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Commentary
This poem goes in my “After Fire” series. It was suggested by the frustration of unboxing all our “stuff” in an erstwhile clean and tidy restored house.
My father warned me against “using big words when little words will do.” So I apologize for “avaricious.”* “Acquisitive” is arguably milder, though still a “big” word. I’d have chosen that adjective if it fit the poem.
Let’s be honest, it doesn’t matter how much money we make…. Most of us in our U.S. culture DO struggle with avarice.
The notion that ancient cultures have patience to conquer was suggested to me by recent news of America’s conflicts with Persia and China.
________
*Dictionary.com defines avaricious as “an adjective meaning having or showing an extreme, insatiable desire for wealth or material gain. It describes someone who is aggressively greedy, grasping, and often miserly—prioritizing the hoarding of money or possessions above all else.”
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
I told my siblings about progress in the restoration of our house after the fire last July. My oldest brother, always the philosopher, wrote, “Soon it will seem like just a bad dream.” I’m sure he’s right.
Last week, the electrician sent me a couple of photographs after he did a test connection to the all-new light fixtures on the all new electrical system in the all new ceiling. It was the first time I saw the house thus lit in nine months.
Did I ever really despair? No. I suppressed that response. But does that really count?
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
The apartments where we’re living until our house is restored (SOON!) has a great walking path around two ponds. It’s mainly young people there. The few older walkers make eye contact. The younger ones do not. Why?
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Commentary
I know there are people who feel this far more than I. My pains in life have been few and slight. All the more, may we long for the One who will make things right!
I’m starting to see that our house fire was an inflection point. The process of recovery has forced me to evaluate possessions and my use of them. At many points, I ask myself questions like, “Do I need this now? Will I ever use this in the future?” One example I have mentioned elsewhere is the replacement of my desktop and laptop computers. The replacements are both more powerful than what I had before the fire. I can do more with these new computers than I could do with the old ones. But the excitement of creativity, e.g., of making and editing videos, has largely died away. I’m writing poetry more now than ever before. That’s creative, but low-tech. In general, my years before the fire are different than what I anticipate after the fire. I’m being forced to recognize and acknowledge that.
Living in an apartment has made us ask the question, “How much do we really enjoy home-ownership?” Yard work has lost its charm. Home maintenance in general has lost what little attraction it ever had. That change had already begun before the fire. But now I realize it all the more keenly. The fire was in early July. Even though we were living in an apartment, I still had to go over to the empty house and mow the lawn in Texas heat. That made me feel the futility of yard work: water and mow, water and mow. Although I cannot go into it here, the house still feels like a war zone, and I am engaged in daily skirmishes.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
After the fire, we had a break-in at the empty house. The burglar seemed intent on finding some valuable document amongst the files we had stashed in my workshop. That helped us realize that we should pick up the pace of shredding old documents. Between paper shredding and file deletion, I have destroyed a lot of old documents in the last few days. The process leaves me feeling melancholy. Why? This poem explores that question.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
Tonight, I’m feeling ennui, hopelessness, a sense of futility. The feeling started intensifying yesterday as I set up a new, powerful computer, and explored how well it does with video editing. I noted to myself how I was doing this in a perfunctory manner, devoid of the excited expectation I once would have had that “I’ll do amazing things with this new capability! I’ll be creative and yet precise in communicating something via this medium.” That’s not likely to happen. People don’t turn to old men for fresh new expressions.
What did “The Preacher” do when he was feeling this way? He wrote Ecclesiastes. And Robert Browning wrote “Rabbi Ben Ezra”:
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Commentary
[I have written this up, but decided it’s unwise to post the full explanation at this time; suffice it to say that this belongs in my “After The Fire” collection]
In my poem, I leave the question hanging out there: who is recharging ME? An unanswered question makes some people feel uncomfortable. I’m sure the day of answers will come.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
Susan had the living room of our temporary housing looking pretty spiffy until yesterday. That’s when she brought upwards of 16 boxes home from the remediation company warehouse. It’s stuff that ServPro hauled off after the fire. We’re going through it deciding what to keep and what to toss. I just went through a box of materials from back when I served a church with graphics and newsletter layout. That all seemed important for many years. Maybe it was. God knows. If it was, its importance will not be diminished or lost by my throwing away samples I retained until now.
As I do this, I think of people who lose EVERYTHING in a fire or other disaster. What a mind-bender that must be!
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
[sung to the tune of “Don’t You Dare Drop My Insurance Policy”]
Susan showed me something about our homeowner’s insurance that’s gonna have me feeling nervous until we figure out what’s going on. In this poem, think of the mountain climb as if it were buying a house at age 34 and paying for insurance 31 years before having to make a significant claim. Susan wants me to consider that the odd thing she showed me about the insurance may constitute a blessing. She may be right, but I’m Scottish, and penury is always just around the corner.
This poem will go in my “After The Fire” collection. The background photo is of a fire in the Sangre de Cristo range, which we witnessed on one of our mountain climbing trips.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
This vague notion settled over me tonight as I lay listening to songs I heard in my youth. The songs haven’t changed, but I HAVE changed—AM changing—especially in response to troubles. Like I said, though… it’s a vague notion, a lot more hope than sight.
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Commentary
At this rate, my first chapbook will be titled “After The Fire.” The last time I lived in an apartment was 1983. It takes getting used to. And it’s prompting some poetry!
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
A more autobiographical poem has never been written. Like most of my white on black poems, this is the product of a dark night. It’s this simple: either in the middle of a sleepless night, or when I give up sleeping before dawn, I write a poem. My phone (where I write poems) is still in dark mode. That means white text on a black background. Sometimes I just do a screen capture and post. Other times, I recreate the effect in an editing program. The dark scheme seems appropriate.
Autobiographical This is one of the poems I wrote after a branch fell on our electrical service and caused a fire in our house. You can probably see the connection to that in the poem. But there are other things that I have to give up as I grow in wisdom and humility. That’s what I mean by “bodies of all sorts.”
The accuracy of the last stanza is debatable, but worth contemplating.
Here’s a picture of one of our actual old trees. Later this week, we’re meeting with an arborist to talk about that tree’s future.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
I am trying to capture my thoughts and impressions of moving into temporary housing after our home of 31 years was partially destroyed by fire. One night in friends’ houses, three nights in the home of a vacationing church family, eleven nights in a hotel, and—finally—moving into an apartment for the months to come…. It’s a recipe for broiled impermanence, for a taste of dwelling—but not indwelling.
Soon after we moved into the apartment, I reported maintenance issues to management. I had to wonder why the tenant who just moved out had not complained about an inoperable dishwasher, an obviously clogged dryer vent, and a stuck shower diverter. From the mail that continues flowing into the mailbox, I gather she was a young woman. Naturally, she would not have had the maintenance savvy and expectations of a 65-year-old homeowner. At my request, management jumped right on making repairs. In contrast, the young lady must have suffered in silence— living here, but barely.
Our relationship with dwellings can serve as a metaphor and extension of our relationship with solid, abiding truths. If we don’t inhabit them fully, they are vapid, meaningless, and empty.
THREE TRICKY THINGS IN THIS POEM:
1). The sixth line of the first stanza has a word—“ev’rything”—that is doing double duty. It’s the subject AND the object.
2). In the second stanza, I’m picturing the flat, minimally inhabited world as a magician’s flash paper. From an AI overview:
“Flash paper, also known as nitrocellulose paper, is a type of paper that burns quickly and completely, leaving behind no ash or residue. It’s primarily used by magicians for dramatic effects in performances.”
3). Conversations reveal one’s depth… or lack thereof. When a shallow person engages in serious conversation, their world is revealed to be as insubstantial as a magician’s flash paper. I am blessed with family and friends of a better sort. Recently, I got together with my friends Jim and Darol at a wedding reception. Our conversation plunged immediately into deep waters. You would never guess it had been months since we had last seen each other. We had been longing to talk with a friend about the interior life, about living in homes richly furnished for eternity.
(background image cropped from one by Gordon Taylor on Pixabay)
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
In case you didn’t read between the lines, we had a house fire. Our excellent neighbor Don put me and my son up for the night while Susan slept at her friend’s house. Jonathan slept in a guest room and I slept on a sleeper sofa in my neighbor’s den. I say “slept.” There was very little sleeping that night for any of us. As I lay there, I could look through Don’s kitchen window at the roof of our house. The background photo is one I took as I lay there, feeling compelled by my muse to memorialize the occasion in verse.
“Days That Lie Ahead” As I write this commentary, it has been one week since the house fire. I’m learning some new lessons and relearning old ones: 1. Don’t worry… 2. There are people who love in practical ways… 3. God was providing for us to pay insurance premiums all those years….
One highlight was the way St. Bart’s Anglican Church snapped into action. The Associate Pastor over Worship and Pastoral Care, Jen Crider found us a luxurious home to stay in for several days while the owners were on vacation. Friends and family extended offers of help, although I didn’t know how to take them up on their offers at first. A special new friend (he’s a fellow poet!) and his wife washed clothes for us. Others donated cash. We feel loved. We’re experiencing some anxiety and plenty of confusion about the process. But we’re confident this will all turn out for God’s glory and our growth as His children.
Below is a poem I wrote on the second night after the fire. By then, we were comfortably ensconced in the home Jen Crider found for us (the Darnells bravely welcomed us three humans and our three cats into their home while they finished out their vacation).
