(to remind myself)
i
Make a place to sit down.
Sit down. Be quiet.
You must depend upon
affection, reading, knowledge,
skill—more of each
than you have—inspiration,
work, growing older, patience,
for patience joins time
to eternity. Any readers
who like your poems,
doubt their judgment.
ii
Breathe with unconditional breath
the unconditioned air.
Shun electric wire.
Communicate slowly. Live
a three-dimensioned life;
stay away from screens.
Stay away from anything
that obscures the place it is in.
There are no unsacred places;
there are only sacred places
and desecrated places.
iii
Accept what comes from silence.
Make the best you can of it.
Of the little words that come
out of the silence, like prayers
prayed back to the one who prays,
make a poem that does not disturb
the silence from which it came.“How to Be a Poet (to remind myself)” from The Selected Poems of Wendell Berry by Wendell Berry.
Amen.
I turned in last night, wondering what, if, I might write for Father’s Day.
I woke up this morning wondering the same.
I got onto my laptop, sorry Wendell, but my father told me to take a typing course, it would come in handy later - if only he knew :-), and this crawled up outta me, with a few brief timeouts, in about 30 minutes total.
Father’s Day
That’s today.
What do I feel about this being Father’s Day?
What do I feel about being a father?
What do I feel about my father?
What does it matter how I feel?
Does it matter?
I doubt is matters to the florists,
I certainly don’t want roses delivered to my front door step.
Maybe that’s the best thing about Father’s Day-
it’s not a great day for merchants.
Looking back,
I’m not impressed with myself as a father.
I was too preoccupied with me
to be what my children needed.
No mystery, I copied my father.
I’m fortunate my children forged their own way
without me trying to bend them to my will.
I’m fortunate I don’t depend on my children to
entertain and look after me,
ever trying to help me feel better,
hounding me for this and that.
They have their own lives,
their children have their own lives.
I enjoy watching and hearing about them
live their lives,
move forward into the great mystery
unhindered by me,
envied by me,
I’m proud of them,
wish them all the best.
I hope they and their children
somehow get to experience
the America where I grew up.
Knowing that's not gonna happen,
I worry for them in this America.
I hope they are cunning and gentle
and brave enough
to live their lives fully,
be who they really are,
keep moving forward,
changing,
growing,
deepening,
loving,
being true,
without remorse,
in an America I’m glad
I did not help create
and tried very hard to prevent,
where where money, guns and fake narratives
are more important than anything else,
an America the Founding Fathers could not possibly imagine.
I’m glad the final round of the US Open will provide
something to entertain me this afternoon.
Golf was my father’s game,
he could have been a pro,
but he wanted more than anything
to win his father’s approval
and went into business with his father.
and I followed suit, for a while.
The only time I beat my father at golf,
I didn’t count all of my strokes.
Played the old way,
no mulligans,
no improving your lie,
counting all of your strokes,
golf is an X-ray of the soul-
Thanks, Dad
And thanks for the inheritances,
without which
I would be homeless,
or dead.
And thanks for suggesting I take a typing course
my first year in high school,
which gave me a life skill,
even if it didn’t make me a living wage.
My body failing,
mind farts increasing,
I hoped to wake up on
the Mother Ship this morning,
but since I didn’t...
"There are only sacred places and desecrated places." Yes!