On Bended Knee

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On Bended Knee

by T. A. Fry

Were I on bended knee,
And you upon a throne?
What would you decree?
What would I bemoan?

Have we any choice?
Is there any sense?
Not by human voice.
Nor by recompense.


Sonnet 58

by William Shakespeare

That god forbid, that made me first your slave,
I should in thought control your times of pleasure,
Or at your hand th’ account of hours to crave,
Being your vassal bound to stay your leisure.
O let me suffer, being at your beck,
Th’ imprisoned absence of your liberty;
And patience tame to sufferance bide each check,
Without accusing you of injury.
Be where you list, your charter is so strong
That you yourself may privilege your time
To what you will; to you it doth belong
Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime.
I am to wait, though waiting so be hell,
Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well


Happy Twelfth Night!  Depending on how you start counting the 12 days of Christmas, it was either yesterday or today and marks the end of the holidays and the beginning of Epiphany.  It’s time to take down festive decorations and settle in to the pleasant gloom of January. Twelfth Night has lost some of its relevance, but my Mother honored the tradition of taking down her Christmas tree on twelfth night.

Historically Twelfth night was an excuse for a party.  Few of us are waking up to bake a cake with a pea and bean inside and invite friends over to drink wassail, but it sounds like the kind of silliness we need right now as a distraction from Trumpism. Shakespeare wrote Twelfth Night with the intention of it being performed on Twelfth Night. A comedy with serious themes on love and service.  Sounds like life….

In case you are inspired to throw a Twelfth Night shindig this evening, here’s a delicious wassail recipe.  Serve it hot with a slice of cake.

https://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/rittenhouse-inn-wassail-punch-367909

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Wassail at Rittenhouse Inn, Bayfield WI

Twelfth Night

By Robert Herrick

NOW, now the mirth comes
With the cake full of plums,
Where bean’s the king of the sport here;
Beside we must know,
The pea also
Must revel, as queen, in the court here.

Begin then to choose,
This night as ye use,
Who shall for the present delight here,
Be a king by the lot,
And who shall not
Be Twelfth-day queen for the night here.

Which known, let us make
Joy-sops with the cake ;
And let not a man then be seen here,
Who unurg’d will not drink
To the base from the brink
A health to the king and queen here.

Next crown a bowl full
With gentle lamb’s wool :
Add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger,
With store of ale too ;
And thus ye must do
To make the wassail a swinger.

Give then to the king
And queen wassailing :
And though with ale ye be whet here,
Yet part from hence
As free from offence
As when ye innocent met here.


© T. A. Fry and Fourteenlines, 2017. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to T. A. Fry and Fourteenlines with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Wait For The Wisest Of All Counselors

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“Wait for that wisest of all counselors, Time.”

Pericles

New Love, New Life

by Johann Goethe
Translated by A. S. Kline

Heart, my heart, what can it mean?
What could trouble you so?
What a strange new life, it seems!
You, I no longer know.
Everything you loved is done,
Everything that grieved you,
All your work and peace is gone –
How could this overtake you!

Are you caught by lovely youth
By that beloved form,
By those eyes so good and true,
By that all-powerful force?
When I try to run away,
Collect myself and flee,
In a moment my path strays
Back to her you see.

By that magic thread, so
That cannot be untied,
The dear wanton girl, oh
She holds me fast: and I
Must lie within her magic spell
And live where she may go.
How great the change, I tell!
Love! Love! Let me go!


 

How often is what is perceived by other’s as being delusional the product of vacuity? I would like to think that I can avoid using this blog as a private confessional.  However, writing a blog and sending it out into the world is like speaking to an audience behind a veiled curtain. Readers are silent jurors who enter and exit through a different door than the one I use, with never more than a glimpse of their coming and going.  I never know who reads these words unless they choose to make their presence felt with a “like” or a comment.  I can see the footprints of readers from around the world as a count from a specific country on a specific page,  but I have no idea what they think or felt in reading the poems I select for my own enjoyment.  The greatest gift a reader can bestow is to take time to provide feedback, regardless if that feedback is positive or negative.  

Recognizing parts of my subconscious and conscious mind are laid bare on these pages, I attempt to at least not stray into self-absorbed prattle, worried that I will start sounding like a penitent looking for absolution.  Yet, if I write without admitting my human foibles, I risk sounding one-dimensional and even worse, the sin of all sins as a writer, sounding dull.  No one wants to read well-behaved words.  The magic of poetry is that I can let it speak for itself, let the poetry delve into the recesses of our minds, where the real adventures begin. The reader can decide if the postcards in words I have selected, either written by my hand or someone else’s, is an experience real or imagined. Regardless of where the words originated, each reader will take from it what they choose.

I was reminded over Christmas holidays, how others impose their own impulses, dreams, doubts, fears and motivations over the top of another’s creativity.  We each mix liberally analysis with anxiety to produce our own conclusions. Creative expression naturally welcomes criticism that, upon retrospect, seems perfectly logical, but may have nothing to do with the writer’s or artist’s intent.   It is most unsatisfying to dispel the myth of genius and admit simple-mindedness, offering up a boring explanation that I wasn’t bright enough to have intentionally created the connection they now so clearly see, which although should have been obvious to me at the time, was in reality, the product of complete ignorance or completely different motivation.  Isn’t this what makes being human so interesting?  We walk around contemplating the mundane and the magnificent with no comprehension of what anyone else is thinking at any given moment about a darn thing we are up to. Thank goodness!


Lucky Penny Lover

By T. A. Fry

Lucky Penny Lover
Brimming in my brain
What did you discover
Swimming in the rain

Golden locks aplenty
Porridge to your taste?
Love me only gently
Don’t let us go to waste

Serene within your socket
Graceful in mid-flight
Put me in your pocket
Beauty fills my sight

Lovin’s in the air
Skin’s upon my mind
A smell inside your hair
Our poetry aligns

Does fingering or bowin’
Lift you to first chair
Does knitting or the sewin’
Make a King so rare

Circle round our souls
Lay me on your breast
Let’s just rock and roll
The hell with all the rest

Who’s the super hero
Complete with tights and cape
Slow from ten to zero
Nuzzle at my nape

Smudging with my poems
Words got in your eye
Budging, tho’ tend to roam
Please keep it a surprise

Torrid is our passion
Scalding is our heat
Florid in its fashion
Bawdy in its beat.

Turgid with desire
Lurid with our fate
Afresh in love’s attire
Despite its sprawling weight

Let’s wake up each day smitten
Let’s wake up each day stunned
Queen Mary – What’s to be written?
King Arthur – What’s simply done?


© T. A. Fry and Fourteenlines, 2017. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to T. A. Fry and Fourteenlines with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

We Know We Dream, We Dream We Know

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New Year’s Day Puzzle

The New Year

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

What can be said in New Year rhymes,
That’s not been said a thousand times?

The new years come, the old years go,
We know we dream, we dream we know.

We rise up laughing with the light,
We lie down weeping with the night.

We hug the world until it stings,
We curse it then and sigh for wings.

We live, we love, we woo, we wed,
We wreathe our brides, we sheet our dead.

We laugh, we weep, we hope, we fear,
And that’s the burden of the year.


 

Happy New Years!

I Am Not A Painter

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Sistine Chapel

“Until you have seen the Sistine Chapel, you can have no adequate conception of what man is capable of accomplishing.”

Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe


New Years is either the best or worst holiday of the year, depending on your frame of mind on December 31.  There are years in our lives that, in retrospect, we celebrate with great cheer while other years it’s refreshing to finally put them in the rear view mirror and hang up a new calendar to welcome a fresh start.  I’ll be honest, for a liberal white man in America, 2017 sucked.   I have never felt so out of step with the leadership of my country or ashamed of the actions of a minority of my brethren for their hateful voices and sexist, racist behavior that fuels a divisive unproductive rhetoric and short-lived trajectory.  There were many changes in America in 2017 and almost none of them were in the direction I think the majority of Americans want it to go. We face important challenges as a country and as a planet, and if compromise and reasonable discourse is not possible then real solutions seem even more out of our reach.

On a Sunday morning, December 31, 2017, I am waking up to a temperature of -16 degrees F in Minneapolis, minus -27 degrees Celsius. This is air temperature not wind chill factor.  On a frigid morning like this its hard to put in perspective our impact on our climate.  If you believe in the science of climate change or not, I have several questions?  What is lost personally if global warming has been proven as the most likeliest of facts based on evidence that climate change is real?  What personally will you sacrifice by accepting climate change as a very real and dangerous possibility?  How would your life be diminished by creating the opening for the possibility that we need to change our technology and our economy?  Is the cost of holding on to your beliefs that climate change is not real worth the chance that you were wrong considering the potential impacts to your children, your grand children and the world at large?

If all the ice covering Antarctica, Greenland and mountain glaciers around the world were to melt, sea level would rise about 70 meters (230 feet).  It will take thousands of years for this to occur, and yet to put that in one tiny perspective, Vatican city sits at an elevation above sea level of 62 meters. St. Peter’s square is only 18 meters above sea level.  The four warmest years on record globally were 2014, 2015, 2016 and 2017.

We live at a time when too much dialogue scoffs at the credibility of science.  People want to believe that vaccinations aren’t safe, that GMO food is not identical in nutrition and health benefits to “organic” food and that global warming isn’t real, only because it’s so much easier to remain firmly entrenched in our familiar beliefs, surrounded by other people who look and sound exactly as we do.

A question too few ask is what role should art play in inspiring scientific solutions to the most egregious challenges facing humanity? How does art support science and science support art? I believe the two are connected in the constant need for growth in the human experience.

The Paris Climate Accords, have been accepted as reasonable by every industrialized country in the world, except our Denier in Chief, President Donald Trump. He has set a goal to limit global warming to 1.5 to 2 degrees centigrade above pre-industrialized levels.  Is that possible?  I don’t know, if we achieve that standard, the world’s oceans rise 40 to 50 centimeters by 2100.   It may not sound like much, but if the climate warms by only 2 degrees or more C we risk setting a reaction in motion that won’t stop releasing methane frozen in arctic tundra soils, releasing enormous amounts of greenhouse gases that will create a permanent one way ticket to a future where large portions of Asia, the middle east and Africa will become uninhabitable and global ice will decline over time to swell ocean levels to unthinkable levels. It’s estimated that approximately 1/3 of the world’s population lives at an elevation of 100 meters or less above sea level. And yet we have too many people who wake up when its -16 degrees F in Minneapolis this morning and want to pretend that just because weather can still be frigid that climate change is not real.

It’s hard to know in the midst of change, whether  the gestation is worth the painful birth and whether the patience required throughout a long nurturing will yield something better. A wine-maker never knows whether that year’s bottles will age into something miraculous,  a teacher can’t know what their impact will be on a student’s life and must maintain the steadfast belief that change is not only possible but highly likely.  So it is on the journey of creating new ideas for a better society.

In matters of education, love, art, wine and the future of the world, an article of faith must surround what is most important in our lives even more than science.  Science is a way to help make more educated decisions that are, by their very nature, imperfect and will need constant correction based on better newer insight and information.  It doesn’t prove science is wrong.  It proves it is human.

It is through faith in trying to do the right thing, using the best information we have, that we will nurture hope through conflict,  protect the fragility of human confidence during uncertainty and foster from belief a better reality.  2017 was a difficult year to be a male white liberal scientist poet in America.  The daily bombardment of insanity to depravity that played out in the media became exhausting and depressing. I can only hope all the trash we aired in 2017 will be a turning point to creating something better. Maybe 2017 will mobilize the silent majority that hopes for a better future.  A majority who believe that through acceptance of diversity, social justice will create a better community in which to live. Those that want a democratic system based on rule of law that doesn’t solely worship at the feet of the almighty dollar but also values sustainability, protects the environment and fosters the arts.  People who are willing to hold government accountable and pursue change of an economic system that enriched the 500 hundred wealthiest people on the planet with another trillion dollars in one year at the expense of impoverishing a generation of young people under the burden of soaring housing costs, under employment, un-affordable health care and student debt.  The “haves” partied hardy in 2017 on the backs of the have-nots.  And if you’re wearing your gold 2018 hat and tooting your own horn, you best look around at those who aren’t celebrating with you and ask why?

It’s difficult to admit privilege without it feeling like you are negating your own hard work and accomplishments. Privilege is largely invisible to those that have it. I won the lottery at birth. I was born white, male in the early 1960’s in the United States of America, into a middle class family, with college educations, in the suburbs of Minnesota where public education was a pillar of the community.  I graduated from high school at a rare time of no active war that the United States was participating.  There was still a draft like prior generations of men in America, but no active conflict to cause conscription into a military conflict, like the generation of men just a few years ahead of me, that saw their lives forever changed during the Vietnam war. I graduated from high school at time when you could still work and pay for a college education at the University of Minnesota with wages earned from summer employment, something impossible today. I entered the work force at a time as computer technology was just starting to unlock the power of productivity, information sharing and communication, guaranteeing an economy that would grow over time.  In the history of the world, there are few other games of chance that have rewarded so richly.  So when my fellow white, male Americans persist through their hateful to foolish behavior in reinforcing the stereo type of white men as ugly Americans, with vain language, vulgar sexist behavior and a much more dangerous pandering to extremist right-wing ideologies in an  attempt to hold on to their power that came not solely as the result of their own hard work alone, but as their birth right from a complete lottery of chance rigged in their favor, it can feel like we have lost ground as a society in creating a more enriching, sustainable world for our children. A generation of children that is much more diverse, complex and disadvantaged than the one I grew up in suburban America.

All is not lost.  I was reminded of the importance of living in the moment yesterday when during a restorative justice circle in preparation for 2018, the circle keeper started with a simple request: “Don’t count your days, make this day count.”  I choose to use art as inspiration in my life to help me preserve through challenging times.  I feel that art instills wonder, wonder instills kindness, kindness instills understanding.  I believe it is with understanding that we will shape our future.  I don’t pretend to have any of the answers, and yet I am open to new ideas. I have faith that the current generation of young people will shape a better world than the one we are bequeathing to them.  I don’t think they have on the same blinders as their parents and will steer their own course. They no longer believe the American dream, that they will have a future of greater prosperity only through hard work.  I believe they see that their accomplishments are only impactful when working cooperatively in their community to foster real change at a local level that can grow to something greater.  It is the current squandering of America’s opportunity for leadership that is most disheartening at the present.  This too shall pass.  And the political will shall shift to something more sustainable as more and more people watch what is happening on a global scale and ask what can I do to make a difference in my community?

Michelangelo was a poet as well as a genius sculptor and painter.  He wrote a sonnet four long years into the painting of the Sistine chapel. Though this sonnet loses some of its humor and rhyme in its translation into English, it shows how faith and hard work power our greatest achievements.  For even a man who claims he is not a painter, created one of the greatest paintings of all time.  The Sistine chapel was Michelangelo’s first fresco, proving you can get it right the first time, even on achievements that may seem impossible at first if you believe in yourself and those around you. Can we change our world?  I believe we can, if we look for wonder in all that surrounds us.   Wonder will open the door to understanding that the impossible is possible.


Michelangelo: To Giovanni da Pistoia
“When the Author Was Painting the Vault of the Sistine Chapel”

Translated by Gail Mazuur

I’ve already grown a goiter from this torture,
hunched up here like a cat in Lombardy
(or anywhere else where the stagnant water’s poison).
My stomach’s squashed under my chin, my beard’s
pointing at heaven, my brain’s crushed in a casket,
my breast twists like a harpy’s. My brush,
above me all the time, dribbles paint
so my face makes a fine floor for droppings!

My haunches are grinding into my guts,
my poor ass strains to work as a counterweight,
every gesture I make is blind and aimless.
My skin hangs loose below me, my spine’s
all knotted from folding over itself.
I’m bent taut as a Syrian bow.

Because I’m stuck like this, my thoughts
are crazy, perfidious tripe:
anyone shoots badly through a crooked blowpipe.

My painting is dead.
Defend it for me, Giovanni, protect my honor.
I am not in the right place—I am not a painter.

Ring in Nobler Modes of Life

Hope smiles from the threshold of years to come, whispering; “It will be happier.”

Alfred Lord Tennyson

Biography-of-Alfred-Lord-Tennyson
Alfred Lord Tennyson

The New Year

by Henry Wilmarth Hazzen (1842 – 1899)

 

As speed the years in their unceasing roll,
A sense of newness fills each breaking morn;
And aims, by which we would our lives dorn,
Fresh impulse gain from out each anxious soul.
Yet with each falling night misgivings come
From partial failure, warding off dismay
By new resolves that wait the coming day,—
When, lo! the Fates our purpose will benumb.
Master is he, thus conscious of life’s stress,
Who, year by year thro’ toil, a path has found
To best from better, as its vantage ground;
And he whose mission, too, has been far less,
To strive in sunshine, than in shadows grope,
Still finds his heart replete with youth and hope.

 


In Memoriam (Ring Out, Wild Bells)

by Alfred Lord Tennyson (1809 – 1892)

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light:
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes
But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

Small Serendipitous Epiphanies

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Nuns Skating

by Ann Drysdale

Nuns fret not at their convent’s narrow room
Because their spirits can escape beyond
The place that holds them in respectful gloom
To seek the Lord beside the frozen pond.
There He will make their laughter into bells
And turn their breath to incense. He will show
Shadows of magi on the distant hills
And flights of angels shining in the snow.
He will make rushes sing and grasses dance
To the intrusive music of their chatter,
Whispering in their ears that, just this once,
They too can walk as He did, on the water.
Oh, may the year to come be full of these.
Small serendipitous epiphanies.


Second Prize winner, National Poetry Competition, 2001
Published in Backwork, Peterloo Poets, 2002

Scarce One More Loved

 

Charles Dickens
Charles Dickens (1812 -1870)

Dickens Returns on Christmas Day

by Theodore Watts Dunton (1832 – 1914)

“Dickens is dead!”  Beneath that grievous cry
London seemed shivering in the summer heat;
Strangers too up the tale like friends that meet:
“Dickens is dead!” said they, and hurried by;
Street children stopped their games – they knew not why,
But some new night seemed darkening down the street.
A girl in rags, staying her wayworn feet,
Cried, “Dickens dead?  Will Father Christmas die?”

City he loved, take courage on thy way!
He loves thee still, in all thy joys and fears.
Though he whose smile made bright thine eyes of grey –
Though he whose voice, uttering thy burthened years,
Made laughters bubble through thy sea of tears –
Is gone, Dickens returns on Christmas Day.


 

Dickens

by Charles Algernon Swinburne (1837- 1909)

Chief in thy generation born of men,
Whom English praise acclaimed as English-born,
With eyes that matched the worldwide eyes of morn
For gleam of tears or laughter, tenderest then
When thoughts of children warmed their light, or when
Reverence of age with love and labor worn,
Or godlike pity fired with godlike scorn,
Shot through them flame that winged thy swift live pen:
Where stars and suns that we behold not burn,
Higher even than here, though highest was here thy place,
Love sees thy spirit laugh and speak and shine
With Shakespeare and the soft bright soul of Sterne
And Fielding’s kindliest might and Goldsmith’s grace;
Scarce one more loved or worthier love than thine.