St. Nicholas Boxes 2013

Well, I wasn't quite ready for St. Nicholas Day this year, but I still made them and gave them away.  Thought you all might like to see.  I based it on the song I wrote about the Four Seasons, which I've come to regard as a Winer Solstice song.  As you can see here Saint Nicholas is sandwiched in between representations of the four seasons right between Autumn and Winter, given his St. Day is the 6th of December.  The printing was done at Kinko's and the color is off from my original choices so that the Four Seasons look a bit more jaundice than I would like them to have been.

Merry Christmas to you all!

Christmas counter-weight candle holders

Since my wife and I divorced, I find myself at the age of 57 starting over in my life.  It is just me and my son, Peter living in this old house on 29th Street in Holland, Michigan.  It is often quiet and peaceful and there is now a lot of time to think--especially about the years that remain to me. Having spent pretty much my whole life determined by what other people want--first from my teen years by a very controlling, highly conformist church community, and then again in a marriage that demonstrated a great similarity to the church community--I suddenly find myself on my own. So...who am I?  What are my tastes and desires?  What kind of a lifestyle reflects who I am?  I've never really had thoughts like that before, and I certainly never felt free to pursue  thoughts and desires like that.

Well, the house is mine by our legal judgement, but the stuff that filled it is gone--or mostly gone--including the Christmas ornaments.  But I find myself, after many sour and unhappy Christmases, wanting to unearth the joy and the magic of Christmas.  I especially miss the Swedish candle holders that hung on our Christmas tree.  I ran across them back in the 80's at Pier One, but haven't found them since.  I bought about 4 or 5 and then people noted how much we liked them and some friends gave us a few more.  Once Christmas was over they went on sale for cheep and I bought as many as I could.  We lit them up on Christmas Eve and Epiphany every year.   I won't begrudge my ex-wife for running off with them since they hold as much charm and sentimental value to her as they do to me, but I miss them.  So this year I decided to make some of my own.  Thought I'd show you all.

Painting the bottoms.  I used shish kabob sticks for the shafts

 I curled wire to make the hooks so they hook on the tree.

Here they are hanging on the curtain rod and I think they will work pretty well  Candles go in the top part.  The trick is to keep the weight at the bottom so the candles are balanced.

This is a painting from Carl Larson that helps give you the idea

Well this project and Christmas in general, is one of many things I am doing to live life with some vision.  Christmas seems like a good time to do that; a time to celebrate birth, redemption, new life, gifts and the like.

Writing for their lives

Jabari Mahiri and Soraya Sablo, from the University of California—Berkeley, looked into the writing practices of urban African American youth, many of whom were not motivated to do normal school writing.  What is interesting is that they found that many of these students who were not willing to write in school were often prolific writers in their own world after school.  These students were, in my own words, often alienated by their school world, finding the academic writing far removed from, and not relevant to their world.   Mahiri and Sabolo make the case that teachers should begin to include new definitions of literacy in the area of writing to encourage writing in school.

        Mahiri and Sablo cite quite a bit of previous research on the topic on the first page of the article.  One notable quote came from an author doing cross-cultural research, Street says: “…literacy is ultimately political.”  That little quote had quite a bit of pack to it and left me thinking, and wondering if that were true.  Isn’t literacy just being able to read and write?  What has that to do with politics?  For that matter, what can I, as a teacher, do about politics?  Then I thought about recent events in the state of Michigan with a state agenda that is huge and seems to be all about not paying for an education at all.  If this trend continues, Education will then become the privilege of the wealthy, mostly white male establishment.  These are people who can afford to send their children to exclusive private schools, while public education will continue to suffer.  When rich, white males—either politicians or owners of large corporations—dominate government, then the assumptions about what is valued in education will be those of rich, white males.

        That said, this still leave the problem for teachers of urban schools of how to develop literacy among African American students who feel alienated by traditional school writing—I think this is also true of many other minorities and of low-income working class white students.

        What Mahiri and Soblo seem to be suggesting through the authors and previous research the cite is that teacher should turn to  “vernacular writing.”  That includes things like oral story telling, diaries, letters (chat?), it also includes looking at “rhetorical devices common to African American literary language.  Can a connection be made between the “specific descriptions of knowledge structures taught in school as they relate to the knowledge structures constructed within nonschool social settings?”

        What Mahiri and Soblo do is they worked with two teachers, given the pseudonyms: Ms. Brown and Ms Parks, who would be willing to try working with African American students in a new way that would use their authentic writing out-of- school writing to examine literacy in a new context.  Finding students willing to share their work was not easy.  These students were leery of the system and while they were unwilling and/or unmotivated to do traditional schoolwork, Mahiri and Sobolo found that they were often prolific writers outside of the school context.  They selected two students who were willing to share their poems, plays and rap lyrics with them for the project: Keisha and Troy

Here is a poem by Kisha

Dreams

I have so many dreams to remember,

So many moments to cherish.

My life had no light until…

You, burning upon the sun;

To kiss you is a dream come true,

A moment to cherish

To have the pleasure of being

Around you is a blessing.

When you simply speak,

I am speechless.

When you smile,

I am paralyzed with life.

There isn’t a word in the world

To express the way I feel for you,

Not one.

But you, you are like the ocean

That glimmers in the night,

Like the birds that cry in the morning

I wish I could hold you forever,

But I dream you will stay with

And hold me

With incredible strength

Your features are so beautiful

They would blind the normal eye

But not mine

You are a dream and I

Want to have you

Over and over,

Again.

The authors then point out a list of literacy competencies that they can find in the poem, such as the use of simile and metaphor: “you are like the ocean…like the birds that cry in the morning”; oxymoron: “When you smile, I am paralyzed with life.”  What I noticed was the easy accessibility of this poem across culture.  Keisha’s play in rap form was more “cultural” in its language—more like a rap or flow:

Jus’ Living

Jus’ livin’ on the eastside taking a chill,

Watchin; young brothas being shot and killed.

Coming up fast, clocking Kash

Niggaz be having dreams, getting sot,

But it can’t last.

But at the same time the doing the crim,

Sitting behind bars without a nickel or a dime,

Can’t come out and kick it,

But I’mma wicked old fe-mac and that’s how I’m living.

The authors comment that this sort of writing reflects Keisha’s “desire to make sense of and rise above the circumstances of her own life.”  This makes the poem less universal than “Dreams” but also makes it perhaps more authentic writing.  The Authors report that her play, “has and intricate plot, well-rounded characters, and complex thematic considerations.”  She seems to have an eye for details.  The setting for the play is Oakland, California and her descriptions, again according to the authors are precise and detailed.  The plot centers on a young man who is pressured into a gang.  With no job prospects he turns to selling drugs for a living.  When rival gang members try to kill the young man, his mother, trying to protect him, gets caught in the crossfire and is killed.  Keisha later told the authors that the play was based on her older brother and their mother.

        What I take home from this article is that the authors are showing us the authentic writing from the world of urban African American high school students and modeling for us how such work can be analyzed for many of the classic benchmarks used in traditional school writing: similes, metaphor, plot and character development and much more.  But by using authentic writing from the lives of their students, teachers can tap into material that is more motivating to their students.  As Mahari and Sablo conclude: “ …it is erroneous to conclude that writing, in and of itself, was unimportant or ‘uncool’ to these students; rather, the yesisted what they viewed as the unauthentic nature of many of their experiences with academic writing.”  Writing was important to them for a number of reasons.  Two of these reasons are particularly important.  First because, as the authors note, it helps them to make sense or “come to terms” with the world they live in; and second writing provided a “safe haven” from the unsafe and traumatic world the live in.  

River Song

Back in 1999 I was still reeling from the bubble bursting on my religious delusions and the poem I wrote here reflects where I was at that time and in some ways still am.  Rivers are so symbolic of so many things: time, life, commerce, faith, love, connecting us, separating us, uniting us, dividing us, it is our history, our ancestry, life, death, from the cradle to the grave and returning again; from the rain, to the river, to the sea, to the sky to rain again and to repeat the cycle forever and ever.  The River flows on and on with out stopping.  I find that I am in that river, a part of that river--for a while, perhaps forever, and that's okay.  The River will flow long after I am gone, just as it was flowing long before I was ever around and yet, in the River I've always been around and will always be.  I guess you might say I kind of lost my faith there for a while.  I guess that wasn't such a bad thing.  I guess you could say I found a River.

Anyway, I wrote this poem/song not from my mind at all.  I wrote it like a prophecy.  I didn't worry about sanity or reason or anything.  I wrote it as a song, sort of, but only recently found a tune to put it to.

River Song

What is life, now?
Is it some kind of illusion?
A dream that we all share, now?
A common confusion?

Then I'll sit down by a riverbank
And listen to the babble.
And the babblin' of the River
Will be a brand new Bible.

And I wonder 'bout the animals,
Do they have a soul and then,
Do they die and go to Heaven?
Are they plagued with mortal sin?

And what about those insects?
Does an insect resurrect?
Does he rise like leaven to an insect heaven?
Does he finally get respect?

And when the dream is over,
And I'm restin' 'neath the clover,
Go listen to my river babble,
"Kenny's crossin' over like a starry-eyed lover."

Twistin' Turnin' River
Runnin' windin' ever
Everything deliver
Blood o' gold and sheen o' sliver

Dyin' Dyin' Death defyin'
Here to Lethe and back again.
Only truth and no denyin'
Always workin' always tryin'

She pulls my heart. She cleans my sin.
She's where I'm going.  She's where I've been.
End to end and round to round.
I listen to that River sing
A liltin' laughin' lovin' sound
That'd make me almost want to drown.
Make me almost want to bring
And end to breath and everything.
Then she gives me life all over.
Gives me hope and makes me see
The glory of a river lover--
This desperate soul recover
From delusion's fantasy
And all the things he cannot see.

What is life now?
When the supper things is done
And we gather 'round with Riley
And we has the mostest fun.

You can listen to the witch tales
That the preachers shout about
An how the goblins 'l getcha'
If ya' don't watch out.

Or you can listen to that River
As she trickles over stones,
As she winds her way to heaven,
as she cleans your rottin' bones--

For time, she is a River.
And space is muddy water.
The galaxies are eddies
And we can go no farther

Than the milkweed on the wind.
Five billion little souls, a driftin' in the air
Who fall into the current
And can't get anywhere.

But if I let the River take me.
If I let her have her way,
I'll flow with her forever
And ever in a day--

In the undulating movement,
The gentle push and shove
Of the never-ending river
And her never-ending love.

The Stonemason's Son

Last Sunday was Eastern Orthodox Easter.  And though religion has a greatly diminished role in my life these days, I still retain some sense of God, and am still a Christian.  I still confess the Nicene Creed, but put more stock in a quite simpler creed: God is Love.  To that end, I feel that Jesus is the incarnation of Love and all that he did on earth was Love and heal.   That is what the Christian must do.  It is what Christ showed us.    No judgment, no condemnation of anyone—just Love.  So thinking of Jesus the son of the stonemason Joseph, I found myself writing a song for this season.

White Violets

Do I like white violets the best? 

 I think so. 

Then I wonder if it is because they are

more rare than the violet violets;

and would I like the violet violets better if all

I ever saw were white violets everywhere

and then not a violet one to be seen anywhere?

I think I would become bored with the white ones.

 Ah, but look, there are the children

who are a little of each--

no, these are the loveliest of all.

The children are always the ones

That bring a spark to the eye

and calm to the heart.

Mocking Birds and Holly Trees

There are mocking birds in the holly trees
jabbering as they do.
Mocking Buddha and the Dalai Lama, saying,
"You have anxiety"
"You are living in the future"
"You have regret"
"you are living in the past"

And I say in return
"Thank you, little brother.
Thank you, little sister."

Then there is nothing.
Only the holly tree with its waxy green leaves,
those bright red berries,
the mocking birds,
the wind, the sun,
and me.

In the eyes of my children

Picasso Van Gogh

standing in slush.

busy street corner.

closed café.

heavy traffic.

a tense trench coat.

a fist full of roses.

tight fingers.

drops of red on

dirty white snow.

giving beauty;

getting pain.

ignored.

people pushing past

going somewhere/nowhere.

Okay, I’m experimenting.  Thinking of William Carlos Williams.  Using images and minimalism.  Accenting end-stops with periods.  Thinking of Hart Crane and his “Thomas A. Ediford” line.  Misusing grammar to say something,--not new--but else.  Else what?  Just else.  The poet--artist on a snowy, slushy street corner like a little match girl—giving roses that no one takes—desperation squeezing his hand on the thorns—“giving beauty, getting pain”  We are not here to sell.  We are not here to make a buck.  We are here to love.  We are here to shed light and beauty.  We are here to create wonders and miracles.  This is the essence of my subversive thoughts: the love of money is not love at all.  It is animal drive.  But I say, we are gods.  We must shed the animal.  Gibran said: “work is love made manifest.”  But we have said, “work is money and we are beasts, and we place a market value on our work.”  We have sold ourselves for cheep.  I will offer roses till I bleed--and do not think that because I give them freely that they are worthless.  I am on the road to Shangri-la.  Where is Shangri-la?  It is in the heart.  It is like a seed in the heart.  I am the garden of Shangri-la.  And when I die the seed will grow and in that place the roses will bloom.  The poets and artists will pick them and stand on cold street corners saying, here, take them, they are free come and take the roses of Shangri-la