Category Archives: knowledge

A calico yarn

I’m looking out for a cardigan sweater,

One that is knitted from calico yarn,

with black onyx buttons and deep empty pockets

to hold all my empathy some would like scorned.

Knitting the line with the purl to the row,

ending then starting afresh just below.

Building a comfort, an armor of sorts

guarding the kindness malignance would thwart.

I’m seeking out a cardigan sweater

something to wear among those filled with blame

for some others because they can’t justify

the differences that we all know but won’t name.

Perhaps, with a cable stitch, crossing the groups,

the pattern gets deeper and as such recoups

a bit more humanity. The color is broad

the transitions combining results aren’t as flawed.

This stitch and that stitch in confidence worn

a cardigan sweater made from calico yarn.

The Creation Hour

~A villanelle~

The creation of art is a mystical power

a mirror of a mind, sometimes tedious or blind

but it’s something I could do for hours and hours.

Pouring a vision into handicraft that’s ours

becomes this tangible model of glitter, matte or kind

the creation of art blossoms its flowers.

Wily, constructions with transcendent powers,

a collage of many lives on as one in time,

and strikes the synapse at a witching hour.

Concluding the whispered poetry with a glower,

a musical interlude, rhymed and intertwined.

I could go on, as I’m musing the power.

That last fabrication, I observe and devour

and with concluding approval, I am so inclined.

The creation of art is a mystical power

and I could continue for hours on hours.

Poet in Mind: Her Accompanying Poetry – Rhoda Coghill

My father was a lifetime member of ACDA (the American Choral Directors Association), and despite his passing several years ago, I’ve continued to receive monthly copies of their flagship publication, The Choral Journal. Even though I am not a choral director, I find it a calming connection to my dad’s interests, in a way, and sometimes I learn something new.


For example, I recently read an article in the August issue of “The Choral Journal” about the problems and possibilities of Irish choral music. The article largely lays out the argument that Irish choral music is sparse due to the non-indigenous nature of “native” choral music in Ireland. This is partly due to Irish music’s historical development of ornamental solo melodies coupled more with unison responses; however, subsequent development is complicated by the cultural implications of British colonialism and the suppression of the Irish language, and the long polarizing battle over religious preferences. That many Irish themes in choral music are largely the work of British composers is unique to this environment.

Within the article, the author identifies that there are a small number of Irish-born composers that deserve more mention in the history of Irish music composition, and in particular, choral composition. One of these – Rhoda Coghill – is who I want to feature in this “Poet in Mind.”

Rhoda Coghill was born in Dublin on October 14,1903. She was the youngest of eight children. Her father was a Scotsman who worked as a printer, and her mother was a Dublin native. Rhoda displayed musical ambition at an early age, beginning piano lessons at the age of eight. She was talented and considered a prodigy. By the time she was 22, she had amassed twenty-one prizes at the Feis Ceoil [fesh-k’yole], an Irish classical music festival to encourage native Irish performers and composers.

Over her lifetime she was a sought-after soloist and accompanist and served as the primary accompanist for Radio Eireann. She was self-taught as a composer, composing piano pieces, selections for voice and piano, and arrangements of Irish folk songs. Arguably, her best-known work was composed when she was twenty years of age in 1923. It was a rhapsody for Tenor, choir, and orchestra, entitled “Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking.” The work uses text from the poem by Walt Whitman. Coghill was a student at Trinity College, Dublin at the time, and being just after the conclusion of the Irish civil war, the work was unable to be performed due to inadequate orchestral resources. The work wasn’t fully performed live until 1990.

As mentioned previously, Coghill composed a number of original pieces based on Irish poetry. She specifically used several George Russell and Padraic Colum poems. Two examples are A Ballad Maker, by Padraic Colum and Refuge, by George Russell. Her poetic tendencies in composition fell toward the romantic and beauty in nature. Her attempts to be taken seriously as a composer were met with a certain ambivalence typical of the period towards women. She had conquered music as a performer and held a respected position as accompanist for the state radio; however, acknowledge of her compositional successes were not to come in her lifetime.

Coghill began writing poetry in the 1940s. She only published two small poetry collections in her lifetime: The Bright Hillside (1948) and Time is a Squirrel (1956) and, sadly, both are out of print. I’ve only been able to find excerpts that were used in the references. She wrote from a musician’s point of view, with phrasing and thematic elements that are expressed in rhythm. Her work was praised as a new voice at the time of publication. Several of her poems are gendered female and express the stark societal expectations of Irish women during the early 20th century: forced into marriage with older, more financially secure men, having very little control over their destiny, and the sense of duty carried. Some reviewers have speculated that her poems were a reaction to her dismay at the lack of recognition for her musical compositions.

With a gull’s beak I cry,
And mount through strong resistance.
My wingspan beats the sky,
Across the high distance,

Circling about your place,
Wheeling to cover your bed
With the curve of space
And the airs overhead;

To keep you, to delay
Spirit in one dear shape;
But spirit will not stay
When it has planned escape,

And life at last will leave
This, and all bodies dead
Those who remain to grieve,
The world they habited.

From “The Young Bride’s Dream.” In “The Bright Hillside”, Rhoda Coghill

Another poem excerpt appears to lament the loss of inspiration, and the hope of finding it elsewhere… perhaps in poetry.


…I’ll find a fruit upon another tree,
One day, so full of juice that I’ll be sucking
Until my very lips drip poetry
Coghill, ‘Lamenting a Sterile Muse’, The Bright Hillside, 1948

I hope to one day find a copy of either of these collections. I am grateful to have happened upon this writer and musician.


Boushel, Kevin, Irish Choral Music: Problems and Possibilities, Choral Journal, August 2024, Vol 63, No. 1, pp 6 – 20
Watson, Laura, Epitaph for a Musician: Rhoda Coghill as Pianist, Composer and Poet, Journal of the Society for Musicology in Ireland, 11 (2015–16), p. 3
Schreibman, Susan, Irish Women Poets 1929-1959 Some Foremothers, Colby Quarterly, Vol. 37, Issue. 4 [2001], Article 4

Outlier

I stared into a pitch-black midnight
to write of emptiness in the dark.
A space of nothingness and naught
from which creation sprung in might.
In the void just out of sight
a moment not content, embarked.
The single flower in the pot,
a point, a speckling shared its light.
The space surrounding it recites
in motionless time when a moment harks.
A melody repeating on the spot,
a verse then opens with a different plight.
This thing with hopes that will ignite
and focus the poet on its spark,
and in the notion we see, besot –
the outlier is neither shy nor contrite.

****

A poem of inspiration to bring in 2022. I wish everyone a safe and happy new year. May it be everything you want and need.

2020, well that escalated quickly.

The year 2020 will likely go into the history books as a watershed moment. It was the best of times and the worst of times, all rolled into an escalating cluster* of human behavior. We have dealt with (sometimes well, sometimes poorly) a global pandemic, political gamesmanship, natural disasters, ignorance, picking at old ethnic and racial discrimination wounds, asking what constitutes a sexual identity, personal loss, and public tragedy.

Perhaps all years hold this mixed bag of mess to some degree, but it was our home-bound-ness and reliance on all things social media that magnified EVERY SINGLE THING. I personally began rationing my social media intake around June of this year, just so that I wouldn’t give myself an ulcer – or worse – a heart attack. Given the state of things, I will likely continue that limit well into 2021.

Given that it is the end of this year, I want to take a moment to review my accomplishments and speak about goals.

What I read:

This year, I set a goal to finish reading 10 books. As of this morning 12/30, I have now finished 11 books. While that may seem modest to some, I consider it an achievement. Being on lockdown for most of the spring/summer helped me achieve that number. As I have mentioned before, I tend to start several books at once, then gravitate to one as time goes by. Not the most efficient way to read, but I’ve always done that. Among the titles I finished are The Club Dumas, by Arturo Pérez-Reverte and The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafón. Both novels are books about books, and I seem to enjoy that. Also included were a couple of revolutionary war biographies, Benjamin Rush and David Hosack. The longest of my read books were Tune In, by Mark Lewisohn (a biography of The Beatles) and Sarum, by Edward Rutherford.

What I’ve cooked:

Like many in the early days of the pandemic, I started baking more. I like to bake anyway, so it wasn’t much of a stretch. I started my own sourdough starter and kept it going for a couple of months. Alas, that had to come to a close because carbs are not my friends.

I also have done quite a bit of smoking/outdoor grilling. in 2020, I’ve smoked 3 briskets, 3 pulled pork roasts, 2 turkeys, reverse seared ribeyes, 2 spatch-cocked chickens, a beef tenderloin, 4 racks of ribs, 2 batches of burnt ends, and smoked cheese.

What I wrote:

2020 was not the most prolific year in terms of writing. I simply didn’t feel like writing for large stretches of time. I feel like the things I did draft were of a better quality than most from years past, so there’s that. I didn’t submit any of it for publication, as my distaste of publication rejection continues. I strive to get feedback on this site to understand how readers perceive what I write, but WordPress readers are largely lurkers. Among the poems I’ve written this year, I’m most fond of April 2020 and A Violette, and most proud of Now is the Time for Harvests and Torte, with my Father. If you have a moment, please read and leave a comment or find something else you like and let me know about it.

Goals for 2021

My goals for 2021 are wide open at this point. I would like to write more and better poetry, be published in a recognized literary journal, and attend a writing retreat/workshop. I would love to be able to travel again with my wife with no concerns about pandemics. I will continue to cook because I love to eat. I will continue to read because books are a great way to escape into my mind.

To those of you who stop by regularly to read, I appreciate you and hope that you will continue to find something here that makes you think or that you enjoy. I wish you all the best in 2021.

Happy New Year!

Now is the time for harvests

Now it is time for harvests and from this I glean:

My small garden teems with tomatoes and poblanos, the plants endured through the dry spells of July and August – seeming to hope against events that their fruit would would come forth.

The window box of basil and sage and thyme is overflowing and beginning to seed, whilst the onions (shallots) share their home with clover – ever-present even after my attempts to weed.

This is a testament to their community and synergy, and I have learned to let them be.

The linden and pear are beginning to yellow and will soon fade and wear – leaving bones to bear the brunt of winter’s ungracious wind, the rattling leaves entrusted to another’s care.

By and by, more near than far – time will rest in plentitude with harvests of what I’ve tended to. I’m hopeful that my days were seeds – that the times I grew and raised and reaped met others’ needs or made amends, or shared a bitter cup whilst making friends.

Astigmatism

I take my glasses off, polish them in the tail of my shirt,
hoping to clear what confounds and conceals.
A bit more vision, a little less dirt
might give my field of view a broader appeal.

Yet, leaders’ actions are smudged – 
their intentions are keen.
Religion’s bright faces are blurred or unclean
and creation’s bright mornings revel unjudged.

The devilish details are hidden from view,
the rhyming and reason seem random and slant.
Perhaps my prescription is old, needs renewed;
I can’t glean the matter between Hume or Kant.

I polish the lenses, each hot breath I wipe,
viewing the world with horizons in fog.
The boundaries less of a contrast in stripes;
this poem, just maybe, a means to unclog.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The wisdom of stick people

We make a step.

Then two. But never alike. There is so much space and planar geometry to consider.

Those drawn from points and lines, making conclusive statements from their biases in plain “right and wrong”

If x then y. Then straight ahead.

They are the ones inconsiderate of the spherical or the enveloping things about intervening axes and overlapped arcs.

Sometimes our way becomes brambled and thick with their branches.

It’s a crowd that crossed our path with felled reasoning, their limbs mangled in the present disagreements, All attempting to move forward.

We can go around it if we choose. We can scale the brush if we desire.

We may assist the ones blocking with compassion, convincing them to move another way.

Yet, the wisdom of stick people is to pile on, despite all admonishments, losing ourselves in the entanglements, rather than consider the spatial options.

We make a step, then two…

The bells of truth

(Sung to the tune of The Bells of Rhymney, by The Byrds)
I believe that he’s guilty,
says the voice of Mitt Romney.
Is there hope for conviction?
Not with the witness restrictions.
Where is the transparency?
Cries the moderate constituency.
Democracy is lost and feigned,
shouts the spirit of John McCain.

Other senators fear it,
repercussions and bitter explicits
and other hateful endictments
from the one that the “christians” assented.
Romney’s faith not dissuaded
from the cause that his oath would not betray.
Lesser ones fear it.
Repercussions quench the spirit.

People, pray for justice,
and relief from this, we’re all disgusted.
Bells would ring, ring, ring
if our leaders would simply do the right thing.
We are troubled, our country is bleeding,
and tempers around us, they are seething.
And when will the truth be
given full weight for all to see?

A conversation

I imagine that what comes after must be better than before,

No constant monitoring of the quality, that is to maintain

with manmade artifices,

of  how beautiful or how healthy we are.

For me, it is not to know. I am here.

But for you, there – passed beyond the walls of this world,

it should be filled with the flavors of wine and honey,

the laughter of the loved and lost,

the passage of infinite moments cast

equally of musical crescendo and allargando – and pianissimo.

As for me, I do not know.

I do not know when the brightest stars are going to fade.

Perhaps you can show me someday.

Sitting at your glass table, with coffee and fresh-baked bread

I listen to the rain, instead.