Friday, September 27, 2013
I inherited three things from my grandfather — a gun, a bust of Robert E. Lee, and a globe. The latter, faded and dusty, a large swath of the Pacific Ocean missing where the cardboard peeled away after years of sitting in a basement, shows a world that lasted less than a year. There's no date but the Mali Federation, a union of Senegal and Mali, existed for only three months in 1960. But here it is indelible like the Aden Protectorate, Dahomey, Australian Papa New Guinea, Spanish Sahara, the United Arab Republic. How like our literatures, these records of brief unions, of governments that split apart, of a world once cohesive but now a memory. But there is something to it, dear reader, to say we were here, this was and it left a mark.
Monday, September 16, 2013
Tonight I walked down the frontage road to Shady Beach and sat and read a friend's poems. I looked up after reading and noticed what I hadn't before — the trees on the nes were starting to turn, tips all burnish and russet. The sun was under the trees but it was still light and a frail moon was ghosting at the horizon's edge. It was so beautiful that I thought of running home to fetch my camera so I could send a picture to you, my dearest reader. But we can't live like that, you and I, recreating presents, packaging memory. So I sat and watched the sky for a while and wished you were here.
Sunday, September 15, 2013
The two years of the Lenten Psalm Translation Contest, held here on this blog, have garnered submissions of great beauty and variety. Winners and runners-up have taken their pieces on to Image Journal, The Missouri Review, A-Minor Magazine, and other publications. This year's winner, Jen Hinst-White, submitted her winning psalm sandwiched in an essay about miscarriage. Reading her submission, I experienced awe - in the original sense of the word. I was humbled to be complicit in the creation of something so weighty and beautiful; and I was moved to a great silence of understanding, remembering the days surrounding the loss of my own daughter.
Jen's full essay appeared recently, in two parts, on the Image Journal blog, Good Letters. You can read Hinst-White's full essay at Good Letters - part one, part two. And her psalm appears below.
To the Pilot Bridegroom
after Psalm 25
At your hangar door I toss me: a paper plane.
Bring me in from the rain—take me ragged, and keep me
all clear of the suck of the great turbines
Collect me and read me, wee stormied scrap,
and scrap those still scrapping us windward,
Don’t forget. Fold aright, and write New on my wing—
make limp paper sing—here, then, the wait—
but love’s side-lying
Eight guides all your flights. Right? Remind me. Remind me.
Find me kindly. Not back in my writhing, wriggling loose of my binding—
forgive me, still wild—
God of the Polestar. Pilot Bridegroom. Pied Guider.
He gathers scorched ribbons for the tails of his kites.
If he finds paper squares, he folds cranes for his skies,
and so newsprint shares airspace with stars.
It's not easy being an American abroad. Between being peppered with questions about politics and having your feet stick off the en...
After graduation, Christopher and I left Chicago in the van from our recently defunct band and set out on the ghost road to California -- tw...
The auto-detect feature of Google Translate identifies Faroese as Icelandic. That's understandable, as Faroese and Icelandic share uniqu...