When We Arrive in Saint Petersburg - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

When We Arrive in Saint Petersburg

When the Paris plane lands at Pulkovo
We will be groggy from traveling through time
But we must drop our bags at the Nevsky 88
And report to the Emperor on Senate Square

Two coffees from a kiosk, and a bench
We’ll probably buy a postcard or two
And watch passing lovers on that summer day
And make no plans beyond that moment

The Horseman in the sun will be enough
For we will have arrived in Saint Petersburg

A Reflection on Choices Made - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

A Reflection on Choices Made

“…they have failed to tell the truth, preferring a safe distance”

-Yevtushenko

Maybe I disappoint, but now I prefer
That safe distance Yevtushenko condemned
Because in media res all is chaos
The immediacy of emotion and pain

The best of intentions, sodden with blood
Conflicting condemnations stinging with pain
Choosing to be involved, and then condemned
The sneers and scorn of an ungrateful nation

Only in reflection, with confusion crossed
Does a man learn whether he won or lost

Just Drop the Deck - a poem about lawnmower repairs (caution - strong asterisk usage)

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Just Drop the Deck

When the lawnmower goes CLUNK – and it often
     does –
I burrow into the InterGossip to find
One of those fixit videos by some fellow
Named Darryl or Wayne or Red or Mitch who
     spends
The first five minutes on exposition:

“Like, you know, this is my garage, like, you know, and this is my mower, and there’s the kids’ bicycles, you know, and I was mowing the yard, you know, you can see where I stopped (shaky video shift), ha ha, when the machine went CLUNK, you know, and, well, here it is, you know, as you can see it’s a classic Snarkwell-Guppy, like, you know, and they sure don’t build ‘em like this anymore, like, you know, so today I’m going to show you how to diagnose the CLUNK, like, you know, so first you take your wire cutters, you know, because they cut wires, you know, and you cut all these wires here, you know, like and you take your tester, you know, and, like, oh, I need to change the 9-volt battery, like, you know, okay, so we know the CLUNK is from the PTO, so now you just drop the
     deck…”

Why do ALL lawnmower repairs begin
With “…just drop the deck?” Yeah, an
     hour of heat
And sweat and barking your knuckles
With three sizes of wrenches and searching
For that last little nut hidden in some
Inaccessible place and then the
Heavy-*** deck falls on your hand and you
Yell the sort of thing that got your mouth washed
     out
With soap by Mom when you were little

But I no longer drop the ***-**** deck
I take that ***-****ed mower to the shop

My mower is about two inches too wide
For the pickup truck, so I borrow my brother
And a trailer and we heave that ***-**-*-*****
Mower onto it and haul it away

Uh, oh…is that tire flat…? ***-**-*-*****!

Then we take the mower to the good ol’ shop
That has changed hands ‘cause Old Bubba retired,
And they promise the mower in twelve days
And they don’t call and they don’t answer the
     ‘phone
And when you finally go in to check on it
The girls their sweet time looking up
From their take-out burgers and fries and shakes,
And then look at you as if you have interrupted
Their leisurely day of eating, snickering
And making personal ‘phone calls. Then one goes
To the back while the other keeps giggling
And spraying food on her ‘phone,
And the other one returns to say
They lost a mechanic and they’re sorry
They’ll get right on it tomorrow, yessir,
Which means another two weeks at the least

I got the mower home yesterday
And after a half-hour it laid down and died

Thus endeth the lesson

A Spring Harvest, Geoffrey Bache Smith - a Review

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

A Spring Harvest, Geoffrey Bache Smith – a Review

I bought my copy of Geoffrey Bache Smith’s A Spring Harvest from That Company via the InterGossip, and caution those wishing to read Smith’s poems to verify the quality of what they are buying.

There is a contemporary problem with all sorts of people cobbling together all sorts of drivel and finding a way of tacking the names of C. S. Lewis or J. R. R. Tolkien to these mashups in order to make a sale.

Shameful borrowers lacking any creativity of their own, for instance, often write pastiche letters from Screwtape, an unfortunate practice even with children, who at least can plead youthful ignorance, but adults, who should demonstrate a sense of ethics, have gotten away with looting Lewis’ works for profit.

The recent film biography of Tolkien is universally condemned, and rightly so. One hopes the fine young actors’ careers aren’t stalled, and that the producers’ careers are.

A more recent misfortune is a crudely glued-together pamphlet of the poems of Geoffrey Bache Smith, a friend and schoolmate of Tolkien’s who was killed in France in 1916.

After the war, as a tribute to his boyhood friend and as a kindness to his grieving mother, Tolkien edited some of Smith’s poems into a little book, A Spring Harvest, and had them printed.

Undoubtedly the original edition was thoughtfully set out by the publishers.

This 2020 printing is a mess. The only identifying information is inside the back cover, probably because the perpetrators do not wish to be known:

Made in the USA
Coppell, TX
07 July 2020

Presumably Smith’s poems are out of copyright; even so, this shabby “Coppell, TX” treatment should never have happened: the typeface is inappropriate, the layout is crude, and the cover is a greasy, fingerprint-y sheet of cardboard. The copy of a copy of a copy of a photograph shows us that in the anonymous editor’s mind Lieutenant Smith should be depicted in an unhappy shade of aqua.

And now to the poems: Smith was only 22 when he died of his wounds, and so his work can fairly be regarded as juvenilia, with some good exceptions. He was the product of the middle class and a good education (not simply staring into a screen and pushing buttons), and was an inheritor of Romantic and Victorian usages and traditions. His formal diction can seem stilted, but such was common in the days of parlour poetry. Smith was just out of boyhood, and so was learning his way through language and poetry. His usage and content is formed on Celtic mythology, King Arthur, and knights and their ladies fair, and a sense of loyalty to nation, king, and empire that seems wholly alien now: “Sonnet to the British Navy,” for instance, is painful to read.

Smith’s structure, though, is excellent. “Sonnet to the British Navy” is certainly derivative in wording and style, but the artistic discipline of his precise Shakespearean sonnet form is much to be praised. In a time when most poetry is nothing more than insipid, undisciplined, self-obsessed, me-me-me-poor-me free verse, Smith’s command of meter and rhyme is to be praised.

One of the most delightful poems in the pamphlet is “Pure Virginia,” a tribute to American tobacco. This is a well-crafted Petrarchan sonnet in which Smith forgets to be too formal and lets himself have a little fun.

The most touching poem is “Domum Redi Poeta” (the poet returns home). The Latin is not an affectation; like all carefully brought up children until fairly recently, Smith, Lewis, and Tolkien were quite at home in the language of ancient Rome, even in making jokes and writing poetry.

This little two-stanza piece in rhyming iambic tetrameter expresses the poet’s desire to return to the innocent joys of his boyhood home, and knowing as we do that he didn’t, the pathos is very real.

A Spring Harvest shows us the unfulfilled promise of a life ended young in yet another futile war. Geoffrey Bache Smith died well, though, and in his brief life accomplished more than taking selfies and watching television.

For those who are fond of the Inklings (Lewis, Tolkien, Williams, and their friends), A Spring Harvest will be a worthy edition to their libraries - in another edition.

-30-

Moonlight and the Transfiguration - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Moonlight and the Transfiguration

Up before dawn; the dogs would have it so
Demanding to be taken for their first patrol
Snuffling and barking mysteries along the ground
While we consider the mysteries of the stars

The moon is full, and Venus anticipates the dawn
Dogs know nothing of the Transfiguration
And I don’t really understand it myself
And that’s okay

Up before dawn, for God will have us so
Savoring the beautiful mysteries given us

But He Had a Pre-Existing Condition - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

But He Had a Pre-Existing Condition

Foul smoke, yellow and sour from rubbish fires
Spasms like a snake with a broken back
Twisting among our crumbling Qumran caves
Wherein our scrollies might someday be found

Rumors as well as smoke patrol our roads
Each contradicting the other with absolutes
The eternal verities of this hour
Which must be obeyed until they must not

The death of your friend is irrelevant:
He had a pre-existing condition

It is what it is

The Divine Office at Night - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

The Divine Office at Night 1

Even if those happy spheres are sentient beings
We need not pray for the abbess moon and her
     stars
For they never rebelled in the gardens of space
For there they found space enough, beyond time

Perhaps they wonder if we are sentient beings
And much in need of their sung prayers instead
We, with our ancient hatreds and endless wars
As soon as formed disobedient to God

We need not pray for the abbess moon and her
     stars
But be most grateful if they pray for us


1 Cf. The Rule of Saint Benedict

New Along Beer Can Road & County Dump Extension - MePhone Photograph

Civic Holiday (Canada) - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Civic Holiday (Canada)

With Jesus and some children and a sheep
The funeral home Catholic calendar says
That today is “Civic Holiday (Canada)”
I don’t know what that is, this August day

Do children in Nunavit make Civic floats?
Are there midnight Civic fireworks in Labrador
Or Civic picnics in British Columbia
Or Civic costume parties in Manitoba?

I still don’t know, but God bless Canada
Whose goodness needs no excuse for a party

Moon and Venus - MePhone Photograph

Loaves and Wishes - poem (sort of)

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Loaves and Wishes

Jesus told the crowd to sit down on the ground.
Then he took the seven loaves and the fishes,
and when he had given thanks, he broke them
and gave them to the disciples, and they
in turn to the people.

-St. Matthew

“Is there a vegan option?”
“Are these fish from renewable stocks?”
“Is this bread gluten free?”
“Is this all you’ve got – bread and fish?”
“Are your bread and fish locally sourced?”
“I have allergies, you know.”
“Could I see the menu?”
“I’d like my bread thinly sliced.”
“No dessert?”
“Yeah, I know who’s paying for this – the workin’ man. You can’t fool me.”
“I want a hamburger!”
“I want fried chicken!”
“Where’s your health certificate?”
“Waiter, I was here before these other people!”
“The presentation is deplorable. Don’t expect a tip, okay?”
“Sitting on the ground with The People! Oh, how quaint and colorful and ethnic! I feel almost like a good comrade!"
"Will they do some of their funny little folk dances later? Should we toss coins at them?”
“Where’s the men’s room?”
“Is there a wine list?”
“I’ll start with a salad.”
“Not the milieu I would have chosen for a date night, of course, but it’s not bad.”
“I’ll expect my clergy discount.”
“No flatware? Napkins?”
“Could I have a doggie bag, please?”
“Tell me about your locally crafted beers.”
“I don’t see the nutritional information.”
“No, no, you’ve got it all wrong, waitress; I ordered the bread and fish and my friend ordered the fish and bread.”
“Is there a children’s menu?”
“If I get sick from this unrefrigerated food you’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”
“Is there a plug-in for my ‘phone?”
“Please seat my party with a view of a nicer rock than this.”
“But don’t seat us next to any Romans.”
“Don’t seat us next to any Pharisees.”
“Don’t seat us next to any Sadducees.”
“Don’t seat us next to any Cyrenians.”
“Don’t seat us next to any Egyptians.”
“Don’t seat us next to any Ethiopians.”
“Don’t seat us next to any Samaritans.”
“Don’t seat us next to any Judaeans.”
“Don’t seat us next to any Galileans.”
“Oh – the Host is a Galilean? Really?”
“Don’t seat us next to any Arabians.”
“Don’t seat us next to any Hellenes.”
“Don’t seat us next to any Canaanites.”
“Don’t seat us next to any Edomites.”
“What’s an Edomite?”
“Hey, my brother-in-law’s an Edomite! Ya wanna make something of it? Just open yer mouth one more time about Edomites!”
“This is nice. We should come here more often.”

Amen.

He was Reading a Kristin Hannah Novel - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

He was Reading a Kristin Hannah Novel

My pharmacist died today. The CV.
Two weeks ago we were laughing about books
About each other, our reading habits
My Yevtushenko, his Kristin Hannah

I mocked his chick-lit; he mocked my Russians
He said I would really like Winter Garden
Because in it I could visit Saint Petersburg
Which is every reader’s dream

A pharmacist and friend - he died today
I must go and find Winter Garden

Where are the Back-to-School Ads? - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Where are the Back-to-School Ads?

The tumult in the heart

Keeps asking questions

-Elizabeth Bishop, “Four Poems: I / Conversation”

Where are the summer’s-end back-to-school ads?
No dancing pencils or princess backpacks
No brand-new notebooks with bright plastic tabs
No staplers, glue, file folders, paper, or pens

No laughing children in jeans and tops and tees
No ‘way-cool sneaks or socks or flippy skirts
No fashion purses, no funny new hats
No Disney images of hallway fun

There is no merriment this new school year
Only chemicals and distancing
                                                                and fear

Dostoyevsky's House of the Living - weekly column

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Dostoyevsky’s House of the Living

“I was in prison…and you came to see me.”

-Saint Matthew 25: 34-26

Dostoyevsky is possibly the best writer of narratives of redemption, probably because of his time in prison. I first read The House of the Dead along with other of his novels some years ago. Recently I was "guilted" by Fr. Ron (I did not want to go) into volunteering at prison with con, which in the event has proven to be one of the few experiences in my life in which I felt - one cannot know, of course - that I was doing exactly what God expected of me. This volunteer work with the chaplain, a sturdy Baptist, and with wise and experienced volunteers and mentors, especially Al and George, led me to re-read Dostoyevsky’s semi-autobiographical prison novel.

As a young man Dostoyevsky was drawn into the Petrashevsky Circle in Saint Petersburg, which may or may not have planned the violent overthrow of the government. The group was arrested in1849, held in the Peter and Paul fortress in Saint Petersburg, tried, and sentenced to death. The Czar’s pardon of the conspirators even as they faced a firing party is well known.

Dostoyevsky spent four years in a Siberian prison camp and then a term as a soldier until he was permitted to return to Saint Petersburg in 1859.

The parallels in the unit I visit and Dostoyevsky's prison are remarkable, even to the general layout of the prison and to the diverse characters and nationalities of the images. In the local prison, though, prisoners are respected and treated with dignity in preparation for their return to freedom. Successful completion of anger management and other counseling programs are mandatory for release.

But please note than I know almost nothing about penology or psychology, and my two hours each week visiting the lads are as nothing. I am neither a Pollyanna nor a Darwinian, but only a sympathetic if naïve observer.

First, about that famous cable tv: there are in fact two of them, rather small, high up on a wall in the common area, and remotely controlled by the duty officer. No prisoner has much time for watching tv, though, for everyone has a work detail. A man might be dozing on his bunk in the early evening, but that’s because his work assignment begins in the kitchen at 0300 and he must also attend classes. There are no private rooms; all live in dorms that very much resemble my recruit training barracks in the long-ago.

Prisons do not exist so that visitors like me can write sappy articles about “What I learned in prison” because prison is about the prisoner, about helping him learn about himself and his place in civilization. Dostoyevsky would say that learning is a part of a man’s redemption, on either side of the shiny wire.

But I have learned this: the difference between a man behind the wire and a man outside the wire is often only that one man is behind the wire and the other is outside the wire.

Okay, that’s a bit precious, but a reality is that there are far more criminals on the outside than on the inside.

Another reality in the unit I visit is the diversity of individuals with regard to faith traditions, race, intellect, accomplishments, education, and skills. I have met once-wealthy businessmen who admitted that their success in life led them to a feeling of arrogance and immunity. I have met twenty-somethings who did stupid stuff because popular culture and their local subcultures led them to existential despair. The CPA is in a bunk next to the low-level drug dealer. Someone conversant in seven languages and who holds a master’s degree is bunked next to the kid who helped himself to someone else’s car on a dare.

C. S. Lewis wrote in his autobiography, Surprised by Joy, that in the army, “Every few days one seemed to meet a scholar, an original, a poet, a cheery buffoon, or at the least a man of good will.” And so it is in prison as it is in the army or on the job.

My prison is a transit unit, with folks coming and going constantly, either on their way to a long-term sentence at one of the large units, serving a short sentence here, or, happily, cycling through the various programs and consultations in preparation for release. I regret that I seldom get to know anyone very well, but in the context of the mission that’s probably for the best.

Unfortunately, all prison visits in my state are now forbidden during the coronavirus time. I do miss the guys, and hope I have been of some small service in their rehabilitation. I pray for them daily, and hope to be permitted to resume working with them soon.


http://www.encspb.ru/object/2804022508;jsessionid=777C33E31108B724645FFEDA4512B4CF?lc=en

https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/1997/02/24/dostoyevskys-unabomber

-30-

God Behind the Mask - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

God Behind the Mask

Perceiving God in someone else’s smile
Is awkward even in the best of times
But now we only see a dear friend’s eyes

Although

In fresh new ways - surprises every day

We notice masks because we failed to see
The givenness of daily saints obscured
Only by easy familiarity
Inattention on the road to Emmaus

Perceiving God in someone else’s eyes –
Maybe it’s easier now

Catnap - MePhone Photograph

Midway Through THE OXFORD BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE - poem

Lawrence Hall, HSG
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Midway Through
The Oxford Book of Christian Verse

O, oh, ah, ah me!

Wand’ring, ling’ring, confin’d, lock’d, undiscover’d
Own’d, enthron’d, flow’ring, and perplex’d
Tho’, fetter’d, hallow’d, spread’st, leav’st,
    vouchsaf’st, ‘midst
Th’eternal, th’unwearied, t’express, pass’d

Slipp’ry, congeal’d, ‘twere, ev’ry, hurl’d, triumph’d
‘Twas, sinn’d, cleans’d, ‘bove, astonish’d, t’expire,
     bid’st, o’er
Scatter’d, hugg’d, bow’d, summ’d, e’er, fill’d,
     disappear’d
Bow’r, flourish’d, heav’n, anger’d, dissol’vd,
     wither’d, stain’d

Hark!

O antic scriv’ner, huddled in your cowl
Coulds’t I purchase a gross or two of vow’l?

Toadstools After a Summer Rain - MePhone Photograph

The Potter's Wheel - Whimsy with a Spin on Pathos

Lawrence Hall, HSG
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

The Potter’s Wheel

Is one of three upon his pickup truck,
Which in truth never picks up anything
Because the pottery thing did not work out
And so his cousin found him a county job

Sometimes he wanders through the garden shop
And finds the earthen art that once was his:

Hecho en Mexico
Fabrique au Chine
Duoc san xuat lai viet nam
Buatan Indonesia

He sighs in remembrance, and turns away -
And did I mention that his name is Clay?

Where in (Newark, New Jersey) is the "“Revert to Legacy Blogger” option to be found?