Paschal Moon: superfluous hair

Can’t have National Poetry Month without e.e. cummings. And today I’m thinking of how he might describe our current leadership. Yep—he’s got us covered.

a salesman is an it that stinks Excuse

Me whether it’s president of the you were say

or a jennelman name misder finger isn’t

important whether it’s millions of other punks

or just a handful absolutely doesn’t

matter and whether it’s in lonjewray

or shrouds is immaterial it stinks

but whether it please itself or someone else

makes no more difference than if it sells

hate condoms education snakeoil vac

uumcleaners terror strawberries democ

ra(caveat emptor)cy superfluous hair

or Think We’ve Met subhuman rights Before

Sorry-not sorry; that superfluous hair just made me think of these photos from Thursday's junket to West Virginia, which the Kleptocrat would hate for us to share.

And then there’s this one, which describes Li'l Donnie Two-scoops, his aides, his entire Cabinet and every GOPig in Congress:

a politician is an arse upon

which everyone has sat except a man

Paschal Moon: Anything can be

When Shel Silverstein died of a heart attack in 1999 at age 68, he left a body of work that encompassed cartoons, poems, movie scripts, songs, television shows and miscellaneous stuff that filled in the spaces. His output also spanned adult and child audiences. It’s hard to imagine any child growing up in the late 20^th Century not having wrapped their mind around Where the Sidewalk Ends, or The Giving Tree, at the very least.

I’m going to give you a very small idea of his range, starting with this iconic cartoon he did very early on for The New Yorker:

And a few short ones that speak to me right now:

“Listen to the MUSTN’TS”

Listen to the MUSTN’TS, child,

Listen to the DON’TS

Listen to the SHOULDN’TS

The IMPOSSIBLES, the WON’TS

Listen to the NEVER HAVES

Then listen close to me—

Anything can happen, child,

ANYTHING can be.

 “Masks”

She had blue skin.

And so did he.

He kept it hid

And so did she.

They searched for blue

Their whole life through,

Then passed right by—

And never knew.

“Underface”

Underneath my outside face

There’s a face that none can see.

A little less smiley,

A little less sure,

But a whole lot more like me.

Paschal Moon: the desperate die expensively

The shot that killed Martin Luther King, Jr., 50 years ago yesterday triggered riots in cities across the United States. One of the most violent and destructive was here in the District They Call Columbia, another was in Chicago. The assassination was the spark, but kindling had been laid over decades of Jim Crow, economic inequality and political suppression.

Pulitzer Prize-winning poet Gwendolyn Brooks wrote “RIOT” following the days of rage. In it she uses imagery of thoroughbred breeding to describe the pedigree of her privileged white protagonist (is there a more WASP-y name than John Cabot? Even though the great navigator was actually Venetian?). You feel his utter horror at seeing these, these uncontrolled Negroes, swarming down the street that clearly by rights belongs to him and his kind.

It’s so horrifying that he’s momentarily forgotten his white suburban enclave, his fine-crafted English car and his whiskey…

Well—you have a look.

“RIOT”

A riot is the language of the unheard.

—Martin Luther King

John Cabot, out of Wilma, once a Wycliffe,

all whitebluerose below his golden hair,

wrapped richly in right linen and right wool,

almost forgot his Jaguar and Lake Bluff;

almost forgot Grandtully (which is The

Best Thing That Ever Happened To Scotch); almost

forgot the sculpture at the Richard Gray

and Distelheim; the kidney pie at Maxim’s,

the Grenadine de Boeuf at Maison Henri.

Because the Negroes were coming down the street.

Because the Poor were sweaty and unpretty

(not like Two Dainty Negroes in Winnetka)

and they were coming toward him in rough ranks.

In seas. In windsweep. They were black and loud.

And not detainable. And not discreet.

Gross. Gross. “Que tu es grossier!” John Cabot

itched instantly beneath the nourished white

that told his story of glory to the World.

“Don’t let It touch me! the blackness! Lord!” he whispered

to any handy angel in the sky.

But, in a thrilling announcement, on It drove

and breathed on him: and touched him. In that breath

the fume of pig foot, chitterling and cheap chili,

malign, mocked John. And, in terrific touch, old

averted doubt jerked forward decently,

cried, “Cabot! John! You are a desperate man,

and the desperate die expensively today.”

John Cabot went down in the smoke and fire

and broken glass and blood, and he cried “Lord!

Forgive these nigguhs that know not what they do.”

Paschal Moon: Harsh and violent grace

Fifty years ago today, the Reverend Doctor Martin Luther King, Jr., was assassinated at the Lorraine Motel in Memphis. He had gone there to support the strike by black sanitation workers protesting gross inequities in pay and provisions for safe working conditions.

The evening before, King had delivered a speech in which he called (as he always did) for unity, economic actions, boycotts and nonviolent protests. “The issue is injustice,” he said. “The issue is the refusal of Memphis to be fair and honest in its dealings with its public servants, who happen to be sanitation workers.”

It’s actually so painful to read his words from 50 years ago, and know that they describe the events of today.

“Somewhere I read of the freedom of assembly. Somewhere I read of the freedom of speech. Somewhere I read of the freedom of the press. Somewhere I read that the greatness of America is the right to protest for rights. And so just as I said, we aren’t going to let dogs or water hoses turn us around. We aren’t going to let any injunction turn us around. We are going on.”

As someone who called out failures in the system, and urged the country to do better, to be better, King routinely received death threats, and in fact his flight to Memphis had been delayed due to a bomb threat. He also dealt with these realities in his speech.

“Well, I don’t know what will happen now. We’ve got some difficult days ahead. But it really doesn’t matter with me now, because I’ve been to the mountaintop. And I don’t mind. Like anybody, I would like to live—a long life; longevity has its place. But I’m not concerned about that now. I just want to do God’s will. And He’s allowed me to go to up to the mountain. And I’ve looked over. And I’ve seen the Promised Land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the Promised Land. So I’m happy, tonight. I’m not worried about anything. I’m not fearing any man. ‘Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.’”

A minute after 6pm on the night of the 4^th, a .30-06 round crashed through King’s head, and he was pronounced dead about an hour later. He was 39 years old.

Robert F. Kennedy, whose older brother John had also fallen under a sniper’s round not five years before, was campaigning for the presidency; he was flying to Indianapolis when he was told about the assassination. He ignored the notes given him by his speechwriters and spoke from his heart to a largely African-American crowd, who learned about King’s death from Kennedy. He told the audience that he understood their loss and their rage, and he urged them to follow King’s teachings and not turn their pain and fury into violence. In this speech, he quoted a variant of this passage from the Greek poet-playwright Aeschylus’s Agamemnon:

Zeus, who guided mortals to be wise,

has established his fixed law—

wisdom comes through suffering.

Trouble, with its memories of pain,

drips in our hearts as we try to sleep,

so men against their will

learn to practice moderation.

Favors come to us from gods

seated on their solemn thrones—

such grace is harsh and violent.

Riots did indeed break out across the country, but Indianapolis remained calm.

King’s favorite song was “Precious Lord, Take My Hand”. The legendary Nina Simone sang it at his funeral, so I’m giving it to you here, on the 50^th anniversary of our great national loss.

Aeschylus and gospel: my entries for National Poetry Month, Day 4.

Paschal Moon: Fair-lined slippers

I’ve always had a penchant for Christopher Marlowe. In an age teeming with polymaths (Sidney, Jonson, Shakespeare, Spenser...), Marlowe stood out. Poet, playwright, drunkard, spy—he covered the full spectrum. His short life—29 years old when he was fatally stabbed in a barroom brawl—encompassed only six years of literary output, but he made those years count.

Today’s entry for National Poetry Month is Marlowe’s “The Passionate Shepherd to his Love”. It’s a pastoral poem, depicting an idealized countryside, and an idealized love. It’s the sort of thing that Dorothy Parker twisted around a rapier of cynicism.

Contrast the whole rural idyll thing with Sherlock Holmes’s view of country villages, stated most succinctly in “The Adventure of the Copper Beeches”, which was, “They always fill me with a certain horror. It is my belief, Watson, founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside.”

Well—whether you’re thinking dark deeds or just a roll in the hay, Marlowe’s got you covered.

“The Passionate Shepherd to his Love”

Come live with me and be my love,

And we will all the pleasures prove

That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,

Woods, or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon rocks,

Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,

By shallow rivers to whose falls

Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses

And a thousand fragrant poises,

A cap of flowers, and a kirtle

Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool

Which from our pretty lambs we pull;

Fair lined slippers for the cold,

With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and ivy buds,

With coral clasps and amber studs;

And if these pleasures may thee move,

Come live with me, and be my love.

The shepherds's swains shall dance and sing

For thy delight each May morning:

If these delights thy mind may move,

Then live with me and be my love.

Paschal Moon: Learn to fly

Contemplating the redwing blackbird that has become a visitor to my backyard, I was reminded of the Beatles’ “Blackbird”, which was one of the highlights of their iconic White Album in 1968. Technically, it’s a song, but I’m making the lyrics my entry for Day 2 of National Poetry Month.

Paul McCartney has said he wrote “Blackbird” in Scotland, and that it refers to racial tensions in America that year. This makes it perfectly appropriate for our country 50 years on, sadly.

“Blackbird”

Blackbird singing in the dead of night

Take these broken wings and learn to fly

All your life

You were ony waiting for this moment to arise

Blackbird singing in the dead of night

Take these sunken eyes and learn to see

All your life

You were only waiting for this moment to be free

Blackbird fly, blackbird fly

Into the light of the dark black night

Blackbird singing in the dead of night

Take these broken wings and learn to fly

All your life

You were only waiting for this moment to arise

You were only waiting for this moment to arise

You were only waiting for this moment to arise

There are lots of recordings of “Blackbird”, including many by McCartney. But I’ve always thought his voice strains too much on it. So here’s a recording by Corinne Bailey Rae and Herbie Hancock. It’s a White House tribute to McCartney, held in 2010.

(Remember those days, when folks gathered to celebrate the arts in the People’s House; when every event didn’t have to shine the spotlight on the same, bloated narcissist, with everyone present desperately trying to hold onto their sinecure by heaping praise on the pathetic, inadequate git? Ah, good times.)

McCartney came out for that event, of course. You can see his “Hey, Jude” here, if you like. Picture that experience in the White House today.

Gratitude Monday: flashy friend

I’ve had some ups and downs with my backyard bird population. The downs are the bloody grackles—greedy and messy things that gobble seed at a rate of knots, leaving nothing for the other birds. In an effort to discourage them from visiting, I’ve had to lay in a stock of safflower seeds, which they’re not particularly fond of. So they sit on the feeder and shovel the seed out onto the ground, evidently in hopes of finding something else.

It’s a good thing that most of the birds don’t seem to mind pecking at the ground, and they’re also okay with the safflower seed (although I’m sure everyone would prefer the Fine Tunes). I was really worried about the post-grackle empty feeder, but apparently the others are okay with it (except the downy woodpecker). Although it’s also a feast for the squirrels.

But the ups are visits from a red-winged blackbird. This guy is quite skittish, so it took many days before I had my camera close to hand at the time of his appearance and could get a few shots.

(Yes, it is a red-winged blackbird. I’ve seen the flash of red when he takes off, but I’ve not been able to get a shot of him in flight. Evidently, the red can remain hidden until the male is ready to court. Here’s a photo by someone with better luck and skill.)

I don’t know how long my new friend will remain, but I’m grateful for him as long as he chooses to stay. And his relatives are also welcome.

STOP PRESS: Yesterday there were two red-winged blackbirds out on my patio. I could not get a photo of them, but I'm taking this as a hopeful sign.

Paschal Moon: Perfumed power

Well, I’ll be blowed. Here it is April, and National Poetry Month. As today is also Easter (which we kicked off last night with a Paschal Blue Moon), let’s have something appropriate to the day to get us started.

Specifically, a poem called “The Easter Flower”, by [Festus] Claude McKay (1889-1948), Jamaican-born, and a leading light of the Harlem Renaissance. As a young man, McKay left Jamaica to study at the Tuskegee Institute, where he was shocked by the racism he encountered, and chafed under what he described as “semi-military, machine-like” life at the school. He left Georgia to attend Kansas State University, where he was fired up by the works of W.E.B. DuBois.

He embarked on a career of socialist activism and literary efforts in America, Britain and Russia, before returning to the U.S. to become a fixture in Harlem. Late in life he converted to Catholicism. Today’s poem is from 1922, published in his Harlem Shadows, so it predates his conversion by a couple of decades. But you can see that, even as an atheist, McKay was swayed by thoughts of the resurrection.

“The Easter Flower”

Far from this foreign Easter damp and chilly

My soul steals to a pear-shaped plot of ground,

Where gleamed the lilac-tinted Easter lily

Soft-scented in the air for yards around.

Alone, without a hint of guardian leaf!

Just like a fragile bell of silver rime,

It burst the tomb for freedom sweet and brief

In the young pregnant year at Eastertime.

And many thought it was a sacred sign,

And some called it the resurrection flower;

And I, a pagan, worshiped at its shrine,

Yielding my heart unto its perfumed power.

Χριστός Ανέστη