Author: ellen

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A favorite poem from a poet friend

Just for a treat today, here is a lovely poem by my friend June Beisch. This was published in the Harvard Review in 2006 and also appeared online on Verse Daily.

I had the great pleasure of reading with June a couple of months ago at the Concord Library. Everyone thereI enjoyed hearing her read her work and also hearing her use her natural teaching talents in her comments between poems.

In Muir Woods

Last night, a giant redwood fell
    either from old age, disease, or
“sometimes they just give up,” the ranger said.
Listen, I was in the woods, I
    heard it too, like my own death
falling inside me.
Here in the last of the old growth forests
    where some trees are still virginal,
some older than Moses,
I thought, then, of you. You are not the one
    dying, you said to me,
and I quoted to you from Montaigne
that death was not a proper object of fear
    but only the end of life.
What is a proper object of fear, you asked,
and I said death of the heart.
    But life, you said, was
everything. And you were in love
with that beautiful lie.
Sometimes these trees send out
    all their sap at once
making them vulnerable, sometimes,
they grow burls of anxiety
Look, the ranger said to us,
    the bark is so wet because the tree
drinks hundreds of gallons of water a day
from the fog that rolls in
    over the Golden Gate Bridge.
That bridge which is so beautiful and which
holds such promise for tomorrow
    with its blue shimmering bay.
Every day when I see the fog now,
I think of you and then I can almost
    feel the fog cover me with
that enveloping mist, can almost feel
the branches of the redwood
    being kissed by its cold
ministrations. I would, if I could,
stand here all day like these trees, but my
    heart is so sore, it is almost ready to burst,
and I am filled, suddenly,
with a wild and insatiable thirst.

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Just four words

I read the death notice for my friend Carol’s mother in The Times the other day. I never met Carol’s mother and didn’t know much about her aside from the lingering decline of her last few years. But four words in the obit made her come alive in my mind. Not as the 90-something woman who had become the object of care and worry, but as her actual self. She had been, the paper said, a “double-dutch jump-roper.”

What a picture. Four words and she leaped–jumped!–off the page and back into to her own vibrant, active life. Those were just the exact words, like Cartier-Bresson’s exact moment , to capture her image. I could picture her eager, spunky, full of fun, and maybe a little more athletic than was convenient for a young girl growing up in the 1920s or ’30s. I could also imagine her as a likely source of Carol’s own spirit, energy, and courage.

Those four words also made me think, once again, about the power of every single word we choose to write or utter. Just a few can create a whole world. They can bring someone back to life.

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Reading….and then not so much

It’s a wonderful book, beautifully written by an author I admire. So why is it languishing on my night stand while I finish two others plus the Janet Malcolm piece in last week’s New Yorker?

The book in question is “The Adventures of Augie March,” by Saul Bellow. Undeniably a Great Work by an Important Writer. But, more than that, a book I’ve meant to–wanted to–read, looked forward to reading, and now, night after night, can’t seem to get myself to pick up.

One of the reasons I wanted to read the book just now is that I recently read an excerpt of a collection of Bellow’s letters. He revealed himself to be not only, of course, a meticulous and thoughtful writer, but also an astoundingly generous one. Letters to a just-starting-out Philip Roth, to Martin Amis feeling distanced from his father, to a young wannbe at a writers’ conference–uniformly kind, encouraging, large-hearted, helpful.

But now that I’m reading “Augie March,” instead of “just one more chapter” being the mantra that reins me in, it’s the one that’s prodding me forward. What’s going on here?

There is the overwhelming maleness, true. Sometimes it feels like a different language, right from those uber-muscular opening words, “I’m an American–Chicago born.” But I love those words. There is something exhilarating about them. And I got over the Y chromosome factor enough to love the Updike Rabbit books.

There’s that overstuffed quality, with so much going on in each sentence. So much elegant and precise language, but also so many esoteric words and references that are the hallmark of Bellow’s writing. Maybe this is reading not for bedtime, but for a more energetic time of day.

I know I’ll finish it eventually. And I’m sure I’ll love it. And I guess it is convenient to be reading a book that doesn’t seem to compel me to put down everything else. But what makes a book put-down-able or not? And, in the long run, does that interfere with our appreciation of it?

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Mondegreen discourse

Now that the new Supreme Court justice nominee has been announced, we can brace for a summer of non-love. Sometimes our public figures seem to misunderstand each other so consistently it’s hard to believe they’re speaking the same language.

Is it possible they’re simply not hearing correctly? Maybe it’s not anger and bloviation at all, just…mondegreens.

Back in 1954, magazine writer Sylvia Wright invented the mondegreen in an article in which she described how, as a child, she had heard these lines from a 17th century ballad:
“They have slain the Earl Amurry
And Lady Mondegreen.”

Or at least that’s how she heard it. The line is actually, “and laid him on the green.” Wright made the point in her essay that there should be a word for what we mis-hear, and the word she proposed was “mondegreen.”

You’ve heard them, too. That Creedence Clearwater Revival song that, instead of “There’s a bad moon on the rise,” seems to say, “There’s a bathroom on the right.” And the Paul Young song with the immortal line, “Every time you go away, you take a piece of meat with you.” And the Canadian national anthem, “Oh, Canada, we stand on cars and freeze.”

It’s not immediately clear what explains away the current misunderstandings, but I’m thinking there may just be some mondegreens in there. We can pray that things may clear up: Surely good Mrs. Murphy shall follow me all the days of my life….

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Letters

Lately I’ve been thinking about letters. The kind we don’t get anymore. The kind we don’t send anymore. The kind we’re glad someone once wrote and saved. When Mozart was writing his opera “Idomeneo,” for example, he wrote long letters to his father discussing his work. I heard a talk about the opera the other night that included some discussion of how significant the letters were, to Mozart in thinking through and explaining what he was trying to accomplish in writing his first opera and to those who want to understand the work and the process more fully.

I heard that talk soon after I finished reading a book of letters between Wassily Kandinsky and his lover, also an artist, Gabriele Munter. I hadn’t known anything about her, or about their relationship I until I saw it referred to throughout an exhibit of Kandinsky’s paintings at the Guggenheim Museum in New York last winter. The letters in the book were filled with triumphs and–more frequently–self-doubts about work on the part of each, along with talk of their relationship and also very touching encouragement from each to the other.

A few years ago I read another collection of letters, between Edith Wharton and Henry James. Again, with ups and downs and those self-torturing questions about their work and their lives. And, again, the focus on doing the work (James) and on how to get the work done in the face of family demands (Wharton). A reminder that probably the female half of any creative couple still has to figure out what’s for dinner, not to mention who bears and cares for the children. But that’s another discussion.

Anyhow, all this leads me to wonder where the next generation of letters will come from , or if there will be any. Is anyone saving e-mails or text messages? And, if so, what will they tell us? Will it still feel like eavesdropping on a private conversation–in a good way?

In just a few years we’ve become conditioned to dropping everything at the sound of a “you’ve got mail” indicator. But remember the (admittedly less frequent) excitement of finding in an actual mailbox an actual letter with a stamp with handwriting and maybe a few smudges or cross outs, carrying, even invisibly, the fingerprints of an actual person who has written it? Aren’t we still–once we get over the shock–still excited to get one?

Maybe the next Mozart is, right now, sending a txt msg: “gud wrk on nu opra. mnc. l8r” Think someone’s going to save it?

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The Occasional recipe: Sheila’s vegetable soup

The occasional recipe: Sheila’s vegetable soup

It’s my friend Sheila’s birthday and in her honor I offer you her delicious and amazingly easy vegetable soup. It’s a pureed soup that can be served hot or cold, so it’s perfect for these days of unpredictable weather.

Sheila has been one of my closest friends–”nearest and dearest”–since both of us lived in suburban New York and had young children. Before she retired a few years ago, she was an elementary school teacher, the kind everyone remembers as their favorite and the kind who inspires others to become teachers themselves. And she is the kind of person who makes genuine “best friends” wherever she goes. I am lucky to be one of them.

The soup is very forgiving of ingredients and amounts. This is the recipe exactly as she gave it to me. Trust me, you will love it. And it freezes well, too, so you’ll want to make a big batch.

Sheila’s Vegetable Soup

Throw in pot:
string beans (frozen ok)
carrots
tomatoes
onions
mushrooms
zucchini
a lot of parsley and dill
parsnips
turnips
etc.

(I’ve found you can use any assortment and amount of vegetables, but the parsley and dill should always be part of the combination. These are really the key ingredients. )

Cover with water and/or stock. (I always use water.) Check taste for salt and pepper. Cook until tender. Cool. Put through blender or food processor. I just use one of those stick blenders that you can use right in the pot.

Serve either hot sprinkled with grated Parmesan or chilled, without the cheese.
Yum!

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The revelation of “Revelations”

I just came home from seeing a performance by the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater. I hadn’t seen the company in a few years and I had forgotten the power of their signature piece, “Revelations.”

“Revelations” was choreographed by Ailey himself 50 years ago to a group of traditional spirituals. It closes the program of just about every Ailey concert–certainly every one I have seen. And today I remembered why.

It is a profoundly moving piece that offers tribute to the African-American experience. The songs begin with the anguish of “I Been ‘Buked” and “Didn’t My Lord Deliver Daniel (…then why not every man)” and end in a triumphant “Rocka My Soul in the Bosom of Abraham” that brought down the house this afternoon, as it probably does at every performance.

Today at that ending, I found myself crying. Why? It is a touching piece, no question. But what I was seeing in it today, along with its emotional impact, was the artistic achievement. Here is a work half a century old that still has the power to touch people. What I was thinking as I dabbed my tears and stood applauding was that this work is as close to perfection as anyone could hope to get.

When Ailey died in 1989, “Revelations” was already iconic. He must have died with the satisfaction of knowing that he had created something extraordinary, astounding.

Maybe it isn’t absolute perfection. Someone more knowledgeable than I might point to technical flaws or a dancer here and there having a slightly off day. I don’t know. I do know that this powerful work reminded me of what is important in creating art–striving for what is true and pure enough to take root in the hearts of its audience. I’d consider that perfection.

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Paying up

In this morning’s Boston Globe James Carroll has a thoughtful column about “the true patriotism of paying taxes.” His point is that those protesters who take the Boston Tea Party as a rallying symbol misread its core message: taxes are not a burden imposed by an overreaching government. They are, by contrast, an affirmation of who we are as a united people and what we, together, are committed to accomplishing.

I am incensed at the co-opting of that historic name, that patriotic demand. That tea was thrown overboard for the right to have a government. Taxes are what makes it possible to “establish justice, insure domestic tranquility, provide for the common defense, and promote the general welfare.”

Are my taxes used in ways I sometimes regret? Definitely. (One word: Iraq.) In a democracy it doesn’t go your way all the time. But that’s why I vote. A pothole on my street was repaired the other day and the new playground around the corner has become a thriving neighborhood gathering spot. I have benefited from having a public education and from living among predominantly literate fellow citizens. I have benefited from national parks, food safety regulations, armed forces. I wish arts funding were less threatened and I wish library branches weren’t being closed, but I’m hoping that some of my tax dollars will support those things I feel are important.

I will be writing out a tax check that is bigger than I’d like. But paying my share feels only right. It’s my ticket of admission, my membership dues.

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A civil tongue

I never thought I’d look back on the Nixon era as a high water mark in bi-partisan discourse, but watching the health care debate play out over the past months, I have been fascinated and appalled by the level of anger, mistrust, and disrespect.

Given that everyone is trying so hard to be on the side of patriotism, I was interested to see that George Washington might have something relevant to add here. It may have been only an excerise in penmanship (does anyone still do penmanship exercises?) but he copied out something called, “110 Rules of Civility and Decent Behavior in Company and Conversation.”

Here are a few that seem relevant. I present them here in their archaic spelling and punctuation and sexist language, but you get the point:

Every Action done in Company, ought to be with Some Sign of Respect, to those that are Present.

Let your Countenance be pleasant but in Serious Matters Somewhat grave.

Let your Discourse with Men of Business be Short and Comprehensive.

Strive not with your Superiors in argument, but always Submit your Judgment to others with Modesty.

Undertake not to Teach your equal in the art himself Professes; it Savours of arrogance.

Let thy ceremonies in Courtesy be proper to the Dignity of his place with whom thou converses for it is absurd to act the same with a Clown and a Prince.

Wherein you reprove Another be unblameable yourself; for example is more prevalent than Precepts.

Use no Reproachful Language against any one neither Curse nor Revile.

Let your Conversation be without Malice or Envy, for ‘is a Sign of a Tractable and Commendable Nature: And in all Causes of Passion admit Reason to Govern.

Never express anything unbecoming, nor Act against the Rules Moral before your inferiors.

Utter not base and frivolous things amongst grave and Learned Men nor very Difficult Questions or Subjects, among the Ignorant or things hard to be believed, Stuff not your Discourse with Sentences amongst your Betters nor Equals.

Speak not injurious Words neither in Jest nor Earnest Scoff at none although they give Occasion.

When Another Speaks be attentive your Self and disturb not the Audience if any hesitate in his Words help him not nor Prompt him without desired, Interrupt him not, nor Answer him till his Speech be ended.

In Disputes, be not So Desirous to Overcome as not to give Liberty to each one to deliver his Opinion and Submit to the Judgment of the Major Part especially if they are Judges of the Dispute.

Let thy carriage be such as becomes a Man Grave Settled and attentive to that which is spoken. Contradict not at every turn what others Say.

Be not tedious in Discourse, make not many Digressions, nor repeat often the Same manner of Discourse.

Labor to keep alive in your breast that little spark of celestial fire called conscience.

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