April is National Poetry Month, and in its honor, I’d like to share some thoughts on the topic.
At the close of the Civil War, Booker T. Washington and W. E. B. DuBois argued its importance. Washington felt it (I paraphrase) a luxury, as it could not feed the body, and DuBois felt it gave the soul the reason for feeding the body.
Long treatises have been written about the form and function and nature of poetry. Edgar Allen Poe felt that the most poignant poetic subject was the death of a beautiful young woman, as told by her bereaved lover.
The romantics thought poetry expressed man’s essential imaginations, capturing truth at its purest level. Shelley, in his essay “Defense of Poetry,” contrasts poetry to narrative, where time, he says, distorts things and makes them ugly. Poetry, on the other hand, "is a mirror which makes beautiful that which is distorted.”
Poetry was, in many ways, born of practicality. Before the invention of the printing press, poetry was the news and entertainment of its time. Its rhyme and repetition were mnemonic devices that let people memorize and recite its stories, its truths, its expressions. The greatest and oldest works of literature--Beowulf, the Iliad, much of the Bible--are in verse forms.
The word itself derives from an ancient Greek word meaning “I create.” Thus a poet is a creator--the poem, the creation.
In the 21st century, poetry seems to have become superfluous, an unnecessary adornment, the latest advertising jingle.
Has “creation” thus fallen by the wayside? And with it beauty--even truth?
Poetry, no matter its form, or its function, exerts an undeniable power on those who experience it. If you don’t believe me, ask yourself: What is this little ditty I can’t get out of my head?
Friday, April 20, 2007
Friday, April 13, 2007
Southwest Michigan has Jumped the Shark.
After twenty one years of living happyily in southwest Michigan, I am afraid to say, it has, at last, "jumped the shark."
This saying references the infamous shark-jump executed, on waterskis, and in leather jacket and trunks, by “the Fonz” on the TV show Happy Days. The show's ratings declined after the stunt, resulting in its eventual cancellation. The phrase has been coined to mean that “over the top,” moment, where the tide turns, and the once popular begins its fade into oblivion. Southwest Michigan has reached this point.
What makes the region so special, so sought after, so popular with visitors and residents alike--the beaches and the farm belt--have become such a hodge podge of commercial developments, private enterprises, and homes that they are no longer enjoyable, nor, sometimes, even accessible.
Lack of cohesive planning has left the lake front a busy mix of styles, shapes, and sizes. Garish signs block what little scenic view is left, and lack of parking discourages visitation.
The wide open spaces so recently occupied by quiet farmland have suffered similar fates. Clusters of vinyl sided boxes sit where grains once waved and apple trees blossomed. Meanwhile, once charming older neighborhoods dissolve into dilapidated decay.
Area leaders, so thirsty for the almighty dollar, have sold the citizens of southwest Michigan out, stumbling over themselves and each other to “top” the last development, attraction, corporate tax break. Well, you can’t top sand dunes and fresh peaches. The leaders of this community have caused it to “jump the shark,” leaving the midwestern West Coast a mere facsimile of what it once was, what it could have been, and, presumably, what they wanted it to be.
This saying references the infamous shark-jump executed, on waterskis, and in leather jacket and trunks, by “the Fonz” on the TV show Happy Days. The show's ratings declined after the stunt, resulting in its eventual cancellation. The phrase has been coined to mean that “over the top,” moment, where the tide turns, and the once popular begins its fade into oblivion. Southwest Michigan has reached this point.
What makes the region so special, so sought after, so popular with visitors and residents alike--the beaches and the farm belt--have become such a hodge podge of commercial developments, private enterprises, and homes that they are no longer enjoyable, nor, sometimes, even accessible.
Lack of cohesive planning has left the lake front a busy mix of styles, shapes, and sizes. Garish signs block what little scenic view is left, and lack of parking discourages visitation.
The wide open spaces so recently occupied by quiet farmland have suffered similar fates. Clusters of vinyl sided boxes sit where grains once waved and apple trees blossomed. Meanwhile, once charming older neighborhoods dissolve into dilapidated decay.
Area leaders, so thirsty for the almighty dollar, have sold the citizens of southwest Michigan out, stumbling over themselves and each other to “top” the last development, attraction, corporate tax break. Well, you can’t top sand dunes and fresh peaches. The leaders of this community have caused it to “jump the shark,” leaving the midwestern West Coast a mere facsimile of what it once was, what it could have been, and, presumably, what they wanted it to be.
Monday, March 26, 2007
Zzzzzzzzzzzzz
I love to sleep. The chilly mornings of winter make me roll up tighter in the warmth of my down comforter. Gray rainy Mondays send me back for a nap. Even the cool crisp mornings pf spring and autumn prompt me to spend “just ten more minutes” in bed.
This hasn’t always been the case. In my teens and early twenties, I shaved the candle at both ends, just sure that I was missing something as I lay in repose.
I learned the value of sleep in college. While I nodded and dozed my way through chapter after chapter, my straight-A, class president roommate, no matter what she was doing or studying, at ten o’clock sharp, picked herself up, brushed her teeth and went to bed. She arose at six the next morning and proceeded with her day. I was amazed at her productivity. I, of course, struggled to finish my studies, often until the wee hours of the morning. This became increasingly difficult with her deep breathing in the background. At some point, I gave up and began to follow her pattern. My alertness and energy levels increased, and my productivity rose. I have never turned back.
Getting too little sleep has become somewhat of a badge of honor as worker-bees slave at sixty-hour-a-week jobs, and struggle to maintain marriages and households. Getting enough sleep is also seen as a perk of privilege. “I wish I could afford to get enough sleep,” someone once said to me. I put this statement in the “penny-wise, pound-foolish” category. It’s like saying: I wish I could afford to live healthily. I would have to challenge the mental health of anyone who does not have health at the top of their short list. After all, if one isn’t healthy, how can one work to afford the things they want, or enjoy those things once they are acquired? It is the ultimate self-sabotage.
Research has begun to uncover the dangers of sleep deprivation. Studies show that not getting enough sleep impairs the immune system. And, just as the body has its own biorhythm--which is thrown off balance without proper sleep--individual organs have their own rhythms, also affected by sleep. Lack of sleep interferes with hormone production, and, oddly, erratic sleep patterns may lead to insomnia (we’ve all witnessed the two-tired two-year-old who winds him or herself up to stay awake).
People who work “graveyard” shifts, working throught the night, and counter to the body’s natural biorhythm have higher cancer rates than those who sleep.
And, while society wages war against driving while intoxicated, it has been shown that sleep deprived drivers are, in fact, more dangerous than drunk drivers.
My point? It pays to listen to your body! Get forty winks, saw some logs, grab that cat nap. Both body and mind will benefit from it. Energy levels and alertness will increase--and all those things folks are sacrificing sleep to do will get done.
--a version of this essay was published by the South County Gazette.
This hasn’t always been the case. In my teens and early twenties, I shaved the candle at both ends, just sure that I was missing something as I lay in repose.
I learned the value of sleep in college. While I nodded and dozed my way through chapter after chapter, my straight-A, class president roommate, no matter what she was doing or studying, at ten o’clock sharp, picked herself up, brushed her teeth and went to bed. She arose at six the next morning and proceeded with her day. I was amazed at her productivity. I, of course, struggled to finish my studies, often until the wee hours of the morning. This became increasingly difficult with her deep breathing in the background. At some point, I gave up and began to follow her pattern. My alertness and energy levels increased, and my productivity rose. I have never turned back.
Getting too little sleep has become somewhat of a badge of honor as worker-bees slave at sixty-hour-a-week jobs, and struggle to maintain marriages and households. Getting enough sleep is also seen as a perk of privilege. “I wish I could afford to get enough sleep,” someone once said to me. I put this statement in the “penny-wise, pound-foolish” category. It’s like saying: I wish I could afford to live healthily. I would have to challenge the mental health of anyone who does not have health at the top of their short list. After all, if one isn’t healthy, how can one work to afford the things they want, or enjoy those things once they are acquired? It is the ultimate self-sabotage.
Research has begun to uncover the dangers of sleep deprivation. Studies show that not getting enough sleep impairs the immune system. And, just as the body has its own biorhythm--which is thrown off balance without proper sleep--individual organs have their own rhythms, also affected by sleep. Lack of sleep interferes with hormone production, and, oddly, erratic sleep patterns may lead to insomnia (we’ve all witnessed the two-tired two-year-old who winds him or herself up to stay awake).
People who work “graveyard” shifts, working throught the night, and counter to the body’s natural biorhythm have higher cancer rates than those who sleep.
And, while society wages war against driving while intoxicated, it has been shown that sleep deprived drivers are, in fact, more dangerous than drunk drivers.
My point? It pays to listen to your body! Get forty winks, saw some logs, grab that cat nap. Both body and mind will benefit from it. Energy levels and alertness will increase--and all those things folks are sacrificing sleep to do will get done.
--a version of this essay was published by the South County Gazette.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
It’s a Snow Day!
Note: Since this was published, as an Inside Column by the South County Gazette of Three Oaks, Michigan, on January 20, 2007, the area has been hit with much more snow! The "blanket" is easily two feet thick, with even deeper drifts. My editor has "blamed" this on my column.
I keep a list of column ideas--politics, health, environment--object lessons and observations I think could interest others, make them think, make them feel, remind them what life is about. But as I sat down to write this column, there was nothing on the list that could do any of that more than the view outside my window. At least six inches of snow coats tree branches, fence posts, lawns and rooftops. Small shrubs and utility lines sag under its weight, and the whole world looks light and bright--even without the sun.
Snow is often described in terms of “a blanket” of “sparkling crystals”--an apt description, yet somehow inadequate to capture its purity, its thoroughness and its egality, its way of covering absolutely everything, without discrimination, in thick dazzling white.
While we may complain about it, snow is important, especially to southwest Michigan. It is what allows the area to produce the wonderful fruit we relish in summer. Snow, and cold, kills bugs and diseases, and makes pesky raccoons hibernate. It is part of the great biological clock. Without it daffodils and cherry blossoms fall out of sync.
Snow refreshes and nourishes the environment, and as well, the soul. It is a great equalizer, making everyone have to get off their proverbial treadmills to dig out their mittens and scarves, shovel their their driveways and sweep their sidewalks. It makes people cooperate, as they help each other out of ditches, or drifts. For a brief time we are distracted from life’s pettinesses, and reminded of its importance.
All the machinations of man cannot stop snow from falling--that’s real power. It humbles “horsepower.”
Of course there are the lucky few who get to go out and play in the frosty fluff. Snow angels and snowmen spring up across the landscape. People head for the hills with sleds and skis. Snowmobiles race across the open spaces. This is as it should be--a hearty celebration of nature’s spontaneous gift.
Many years ago, living in southern California, I read an editorial written by a Chicagoan who found himself the manager of a local fast food restaurant. He incredulously proclaimed that “only in California!” would “surf’s up” be a legitimate excuse to not come to work. Dude! What surfers understand is that a good wave, like a good snow, only comes along once in a rare moment--and it should be respected, revered, appreciated and enjoyed. The burgers--and all the other “busy-ness” of human endeavor--can wait.
I keep a list of column ideas--politics, health, environment--object lessons and observations I think could interest others, make them think, make them feel, remind them what life is about. But as I sat down to write this column, there was nothing on the list that could do any of that more than the view outside my window. At least six inches of snow coats tree branches, fence posts, lawns and rooftops. Small shrubs and utility lines sag under its weight, and the whole world looks light and bright--even without the sun.
Snow is often described in terms of “a blanket” of “sparkling crystals”--an apt description, yet somehow inadequate to capture its purity, its thoroughness and its egality, its way of covering absolutely everything, without discrimination, in thick dazzling white.
While we may complain about it, snow is important, especially to southwest Michigan. It is what allows the area to produce the wonderful fruit we relish in summer. Snow, and cold, kills bugs and diseases, and makes pesky raccoons hibernate. It is part of the great biological clock. Without it daffodils and cherry blossoms fall out of sync.
Snow refreshes and nourishes the environment, and as well, the soul. It is a great equalizer, making everyone have to get off their proverbial treadmills to dig out their mittens and scarves, shovel their their driveways and sweep their sidewalks. It makes people cooperate, as they help each other out of ditches, or drifts. For a brief time we are distracted from life’s pettinesses, and reminded of its importance.
All the machinations of man cannot stop snow from falling--that’s real power. It humbles “horsepower.”
Of course there are the lucky few who get to go out and play in the frosty fluff. Snow angels and snowmen spring up across the landscape. People head for the hills with sleds and skis. Snowmobiles race across the open spaces. This is as it should be--a hearty celebration of nature’s spontaneous gift.
Many years ago, living in southern California, I read an editorial written by a Chicagoan who found himself the manager of a local fast food restaurant. He incredulously proclaimed that “only in California!” would “surf’s up” be a legitimate excuse to not come to work. Dude! What surfers understand is that a good wave, like a good snow, only comes along once in a rare moment--and it should be respected, revered, appreciated and enjoyed. The burgers--and all the other “busy-ness” of human endeavor--can wait.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
The Accidental President.
In the weeks since Gerald Ford died, I’ve learned a lot about him I did not know. Ford at ninety three was, until now, our oldest living president, and held degrees from the University of Michigan and Yale. He was an athlete and a congressman for 25 years. I think the thing that impresses me the most is that he declined professional football offers to attend Law School. He set aside something potentially gratifying for something truly important He spent his career in Congress working hard, getting things done, and making friends along the way, according to those who worked beside him and are speaking out about it now.
I was sixteen when Nixon resigned amid financial scandal, antiwar demonstrations, and Watergate. Children lack context--the framework, a title. And so, what I remember from my early years are events--the assassinations of John Fitzgerald Kennedy, his brother, Robert Fitzgerald Kennedy and Martin Luther King, Jr. I remember Kent State; I remember Mi Lai. I remember the Black Panthers and the Hell’s Angels. Viet Nam surrounded and divided the nation, threatening to simultaneously suffocate and explode it.
Into this tinder box fell Gerald R. Ford, the “accidental” president who found himself appointed to replace vice president Spiro Agnew, and then became president when Nixon left the office. “Comfortable in his skin,” as someone described him, Ford took hold of the rudder and steered the nation clear of the rocks--and he made it look easy.
In responding to the former president’s death, the current president made note of Ford’s “integrity,” and called him “healing.” Others have spoken of his “openness.” He certainly doesn’t seem to have taken himself too seriously, and yet could get down to real serious business when necessary. He did the nation true service--and deserves to be commended for it.
As I watch the televised images of people streaming past the coffin of Gerald Ford, in California, in Washington, D.C., and in Grand Rapids, and as I read about what is happening in the world around me, in New Orleans, in Darfur, and in Iraq, I can’t help wondering if we couldn’t use another Gerald Rudolph Ford right about now. I'm wondering too just who that “accidental” president might be.
--a version of this essay was previously published in The South County Gazette.
I was sixteen when Nixon resigned amid financial scandal, antiwar demonstrations, and Watergate. Children lack context--the framework, a title. And so, what I remember from my early years are events--the assassinations of John Fitzgerald Kennedy, his brother, Robert Fitzgerald Kennedy and Martin Luther King, Jr. I remember Kent State; I remember Mi Lai. I remember the Black Panthers and the Hell’s Angels. Viet Nam surrounded and divided the nation, threatening to simultaneously suffocate and explode it.
Into this tinder box fell Gerald R. Ford, the “accidental” president who found himself appointed to replace vice president Spiro Agnew, and then became president when Nixon left the office. “Comfortable in his skin,” as someone described him, Ford took hold of the rudder and steered the nation clear of the rocks--and he made it look easy.
In responding to the former president’s death, the current president made note of Ford’s “integrity,” and called him “healing.” Others have spoken of his “openness.” He certainly doesn’t seem to have taken himself too seriously, and yet could get down to real serious business when necessary. He did the nation true service--and deserves to be commended for it.
As I watch the televised images of people streaming past the coffin of Gerald Ford, in California, in Washington, D.C., and in Grand Rapids, and as I read about what is happening in the world around me, in New Orleans, in Darfur, and in Iraq, I can’t help wondering if we couldn’t use another Gerald Rudolph Ford right about now. I'm wondering too just who that “accidental” president might be.
--a version of this essay was previously published in The South County Gazette.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Let Them Eat Cake!
One of my most vivid childhood memories is of going Christmas shopping. Each December my parents and I made the nearly two hour trek from St. Helena (in northern California), down the Silverado Trail, to Macy’s, in San Francisco. I looked forward to the window displays, and the store Santa, of course, but was equally enchanted by the bell ringers that manned the red Salvation Army kettles on the sidewalks outside. I loved to add coins to their pots.
As a child, I’m sure the concept of charity was hazy at best, probably presented to me as “giving to the poor.” I just liked dropping coins through the slot, and all that bright, bright red!
But Christmas is a time of charity, a time of giving. One reads about mitten trees and Toys for Tots. One even encounters the occasional Salvation Army bell ringer, though companies have increasingly removed them from the marketplace. I guess it’s bad for business to remind shoppers of those less fortunate. And lest they seem Scrooge-ish, these same businesses make big donations themselves.
Unfortunately, much of charity is of the “let them eat cake” variety. The New Dictionary of Cultural Literacy defines this as “a saying that shows insensitivity to, or incomprehension of, the realities of life for the unfortunate.” The quote is supposedly made by a princess who, after being told her people had no food, replied, “Let them eat cake.” Sweet treats have little value to someone who, in reality, needs meat and potatoes--nay, a living, in fact.
And yet, charitable giving often consists of such short-termed reprieves, parties, dinners, events that allow those less fortunate to be “normal” for a few hours--before they return to their heating bills, and growing children and true needs. A lot of charity is also of a secondhand variety, goods no longer “good enough” given to churches and community thrift stores who cater to a sector for whom something is better than nothing. There's nothing wrong with that really. It's good to "recycle," afterall, and one man's trash is another's treasure. It just seems a bit demeaning, rubs noses in the idea that not everyone is worth brand new merchandise.
I can’t help wondering if some of these gestures aren’t more for those giving them than for those receiving them--to assuage guilt at having so much, to show others how to be like “them,” or to gain personal recognition. The parable of the widow and her two mites actually condemns the latter, showboat giving. The widow's two mites were deemed more valuable, because they came of pure motive, than the great riches the Pharisees bestowed with self-interested motive.
True charity is about assisting others in achieving their objectives, their goals, their dreams--for their gain.
A calendar I saw once carried the saying: “True charity is giving your brother a dime when you need it yourself.” This implies that true charity involves personal investment and sacrifice--not superficial overtures and leftovers. True charity comes from listening and hearing, and from giving away something truly valuable--love and good will.
As a child, I’m sure the concept of charity was hazy at best, probably presented to me as “giving to the poor.” I just liked dropping coins through the slot, and all that bright, bright red!
But Christmas is a time of charity, a time of giving. One reads about mitten trees and Toys for Tots. One even encounters the occasional Salvation Army bell ringer, though companies have increasingly removed them from the marketplace. I guess it’s bad for business to remind shoppers of those less fortunate. And lest they seem Scrooge-ish, these same businesses make big donations themselves.
Unfortunately, much of charity is of the “let them eat cake” variety. The New Dictionary of Cultural Literacy defines this as “a saying that shows insensitivity to, or incomprehension of, the realities of life for the unfortunate.” The quote is supposedly made by a princess who, after being told her people had no food, replied, “Let them eat cake.” Sweet treats have little value to someone who, in reality, needs meat and potatoes--nay, a living, in fact.
And yet, charitable giving often consists of such short-termed reprieves, parties, dinners, events that allow those less fortunate to be “normal” for a few hours--before they return to their heating bills, and growing children and true needs. A lot of charity is also of a secondhand variety, goods no longer “good enough” given to churches and community thrift stores who cater to a sector for whom something is better than nothing. There's nothing wrong with that really. It's good to "recycle," afterall, and one man's trash is another's treasure. It just seems a bit demeaning, rubs noses in the idea that not everyone is worth brand new merchandise.
I can’t help wondering if some of these gestures aren’t more for those giving them than for those receiving them--to assuage guilt at having so much, to show others how to be like “them,” or to gain personal recognition. The parable of the widow and her two mites actually condemns the latter, showboat giving. The widow's two mites were deemed more valuable, because they came of pure motive, than the great riches the Pharisees bestowed with self-interested motive.
True charity is about assisting others in achieving their objectives, their goals, their dreams--for their gain.
A calendar I saw once carried the saying: “True charity is giving your brother a dime when you need it yourself.” This implies that true charity involves personal investment and sacrifice--not superficial overtures and leftovers. True charity comes from listening and hearing, and from giving away something truly valuable--love and good will.
Monday, November 06, 2006
In the Moment--for a Moment.
People not a part of the world of writers may not realize how “out of time” we live. We always have to be ahead of time. Since publications take time to put together and go to press, the editors and writers have to be thinking about their topics well in advance of actual publishing dates. Often this lead time is six months, sometimes more.
In May, when peonies are popping, and iris’ raise their noble heads, writers are working on The Scariest Jack O’ Lanterns and Mince Meat Tarts and Corn Mazes.
In July when most people are under beach umbrellas, sipping mai tais, we writers are thinking cool, frosty, thoughts--of icicles, wool sweaters, hot chocolate. While people barbecue around us and watch fireworks--red, white, blue, we’re putting ourselves into Santa’s Sleigh and Making Snowmen and Decorating the Home for the Holidays. We’re conjuring up Ten Tips for Handling a Hangover, or for Avoiding the Flu or Hosting the Company Party.
In November, when people are baking pumpkin pies and roasting turkeys and getting out the woolens for real, writers are thinking Red Roses Tell That Special Someone You Love Them. We’re thinking lingerie and chocolates and heart-shaped jacuzzis: Show Him/Her You Really Care.
In December, when the rest of the world is opening gifts around the tree and snuggling under the mistletoe, writers must Think Spring! Planting Pansies for an Early Splash of Color! Ten New Ways to Color Eggs for Easter! The Family that Spring Cleans Together Gleans Together!
But every now and then a day comes along that just can’t be ignored--that quintessential “seasonal” day that even we writers can’t ignore, that makes us take notice, makes us stop for a moment and live in real time. The blazing hot day of summer that draws us away from our keyboards and down to the beach, the blustery day of winter that demands cozying by the fire--the first days of autumn, cool and crisp, turning toasty as the sun gains control. Those days where clear blue skies with cottonball clouds call us to our senses, or those rare evenings when the rising Harvest Moon humbles us. And just for a moment, even we writers must succumb to living in the moment.
In May, when peonies are popping, and iris’ raise their noble heads, writers are working on The Scariest Jack O’ Lanterns and Mince Meat Tarts and Corn Mazes.
In July when most people are under beach umbrellas, sipping mai tais, we writers are thinking cool, frosty, thoughts--of icicles, wool sweaters, hot chocolate. While people barbecue around us and watch fireworks--red, white, blue, we’re putting ourselves into Santa’s Sleigh and Making Snowmen and Decorating the Home for the Holidays. We’re conjuring up Ten Tips for Handling a Hangover, or for Avoiding the Flu or Hosting the Company Party.
In November, when people are baking pumpkin pies and roasting turkeys and getting out the woolens for real, writers are thinking Red Roses Tell That Special Someone You Love Them. We’re thinking lingerie and chocolates and heart-shaped jacuzzis: Show Him/Her You Really Care.
In December, when the rest of the world is opening gifts around the tree and snuggling under the mistletoe, writers must Think Spring! Planting Pansies for an Early Splash of Color! Ten New Ways to Color Eggs for Easter! The Family that Spring Cleans Together Gleans Together!
But every now and then a day comes along that just can’t be ignored--that quintessential “seasonal” day that even we writers can’t ignore, that makes us take notice, makes us stop for a moment and live in real time. The blazing hot day of summer that draws us away from our keyboards and down to the beach, the blustery day of winter that demands cozying by the fire--the first days of autumn, cool and crisp, turning toasty as the sun gains control. Those days where clear blue skies with cottonball clouds call us to our senses, or those rare evenings when the rising Harvest Moon humbles us. And just for a moment, even we writers must succumb to living in the moment.
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