Ukrainian Rain

on a field of blue and yellow

sky and gold

on plains of wheat

and cities of old

an ancient rain falling

fresh as blood

and raw as meat

a lone baby crying

an aria forgotten

and a mercy unsuckled

a prayer still screaming

war

how foolish we thought

we felt so retro

that war was

just

a thing

an ancient artifact

a boomer anecdote

a cold memory

a hot flash

war so old-fashioned

framed out of history

texts and rubble

sepia photos

black and white

either or

infants' limbs

family shrapnel

silent shards

blood so loud

we thought

that was all over

war and peace

a novel idea

it was just beginning

the recurring nightmare

an endless loop

a rosary of mercy

we need

and want 

a garland of roses

we pray

beseech

beckon

we beg for

peace

now

in our time

this now

this time

The Battle of Maladroit in 1066

On the Plains of Maladroit, in the year 1066, two armies of the night and day, clashed. One won, one lost, and life on Harm was never the same. (Correction: The two opposing armies were bolstered by myriad subarmies: paramilitary tribes and militias loosely organized and even more loosely controlled. In effect, every man, woman, and child on Harm was either conscripted or forced to align with one side or the other. No escaping allegiances, imposed or chosen.)

It comes as no surprise to know that neither side — in fact, no two Harmian individuals — can agree on the battle’s causes, either proximate or remote. Theories abound: which letters to keep in the alphabet; how to pronounce disputed diphthongs, syllables, or words; how to define love, hate, or chartreuse; when to speak or keep silent; how to kiss; how to kill; what to eat; the best method for boiling water; optimal positions for procreation; opposing views on sleep hygiene; disagreement on the need for clothing; disputes over child-rearing; origin narratives; questions on the value of iambic pentameter; opposing views on evangelism (scientific or religious); the propriety of the Designated Hitter role in military strategy; fissures on the practical effect of human sacrifice as sport; debate over chess openings; et cetera.
In real-life quotidian terms, what difference does it make whether either side or all sides, one individual or some individuals, reach consensus on the causes of this seminal conflict? Would it erase present-day conflict on Harm? Would it usher in a Pax Romana (a Pax Harmana or Pax Harmonica, if you will)?

Doubtful.

Owing to the findings of forensic archaeopsychohistorians over the course of Harmian centuries, we can agree upon and consequently itemize these indisputable impacts arising from the Battle of Maladroit in 1066:

• Those in the North embraced and spoke with the long A; those in the South, the short A.

• The umlaut, in sound and symbol, perished.

• Boiling olive oil was no longer used as a foreplay lotion.

• All those in the West insisted on left-handedness under penalty of execution; right-handedness in the East.

• On December 18, every Harmian — North, South, West, East — observes a full 24 hours of silence.

• On every quadri-annual February 29, a 24-hour period of compulsory sexual activity is prescribed, under penalty of death (unless, of course, such activity results in terminal exhaustion or fatal dehydration).

• Wearing, mentioning, referring to, spelling, painting, videotaping, recording, or photographing the color chartreuse is prohibited under penalty of life imprisonment (in a chartreuse cell). 

• Every written sentence must end with a preposition, or the word "preposition."
  

• The Great Migration began, though no consensus exists as to who the migrants were or are, or as to where they went or go.   

 

give peace a chance

The scourges of war. Nuclear holocaust. The conquest of communism. World peace. After supper, I would enter my parents' bedroom, close the door, kneel down in front of my mother's vanity table, and pray. Keeping the room dark, I prayed the rosary. My lips formed the shape of unspoken words. I cannot tell you why I did not go to my own bedroom; maybe my brother was using it to do homework. I was afraid of getting caught, getting found out. I feared the exact sort of shame, mockery, or teasing I might suffer if it were known I had called a girl. "Ooh! You have a girlfriend now? Ooh!" But surely they knew. After all, did they imagine I disappeared for fifteen minutes to a half hour? I was in the seminary. We commuted. We were allowed to date girls if we wanted to, and I did occasionally, in an innocent and platonic, ideal-Madonna manner. If I attempted to date a girl, I'd tell her I attended a prep school, which was true enough. If talking to the bishop, whose pet project we were, as the inaugural graduating class, we would say we went to a seminary. Same in talking to my pastor. I was another pet project of his, an imaginary ribbon worn on his cassock, a success story in the making. A calling. A vocation. Before I got into Christ the King, Father Grinvalsky and I sat in separate chairs on the flagstone porch of the rectory as he fed me questions about my possible vocation. He gave me a promotional pamphlet to take home. I'd read it over frequently and secretly, jealous of the holy look in the faces of the thirty some-odd boys who would become my friends. They looked serene and sanctified in the tri-fold black and white brochure. Images of Mass, basketball, class, camaraderie. I would wait a year, finish ninth grade at Burdick Junior High School in Stamford. Was the delay my call or Father Grinvalsky's? I never claimed to hear an actual voice calling me, thank God. But what surer path to salvation? What cleaner, crisper way to chastity? What easier way to escape the terrors of sexuality, rejection, and sin than the seminary? Wrong on all counts.

In the reported 1917 apparitions of Mary at Fatima, Portugal, to peasant children, she is said to have urged the praying of the rosary, for world peace and the defeat of communism. One might assume a touch of revisionism in the telling: after all, the Bolsheviks didn't storm the Winter Palace until that November in 1917. The visions are said to have taken place from May to October. This was serious stuff. I took it seriously. My cousins would relate what might be considered a religious urban legend. The first two secrets revealed to the youngsters at Fatima were known and promoted; see above. But there were rumors of a third secret not revealed. My cousins asserted that when the Pope, Pius XII, read the third secret he wept. This did not calm anyone's nerves. 

Before the bedroom rosary routine, two world crises served as practice runs: the Berlin Wall Crisis in August 1961 and the Cuban Missile Crisis in October 1962. They were scary, drawing us to the brink of annihilation from war with the Soviets. Summer nights not being able to sleep because of dire reports on the 11 p.m. news. Heart-stopping Bulletins interrupting TV shows, afraid that This Would Be The One. (I never considered that any Bulletin on TV would be too late. Whatever they would say would be too late. Thanks for the warning, though. Thanks the extra anxiety in our last moments.) So, I prayed for peace during those crises. Who wouldn't on this side of Christendom? After hearing Kennedy's speech declaring a naval blockade of Cuba ("Cubur"), I went to bed fingering my beads, placing them right next to me by the lighted Princess phone. Somehow the world skated through those nightmarish threats, even though documents still being discovered reveal the ominous notion that we were closer to war than we ever knew! I had no sense that I personally played a part in our escape from Armageddon. Most likely, even the atheistic materialists on the Soviet side lobbed a few made-up prayers to Whoever or Whatever.

A few years later, by the time I was in high school as a seminarian, something in me changed. I felt a greater responsibility, a burden. No, I wasn't solipsistic enough to believe or feel that world peace was up to me and me alone. Nevertheless, I played a part. I had no choice. Hence my duty to pray the rosary. 

I knew the Mysteries of the rosary: Joyful (Monday and Saturday), Sorrowful (Tuesday and Friday), Glorious (Wednesday and Sunday). Each Mystery had five decades with each decade focused on some aspect of the life of Jesus or Mary (e.g., the Annunciation, the Nativity, the Crucifixion, the Resurrection). Each decade began with an Our Father, followed by ten beads for ten Hail Marys, and then came to a single bead for a Glory Be. That bead shared space, if you will, with the Our Father for the next decade. Sometimes after a decade I'd add: "O my Jesus, forgive us of our sins. Save us from the fires of hell. Lead all souls into heaven, especially those in most need of thy mercy. Amen." Or I'd add a special plea for world peace.

Aside from the technical requirements, one contended with distractions, temptations, and mind wanderings. My St. Joseph's Missal offered colored illustrated plates of the Mysteries to keep me on the beam. I tried to ignore distractions of "impure thoughts" as well as alarming visions of nuclear war. My sibilant whisperings, my implorations and supplications, were intended to rise like incense to the heavens. The nearly inaudible mutterings yielded a sound similar to that of the ladies in church, (never men), telling their beads during Mass, my mom included, a hush or shush competing with the priest's loftier Latin orations. 

After my near-nightly regimen (skip Saturday bath night and Sunday evening because we already went to church), I felt neither satisfaction nor comfort; neither accomplishment nor virtue (though I gladly accepted any indulgences my practice yielded; no small matter). It was a duty. And in such a tense and cliffhanger world, why wasn't everybody doing this?

I was simply doing my bit for world peace. It was not unlike the coinboxes we went trick-or-treating with for UNICEF. Every little bit helps.

However, there was a social price to pay. My aunts and uncles routinely called me "pleban" instead of Paul; it was Polish for parson. It was meant to be affectionate, good-humored, and playful, but I didn't need the sin of scandal to be added to the hot coals of guilt for all those invasions of dirty thoughts. And only later did I come to realize my father was destined to be a priest -- until he wasn't (a phenomenon termed a spoiled priest in Ireland). At a big family picnic, Emily, a distant cousin via marriage from Ansonia, ceremoniously gifted me a pair of rubber, cushiony kneepads. "I use them for gardening. You can use them for your rosary." (So much for my routine being any sort of secret.) There were gales of laughter. My ears burned, my face reddened. But I took the kneepads home and I used them. They did what they were supposed to do.

And people wonder why I don't "get down on my hands and knees" to pray? (It's a misnomer; picture it.) It's not just because I can't find those kneepads.

sudden death

On the rear window, right side, the jeep displayed the following decal:

back to back

world war champs

Between the two lines of text, an American flag.

All black.

Where does one begin? 

Questions.

• What sport is this?
• Global Gladiators?
• Who are the referees?
• What was the score?
• Any penalties?
• How many "players"?
• How much is a ticket to see an "event"?
• What kind of trophy does the "winner" get?
• When is the next "event"?  
• Can a "player" be disqualified?
• How or why?
• Who is the Commissioner?
• What are the standings?
• Can you be a free agent?
• If there's a tie, does the game end in sudden death?
• Who sells the decal?
• What are the TV ratings?
• Who buys the most air time?
• Are there team mascots?
• Where's the scoreboard?
• Do the "champs" get rings?

Constantine's Sword

I am just back from a spontaneous viewing of James Carroll's Constantine Sword.

I had brought along the DVD to a men's group at my church. At our last meeting, one of the men had talked about seeing it, so I retrieved it from the Hazard Library today (that's the name of the branch, named after a person, not a risk). So we decided to watch it.

There we were, seven or eight Episcopalian guys, none under 60, some war veterans, transfixed by a powerful documentary.

Left almost speechless.

The Winter of Our Discontent?

Being an English major (LeMoyne College, 1970), I know that "Now is the winter of our discontent" are the opening words to William Shakespeare's play Richard III, a tragedy whose eponymous cinematic portrayal by Sir Laurence Olivier I still remember.

I confess my simple mind has sometimes been confused by those lines. Um, let me see: if it's the winter of the discontent, then it must equal the season of content, right? Huh? Yeah, Pawlie.

I am taking these lines terribly out of context -- and Richard III is a villain -- but my prayer is that it may indeed be the winter of our discontent and that it may indeed be true that "grim-visaged war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front."

God bless Barack Obama on his journey, on our journey.

And here's some majestic footage to enjoy.

Hiroshima

Today is the anniversary of the dropping of the atomic bomb on Hiroshima, Japan.

n




e




v



e




r






a



g



a


i



n







please



peace


pacem in terris

The 2007 Booklist

Continuing a time-honored tradition (begun way back a year ago), I hereby list my annual booklist, in order of completion (last year: 14 books), with little or no editorial comment:

1. The Pleasure of My Company. Steve Martin. Fiction.

2. Everyman. Philip Roth. Fiction (read on a flight to Berlin). (Weird. The link you see for Roth has a rare interview, with The Guardian, with a photographer from Berlin, oddly enough.)

3. Lisey's Story. Stephen King. Fiction.

4. The Mission Song. John LeCarre. Fiction. (a year ago I was privileged to pose a question to him on BBC Radio; can't find the link; maybe someday)

5. Grammar Lessons: Translating a Life in Spain. Michele Morano. Essays.

6. The Innocent. Ian McEwan. Fiction.

7. Stumbling on Happiness. Daniel Gilbert. Non-fiction (sociology/psychology).

8. The Woman Lit by Fireflies. Jim Harrison. Fiction.

9. fly away peter. David Malouf. Fiction.

10. Samaritan. Richard Price. Fiction.

11. This Clumsy Living. Bob Hicok. Poetry.

12. Some Can Whistle. Larry McMurtry. Fiction.

13. Um...Slips, Stumbles, and Verbal Blunders, and What They Mean. Michael Erard. Non-fiction.

14. Proust Was a Neuroscientist. Jonah Lehrer. Non-fiction essays.

15. Silk. Alessandro Baricco. Fiction.

I am three-quarters finished with Richard Ford's truly superb and already-memorable The Lay of the Land, but that can't go on this year's list unless I speed-read through about 150 pages in the next 3.5 hours (won't happen).

I do like books. Today, at lunchtime I saw that Murphy's Books was open, downtown Syracuse. It was a surprise because its owner (who is brother to our receptionist and brother to a friend of mine) is battling leukemia. He is liquidating the store's inventory. He is. . . His collection is excellent and literary. I bought nine books for nine dollars and change. A dollar a book, hard or soft. Can't beat that. Perhaps I'll list them some other time.

Endnote: My story -- the one I took a week off of blogging from to write -- was not selected by Glimmer Train Stories. Everyone I showed it to (including successful published authors) loved it. The main thing is, I loved it. And still do. I may self-publish. Hard to decide, seeing as my son gave me the writer's guide for 2008. We'll see.

I am glad the holiday frenzy is over.

Our tree stays up at least to Epiphany, January 6.

I am wearing my slippers and may be asleep well before midnight.

Happy New Year.

Pacem in Terris.

White on White

No words can describe

the whiteness of the lake-effect snow I walked in and on and amidst this evening,

nor its moisture-laden airiness and fluffiness,

nor the greeting-card alabaster tree limbs laden and droopy,

nor the snowdrift's swallowing silence,

nor the tracks the dog made, as did I,

nor the holiday lights in the park casting their own brand of a yellower whiteness or their reds and greens and blues, nor the sight of the dog gamboling and dashing like a rabbit or a deer, or, well, a dog.

The wind's razoring was a stinging reminder of that old Irish blessing, the one that prays, "May the wind be ever at your back."

Oh, the wind at your back (as opposed to in your face) makes a difference all right!

To me.

But not to the snow-hungry Maggie (presumably half yellow lab and half German shepherd).

All nature is poised and waiting.

Waiting to be present.

And that's what Advent is for me.

This waiting.

Like a deer in the brush. Waiting.

We are waiting for what? And why?

Apologia Pro Patria Mea

Why Those Who Love America Are Feeling Brokenhearted

by Andrew Greeley, in the Chicago Sun-Times

agreel@aol.com

October 24, 2007


I am ashamed for America. Note carefully that I do not say I am ashamed of America. Despite all its inherent flaws and all its tragic mistakes, the United States stands, however incompletely and with whatever imperfections, for the highest standards of freedom and democracy that the world has yet known.

I am ashamed for America because all the evil done in the nation's name in recent years is turning off the light on the mountaintop.

1. The president urges Congress in effect to accept the Turkish protest against the attribution of Armenian genocide because it might interfere with Turkish logistic cooperation in the ill-starred and foolish Iraq war. That's like silencing all congressional action on the Holocaust because we need Germany on our side. If Turks expect to become part of Europe and the West, they must acknowledge what their ancestors did. They could pass a resolution of their own accusing us of genocide against Native Americans if it would make them happy. How humiliating that the president wants us to ignore what happened to the Armenians so we can be victorious in the "global war on terror" (the current replacement for "weapons of mass destruction''). That's called appeasement, and it was appeasement when President Bill Clinton did the same thing.

2. The government kidnaps, tortures and murders the way the Gestapo did in Nazi Germany. The president blithely dismisses these charges. The United States, he says, does not torture. But that deception is based on a memo from Attorney General Alberto Gonzales defining torture, which the White House won't let anyone else look at.

3. The government pays large salaries to 148,000 "individual contractors" in Iraq -- more than the total American military there. A third of these are toting guns. They are mercenaries -- often, it would seem, with very quick trigger fingers. Ironically, the most recent victims were two Armenian Christian women. These contractors are a kind of American Foreign Legion, like the notorious French and Spanish foreign legions. They may well be very brave people who do very tough jobs. They also compensate for Mr. Rumsfeld's criminal underestimate of the number of troops required. If, however, the country is going to have a Legion Etranger, it should make sure that it works under tight control. An unrestrained security force quickly becomes a mafia. Humphrey Bogart, where are you when we really need you?

4. At a remarkably frank meeting of middle-range officers (majors and colonels) at Fort Leavenworth, the soldiers debated not whether there should have been a war in Iraq, but who was to blame for losing it. Was it the senior officers or the joint chiefs or the civilian leaders? The war is not even over yet, and already the officers who fought it and will have to fight its continuation have already given up hope. Too bad for them, because the president has made up his mind that we are still going to win the war and the Democratic presidential candidates speak about a 10-year presence in Iraq. Whatever the political leadership is or will be in 2009, no candidate seems capable of saying, "We're getting out now!" And the rest of the world laughs at us because both parties are led by fools.

Anyone who cares about the United States and its legacies has to be brokenhearted at what has been done to our beloved country by the crazy people who are running it -- people who have become so skilled at deception they don't even realize anymore that they are deceiving. Just like the Democrats don't realize they are again stealing defeat out of the jaws of victory.

Andrew Greeley is a priest in good standing of the Archdiocese of Chicago. for 52 years, a columnist for 40 years, a sociologist for 45 years, a novelist for 28 years, distinguished lecturer at the University of Arizona for 28 , research associate at National Opinion Research Center at the University of Chicago for 46 years.

A tip of the hat to blogger Jan, at Yearning for God, at whose door I stumbled after hitting Next Blog seven or eight or nine times (an admittedly risky and potentially dangerous maneuver) to discover this.

The Litany of Social Contagion

War and peace
Talk and silence
Addiction and recovery
Driving vs. walking
Being rather than doing
And vice versa.

Work and idleness
Innovation and lethargy
Blogging vs. reading
Punctuation and anarchy
Kierkegaard and Kant
Voting rather than complaining
Blogrolling vs. not
Love or hate or apathy.

Faith and fear
Acceptance and control
Will and surrender
Community and solitude
Commenting and commuting.

Peace.