Tuesday, February 16, 2010

Northerness in Stevenson's Poetry


"You know it by the northern look of the shore,
by the salt-worried faces,
by an absence of trees, an abundance of lighthouses.
It's a serious ocean."

Looking over some poetry papers I wrote in college (the aim being to help my students with the fine art of poetic analysis), I accidentally discovered Anne Stevenson's Scottish poems - poems with a "rare weather of aloneness . . . which conjure the landscape and climate of eastern Scotland with its chilly coast and chastened atmosphere" (Ray Parini).

"Fire struggles in the chimney like an animal.
It's caught in a life,
as when the tide pulls the Tay out
scarring predictable mudscape—
seawater's knifework
notching quick runnel and channel.

That's how you remember
the alternative lives.
You saw them, could never have lived them.
A ribbon of birds is pulled raggedly over November.
You're pulled between now and the way you will not escape."

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

Sappho the Muse

I discovered Sappho this week. And she, combined with teaching haikus to my 7th graders, may have changed my life.

I've never really been a huge fan of poetry, especially not the kind with awkward line breaks, overkill descriptions, and no narrative. Epic poetry I love. Smooth flowing poetry (like Boland's and Nye's) I can appreciate. But that's about as far as it goes.

This past week, however, I have been awed by the power of apples turning red, silver moons setting, and 5-syllable lines. The power of simple words, line breaks, and concrete images, to evoke emotion and meaning.

Although they are

Only breath, words
Which I command
are immortal.

-translated by Mary Bernard

Like a sweet apple
turning red
high
on the tip
of the topmost branch.
Forgotten by pickers.

Not forgotten--
they couldn't reach it.

-translated by Julia Dubnoff

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

The Failure of Charles the 1st to Inspire

Note to self: lectures do not work. At least, not when I'm speaking them. But what, oh what, should replace them?

Tuesday, December 15, 2009

The Little Frustrations of Failure . . .

I made a mistake today. Not so much a mistake, as a miscalculation. One of many that my life now consists of.

Since this is the last week of school before Christmas, and since we just finished our unit on Shakespeare, I decided to take a break from our usual itinerary, and read Charles Dickens' Christmas Carol in my 12th grade English class.

That was not the mistake.

The mistake was assigning the first stave (or "chapter") for them to read at home last night. I didn't think we could complete the story at school, since we only have three class-periods left before break, so I figured we'd read half at school (with hot chocolate, goodies, and hats), and half at home.

This was probably a reasonable assumption. However, the first stave is, in many ways, the most important. It is the chapter that establishes Scrooge's character, and builds a foundation for all that comes next. Without it, there is really nothing spectacular about this story of transformation and redemption. It is just a random fantasy about ghosts and memories and Christmas.

If it were necessary to have the students read at home every night, to stay on track, I would feel justified in my decision. But we are now ahead of schedule, and I regret my failure to consider the implication of assigning THAT chapter, and the possibility that students would not read it.

The reason I post this here is simply that it serves as a great example of what my last three and a half months of teaching have been like. A million tiny miscalculations grinding against my desire for excellence and natural tendency towards perfectionism. And I am torn between giving in to the frustration and declaring that this is clearly NOT the vocation for me, or allowing my competitive side to take hold, and continuing on simply to prove that I AM capable of doing better than this.

Friday, November 20, 2009

Hampton Court Palace

Another post discovered in my draft folder. I'm sure I was waiting to write more details on this one. Suffice it to say, it was as awesome as it looks.

We watched A Man for all Seasons in preparation for the field-trip -- opening doors into the life of Henry VIII, Thomas Wolsey, and the scandal surrounding the palace.




Oh for the glory of Oxford days and English nights . . .

I try to avoid remembering too often, because it is all-together too strange that I am here, when just so recently I was there [a true statement when I wrote this -- now it's been almost a year].

Rebekah Giffone's ode to Hampton Court Palace, where we spent a glorious Thursday field-trip (led by Jonathan Kirkpatrick), during week2 of British Landscapes.

The Ghost of Hampton Court
Dec. 9, 2008

There were no ghosts at Hampton Court,
When I went there in the Fall,
No spectres graced the pathways,
No spirits walked the halls

The wind that blew was windy,
The air was normal air,
No longing gripped my being,
I sat and shuddered there

I was the ghost at Hampton Court,
That harshish Autumn noon,
Treading wraith-like in the gardens,
And undead through the rooms

The golden ache refused to burn,
No beauty pierced my mind,
No ghost returned to haunt me -
I thought myself unblind

"At last I shall see clearly,
the fancies stripped away,
the Past devoid of feeling,
It cannot see decay."

Lies, insidious lies!
Dear daughter, don't you see?
That in the ghosts of Yesteryears
the Present wakes to thee?

Until you meet them face to face,
These spectres keep you chained -
Let the legions haunt you,
I pray you: feel the pain

For spectres live through death,
In your death, they have their being,
You fill their weightless bodies,
And set their sockets seeing

But let a spirit haunt you,
And you rob it of its breath,
Declare yourself the living,
And the dead remain in death

***

There were no ghosts at Hampton Court,
When I went there in the Fall,
No spectres graced the pathways,
No spirits walked the halls

Yet now the day is closing,
The night is falling fast,
My heart begins its yearning,
for spirits of the past

The wind that blows is windy,
The air is normal air,
Yet longing grips my being,
I sit and crumble there

The golden ache begins to burn
These beauties pierce my soul,
A heavy peace now haunts me -
In the voidness, I am whole.

Until I meet You face to face,
These spectres keep me chained,
Yet in Your haunting Presence,
All questions die away

Your Spirit is the answer,
To bereft and bloodless minds -
Your beauty cuts me deeply:
I know I am alive

-Rebekah Giffone

PNG itinerary

I found this in my draft folder. No idea why I never posted it (I guess it wasn't finished?). It's a detailed walk-through of our PNG trip. Reading it over brought back lots of memories. =)

Our itinerary, in brief:

May 4 -- meet at GFU (Rick met us in the Bauman parking lot to say goodbye), drive to PDX, fly from PDX to LAX, dinner in LAX (Chiles), fly to Brisbane over the Pacific Ocean and across the equator, skipping May 5 in the process (an empty flight with extra seats, so I slept almost all the way, only watching one movie [The Curious Case of Benjamin Button] on my individual screen).

[one of our many airport stops]

May 5 -- disappears into oblivion

May 6 -- a day in Brisbane. Take the train into the city, store our bags at a Lutheran Church, and go to Lone Pine Koala Sanctuary. Pet kangaroos, hold koalas, and take a boat back on the river. Split up and spend the night with host families (me with Jordan) who shower us with a confusing mix of love and racism.

[hanging out with kangaroos]

May 7 -- fly to Port Moresby, PNG. Todd Luedtke (Rhett's dad) meets us at the airport, as does the first wave of heat. Settle into our guesthouse, and take a ride about town. Houses on stilts (including an entire village built on the water), and everything open to let in the air (what little there is) -- open churches with no walls (as all churches should be . . .) and houses with slatted windows.

May 8 -- rehearse "The Weave," which is still not finished, and drive to the airport by PMV (passenger motor-vehicle? -- an open pickup truck), via the parliament building. Fly to Lae, which will be our home for the next week (and our emotional home for much longer). Jacob Luke picks us up at the airport in the Mapai van, and we stop at Big Rooster for lunch (drive through). The heat is a new level of intense, and the vegetation is a new level of lush. Settle in to the three-room seminary house we'll be staying in, with no walls (everything slatted, including interior walls, to let in the air), one shower, one toilet, one fan (for all intents and purposes), and rain water to drink and wash in. Take a walkabout and see where Rhett grew up.

[hanging out in our home at Martin Luther Seminary in Lae]

May 9 -- a morning theatre workshop with the seminary students. Experience the pieces they've prepared for us (and their love for cassowaries), and perform "Hello," "The Weave," and the myth portion of "Midas." Break into groups and begin to talk about myths that can become staged stories. Then invited to a baby naming ceremony. A huge feast prepared (including an entire pig), and the "Apostles' Creed" as our gift -- our prayer of blessing upon this child's life. Playing with children, listening to them sing in the chapel, and learning hand games in broken English.

[playing handgames with the children]

May 10 -- a church service in English, in one of the first enclosed buildings we've been in. A traditional song while bringing gifts to the alter -- gifts that include vegetables as well as money. "The Creed" performed, again, as our gift. Great joy when Cindy speaks, not in Latin, or English, or sign language, or Arabic, but Pidgin, and Nicole's voice defies language itself. Then rehearsing "American Midas" for three hours -- preparing it for the round -- and presenting it in Chapel that night.

May 11 -- working with the communication class, and an afternoon trip to the market. Bought PNG skirts. Washed our hair in a dripela ren (massive rain storm).

[with our newly purchased PNG skirts]

May 12 -- listened to an Engan storyteller with our eyes closed, so he wouldn't turn white. Rehearsed with our communication group in the afternoon (swealteringly hot), and then again with the drama class in the evening.

May 13 -- morning communication rehearsal, and left exhausted and drenched for the rest of the day. Afternoon rehearsal with the drama class. The women brought amazing props that they had made by hand, on their own initiative. A swealtering performance at Lae Tech, with worship in Pidgin, and then "Hello," "The Weave," "The Creed," and part of "Midas." Amazing conversations with the students afterward.

May 14 -- performing with the seminary students for the whole community, after more morning rehearsals. Six groups in all. Our drama group (Stephen, Whitney, and I) telling an adapted myth about brothers turned to cassowaries, and rescued by a brother-redeemer who never stopped searching for his siblings. In the end, he burns the magician's house to the ground, with the magician trapped inside (a slightly disturbing vision of Jesus). Our communication group (Cindy, Stephen, Emily, and I) telling the story of a witchdoctor, an evil spirit, and the power of the Light. As the evil spirit, who was constantly leaping on tables, crouching, and twirling about, I was exhausted, and completely drenched, once the story was over.

[as the evil spirit, taking up my residence in the house]

May 15 -- for our safety, two seminary students drove with us to Ukarumpa (or "Little America") and rode back on the bus. Staying with host families in groups of two -- Emily and I together.

[creating pictures of redemption with the Ukarumpa high schoolers]

May 16 -- morning workshop with the 7th-12th grade MKs. Creating pictures of their community, and the redemption that even Ukarumpa needs. Going to a drop in center, for PNG children and youth, in the afternoon. Performing, and creating more pictures. Emily able to talk with two deaf boys.

[performing "The Weave" at the drop-in center]

May 17 -- church at Ukarumpa. All English and all white. Rehearsing "American Midas" in the afternoon (readjusting to a stage), and performing for the youth worship in the evening.

May 18 -- early trip to the Ukarumpa market, and creative dramatics with the elementary school students (every grade) after performing in their morning chapel. Brief meeting with the 8th grade drama class, talking about theatre, and working on vocalization. Relaxation with Sister Act 2 in the evening, and our nightly debrief with Tim Tams.

May 19 -- afternoon performance at Iyura National High School. We performed all of the pieces in their entirety for the first time. An hour of performing, then two hours spent talking to students. One girl took her bilum off her shoulder and gave it to me -- it had taken her over a month to make.

[one of our many performances of "The Creed"]

May 20 -- another early trip to the Ukarumpa market, then driving to Garoka, the Round Round Theatre, and NPAT.

May 21 -- a trip into a village, a traditional mumu (a feast with a butchered pig), and a bilasim skin ritual (dressing up in the traditional feathers and art).

[Whitney and I in our traditional headdresses -- they weighed a ton and were made of beetle shell, Bird of Paradise feathers, etc.]

May 22 -- a trip to a different village, to perform and watch NPAT in an open market place. Then performing "The Weave" in the Round Round Theatre, at a variety show.

[preparing to perform at the Round-Round]

May 23 -- driving back down from the Highlands to Lae, and the heat of the sea. Back home at Martin Luther Seminary.

May 24 -- our day of relaxation. A yacht sailed to Salimoa, which once was Lae. Snorkeling in the blue-green ocean, dolphins accompanying our boat, and a walk up the luscious mountain, with butterflies and anti-aircraft weaponry from WWII. Dinner at the yacht club as Jacob Luke's guests, and meeting his beautiful wife, who gave me her own necklace and earrings.

[our group on Salimoa]

May 25 -- flying from Lae to Port Moresby, and from Port Moresby to Brisbane. A night at the church that hosted us on our way in. A potluck dinner, sharing pictures from our trip, a midnight Tim Tam buying run, and sleeping on mattresses on the church floor.

[Cyndi, Jessie and I with our Tim Tams -- I bought two packages,
they each bought more like 20]

May 26 -- flying from Brisbane to Sydney, from Sydney to LAX, and from LAX to PDX. Saying goodbye in the airport. Taking the shuttle to Corvallis. A day that stretched on forever.

The Greater Trumps

I am reading Williams again, and, like fire, he is pulsing in my blood. May we all "rise to adore the mystery of love" (108).
There had come into her life with the mystery of the Tarots a new sense of delighted amazement; the Tarots themselves were not more marvelous than the ordinary people she had so long unintelligently known. By the slightest vibration of the light in which she saw the world she saw it all differently; holy and beautiful, if sometimes perplexing and bewildering, went the figures of her knowledge [. . .] and she too, in a dance that was happy if it was frightening. Nothing was certain, but everything was safe--that was part of the mystery of Love. She was upon a mission, but whether she succeeded or not didn't matter. Nothing mattered beyond the full moment in which she could live to her utmost in the power and according to the laws of the dance. (191)
"By the slightest vibration of the light in which she saw the world she saw it differently . . . holy and beautiful" -- this reminds me of Lewis and Tolkien's argument for the power of fantasy: we see the world transformed into the mystery it truly is.

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

Mumu Pictures

Some pictures of the pig slaughter. The worst was hearing it beaten to death. And the small puppy crying in the background.


Bilasim Skin

The old women, singing wedding/courting songs, putting leaves in our hair, and laughing. The woman in the green wig (nicknamed Australia by her friends, in honor of her 'blond' hair and quirky personality [they informed us that Australians are weird]) stole me away shortly after, taking me to her hut, and stripping me for the bilasim skin ceremony. She later gave me a bilum (a 'purse' of sorts, handmade without tools, and worn by everyone -- men, women, and children), and told me that I was now her daughter.