Aach...ye speak like a poet, but ye punch like one too...

PUNCH LIKE A POET

Friday, October 29, 2004
  
Changes come

Just so everyones aware, I'm in the process of doing some tweaking to the template. The design here at PLAP will be a little different, but more importantly I'm finally learning CSS and implementing it into the layout. So bear with me while things are in transition.

EDIT!
I've also bid farewell to Haloscan's comments. From here on out, barring a poor performance on their part, I'll be using Blogger's integrated comment feature. I'm still testing, though, and you can help me out--leave a comment either here or on one of the other posts on this front page informing me that you were able to successfully comment. If you could let me know what browser you're using that'd be a nice touch, too. Gracias.

# posted by Daniel at 6:16 PM.

Wednesday, October 27, 2004
  
Poem

(by the way, I've recently started (again) sending some poems out to journals. If you see poems disappearing from the archives that just means I've submitted them to places that don't print things that are also published anywhere on the internet.)

Been working on this one for months. Not sold on the ending yet, but it's getting close. Thoughts and comments welcome and solicited.


WE CALL THIS A NEIGHBORHOOD

Today I'm watching the trailer across the street
with the four generations of Mexicans shoehorned in,
and the abuelo on the porch steps, coaxing order
from the bicycle in his lap. He's been there
with his wrenches all afternoon, shirtless
under the live oak, tejano lurching from the trailer
like a truck full of accordions run through a fireworks stand.
The landlord pulls up; abuelo shuffles inside and turns it down,
then comes out pulling a shirt over his gut. They talk,
landlord with his thumbs in his jeans at the bottom of the steps,
while boot-brown abuelo squints,
nods at everything, but when the truck's tires knuckle away
on the white gravel he turns the music up
and goes back to his bicycle, poking at the gears
with a screwdriver. He reminds me

the summer I moved to town I worked a week
for a man nailing roofs to houses: he pulls up
and leans on his horn the morning after Independence Day;
I run downstairs with a pair of gloves,
jump in the bed of his truck. Two men sprawled
against the cab, speaking Spanish softly in the pre-dawn dark.
I settle in against the tailgate as the truck accelerates,
rocking us out of town on two-lane backroads, the gray air
rushing over, fog along the river and curling
from stock tanks, cattle nestled
like tamales in the fields, the green land
rolling towards dawn. One of them asks me over the wind
in English, You seen those fireworks last night? I holler back No.
You?. He nods. We parked off the highway and drank beer
and watched them. I wait for him to say more. He looks away.
Fireworks are for speaking of in Spanish.

Now it's Labor Day. The family across the street barbeques;
I hear the huffing traffic of old cars all afternoon,
pulling up and leaving, friends and relatives
mixing in the driveway, pulling cans of beer
from a lukewarm cooler, reunion language
going off like strings of fireworks. I'm inside,
piecing together a poem. Late in the day the doorbell rings.
A man from across the street. I see him sometimes
in the early mornings, running
when the work truck pulls up and honks.
He balances a paper plate heavy with food; when I say Hello?
he pushes it towards me, mutters something
that sounds like Spanish. Can I help you?
Lehbor Day he shrugs, and looks down. I take the plate;
it sags with meats, tortillas, avocado. Not knowing what to say
I say Thank you, then look up, say it again. Gracias.
He meets my eyes long enough to say de nada,
then turns away and jogs down the steps and back
across the street, the bright shadows shifting
across his white shirt. I watch him go,
still holding the door, the heavy plate.

# posted by Daniel at 2:16 PM.

Monday, October 18, 2004
  
Poem

Still thinking about this one. The conceit/metaphor/allegory is a little more "scrutable" than usual, and I'm not sure how I feel about that. Impressions?


MEDITATION FOR OCTOBER

Death's no master--he's the butler
who's been made, though
not made so by myself, to come
and tell me everything he knows.
He's the one I trust the house to,
the one who knows the order
best given to the place. He knows
his place. And when he's done he goes.

And when he comes again
he's not the one comes knocking
to wrestle me from life--he's the silent servant
who moves across the room, who moves
his lips, who whispers there's someone
at the door. I nearly knock him over
in the haste to drop my work,
come running.

(10/16/04)


# posted by Daniel at 8:42 AM.

Wednesday, October 13, 2004
  
News
For we know that if our earthly house, this tent, is destroyed, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. For in this we groan, earnestly desiring to be clothed with our habitation which is from heaven, if indeed, having been clothed, we shall not be found naked. For we who are in this tent groan, being burdened, not because we want to be unclothed, but further clothed, that mortality may be swallowed up by life.
--2 Corinthians 5:1-4
For those who haven't heard, Virginia Nail passed away yesterday morning at 7:30. I spoke to her last week; she told me, "Daniel, I've been praying to the Lord the last two nights for him to take me, but he still hasn't, and I don't know why." I wasn't sure what to say in response to this. It was sort of funny, I thought--millions of people around the world begging God for just a little more time, and here she is, tapping her foot for Him to get with the program.

We went up to see her in the hospital last weekend. She wasn't really talking at that point, but she was awake enough to know we were there. One of her last wishes was that she wanted to die at home; they moved her back into the house Monday morning. She died just less than a day later.

The funeral is Friday at noon. I've been asked to read Proverbs 31:10-31 and Elizabeth Barret Browning's Sonnet 43 at the funeral. My granddaddy, who died in 1986, evidently made it clear to my mom and aunt even when they were growing up that if he died before grandmother he wanted them to make sure that these two things were read at her funeral. It's a strange thing to know that I'll be reading these poems for her on behalf of her husband, who died when I was six. We've never been particularly close as an extended family, but I feel somehow that I'm stepping into some strange and holy office, reading to the dead on behalf of the dead. Half my blood, half of who I am comes from the man and woman I'll be reading to and for.

Confucianism understands the nature of the self much differently than we do in the West. In the latter, we think of the self as a sort of discrete ontological entity; in the former, the self is nothing more (or less) than the center of a series of overlapping relationships among people, especially family. This is at the root of the Chinese practice of ancestor worship--your ancestors are literally part of who you are. And while I certainly don't recommend the practice, I think at this moment I have something of an inkling of why it developed.

At any rate, I'm going to again ask for your prayers for my family this weekend. This wasn't a sad or a tragic death; in many ways it was beautiful, and I'm thankful to have been a witness. Still, we will be grieving and there will some difficult things to do, particularly for my mom and aunt.

May Christ be merciful to you, Virginia; may He bless your eyes and hands. May light welcome and lead you into His rest; may your new name be waiting on His lips.

# posted by Daniel at 6:25 PM.

Tuesday, October 05, 2004
  
Helpful Household Hints

Because I know that's what you all read this blog for.

For as long as I can remember my sister and I have been plagued by dishes. By dirty dishes, that is. I once wrote a poem very loosely derived from my experiences in this ongoing rear-guard action. Dirty dishes have a way of piling up around the house. This is most likely because I'm the designated dish guy, but neither of us, for reasons of temperment, habit, and upbringing are the sorts to just wash dishes when we use them. As a result, the dishes tend to accumulate until there are no more to use. Then and only then do we (by which I mean "I") wash them. At this point I roll up my sleeves and spend a couple of hours putting them in their place.

I should mention that we don't have a dishwasher. Or rather, our dishwasher is of the old "Armstrong" variety (points to you if you get this joke). The dishes stack up--all over the counter, the table...it's gross and fairly depressing when the cycle is at its nadir.

Well, we had an epiphany the other day. We own lots of dishes, due mostly to the fact that we both lived independently before moving in together, and just merged our dishes when we did. Probably a couple dozen plates of various sizes, a dozen bowls, maybe thirty assorted cups, glasses, or coffee mugs, and fifty or sixty pieces of "silverware." The epiphany was this--if we wait until they're all dirty to wash them anyway, why don't we just eliminate all but a few? We won't be doing any more, we'll just be doing them more frequently. Plus, they'll never pile up and we can actually maintain a sanitary kitchen.

So a couple of weeks ago I started boxing up and stashing all the extras. Of daily use items (plates, cups, glasses, utensils) we have kept out four of every kind. And, my goodness, it works. The kitchen has been clean. For two weeks running. That has never happened in our household. Even when we cook there's never more than one sink's worth of dishes, which are easily dispatched at day's end. Plus, they have to be dispatched, since we don't have anything to eat on or with if we don't.

There's probably an important lesson here about the importance of adjusting one's possessions to one's lifestyle and not vice versa. I'll let you draw the parallels, though. This is offered merely in the spirit of helpfulness--if it makes one person's life better I can die a happy man.

# posted by Daniel at 11:31 AM.

Sunday, October 03, 2004
  
Some George Herbert for you

Been re-reading one of my favorite George Herbert sonnets this last week. Thought I'd share.
PRAYER

Prayer, the Churche's banquet, Angels' age,
God's breath in man returning to his birth,
The soul in paraphrase, heart in pilgrimage,
The Christian plummet sounding heav'n and earth;

Engine against th' Almightie, sinner's towre,
Reversed thunder, Christ-side-piercing spear,
The six-dais-world transposing in an houre,
A kinde of tune which all things heare and fear;

Softnesse, and peace, and joy, and love, and blisse,
Exalted manna, gladnesse of the best,
Heaven in ordinarie, man well drest,
The milkie way, the bird of Paradise,

Church-bels beyond the stars heard, the soul's bloud,
The land of spices, something understood.

"The soul in paraphrase"--I love that; makes me smile every time.

Two other things of note:

(1) My grandmother, who I posted about a few weeks ago, has taken a turn for the worse, and it looks like she's got days or weeks as opposed to months. So our family would appreciate the prayers of those of you consider yourselves "prayin' folk" (for that matter, we'd appreciate your prayers even if you aren't prayin' folk--gotta start somewhere, eh?). I may or may not be posting more about this.

(2) My cell phone, which once upon a time walked through fire and came out ringing, had a run-in with the washing machine last Thursday and didn't fare as well in this particular environment. I've got a replacement en route, but all my phone numbers came out in the wash, as it were. So any of you used to getting calls from me might want to shoot me your digits via email (danielpriest@gmail.com is the current frequent use account).

# posted by Daniel at 9:30 PM.