Valentine's Day 2008, A Silver Stud

I hope DH doesn't feel offended, but I found someone to make my heart go "pitty-pat" this Valentine's Day. It's Poet Laureate and Pulitzer Prize winner Ted Kooser. (hat tip: Amelia) Some of you young male bloggers can pick up a few tips from this guy! Kooser admits that he started writing poetry as a young man with the goal of gaining female attention. In those years," he said, "I desperately needed some sort of a gimmick, for I was thin and pimply, my palms sweated, and my breath was sour from smoking the Chesterfields that despite the claims of magazine advertising had failed to make me irresistible. I got the idea that being a poet might make me attractive. It didn't occur to me for a long time that in order to earn the title of 'poet,' I ought to have written at least one poem. Being a poet was looking the part.

Oh, Mariachi Me

All my life I have wanted nothing so much
as the love of women. For them I have fashioned
the myth of myself, the singing troubador
with the flashing eyes. Always for them
my black sombrero with its swinging tassels,
this vest embroidered with hearts, these trousers
with silver studs down the seams. Oh, I am
Mariachi me, as I had intended. I am success
and the price of success, now old and dusty
at the edge of the dance floor, still smiling,
heavy with hope, clutching my dead guitar.
Ted Kooser, Valentine's Day 2006

He seems to have learned a lot since his early days! Now, he gives Valentine advice such as this: "Any kind of handwritten message to anyone else is a plus, even if it isn't a great work of art. Love letters are a wonderful gift, even when poorly written." BiV can only heartily agree. (Are you still reading, DH?) Kooser said men, in particular, fall back on the old standards: a dozen roses and a box of chocolates.

"That's OK, but my guess is a handwritten letter would convey a lot more. But I wouldn't want to deprive women of roses and chocolates." That Kooser understands the secret longings and fears women experience is obvious from this tidbit:

If you feel sorry for yourself
this Valentine's Day, think of
the dozens of little paper poppies
left in the box when the last
of the candy is gone, how they
must feel, dried out and brown
in their sad old heart-shaped box...
(Excerpt of Ted Kooser poem "If You Feel Sorry")

February 14th became a special day for this romantic soul, and in 1986, Kooser mailed one of his efforts, "Pocket Poem" to 50 female friends for Valentine's Day. Kooser continued the tradition (approved by his wife), and did it for the next 21 years. He spent time and money tenderly applying little red hearts to the cards, boxing them up and sending them to a different post office just so they could be postmarked from Valentine, Neb. Isn't that just too sweet for words?? Eventually, over 2,500 women received a yearly poem from the Nebraska poet.

If this comes creased and creased again and soiled
as if I'd opened it a thousand times
to see if what I'd written here was right,
it's all because I looked too long for you
to put it in your pocket. Midnight says
the little gifts of loneliness come wrapped
by nervous fingers. What I wanted this
to say was that I want to be so close
that when you find it, it is warm from me.
Ted Kooser, "Pocket Poem," Valentine's Day 1986

What I love most about Kooser's poems is that although he is a romantic, he appreciates depth and variety in women. The woman he describes in the poem "Selecting a Reader" is priceless, and she demonstrates that his definition of beauty is nuanced:

First, I would have her be beautiful,
and walking carefully up on my poetry
at the loneliest moment of an afternoon,
her hair still damp at the neck
from washing it. She should be wearing
a raincoat, an old one, dirty
from not having money enough for the cleaners.
She will take out her glasses, and there
in the bookstore, she will thumb
over my poems, then put the book back
up on its shelf. She will say to herself,
"For that kind of money, I can get
my raincoat cleaned." And she will.

Kooser's poems avoid over-sentimentality and often have unexpected twists. There's a dark, seductive, almost ravenous side to the poem "Barn Owl" that will give you the shivers...

High in the chaffy
Taffy colored haze of the hayloft,
Up under the starry nail-hole twinkle of the old tin roof
There in a nest of straw and bailing twine
I have hidden my valentine for you

A white heart woven of snowy feathers
In which wide eyes are welcome
Open to you as you climb the rickety ladder to my love

Behind those eyes lies a boudoir of intimate darkness, darling
The silks of oblivion
And set like a jewel dead center in the heart
Is a golden hook the size of a finger ring
To hold you always
Plumpest sweetheart mouse of mine.
(Here he is reading the poem aloud, in his adorable, self-deprecating manner: (KooserBarnOwl)

And yet, although Kooser has now passed the landmark of 60 years old, he retains the sweet shyness of youth, as evidenced in the poem, "Tracks:"

Using a cobbler’s shoe last
I found one summer at a yard sale,
and the heavy leather uppers
from cast-off boots, a jigsaw,
some wood, an awl and thread,
and a few evenings sitting alone
thinking of you, I have fashioned
a pair of red valentine shoes
with heart-shaped wooden heels.
Look for my tracks on your doorstep
where I stood with sore feet
through the evening, too timid to knock.

Kooser's Valentine postcards are now available to all in the form of his newly published book, "Valentines." A review describes it thus, "Kooser's valentine poems encompass all the facets of the holiday: the traditional hearts and candy, the brilliance and purity of love, the quiet beauty of friendship, and the bittersweetness of longing." I just can't get enough of these love poems. Will you read just one more?

After Years

Today, from a distance, I saw you
walking away, and without a sound
the glittering face of a glacier
slid into the sea. An ancient oak
fell in the Cumberlands, holding only
a handful of leaves, and an old woman
scattering corn to her chickens looked up
for an instant. At the other side
of the galaxy, a star thirty-five times
the size of our own sun exploded
and vanished, leaving a small green spot
on the astronomer’s retina
as he stood on the great open dome
of my heart with no one to tell.

So, guys, if you haven't already bought a diamond bracelet or box of chocolates, hie thyself to the nearest bookstore and pick up a copy of Kooser's book. Write your own ditty, be it ever so humble, and tuck it among the pages, where it will be cherished in years to come. And in the best of Kooser tradition, get an extra copy and send it to that older lady you home teach.

March

While you're waiting to hear from me, I thought I'd post a book review on the last book I read while in the States: March, by Geraldine Brooks. This is a great book for the light novel reader--not too difficult to read, but with some substance to it. Brooks has drawn her inspiration from Louisa May Alcott's Little Women, and has written the story of the absent father, Mr. March, who has gone off to aid the Union cause in the Civil War. She has loosely based this character on Louisa Alcott's own father, Bronson Alcott.

Bronson Alcott sounds like a man with whom I would love to become acquainted. He was a transcendentalist philosopher, educator, and abolitionist. He counted among his closest friends Ralph Waldo Emerson and Henry David Thoreau, and his name appears frequently in their letters and journals. It appears that Brooks had plenty of material to study in forming the character of Mr. March, as Bronson Alcott recorded his own life in 61 journals and his letters fill 37 manuscript volumes in the Harvard College Library.

Brooks has done a wonderful job of creating a life and voice for Mr. March. As a callow youth, he shows little thought for the evils of slavery, but he gradually encounters Negro slaves in the South and becomes enlightened. The book takes him through his marriage to Marmee, the loss of his fortune in attempting to advance the abolitionist cause, and his tortured decision to join the Union Army as a chaplain. While experiencing the horrors of war, he loses his innocence and becomes a tortured soul.

It is this character, portrayed near the end of the novel, who captured my imagination. The following excerpt from the novel recounts Mr. March's thoughts as he leaves the hospital and prepares to return home to his anxious family:

You go on. You set one foot in front of the other, and if a thin voice cries out, somewhere behind you, you pretend not to hear, and keep going.

But some steps require more effort than others. As I set my foot upon the path leading to that little brown house, I felt like an impostor. Surely, I had no business here. This was the house of another man. A man I remembered. A person of moral certainty, and some measure of wisdom, whom many called courageous. How could I masquerade as such a one? For I was a fool, a coward, uncertain of everything.

Had I been alone, I might have turned back then, melted away like the snow on that bright, mild morning, become a particle lost in the vast spate flowing through the landscape of war, so that my daughters could live with the unsullied memory of that other man, and not be obliged to know this inferior replacement.

But I was not alone. John Brooke had a firm grip upon my arm and the young Lawrence boy pranced brightly ahead of us, barely able to contain his excitement. He was carrying on as if he brought some bright-wrapped, welcome Christmas gift. If only he knew for what shoddy goods he was the forerunner. I pulled my muffler up high around my face, so as to hide the trembling at the corners of my mouth. Truly, walking up that path was an act of courage greater than any asked of me at war.

To those who have experienced uncertainty, and have faced their own weaknesses in the darker parts of their souls, this character will seem familiar. This novel builds in complexity when, at its apex, one comes to see the differing points of view of several of the characters, and that things are not always as they seem. I loved the shades that the author adds to Marmee. In Little Women, the mother is a paragon of virtue, but in life one can hardly live up to this standard. Here Marmee is shown as a noble, but real person. Without reservation, I would put this novel beside my copy of Little Women upon the shelf.

Little Purple Pansies

I joined the Church as a 19-year-old college student in North Carolina. Soon I received my first calling. I was to be the Primary chorister. I loved to sing, but this was extremely stressful. I didn't know how to conduct music, and I knew none of the Primary songs. The pianist helped me learn some basic patterns, and each week I would go to the basement of my dorm where the piano was located. With one finger I would painstakingly pick out the melody and teach myself the song, then practice conducting it. I'd make a poster, a visual, or a game. I'd spend several hours preparing, and the entire week worrying. One week the new song I was to teach was "Little Purple Pansies," a song not included in our current Primary book. I thought the words had a great message, and I still remember them:

Little purple pansies touched with yellow gold,
Growing in one corner of the garden old,
We are very tiny, but must try, try, try,
Just one spot to gladden, you and I.

In whatever corner we may chance to grow,
Whether cold or warm the wind may ever blow,
Dark the day, or sunny, we must try, try, try
Just one spot to gladden, you and I.

I had a wonderful visual/game for this song, and I knew all the words by heart so I wouldn't be bound to the book. Unfortunately I also had an entire row of 11-year old boys in the back. That day they decided to sing, "Little purple panties." The one song all year they sang at the top of their lungs. "Little purple panties touched with yellow gold...hahahahaha!" I had not choice but to continue with the song, as I knew no others. It was pure torture.

Perhaps because of this horrific experience, I now sometimes have reservations that one purple pansy in a tiny corner of the world can make any difference. I consider myself an idealistic person, and I'm involved in several "causes." But I often despair that my small efforts can have any influence in the world.

When John Remy introduced our Book Club selection for this month, Adam Hochschild's Bury the Chains, I was enthralled by his introduction. The book is about a small group of Quakers who started a movement which eventually resulted in the abolition of the trans-Atlantic slave trade. John says, "I’m not selling Quakerism here, folks. I’m selling idealism. In a generation or two, deeply entrenched, unjust attitudes can be reversed by the focused and passionated efforts of a few."

I got my book in the mail last week, and I've read the first three chapters. Although a history book, it is as readable as a novel, with a great story line and fascinating characters. I'm already enamored with John Newton, a man with a great love, great ambitions, and great weaknesses. In the first chapters, I've already encountered the doubts an idealist can experience as they run up against the status quo. Olaudah Equiano, a free black man in England, attempts but fails to rescue a friend of his who is seized and placed on a vessel bound for the West Indies.

"Equiano could paint his face and pass for white, at least in the dark; he could navigate skillfully through the white world's law courts and networks of influential people. But he was powerless to stop a black friend from being plunged back into slavery and tormented to an early death. Only a tiny minority of people in Britain openly oppposed slavery, and he and [Granville] Sharp (a lawyer) were almost alone in having actively tried to help its victims. He sank into a despair so bitter that he went to sea again and resolved "never more to return to England."

I feel deep in my soul that there are things we as individuals have promised the universe we will do. I think though we may try to escape, we will always have a profound interest and investment in these things, and be led to them over and over. I'm hoping as I read this book, it will rekindle within me a greater idealism and desire to discover and accomplish my vocation.

Misquoting Jesus Chapter 4

The most significant thought I absorbed from the reading of the book Misquoting Jesus was not stated overtly in Chapter 4, but once I learned this principle it permeated the rest of my reading. Bart Ehrman suggests throughout this work that the writers of the Christian books of scripture each have their own perpectives and valuable things to teach us. Textual criticism can bring us closer to the actual words of the authors and help reconstruct their understanding of the Christian faith. (p.14) Previous to my reading this book I approached the New Testament with a "harmonization" tactic, attempting to fit the ideas of the different authors into a cohesive whole. With Ehrman's instruction I see the value of taking each writer on his own terms and discovering their intent in writing. For example, Luke wishes to present Jesus as full of confidence in his divine mission, never losing control, never in anguish over his fate. (p. 143) This portrayal will necessarily conflict with an author such as Mark, who focuses attention on Jesus' agony. Mark emphasizes Jesus' distress and agitation at Gethsemane, his thrice-repeated prayer for the cup to be removed, and his despair on the cross. (p. 142)
Understanding this paradigm opens one up to studying the writers of the New Testament books with a deeper understanding. Their themes and motivations become more clear despite mistakes in transmission and the changes of scribes to try to harmonize the accounts and clarify the doctrine.

Chapter 4 discusses textual variations in detail. Several conclusions can be drawn from the fact that so many textual differences exist. Ehrman mentions three main conclusions drawn from a faith-based perspective:

1. From the tradition of Richard Simon, a French Catholic author: the Christian faith can not be based solely on scripture but requires the apostolic tradition preserved in the (Catholic) Church. (p. 102)

2 From Daniel Whitby's response to Mill's Apparatus: Errors are a result of the frailties of men, but "God would never allow the text to be corrupted to the point that it could not adequately achieve its divine aim and purpose." (p. 85)

3. Errors exist but textual criticism enables modern scholars to reconstruct the original words, so the foundation of faith is secured. A corollary to this view is that errors exist because of he multiplicity of manuscripts, but variations actually help us to discover more correct readings. (p. 105)

I am interested in these three faith-based perspectives, especially with respect to how the LDS church responds to textual variation. There is no attempt by Mormon writers to deny the existence of variation. The 8th Article of Faith states that we believe the Bible "as far as it is translated correctly," with an understanding that much of it has not been transmitted in it's original form. I've seen conclusions #1 and #2 above promulgated in LDS thought. Although we recognize errors in the scriptures, they are not so dire as to lead members away from salvation. Additionally, the Church has an apostolic tradition which will correct deviations which its membership needs to be aware of.

Besides the example of Joseph Smith, I have not seen any attempt by the Church to embrace textual criticism as a method of reconstructing the original autographs of Biblical authors. (Conclusion #3 above) Joseph did do some work in "reconstructing" texts, mainly by revelation and his understanding of what the texts meant to convey. But since that time I have seen little interest by LDS scholars to utilize textual criticism. Mogget's recent post on LDS Biblical scholarship is a point in fact.

Perhaps some of the others following this book discussion might wish to speculate whether the LDS Church might be able to benefit from textual criticism or what holds them back from doing so. (See also this review, which discusses further aspects important to Chapter 4.)