing, all these trace Her path thus far, her way to walk yet light. I still confess I feel for her some fright And worry for her in each falling night, Yet in each day that comes that she remains, Her presence is a balm against the pains The world inflicts, and as she greater gains In love and kindness, knowledge, wisdom, joy, My world is all the better, all upbuoyed.
Quite the setup… Photo by ERIND DERSTILA on Pexels.com
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It is once again the time of year in which the United States pauses to reflect upon and celebrate those who have held what is supposed to be its highest office. It is therefore once again the time of year in which I find myself wrestling with that reflection and celebration, trying not to fall into the traps of hero-worship and hero-denial, that of unthinking veneration or that of reflexively cynical denial of what good has been done in office by many of those who have held it.
I am well aware, living where I do for as long as I have, that there are many who are not pleased to see particular people in the office, now or at any of several points in the past. I am also well aware that nobody who has held the office has been a pure soul; even the greatest to have sworn the prescribed oath of office has erred, has failed, has faltered. The one in this page’s image, often held to be, indeed, the greatest of them…there are reasons that his first inaugural address is little reported, while his second is perennially republished–and there are other issues that do not take much looking to find. With even the best of them thus…nuanced…those who are less must me all the more so–which, again, does not take much looking to find.
I know I end up being a contrarian much of the time, rising to take an oppositional view regardless of the notion voiced. It is not one of my more charming character traits, and I wonder as I look back now how I developed it; the practice has certainly not done me much, if any, good during my life, and it has occasioned no small amount of harm to me, physically and socially. I have been working on it, albeit not with as much success as I would like to have had–but then, I never do do as well as I hope to do. I wonder if, in keeping with that work, I ought to set aside my ruminations, raise a flag, and let it wave in the winds that are blowing through my part of the Texas Hill Country even now, standing to face it with my hand over my heart–for I have never had the right to salute it, as no few have reminded me, and with varying degrees of distaste for me in their voices as they have done so–and simply join along in the celebrations I know are ongoing. How much of a coward and a liar would it make me to do so? How much wiser a man would I be if I did?
Holidays and observances, for me, are more often invitations to reflection and consideration than for celebration. I am not a happy man, as those who know me know, and as those who read me have had ample opportunity to find out. Joy does not come easily to me, and revelry is not much more commonly my guest. I think that much is clear from my writing, as well. Even on so relatively restricted and minor a holiday as this–and it is restricted and minor, even in the mythos of the place it is celebrated–I find myself responding to the invitation once again, turning inward rather than looking outward for what I can praise. I wonder if it would be better for me to do so or if it would be better for me to have more company as a guest.
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On this, his day, there’s this to say: The fight he fought is still a fray And too few children get to play With unlike people, or to pray, And too few people get to say What their hearts bid.
The dream persists, if with delay, Despite what hateful voices say As they seek to incite the fray And bloody make the game they play As they their better selves betray, Such as they have.
Tomorrow, as this posts, will mark fifteen years that I have been a husband. They have been the best fifteen I’ve had yet, and I’m looking forward to more than fifteen more of them. (I mean, I might not make it past 57–not everybody does. But I still look forward to more, even if I acknowledge I may well not get them.)
This is the traditional gift, isn’t it? Image from the maker’s website, here, used for mild parody.
There have been problems, of course; there could hardly not be. There have been strains. Some of them, we knew to expect setting out, my wife and I; we were both in grad school when we wedded, and I was still in the folly of my youth. (I’ve grown out of it; I’m now in the folly of middle age.) Some, we couldn’t’ve foreseen. Some, we’re still managing. None would I want to face without her, and none of the time with her would I give up to avoid them.
Tree though I am not, I can be a little sappy at times. But if not about my wife, then about whom (other than my daughter, whom I only have because of my wife)?
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This isn’t the first time I’ve had a post to this webspace go live on this calendar date, to be sure. (I looked to be sure.) Nor yet was that the first time I’ve written about the day’s holiday; I’ve been a reasonably avid blogger for a while, now, even as it’s more than a little passé that I would be one, and holidays do tend to invite reflection and introspection such as prompt writing. So much I’ve shown, and so much’ve others shown, across not only the years in which blogging has been a thing, but across much of written record. To such a thing I turn again.
Yep. That’s it. Photo by Olena Bohovyk on Pexels.com
I have a somewhat fraught relationship with holidays. Cheer, such as is often demanded, does not come easily to me, nor does it linger long. To my recollection, it never has done either, although I will admit that my memory has limits, seemingly more with each day. (That’s a concern, but one I’ll address another time…if I can remember to do it.) I do and have done better with quiet and thought, with looking on from the edges of things, rather than being in the middle of them and loudly reveling. It makes me a terribly fun person, I know, but I don’t think I’ve often been sought out for fun.
Each year, though, I work to be a little…happier with events, to be a little more present with the people I love. Each year, I think it works a little better. Each year, I try to shut my mouth just a little bit longer, to stifle my misgivings. Each year, I do a little more that might be thought “normal” for a holiday, participate in one more thing that I mightn’t’ve done in a previous year. Each year, I get out a little bit more, spend one more night out and among events being hosted. Each year, I do one more thing to try to create a situation where the people I care about can be happy more easily.
Each year, I don’t do enough. This year’s not different from any other in that regard. But I do what I can, and not only on or about the holiday.
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Dark is this day, though it dawned long since, Saw the light of the lamp lifted on high That some say is swung by a seraph– The blinded and bragging one bold among them– Far from a feast of the fair love-goddess, Unless the love lauded is given to lucre. Those who will gather go forth in greed, Bickering, bargaining, coming to blows In search of a sale to delight them this season– While I must wait for my time in the world yet longer, Keep out of the crush until the day comes That I will fare forth, ere I, too, will feast.
Tis the season… Photo by Ivan Samkov on Pexels.com
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This is not the first time I’ve made a post to this webspace on Veterans Day, having done so here and here previously. As in previous years, I am somewhat…tense…concerning what I would write here, being myself not a veteran and not apt to become one at this point in my life. (If I am needed to fight, being currently aged 42 and with sciatica, never in my life having been able to do a pull-up, the war is long lost already.) I know that the standard line is “Say ‘thank you for your service’ and then shut the fuck up,” and perhaps that is the most fitting thing for me to do–but those who know me know that “shut the fuck up” isn’t really something I have it in me to do often or long. (It’s not a good thing, usually. I suppose we all have our vices.)
(Yes, I know I’m using naughty words. If you have pearls of your own, clutch away, but do kindly keep your hands off of mine.)
Some of the veterans I have known–and I know and have known more than a few, some quite well–have made much of being thanked for their service. Some have made as much about not thanking them for it, saying such things as “it was just a job” or “you don’t know what I did, so you might not want to thank me.” And it’s true; I don’t know. I know there are things that should not be said (under threat of punitive action or because they are even more impolite to discuss than the naughty words I use above). I know, too, that there are things that cannot be said, things to which words do not suffice. Which of them apply, and to what extent, is unclear to me.
Most often, the standard line is delivered in tones of snarling contempt. I’ve heard it enough, both in person and in recordings included in reporting, to know that much well. (It might be imagined easily that I’ve been told it a lot.) Like most, I bristle at it–understandably, if not perhaps always rightly. But if there are good reasons to shut up, a lack of knowledge is certainly one, and the recognition of words’ inadequacy is another. And though I am a person of words–sometimes, far too many or far too coarse–
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Elliott RWI 