Archives for December 2008

The Snow Man

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

Mittelbergheim

I keep my eyes closed. Do not rush me,
You, fire, power, might, for it is too early.
I have lived through many years and, as if in this half-dream,
I felt I was attaining the moving frontier
Beyond which color and sound come true
And the things of this earth are united.
Do not force me to open my lips.
Let me trust and believe I will attain.
Let me linger here in Mittelbergheim.

I know I should. They are with me,
Autumn and wooden wheels and tobacco hung
Under the eaves. Here and everywhere
Is my homeland, wherever I turn
And in whatever language I would hear
The song of a child, the conversation of lovers.
Happier than anyone, I am to receive
A glance, a smile, a star, silk creased
At the knee. Serene, beholding,
I am to walk on hills in the soft glow of day
Over waters, cities, roads, human customs.

~ Czeslaw Milosz

As part of this year’s Christmas gift exchange,
I wrote this sonnet, Gabrielle, for you,
To tell you that the Bard will rearrange
Your thoughts and fiddle with your point of view.
So you must travel down the road to find
A place to make your travels culminate
In roadtrips of the wheels that turn your mind
And help your heart refuse to hesitate.
The road unravels from your winding heart,
Removes removers from your half-blind eyes,
As if to clear the way to make a start
And take you safely through the land of lies.
.. These lines will burn and leave a trail of ash
.. For you to follow to your Ashland bash.

I’ve read and re-read an extremely fine essay on adoption a number of times since it was first published in First Things in 2004. Recently it came over the transom again, and I thought it a fitting piece for Christmas:

About two-and-a-half years ago, my wife and I sat in a lawyer’s office trying not to think too deeply about the decision we were then making: to seek to adopt a child. As we sat there, listening to the litany of options for how to bring home a stranger’s baby, a joke occurred to me. What is the difference between families today and families a century ago? A century ago, to start a family you’d hire a professional to find you a spouse, and by doing what comes naturally you’d make a baby. Today, to start a family you go about doing what comes naturally in hopes of finding a spouse, and then hire a professional to find you a baby.

Well, a few people still do it the old-fashioned way, but I think he makes a good point. What follows is a beautiful reflection on the meaning of fatherhood; read it here.

I came across this long article in the Fall issue of The New Atlantis, a relatively new journal of technology. The article is about more than just one newfangled electronic device.

The book is modernity’s quintessential technology—“a means of transportation through the space of experience, at the speed of a turning page,” as the poet Joseph Brodsky put it. But now that the rustle of the book’s turning page competes with the flicker of the screen’s twitching pixel, we must consider the possibility that the book may not be around much longer. If it isn’t—if we choose to replace the book—what will become of reading and the print culture it fostered? And what does it tell us about ourselves that we may soon retire this most remarkable, five-hundred-year-old technology?

I still say the very name is sinister – suggesting the start of a fire, which I take as an allusion to book-burning. I still haven’t tried it, and don’t really feel the need to do so. As much time as I spend online, I still prefer my time with a book. Which is itself a wonderful piece of technology. That doesn’t need batteries.

Eventually the diamond dude returned.
And though we’d pondered running out the door,
our pockets stuffed with shiny rocks, we’d spurned
that option, favoring instead a more
benign and legal route. “We’ll go explore
some other shops, applying what we’ve learned.”

“And maybe we’ll come back this afternoon.”
“I see,” the shopkeep countered, “Well, perhaps
you could put down some money, to the tune
of five dollars, let’s say.” At this the chap’s
expression gave no hint of any lapse
in earnestness. Perhaps he was a loon.

I looked at you and you at me and we
agreed we’d hold onto our five and flee.