Idée d’jour

What is the straight within the bent?
— Zen Koan

Grandfather Will's Guitar

Here is a picture of me playing Grandfather Will's guitar. Family history has it that it was made in the 30's, and is one of the first electric guitars. Will lead music in his church, and they needed amplification. Imagine that, an electric guitar in the Nazarene church!

The guitar is an Epiphone. The design on the headstock suggests it was a mid-line guitar at the time. The pick-up suggests the guitar was made about 1939, which would substantiate the family history.

Grandfather Will died when I was one year old, so I never heard him play. Brother Dave did hear him, and says he was a fine front-porch player.

When Will died, his guitar was passed on to his only son, Padre. I grew up listening to Padre sing and play that guitar. He had a fine tenor voice, and used it well. In addition to "The Reverend Mr. Black", he also loved to sing "Tom Dooley" and "St James Infirmary". The song Brother Dave associates with Padre is "Blue Skies", which he sang at a local jazz club with friend Wally at the piano.

It would seem I came by my musical talent naturally.

As is traditional, the guitar was meant to be passed down to Brother Dave, the eldest son. But Dave doesn’t play the guitar, so he was willing to let the guitar come to my hands.

Grandfather Will wrote a song, "The Little Old Brush Arbor," copyright 1939. This song was also part of family legend. I don’t believe I ever heard Padre sing it. I thought I saw it once, in the family piano bench.

As I was recovering from Padre’s death, I kept thinking about that song. Wondering if the internet could help me find a copy. Hoping I could find it, learn it, and recover it. I did some tentative searches, but – to be honest – I didn’t have a clue as to how to hunt it down.

Then, I went to visit Brother Dave in 2000 – for the first time since Padre’s death. Dave pulled out a brief case, which held everything left from Padre’s estate. Sure enough, there among various curiosities, was a copy of "Little Old Brush Arbor."

I spent the next several months plunking out the tune on my electronic keyboard. Once I felt like I had the tune memorized, I transposed it. See, it was in the key of "G" — either a bit high or low for my range — so I transposed it to "D."

An interesting side-note to the sheet music is that it is in "shape note" format.

Here’s the first verse and chorus of "The Little Old Brush Arbor," by William James C—. It's the song I'm singing in the picture above.

In the little old brush arbor, where the people used to tell
How Jesus’ power can save you from your sins,
I can see my dear old mother where she used to kneel in prayer,
I can hear the choir sing those songs again.

CH:
There I gave my heart to Jesus and he satisfied my soul.
Oh, I love to tell of all he’s done for me;
And the little old brush arbor holds its mem’ries dear to me,
I will love them ’til my Savior’s face I see.

But Is It Poetry?

Mike Snider has returned to his occasional argument against "art for art's sake" poetry. He quotes Samuel Johnson: "No man but a blockhead ever wrote except for money." To which I responded:

What's the average amount you get paid per sonnet, Mike? Let's do a cost analysis per poem: there's the labor of writing & revising, which we might calculate at minimum wage (just as a starting point). Then there's the cost of envelopes & postage. And this is a cost spread out over the accepted and rejected poems. Not to mention the poems written & never submitted (for whatever reason).

Can you claim to break even in that analysis?

<snip>

I think there needs to be a corollary to that Johnson quote, that addresses the enjoyment factor.

As I understand his answer, Mike concedes the point that he wouldn't bother writing poetry if he didn't enjoy it. His point is that poetry might be more successful economically if poets made more of an effort to communicate with the "common man." That phrase "common man" may seem to put words in Mike's mouth, but he speaks of the need to make poems for cooks and engineers and housekeepers and carpenters, and so on.

For me, this once again raises the question of how one recognizes a poem. In other words, is a group of words a poem simply because I say so? Is there, as it were, an objective yard stick one may use in this discussion?

One measure might be sustainability over time. Shakespeare is literature, and poetry, because we still read his works. This will apply primarily to the plays and a handful of sonnets, of course.

The drawback to this method is that it gives us little help with modern writers.

So, another yardstick might be economic in the sense that someone was willing to pay for the poem. This is a measure, inferred, at least, from Mike's use of the Johnson quote. If a magazine is willing to pay for the material, it must be a poem.

The problem is, this would force us to accept as poetry work that we would otherwise reject as bunk. Ron Silliman is a writer Mike and I both like to use as an example of the worst of “Langpo,” yet he is a published poet, and has been paid for his work. One assumes that people have paid for his books.

I'm not sure that Mike would say that rhyme and/or meter are required for a work to be considered a poem. I don't know — maybe if he were king of the world, he would institute that restriction.

Personally, you want to call rearranged words from cooking directions poetry, that's your thing. I wouldn't like it, I wouldn't buy it. But no skin off my nose if you want to call a random collection of words poetry.

What about my writing in this space? How do I judge its success? Well, since comments are far and few between, I judge my success on number of visits and number of return visits. My regular visitors could probably be counted on two hands — according to Site Meter, I have 20 visitors per day, on average. In reviewing the stats from Site Meter, I perceive that many come from the same server (coxnet, frontiernet, etc). This doesn't mean it's the same person each time, but odds are reasonable.

So, that repeat business suggests to me that I am successfully communicating with that group of people. Perhaps not statistically meaningful, but good enough for me.

Tea First

Tea first.
10,000 things follow.
Stars second, match flares.
Then add honey.

Idée d’jour

I embrace emerging experience. I participate in discovery. I am a butterfly. I am not a butterfly collector.
— William Stafford

Haiku: 11.Jan.05

Fog's getting thicker
Cold cuts to bone, through three layers
January morning

Thought

I don't need a stinkin' alarm clock; I've got a kitten.
She's insistent, persistent, and consistent.

Idée d’jour

Compared to what we ought to be, we are half awake.
— William James

Idée d’jour

What happens to the hole when the cheese is gone?
— Bertolt Brecht (best known as the author of The Three-Penny Opera)

The Abortionist Washes His Hands

Click image for larger version

after the short film The Abortionist Washes His Hands & Slips on His Wristwatch by Gary S—
I.
Straight as an arrow, or crooked as a lake,
Maybe you can tell me what diff'rence that might make...
Jason & the Argonauts go sailin' late tonight,
I guess you'll have to find your love by candle light
     I know we have to go along,
     But must we keep on going to the end of
this song?

Your face was a dream when I was a stranger,
Your baby left without a sound or a word;
I see you lying there in that blood-stained manger —
Was that a tear of grief that I heard?
     I know we have to go along,
     But must we keep on going to the end of
this song?

Bloody hands and shirt, and blood on your sheets,
With just a little more practice at love,
You know this ceremony would be complete,
Now, tell me, is it push & pull or could it be push & shove?
     I know we have to go along,
     But must we keep on going to the end of
this song?

Now I wash my hands of this whole affair,
Slip on my wrist watch and pretend that I don't care
I see you lie there with your belly so suddenly empty
I guess bein' alive ain't always the same as bein' free
     I know we have to go along,
     But must we keep on going to the end of
this song?

Jason & the Argonauts go sailin late tonight
I guess you'll have to find your love by candle light

II.
Knife's in his hand, a grin's in his teeth,
I wonder what could be on his mind?
The blood in your mouth, ooh, it tastes so sweet,
You were the best lover I could find.

   All the Fifth Avenue ladies tell me they don't care
   With their long satin slacks and that comb in their
hair
   But they aren't takin' me anywhere....
   Tell me could it be that I'm too late
   Tell me could it be maybe that I'm too late?

There was a child you were not to have
I'm glad to take it off your hands
And if emptiness doesn't drive you mad
Just wait til the final frame of your plans

   Music in your laughter or in your clothes
   I'm not the one to choose between them, I suppose
   But let me have one more look before this novel closes
   Tell me could it be that I'm too late
   Tell me could it be now baby that I'm too late?

Jason & the Argonauts go sailin' late tonight
I guess you'll have to find your love by candle light
Written circa 1976 - '77; I was between 20 - 21

---

There you have it, as promised, the lyrics to "The Abortionist Washes His Hands" a.k.a., "Jason & the Argonauts." As I said a few weeks ago, this is a song Dr. Omed requests almost everytime we get together and I have a guitar in tow.

Hard to describe what this is like musically. It's a pastiche of a number of musical styles: punk, rock, and folk. People who have heard me perform it discern Dylan's influence, but that could be as much as in the way I sing it as anything. Sometimes, like Dylan toward the end of the "Hard Rain" tour, I'll draw out rhyming syllables; e.g., "Bein' alive ain't always the same as being FREEEEeeEEEE!"

Not much I can recall about the movie. The abortionist was played by Rusty N—, who is gay. Rusty was the first openly gay man I met. Oddly enough, I didn't feel threatened by him, since he had a crush on one of my friends — which lead me to believe I wasn't Rusty's type. Anyway, I came up with the first line as a comment on his sexuality. My reasoning was that if a heterosexual was "straight as an arrow," then a homosexual might be "as crooked as a lake." Well, I liked it better than "queer as a $3 bill".

In the third verse (the one beginning "Bloody hands and shirt"), there's the line "Is it push and pull or could it be just push & shove". This was a restatement of a notion the director, Gary S&mash; was considering at the time, which he called "the push and pull of love." Which meant, I think, the sort of give and take that occurs in a healthy relationship.

In the final stanza of part one (beginning "Now I wash my hands") there's a line I added a couple of years after the first draft. Originally the line was "Freedom is too high a price to pay for being free" (how Dostoevskian of me!). Then, one afternoon I saw a line in a Pogo book: "Bein' alive ain't always the same as bein' free." I liked it so much that I stole it outright.

The second part also has bits that reference the film, which somehow involved the abortionist viewing his practice as a form of love-making. For example, there's a scene in which either the abortionist or the patient is spitting up blood (ergo, "The blood in your mouth tastes so sweet").

Which brings up, I suppose, the issue of abortion. I'm fairly certain Gary did/does support a woman's right to choose. But the concept — and what I can remember of the images — of the movie are somewhat twisted. The song itself could be read as opposing abortion. For example, "I see you lie there in your blood-stained manger / Was that a tear of grief that I heard?" could be interpretted to mean that the woman regrets the procedure. There's a line in the third verse of Part Two which suggests that the loss of the child will drive the woman mad.

There was a period where I had a pretty clear vision of what a recording would be like. Part Two would end with my singing "Tell me, can it be that I'm too late" over & over, while the music builds in intensity and nears cacophony, and a voice-over reads the stages of a fetus' development. You know, the sort of thing the Pro-Life people are fond of, e.g., "eyes can be detected at x weeks". The association alone would reasonably lead one to believe the author is pro-life.

If you had asked me at the time, I would have said that I was pro-choice. I'm not sure where the pro-life undertone comes from, unless it's an unconscious reflection of something I detected in the movie. And, you know, being pro-choice is not the same as being "anti" life. I believe women should maintain the right to choose; but if an individual woman asked my opinion, I would encourage her to consider adoption (depending on the conditions, of course).

As a film song, this one holds the unique position of being longer than the actual film. When I really get into it, the thing lasts for close to 15 minutes (although these days it more likely would clock in at 9-10 minutes). The movie was somewhere around 14. The song is also unique in that more people have heard it than saw the movie that inspired it. Now, a great deal more people have read the lyrics than probably saw the movie.

The image at the top right represents the original draft of the lyrics. The chord structure is burned in my memory, but is not otherwise recorded. I don't think even Dana has seen that original draft. The page was originally torn, by the by. I have bowdelerized one of the doodles in the right-hand margin for PG-13 consumption, but otherwise what you see is what I created in 1978.

Hope it was worth the wait.

Friday's Cat

Wednesday was the anniversary of Padre's birth. He would have been 74 years old.

I think Padre preferred dogs, but we did have cats. Elaine had a rather foul-tempered Siamese when Bro. Dave and I were kids. Here's a hint folks: most Siamese don't like children.

Shortly after Padre remarried, Wanda adopted a stray whom we named Sam. I was responsible for his care. I believe Padre came to love Sam. I remember how his voice slightly wavered when he told me Sam had died.

Padre probably would be charmed by my stories about DJ. He might even enjoy these weekly pictures.

Random Impressions

Icicle memories puddle on the eastern skyline
The sun swings over sparse grey clouds
White oil dericks describe the north
With darker grey clouds on that horizon
To the north-east, simple white cross
atop a dilapidated steeple
Young man in hood sweat jacket and droopy jeans
Drinking his Doctor Pepper
Blonde crew-cut young man, blue hooded sweat shirt
Counting the lunch room
Balding thin monk sits by the western wall
records it all in his little Moleskine journal

---

Just a series of impressions recorded during the day. Compressing the actual vision into espresso-strength images.

Book Recommendations

Reverend Mother, whose blog I recently discovered in the Salon blog suburbs, recently asked for some fiction recommendations. While I share them with her, I thought I'd share them with others. In no particular order, then:

The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold
Life of Pi by Yann Martel
The Eyre Affair by Jasper Fforde (some metafiction cotton candy)
American Gods by Neil Gaiman

Speaking of cotton candy, a friend and I were recently discussing the Lord Peter Wimsey series, by Dorothy Sayers. One of the best literary mystery series, ever. The Nine Taylors not only has a nifty mystery, but more information on bell-ringing than you thought you'd want to know.

Rev. Mother doesn't mention poetry, or essays, but here's a couple:
Writing the Australian Crawl (Poets on Poetry) by William Stafford
Toward a New Poetry by Diane Wakowski (0472063073)
Both of the above are from the Univ. of Michigan's "Poets on Poetry" series. I've been reading the Stafford off & on, and have found it inspirational (though I have mixed feelings about Stafford's poetry). I recently recommended the Wakowski title to Katey, and now think I need to re-read it.

The book of poetry I've been spending the most time this past year is Stephen Mitchell's edit of Walt Whitman's Song of Myself. Whitman is good for the soul, especially right now. As I've mentioned before, Mitchell's edit takes what he considers the best of the various versions Whitman did from the first, 1855, to the "Deathbed Edition."

I may soon take a page from Michael Wells' blog and post links to other recommendations in my side-bar. Let me know if you'd be intereseted in seeing that addition to this space.

Idée d’jour

A faith that cannot survive collision with the truth is not worth many regrets.
— Arthur C Clarke, science fiction writer (1917- )

Twelve Days of Poems: Afterward

My self-appointed assignment was to write a poem a day for the 12 days of Christmas - which begin December 25. An additional discipline was to make each poem exactly 12 lines long. Each poem was frivolously given a title corresponding to the appropriate gift from the famous carol, although I did not restrict myself to responding to the carol, or, necessarily, the "gift of the day".

I did have a female friend in mind when I wrote these poems. We are not romantically involved, nor does it seem likely that we will be. But it was helpful to have a specific person in mind, rather than generic ether or "the eternal feminine." Using Pam as a model, so to speak, allowed me to include certain physical and sensory details, which gave the poems a firmer ground in reality than they would have had otherwise. I can only hope that Pam was flattered by the attention, and did not mind having these poems shared with the blogosphere. Needless to say, "Pam" is not her real name.

Especially sensitive readers may have noticed a shift in the style of the poetry about midway through the series.At the least, I was aware of a difference as I was writing the poems. A number of unrelated factors were at work.

First was physical, as documented in days 6 and 9. I was sleep-deprived on Day 6 (Goose), and spent the day in a twilit fugue state. As noted in the comments for Day 10 (Leaping Lord), I got one of my severe headaches on Sunday (day 9). I was barely able to concentrate well enough to think, much less write, and the quality of the poem reflects it.

Incidentally, I have come to the conclusion these recurring headaches are either sinus, tension, or migraine in nature. At the moment, the jury is leaning toward mild migraine. The headache is currently bareable, but present.

Another factor influencing the stylistic change in the poems was emotional. Friday, New Year's Eve, was day 7 (Swan). The weekend proved to be lonely. A couple of different plans fell through on December 31st, and I chose to treat the evening like any other Friday night. Another plan fell through on New Year's Day, and I allowed this third disappointment to get me down. It seems likely that the poems written during this three day period reflect a degree of depression. For the record, I believe I take appropriate responsibility for my feelings, and I believe I am on the mend.

The final factor is also environmental, so to speak. The alarm I used last week, while I was on holiday, plays cd's at the stroke of 6 am - this may seem nuts, but the kitten usually woke me up well before then, anyway. The cd I've been waking up to for the past week is Gillian Welch's Time (The Revelator). This cd is filled with lyrical mystery, such as what Greil Marcus found in Dylan's Basement Tapes (see Invisible Republic). On the surface the lyrics might read like normal sentences — noun, verb, object — but on closer inspection there are seeming non sequitor, or lacuna, which prevent the lyrics from making perfect lyrical sense. Here's the opening verse of the title track, as an example:

Darling remember from when you come to me
that I'm the pretender,
I'm not what I'm supposed to be
but who could know, if I'm a traitor?
time's the revelator, revelator.

I suspect Milk Maid, Dancing Lady, and The Piper make a little more sense with this influence in mind. At least you know where I was coming from. Ms. Welch's cd also has a high incidence of "name checking" - everything from Jackson Brown (as in the above sample) to "Casey Jones" to Elvis Presley to "Sweet Home Chicago"; I had this allusive quality in mind as I was writing both Milk Maid and The Piper.

I'll close with another comment on structure. Certain of the poems wanted to rhyme, sometimes in a regular pattern, sometimes a single couplet. Since this was a daily discipline, I allowed the poem to move as the muse directed.

12. Drummers

I thought I saw you
Some restrictions apply
But you were a dream
For a limited time only
One smile, one heart, one kiss
If it's in you, put it out there
I thought I dreamed you
Professional driver on closed course
But you melted into another's hands
Two for the price of one
You are worthy, worthy of affection
Only one partridge per customer

---

"Drummer" was once slang for traveling salesmen (unsure of etymology). Every other line here is from TV advertising (or a variant thereof).

11. The Piper

Counterpane soldiers march
across the sky-soaked ice
Ballerinas practice in their pjs
among the somber chaparral
Eleven faithful feathers float
within the artic thermal column

Diderot paced the pallid precincts
with salty determination
Hemingway wished on sage brush
as he smoked a Cuban cigar
We were artful with our arms
as Margritte stoked his pipe

10. Leaping Lord

I ate a moon cookie on New Years’ Day,
it was quite a skookum delight.
The next day, the moon exploded in my head
and gave the town a fright.

Foggy beams rolled from 8th and Robinson
to the Deer Creek Mission;
they collided with the capital dome
and legislative elision.

The town was lit brighter than Spica
When my dome exploded.
The forecaster was blinded,
and the change was duly noted.

9. Dancing Lady

Green tea hard tack morning
Grey metal bands tighten across the sky
This mind, those clouds,
Are one.

You wore a blue jacket and skirt
And sat with your true love.
The air was an evergreen hue,
And the storm was gathering.

The clouds are tightening.
Electric flares strike across the dome.
I'll sleep beneath Patagonian icebergs
With a Bengal tiger at my feet.

8. Milk Maid

The crack in the cream's not so bad
Miss Muffett has curdled her whey
Sister Magdalene is quietly sad
And Boy Blue is lost by the kay
Simple Simon walked to edge of day
Under a storm-soaked sky
Gingham Cat asleep by the bay
Haloed moons dance in your eye
Tsunami winds brushing by
Tom Joad walks in rail-road beds
Miss Bo Peep is feeling shy
And the cheese is on the shed