This is a fresh poem, composed the other night, the night before my last philosophical theology tutorial (and the night before my second-to-last philosophy essay was due). Enjoy!
Philosophical Inquiry
I just want to know how
you are doing, my love—
how time, a distant relative,
has sketched your face
in lines and circles,
how you see the world
when your eyes are shut
and you are sleeping,
consciousness only memory,
or how you fill space
with your body, moving
past wholes and halves
of steps towards me,
this moment a justified belief.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
I Am Very Bad at This Sort of Thing
It has been over two months since my last blog post, so basically I fail.
Thus far I have completed 12 out of 16 essays since the semester began.
And I am a tired person.
Thus far I have completed 12 out of 16 essays since the semester began.
And I am a tired person.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Remembering War
I should be working on my essay about faith. I really should, but everyone needs a little break now and then. My readers, that is, if they are still around, have not heard anything about Oxford. Well, you're not really going to hear any now either, but this has to do with the academic experience.
We went to London on a fieldtrip to the Imperial War Museum. It was relatively tasteful in its memoriam to those who experienced wars of several periods and places. But I still could not stifle the pained desire to be able to walk away from all these artifacts and forget war, to forget who shot who, who was a tyrant and who was an angel. Because if we don't forget some of that, we may continue to perpetuate war and hate for the sake of getting even, or simply by way of justification using past experience.
But we can't forget can we? To do so would dismiss the voices of persons' experiences. And isn't that war often does-- dismisses voices? If I were to have my memory erased of all traces of war and war history, where would the voice of non-violent resisters go? Where would I learn from our ancestors what is NOT worth dying or killing for? At the same time, I would not remember the voices of those who believe to kill for peace is just, or that violence can beget something other than more violence.
If we forget, we forget history, good or bad, the steps and struggles that have brought us to where we are. If we forget war, we forget the voices of women and men living their normal lives in the midst of a narrative more focused on conflict of the battlefield and political engagements than the conflict to put food on the table, to have hope, to survive.
In the Children and War exhibit, there were little boxes with trinkets children had been given or tried to take with them when they were evacuated during WWI. A little plush pony, an amber necklace, farm animals carved from wood, letters from parents to children on ships sunk by missiles. They never received those letters. They were written after the children were dead by parents unaware.
In the main room fighter planes hung from the ceiling with huge propellers. Tanks of many shapes parked in various places shone with green paint. And the largest bullet stood straight up, looking to the sky. But this was dwarfed by the massive bomb in the middle of the atrium, visible from all balconies.
And I can't help but think, that is not the stuff of life. Manipulated metal and explosives are not the stuff to base our memories upon. I'm pulled back to a poem by Eavan Boland about a piece of amber with its little bits, and I see the amber heart pendent in the war museum. And the little toys. Could we please remember those when we think of war? Could we please remember not only what was fought for and who fought on the front lines, but what was sacrificed by all, whose voices were disregarded, whose letters were never received.
I know we must remember, but I wish we could forget.
We went to London on a fieldtrip to the Imperial War Museum. It was relatively tasteful in its memoriam to those who experienced wars of several periods and places. But I still could not stifle the pained desire to be able to walk away from all these artifacts and forget war, to forget who shot who, who was a tyrant and who was an angel. Because if we don't forget some of that, we may continue to perpetuate war and hate for the sake of getting even, or simply by way of justification using past experience.
But we can't forget can we? To do so would dismiss the voices of persons' experiences. And isn't that war often does-- dismisses voices? If I were to have my memory erased of all traces of war and war history, where would the voice of non-violent resisters go? Where would I learn from our ancestors what is NOT worth dying or killing for? At the same time, I would not remember the voices of those who believe to kill for peace is just, or that violence can beget something other than more violence.
If we forget, we forget history, good or bad, the steps and struggles that have brought us to where we are. If we forget war, we forget the voices of women and men living their normal lives in the midst of a narrative more focused on conflict of the battlefield and political engagements than the conflict to put food on the table, to have hope, to survive.
In the Children and War exhibit, there were little boxes with trinkets children had been given or tried to take with them when they were evacuated during WWI. A little plush pony, an amber necklace, farm animals carved from wood, letters from parents to children on ships sunk by missiles. They never received those letters. They were written after the children were dead by parents unaware.
In the main room fighter planes hung from the ceiling with huge propellers. Tanks of many shapes parked in various places shone with green paint. And the largest bullet stood straight up, looking to the sky. But this was dwarfed by the massive bomb in the middle of the atrium, visible from all balconies.
And I can't help but think, that is not the stuff of life. Manipulated metal and explosives are not the stuff to base our memories upon. I'm pulled back to a poem by Eavan Boland about a piece of amber with its little bits, and I see the amber heart pendent in the war museum. And the little toys. Could we please remember those when we think of war? Could we please remember not only what was fought for and who fought on the front lines, but what was sacrificed by all, whose voices were disregarded, whose letters were never received.
I know we must remember, but I wish we could forget.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Poetry of War
I'm in England, congested and tired. So this will be brief. Much has happened since my last post, in my life, my community and the world.
But I will now go back in history. I'm currently writing an essay on the poetic contributions of women in the World Wars. It is difficult for me to turn objective, analytical eyes on these poems-- to dissect these women's efforts to pull something, no matter how small, together when everything around them was in shambles. But that is what I am doing. And it breaks my heart. I have not stated this on this blog before, though I'm sure by now it is quite obvious, but I am a pacifist. I believe in non-violent reconciliation. It is not easy or simple, and often times it is not logical by the standards of many. I understand this, and do not seek a debate, just to preface what I have to share tonight.
Reading the poems of women faced with war, some of them pacifists, many of them not, I lose myself to their pain and the little hopes they tell themselves to believe. I lose myself in wanting them to believe for the sake of their sanity and perseverance that what their men are doing is just. And I lose myself in the sadness that I know these men are broken (I'm also reading poetry by men). This makes me want to visit the places where these poets walked and lived, like St. Giles (I walk there every day) where May Cannan was born and raised, and Somersville College where Vera Brittain visited friends after receiving news her fiancee, Roland, had been killed at war. What will happen if I go there, stop there for a moment? Will I be able to walk away?
But I will now go back in history. I'm currently writing an essay on the poetic contributions of women in the World Wars. It is difficult for me to turn objective, analytical eyes on these poems-- to dissect these women's efforts to pull something, no matter how small, together when everything around them was in shambles. But that is what I am doing. And it breaks my heart. I have not stated this on this blog before, though I'm sure by now it is quite obvious, but I am a pacifist. I believe in non-violent reconciliation. It is not easy or simple, and often times it is not logical by the standards of many. I understand this, and do not seek a debate, just to preface what I have to share tonight.
Reading the poems of women faced with war, some of them pacifists, many of them not, I lose myself to their pain and the little hopes they tell themselves to believe. I lose myself in wanting them to believe for the sake of their sanity and perseverance that what their men are doing is just. And I lose myself in the sadness that I know these men are broken (I'm also reading poetry by men). This makes me want to visit the places where these poets walked and lived, like St. Giles (I walk there every day) where May Cannan was born and raised, and Somersville College where Vera Brittain visited friends after receiving news her fiancee, Roland, had been killed at war. What will happen if I go there, stop there for a moment? Will I be able to walk away?
Friday, August 15, 2008
Questions to Ask Our "Enemies"
Today, after making berry custard ice cream and what I will call "toasty toffee," I found an issue of World Magazine and began reading it (not something I normally do with that publication, if ever, but it was there). In an article titled "Trial of the Century," I read, according to Lynn Vincent, the World contributor (I will assume her figures are accurate), there were 2,973 people involved in the event of violence and brokeness that shattered us on 11 Septemeber, 2001. 2,973! As the article continues, Vincent discusses the question of whether these individuals detained on the charge of terrorism should be entitled to the rights of habeas corpus. My question is: Are they human? Then shouldn't they be alloted what we have deemed a basic "human right"? There are, of course, exceptions and conditions applied to habeas corpus. Something to think about, I suppose.
Let us step back a little and look at that number again-- 2,973.
2,973.
My first question, as I sat in shock, was not "How could a group of people be so violent?" or "Why are Muslim fanatics so plentiful?" Rather, all I could think was "Why?" "Why would that many people hate another nation so strongly?"
I am reminded by something Wendell Berry writes in his essay "In the Presence of Fear". Berry advises that now we are in a conflict with peoples of the Middle East, that we learn their history, they culture, their arts and fears. And then we can perhaps learn why they hate us. Berry, being who he is, uses strong language by employing the term "hate us." Perhaps the people we think "hate us" don't hate us, but simply an idea of us. And I think we need to ask why. Peace is an open dialogue of questions, images, feelings, histories mingling with one another.
We ought to ask our neighbors with whom we find ourselves in conflict:
Who do you think I am?
What do you think I do, believe, value that is in such sharp contradiction to your own convictions?
What are your convictions?
Tell me about your life.
What kinds of poems do you read? Books? Plays?
Do you like your food spicy, bland, sweet?
Did your parents read to you at night before bed?
What do you want to be when you grow up, and why?
What do you mean by what you say and do?
What has brought you to this point (think personal and national history)?
What can I do to bring peace to this relationship?
And we should also ask ourselves:
Do I know this person who I supposedly hate or who supposedly hates me?
Am I acting on a belief that someone hates me who may not actually hate me?
Has something been lost in translation?
Are we even bothering to translate?
Have I confused defensive thinking with offensive thinking (I must be proactive before this person devastates me and not let them get too close)?
What is my history?
What do I truly believe and value?
Will doing what I can to bring peace conflict with any of my foundational beliefs?
If yes, are those really beliefs I ought to hold?
If no, then why am I not doing what I can to bring peace here?
What kind of world do we want live in?
And there are so many more questions to ask.
By the way, I like to read poems by Naomi Shihab Nye and Eavan Boland. What about you?
Let us step back a little and look at that number again-- 2,973.
2,973.
My first question, as I sat in shock, was not "How could a group of people be so violent?" or "Why are Muslim fanatics so plentiful?" Rather, all I could think was "Why?" "Why would that many people hate another nation so strongly?"
I am reminded by something Wendell Berry writes in his essay "In the Presence of Fear". Berry advises that now we are in a conflict with peoples of the Middle East, that we learn their history, they culture, their arts and fears. And then we can perhaps learn why they hate us. Berry, being who he is, uses strong language by employing the term "hate us." Perhaps the people we think "hate us" don't hate us, but simply an idea of us. And I think we need to ask why. Peace is an open dialogue of questions, images, feelings, histories mingling with one another.
We ought to ask our neighbors with whom we find ourselves in conflict:
Who do you think I am?
What do you think I do, believe, value that is in such sharp contradiction to your own convictions?
What are your convictions?
Tell me about your life.
What kinds of poems do you read? Books? Plays?
Do you like your food spicy, bland, sweet?
Did your parents read to you at night before bed?
What do you want to be when you grow up, and why?
What do you mean by what you say and do?
What has brought you to this point (think personal and national history)?
What can I do to bring peace to this relationship?
And we should also ask ourselves:
Do I know this person who I supposedly hate or who supposedly hates me?
Am I acting on a belief that someone hates me who may not actually hate me?
Has something been lost in translation?
Are we even bothering to translate?
Have I confused defensive thinking with offensive thinking (I must be proactive before this person devastates me and not let them get too close)?
What is my history?
What do I truly believe and value?
Will doing what I can to bring peace conflict with any of my foundational beliefs?
If yes, are those really beliefs I ought to hold?
If no, then why am I not doing what I can to bring peace here?
What kind of world do we want live in?
And there are so many more questions to ask.
By the way, I like to read poems by Naomi Shihab Nye and Eavan Boland. What about you?
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Why Poetry
After a somewhat mundane day (funny how days that involve packing are often also somewhat depressing), I come to learn my blog has been blessed with a poem (Thanks, Peter!), and this got me to thinking. . .
Somehow poetry has acquired an image of snobbery, of unattainability, of. . . intellectualism in a negative sense. So, what do we do? Well, I don't know about you, but I grew up a little bit afraid of poetry, because it was a distant, unreal thing by mythical creatures we call poets.
Well, that's simply not true, unless I have been fooled all along and the world's poets are secretly faeries (I wish!). By reading each other's poetry, we enter into reality--of the specific, the concrete, the personal, the nitty gritty, the language, the politics, the passion and compassion of another human being. I'm still afraid of poetry, but because I'm afraid of who I will meet and no longer be able to think of as merely an idea, what images I will face, and what questions I may have to consider.
Now I'm getting preachy, and that has to stop. And I have to finish packing.
Somehow poetry has acquired an image of snobbery, of unattainability, of. . . intellectualism in a negative sense. So, what do we do? Well, I don't know about you, but I grew up a little bit afraid of poetry, because it was a distant, unreal thing by mythical creatures we call poets.
Well, that's simply not true, unless I have been fooled all along and the world's poets are secretly faeries (I wish!). By reading each other's poetry, we enter into reality--of the specific, the concrete, the personal, the nitty gritty, the language, the politics, the passion and compassion of another human being. I'm still afraid of poetry, but because I'm afraid of who I will meet and no longer be able to think of as merely an idea, what images I will face, and what questions I may have to consider.
Now I'm getting preachy, and that has to stop. And I have to finish packing.
Poems by Children
As my exploration of poetry as peacemaking continues, I find that not only do different poets have their own specific focuses stemming from cultural experience--Naomi Shihab Nye and her Palestinian-American heritage, William Stafford and WWI, Christian Peacemaking Team members in Columbia-- but age itself also makes its mark on poetry. Sure, sure, you may be thinking, "Well, of course. Children are not self-aware, or culturally aware, or linguistically aware enough to write poems like adults do, just quality-wise." To think that, my friends, could be one of the biggest mistakes in human history. Not joking.
Granted, children may not have many years under their metaphorical belts (although they may be able to come up with a less over-used idiom than I just used), but what they lack in quantity they often make up for in clarity. I will not go off on theory or mechanics; my young poet friends do not. Please, read this poem found in A Chance To Live: Children's Poems for Peace in a Nuclear Age, edited by Gayle Peterson and Ying Kelley. And listen to children.
Please Don't Kill
Please don't kill
Other people
In a war
'Cause God made people
to live.
~Daryl Williams
2nd Grade
Granted, children may not have many years under their metaphorical belts (although they may be able to come up with a less over-used idiom than I just used), but what they lack in quantity they often make up for in clarity. I will not go off on theory or mechanics; my young poet friends do not. Please, read this poem found in A Chance To Live: Children's Poems for Peace in a Nuclear Age, edited by Gayle Peterson and Ying Kelley. And listen to children.
Please Don't Kill
Please don't kill
Other people
In a war
'Cause God made people
to live.
~Daryl Williams
2nd Grade
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