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Commentary
I don’t have the energy right now for yet another essay on the frustrations stemming from my leaky memory. But here are some bullet points. Is there a pattern?
One or another of my very good friends will occasionally astound me by quoting something I said to them twenty or thirty years ago
Of the 400+ poems that I have published on this website, I could quote only one or two from memory; generally, I forget my poems within 5 minutes of writing them
I tend to remember names of people and flowers
I tend not to learn or remember things unless I think they’re true
I remember ideas, not their specific formulation
Sometimes I’m glad that I forget things that aren’t necessarily true; I suspect some people consider anything they remember ipso facto true
How about you? I’d love to hear your bullet points!
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
When I first posted this on social media, I could barely contain my excitement:
I can hardly wait to write this up and post it on my blog. I haven’t fully figured out my own poem(!), but it has something to do with gratitude for having been cradled in metaphor. It rocks me still, many years after Mother’s passing.
Like the title, the poem is admittedly confusing. I appear to be talking about three entities: a boy, my mother, and my muse. Let me try to sort it out….
“MUSE“ When I set out to write this poem, I was simply thinking about how to explain those dry times when there’s no inspiration for poetry. Basically, my “muse” (my inspiration) is recharging, often by reading and resting. I think my reader can see that in the poem. And of course it is actually I who am recharging, not some external, mythical influence.
“MOTHER“ For some reason (Freud would have theories), my thinking shifted from an impersonal inspiration—my “muse”—to the most personal inspiration of all: my mother.
Once my focus shifted from an imaginary, impersonal “muse” to my mother, the first stanza came to me full-formed and finished, with one exception…. Once I had found a suitable background photograph, I substituted “ran” for what I had there originally: “wandered.” By the way, I do actually, literally remember my mother starting a story with these curious words.
“BOY“ That brings me to the most confusing part…. My mother was never a little boy. But in an effort to connect with me in my boyhood, she told me about her early life AS THOUGH she too had once been a little boy. That may have been easy and natural for her, since she was an only child, a self-proclaimed tomboy, and she lived out in the country. In any case, my kind, creative mother employed a giant metaphor to communicate her solidarity with me. As I wrote above, I am grateful for having been cradled in metaphor. Elements of poetry–metaphor, creativity, beauty–surrounded me in my youth.
“DANCING THE NEWS” The fourth line of the second stanza changed repeatedly. Instead of “the news,” I tried various adverbs to describe how my muse acts when she’s not off recharging. I had her “dancing playfully,” “…energetically,” and “…gracefully.” None of those satisfied me. Finally, I decided that I should bypass all those adverbs and point instead to the reason behind her dancing: “good news.” (By the way, this is a line I’m borrowing from one of my own favorite poems: “Dancing The News.”) Although much of my poetry is complaint, or lament, I think it is all written in the context of hope for eventual resolution and restoration. Ultimately, I am inspired to write poetry by the “Good News” of the Gospel. My mother–more than anyone else–enabled me to see that good news.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
On two or three recent occasions, I have needed the word “extrapolate,” but couldn’t think of it. So, I had to resort to “compensate.” This morning, the word I was seeking popped into my mind, and I was so happy I wrote a poem.
It is said that Peter Mark Roget (1779–1869) made lists of related words partly to combat his persistent depression. Which of us hasn’t benefited from the resulting Roget’s Thesaurus? As you can probably guess, he was a brilliant and accomplished man. He also lived a long life. He was deaf by the time he died at age 90. I didn’t know that yet when I attributed my own prayer to him in the title of this poem.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
THIS IS ACTUALLY A SERIOUS POEM
Let’s see if I can explain it as well as I did to my wife….
I’m aware of a tendency to arrange the facts as I perceive them in a self-serving way. This is dangerous when it comes to Bible interpretation. It leads to distortions. For example, consider how a white, slave-holding Christian(?) man in the antebellum South interpreted Scripture. Naturally, he interpreted Scripture in a way that justified his evil ways. We are constantly in danger of doing the same thing, not about slavery, but in other ways where we elevate ourselves at others’ expense.
So, whenever my Bible interpretation has me smelling like a rose—or sitting pretty in an easy chair—I ask if I may be arranging the boxes to my own advantage. That’s the theory; God make it fully so!
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
WELCOME TO MY DIARY, 5/6/2023
Every time I post something like this, the algorithms pick it up and start feeding me articles and ads about “early signs of dementia.” WELL, THAT AIN’T IT!
A thoughtful friend consoled me: “Brad, while you can’t quote what you’ve learned, you DO work it into your thinking.”
AM I thinking? AM I honoring God with the mind He gave me?
AM I doing what I CAN do instead of wallowing in self-pity about what I cannot do?
Is there a chance I’ll find my limitations present a smooth and uncluttered path of progress?
Writing good poetry is a matter of making NEW connections, thinking afresh. Perhaps the thorn in my brain—my limited access to all I’ve learned—is a path to walk on, not a path to fear and avoid. As the clever preachers say, “Hmmm.”
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
It’s lunchtime as I write this, and I’ve reached chapter five of Fleming Rutledge’s “The Crucifixion.” She is pointing out the active nature of remembering. It’s more than simply recalling. Some of us live only in the space between our eyebrows and the tops of our heads. Our thoughts and actions are estranged. We think, but do not do. Fortunately for us, God isn’t like that. We may not appreciate or understand what He’s doing, but HE IS DOING.
By the way, of poems that I have written, this has come to be one of my favorites. The mindless mumbling of the poor man in the poem is much like my prayers, even the poems of prayer that I write. What I am coming to understand is that God takes my requests more seriously than I do. I expect to be reminded of this often in eternity.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
When football fans were young, they’d spend the halftimes of televised games out on the lawn tossing their own football. That’s what this poem is. Only instead of watching a football game, I was listening to one of John Krakauer’s mesmerizing, tragic tales. The book was Into The Wild, the story of how and why Chris McCandless came to die his lonely death in the Alaskan wilderness. That’s not a spoiler; it’s how Krakauer tells his tales: tragic destination in the opening pages, and then the twisting road that got there.
I was lying in bed, having listened to a chapter where Krakauer tells several short stories that Alaskans are prone to think of when greenhorns show up ill-prepared. “Here we go again,” they’ll say. “I’ve seen how badly this one ends.”
“Here we go again.” Déjà vu. A recurrence of my own popped into my sleepy head, along with a full-formed sentence that woke me up and got me out of bed to write: “Twice now, some fifty years apart, I’ve seen this one act play performed.”
Call this a writing exercise, or maybe just a way to fall asleep.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
[NOTE: this could also be called “End of the Internet.” Anyone who has ever sought comfort in doom-scrolling may know what I mean]
I struggled for an hour to express this feeling and realization. I almost captured it in another poem, but that poem was too much of an abstraction. The simple truth is that I try to fill too much of my life with useless knowledge, and too little with useful service. It’s one hazard of being a poet, but I’ll not pretend that’s an adequate excuse.
So I hated life, because what is done under the sun was grievous to me, for all is vanity and a striving after wind.
Ecclesiastes 2:17 ESV
[NB: I almost always try to stuff more than one meaning into my poem titles. “End” in this title is intended to suggest two questions: where does knowledge get you, and what’s it for?]
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary)(background image by “Semevent” on Pixabay)
Commentary
I treasure friends who can remember what they read and study. They serve well. But how about the rest of us? What’s the silver lining on a forgetful mind? This poem only poses the question, not an answer.
Teaching and Forgetfulness You’d think that by my age, I’d have come to terms with my limitations. But I haven’t, at least not fully. There are three things I ask God for on a regular basis: growth in 1) kindness, 2) discipline, and 3) ability to teach. How can I teach in any traditional sense, when I forget–or have trouble accessing–most of what I learn?! And If I DO remember, I discount my understanding so severely, that it’s practically useless. Nothing has convinced me that sure access to confidently-held facts is anything but a diminishing proposition. In other words, the more I learn, the more I recognize my ignorance!
Salvation and Forgetfulness I often think about what people mean by “salvation.” One element that stands out for me is being rescued from a descent into uselessness, meaninglessness. In the poem above, I allude to my hope that I will ultimately be rescued from this descent, that my Rescuer will restore meaning, explain the utility of current limitations, and set me on an eternally satisfying course. Then, salvation will be complete.
