DAINTY FLOWERS

I think you love those flowers because they’re small

So much that several times you showed them to me

I never would have noticed them at all

In fact, I wondered what it is you see

 

The tendrils are as thin as silken thread

And end in tiny flowers like white spray

So delicate it’s as if moonlight bled

Into dreams that bloom when angels pray

 

Outside of a coffee shop/bookstore

Different kinds of flowers have been planted

I recalled a chat I had before

Concerning certain flowers the owner wanted

 

She struggled trying to craft exact language

To paint a picture so my mind could see

The flowers that her memory kept in image

Even talking with her hands to show me

 

But she succeeded finally to convey

That what they meant especially to her,

Talking on the patio that day,

Was, as she put it, how dainty they were

 

Frost names flower types in his poetry

Like pale orchises and Rose Pogonias

Flowers aren’t objects of study for me

Their images aren’t in my ideas

 

Sometimes I ponder why they’re there at all

Why a random, pointless drive of nature

Would evolve some shape so beautiful

Don’t they argue for some kind of Maker?

 

Now, flowers bloom in my mentality

And delicate as moonlight tiny sprays

Grow in meaning for philosophy

Merit in heavy thought a rightful place

I WOULDN’T SAY REGRET

Staring absently, the waitress

Demurred to evoke words

In reply to what he thought jocose

Signifying his accidental dissonance in most anything not

Music

At the piano

A good part of the day

Notes singing out a pentatonic sequence

Which were the scales’ iteration of their name

In every key

“It’s fun!” he exclaimed

While I sat on the couch that afternoon visit

Not even a song to me or most anybody

It’s why he’s so good

I mean good

Why his accidental dissonance, maybe, in most anything not

Music

 

He likes to check out music stores

Why wouldn’t he?

“Listen to this lick; it modulates,” he exclaimed,

After he caught my attention

Playing the baby-grand piano upon asking my permission

In the store I worked at back then

The day we met, that time

When two roads diverged before me

And I took a different road

Than the one we were both traveling by back then

 

The crowd wasn’t really listening

At the Grand Hotel’s Cupola Bar on Mackinac Island

Chit-chat, chit, chatter, chitter-chatter

Where we renewed our old friendship

It looked to me like the thrill is gone

Nor, I suppose, on the cruise ships how he makes his living now

 

Everybody’s got to make a buck

THE MEASURE OF MY GAIT (redux)

But for my body’s vibrancy

Lost from age

I feel better and better, now in my tranquil maturity

A tree grows high and wide with time

I know heights, now, placid in age

I never knew in youth, when I was figuring it all out

 

And I’ve got a handle on how things work better, now in my tranquil maturity

Better than in my excited youth

The world and I sync better

Than my fits to plug into a system I wasn’t fit to engage

In my early becoming adult

 

So many questions I faced unaware

When to argue

When to articulate a novel thought to stand out before my teachers

The battle to be self at school or workplace—alienation—enforcing conformity

That moment when my professor said I’d better start thinking about a different profession

provoked by my Marxist critique of Wordsworth’s IDIOT BOY

 

I really don’t know why I don’t fight anymore

Or why I used to

Or why I was never happy no matter where I lived: Ohio, Boston, Charlottesville, Florida

And my contentment, indeed happiness, now in Edmonton

 

And of the things I no longer let bother me:

Other people disagreeing with me

Things I have to get done by yesterday

Whether people like me

Traffic, specifically tailgaters

I haven’t time nor energy nor inclination to disturb

My peace

The breadth of my awareness

Expanded and expands still from youth’s constrictions

 

Knowing largely the way it was always done, then,

At home, hometown, Sunday School

Plain, innocent, not knowing things

I remember questioning the merits of my professor’s USC degree, me knowing only UCLA

 

Making judgments in these facile these days

The young’s flash and intensity of passion

Have calmed, calming me, contenting my present

 

There was that time when it all lay in front of me

So much to master, to conquer

Most of it’s past now

The challenges I’ve conquered, arts mastered to such as one may

I’ve laid my foundation, a good one

Upon which I stand, build, have built, refine, expand

I burst the bonds that have constrained my heart

As my soul breathes free, breaks free

 

The future doesn’t beckon anymore

Though I continue leisurely progress in cognition, will, behavior, refinement

Sensibility, sensitivity, sentiment, solidarity

I read now as much as talk

And today, W. H. Auden moved my sensibility, sense, cognition towards where I wasn’t before

And today I’m closer to the time when I’ll die

I ponder whether I’ll die well,

Studying to live well

 

My measured gait is not due to decrepitude

 

I carry the weight of my awareness,

Thoughts, contentedness, purpose, perceptions

Measuring my stride through life

Looking back, down from olding heights,

From the altitude afforded by maturing,

On who I was, what I was, how I did what I did

The mysterious ascending current flowing toward my future

Inhabiting my present, my pacific contentment my ever-evolving mentation

And I will die well

OKOS

OKOS

 

Okos,” my grandmother used to call me in Hungarian

When I was young and trying to sound profound

“I see what you’re trying to do; you’re trying to sound smart,”

My writing coach told me much later in grad school,

“Sometimes you carry if off brilliantly.”

A couple people even thought me a genius, though I.Q. tests have not validated the presumption

“I think that is a low reading; they have better tests, now,” my psychologist said

And I wondered why make a test if you don’t trust the results

Me, skeptical of the whole notion of genius

I.Q.

And now the degrees I carry certify me smart

And I don’t have to try

 

It’s easy to impress when to go for the intellect

It’s so measurable, quantifiable, easy to see

It’s all so easy

Witness the admiration our social structure bestows upon the smart

You’ll endear yourself to any mother by saying her child is smart

It’s all so easy

I had a hard time explaining to a man deprived of education

That knowing a lot isn’t intelligence; that you can be smart without school

 

Wisdom is a fine acquisition

Deep insights devolve from learning, coupled with reflection

As naturally as an ancient tree grows summer fruit from spring blossoms in due season

And learning can be acquired by anyone through application and motivation

The ambiguous ambition to be okos

Not necessarily smart

 

The wash and impression of intelligence drowns out

The song of simple goodness

What of kind, caring, good-nature, nicety?

What of love?

“Now I’m among dumb, nice people

“Instead of cruel intelligent people,”

A Yale grad told me at a church convention

I don’t know why brilliant academicians want to be so cutting

Why they don’t want to be kind, caring, good-natured, nice guys

What of soul? Of Blues?

And Miles Davis Freddy Freeloader

Lives in the same world as Bach fugues

And people love Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata and Fur Elise more

Than his mighty 3rd Symphony

And I love Bist Du Bei Mir,

Written for his wife, as much as

Bach’s Great G-Minor Fantasy and Fugue

 

And what of savage Nietzsche?

What of aristocracy’s progeny and their will to power?

Cutting comments twisted from intellectual cleverness

As if slave morality gives birth to

“sympathy, the kind, helping hand, the warm heart, patience, humility, and friendliness”

As if the good must be

“the safe man: he is good natured, easily deceived, perhaps a little stupid, un bonhomme

Yes, un bonhomme—a good man

No.  It does not all come down to Nietzsche.  and in this Nietzsche is dead wrong

Though he describes so well the desiderata I advocate and so desire to be and become

“Nice guys finish last,” they used to say

And I’ll finish last if that’s the necessary legacy of being

Nice

I don’t know what the Hungarian word is

STANZAS

When feeling forms words into verse

Maybe sublime, poignant, punching powerful emotion, sad or happy, joy;–melancholy

It is a gamble

That the feeling reads through

That others would resonate or care about that feeling, want simpatico

 

It’s safer to arrange pretty words

In complex sequences ideation of symbols

To catch the eye on language games

The leaf of paper ink form word, language

 

In a hip-hop world

‘40’s music still sings to heartstrings

Beethoven yet storms and rages

In our world of facile rhyme and rhythm

 

Outmoded forms communicate despite form

With and through form

And contemporaneity’s distracting noise

Nor a suicidal retirement into the lost past

 

Then there’s just how you feel

And if it can find its way into

Song, music, rhythm, rhyme, word

That verse would mean something someone

Hears, reads, resonates, harmonizes

YOU ARE

You are a firm foundation; you are the earth

Grounding the mistic effervescent misting effusions empyreal emanations volcanic endeavors

Cathedralic manifestations in which this life is built

The mists that a meadow flower-field breathes

The flighty clouds that condense in floating skies

Arising from oceanic bedrock by creative days’ energetic fire

Testing the receptiveness of a sea of otherness boundless around me

You receive me always.  Listen, lift up, light up life

When those clouds amass dark and impend disaster

Then you say, “There is no disaster.”

 

I’ve gotten along alone a long time

Time and times and half a time

As have you, too—in this our separate lives shared

But as I am alone in my generative doings’ aspirations

Being Self

You are always with the alone self generative

 

Gratitude

I forget sometimes

What all is gifted me, indeed, all I have

And it’s a lot

(Though most would call my circumstances straightened)

The greatest gift a Gracious Creator has endowed me

And you give daily, through the years, in the moment

Of your own volition to me

Carol, I thank you

THE MEASURE OF MY GAIT

But for my body’s vibrancy

Lost from age

I feel time better and better

A tree grows high and wide with time

I know heights, now

I never knew in youth

I understand the way things work better, now in my tranquil maturity

Better than in my excited youth

The world and I sync better

Than my fits to plug into a system I wasn’t fit to engage

In my early becoming adult

So many questions I faced unaware

When to argue

When to articulate a novel thought to stand out before my teachers

The battle to be self at school or workplace seeming enforcing conformity

That moment when my professor said I’d better start thinking about a

different profession

provoked by my Marxist critique of Wordsworth’s IDIOT BOY

I really don’t know why I don’t fight anymore

Or why I used to

Or why I was never happy no matter where I lived: Ohio, Boston, Charlottesville, Florida

And my contentment, indeed happiness, now in Edmonton

And of the things I no longer let bother me:

Other people disagreeing with me

Things I have to get done yesterday

Whether people like me

Traffic, specifically tailgaters

I haven’t time nor energy nor inclination to disturb

Me and my peace

The breadth of my awareness

Expanded and expands still from youth’s constrictions:

Knowing largely the way it was always done

At home, hometown, Sunday School

Plain, innocent, not knowing things

I remember questioning the merits of my professor’s USC degree, me knowing only

UCLA

Making judgments is facile these days

The young’s flash and intensity of passion

Have calmed, calming me, contenting my present

 

There was that time when it all lay in front of me

So much to master, to conquer

Most of it’s past now

The challenges I’ve conquered, arts mastered to such as one may

(Though mastery knows no terminus)

I’ve laid my foundation, a good one

Upon which I stand, build, have built, refine, expand

I burst the bonds that have constrained my heart

As my soul breathes free, breaks free

 

The future doesn’t beckon anymore

Though I leisurely progress in cognition, will, behavior, refinement

Sensibility, sensitivity, sentiment, solidarity

I read now as much as talk

And today, W. H. Auden moved my sensibility, sense, cognition towards where I wasn’t before

And today I’m closer to the time when I’ll die

I ponder whether I’ll die well,

As I study to live well

 

My measured gait is not due to decrepitude

 

I carry the weight of my awareness,

Thoughts, contentedness, purpose, perceptions

Measuring my stride through life

Enraptured looking back, down from olding heights

From the altitude afforded by maturing on constrained behaviors,

On who I was, what I was, how I did what I did

The mysterious ascending current flowing toward my future

In the present’s contented, open mentation

And I will die well

The Demise of Greatness

The handful of artists who finished the circle of life in the ’60’s were the last great artists–ever.  I’m thinking of Hemingway, Faulkner, James Joyce, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Robert Frost, Wallace Stevens, T. S. Eliot and perhaps a handful more.  I think that Thomas Pynchon just made the cut.  In art, Picasso, Matisse, Jackson Pollock and a few others, lesser known.  And in music, Aaron Copeland is about it in the US, and in England Benjamin Britten and Ralph Vaughn Williams, and the Russian Stravinsky –there are a few others I have left out.  In their day, Hemingway and Eliot were about as big as one could get.  Now, both of them are being reconsidered in academic circles.  From being as great as one could get, they’re now not so great.  Hemingway was too macho and I don’t know what the problem is with Eliot, but he’s on his way out, if he’s not out altogether.  Adulation may be one indicator of greatness, and both Hemingway and Eliot had it.  But are we prepared to say that Falco is great due to his adulation in the ’80’s, or that Smash Mouth in the ’90’s, or who knows who today?

Now, in academic circles, advocacy issues are becoming criteria for import.  I do not say for greatness, because that very category is dissolving.  So, for example, Clara Schumann in  music, Mary Shelley in literature, and others add their names to the important due to revisionist gender concerns.  Other names are emerging from other advocacy issues.  But the real problem with greatness is due to contemporary critical theory.  Contemporary critical theory is deconstructing the whole notion of greatness itself.  The idea that art can be great is attacked also for advocacy reasons.  Greatness implies elitism, and today it is passe to be elite or to be an elitist.  I remember a student in a class I was taking at Harvard saying that our professor was being elitist for asking us to read Baudelaire in French.  I pointed out the irony that she was saying this in Harvard University.  A friend on mine in another grad school, who was deeply steeped in post-modern critical theory, said that everyone in every walk of life is an artist.  I didn’t know what he meant.  But one night when I was drinking a beer I suggested to him that I was being an artist, drinking beer.  I believe that it was then he told me that one day he would kill me.  We lost touch and he never made good on his remark.

Today in universities, pop culture is a bona fide discipline.  On a flight recently, the scholar sitting next to me gave me a feminist critique of Friday the 13th.  Even in the theological school in which I work, Jesus and pop culture is a course offered.  Pop culture is fun and all.  I have been known to watch the Police Academy movies.  But I wouldn’t dream of paying money to an academic institution in which they would teach me about it.  (I’m not saying that there are or have been courses on Police Academy in universities.)  And although I have been known to watch Police Academy, I would never put it on a par with Richard the Third.  But if there is no greatness, and if contemporary critical theory places all art on a level plain, what are we left with?  We are left with the demise of the great.  I don’t see our way to identifying a great poet today.  Remember Run DMC?  Did that band create today’s great poetry?  Please do not take me the wrong way.  The great philosopher/sociologist Eric Michael Dyson elicits much meaning from the lyrics of Jay Z.  But as he himself says, his class at Georgetown on Jay Z is not just hearing “dope lyrics.”  He uses Jay Z to shed light on pressing issues of race in American history.  But even Dyson is not making an aesthetic judgment on Jay Z as a poet.

In fact, I’m not sure that critics can make aesthetic  judgments today at all.  Sure, publishers make decisions on what material they want to publish.  And governments appoint poet-laureates.  Philosophy has reasoned itself out of existence, and Rorty wouldn’t accept an endowed chair in the University of Virginia philosophy department for that reason.  And now I believe that art has criticized itself out of existence.  I suspect that there is no longer criteria for deciding greatness in art.  No word “great” at all in the lexicon of language.  So the likes of Hemingway and Eliot may be the last of the great writers.  And even they are losing their standing in university estimates about who we ought to read.  Are we at the point where Marvel Comics are leading authors of our day?  Will the next generation compare Iron Man to Prince Hamlet?  If the next generation will even know who Hamlet is.

POETRY: A LAMENT

A well-turned phrase

Captured sound of sense

Perfect expression of a truth

Wanting to be told

 

Clarity through word choice: diction

Sentence construction arrangement

Of ideas architectural development

Meaning made through artistry

 

Word play alliteration assonance

Rhythm rhyme resonance meter beat and feet

Imagery symbol simile metaphor

Epic, Allegory, Lyric, Ode, Elegy

 

Truth-telling when there was truth

If there ever was truth

Language scripting reality thought

Feeling words substance signification

 

When there was something to say

To grasp, ponder, moved sonorous sentiment emotion

Sad melancholy somber pleasure ecstasy

Pathos passion feeding and watering cultivation content

 

Transmission of wisdom, speculation, ideation of mood

Tradition taught sought lived into

What matters to be a human

Telos of poesis making humanity

 

When capricious arrangement of words

Wasn’t calculated to obfuscate deconstruct plot sequence

Rearranged syntax disjunct

Verbs subjects objects meaningless

The Son of This Slave Woman

The Son of This Slave Woman

Rev. Dave Fekete, Ph.D.

June 21, 2020

Genesis 21:8-21                                  Matthew 10:24-39                                           Psalm 86

            The readings from this week’s lectionary are extremely timely.  Well, they were written thousands of years ago.  But they are current, timely.  I write this talk conscious of the upheaval going on in the US.  But I am a Canadian Permanent Resident, and I write also conscious of my Canadian home.  The issue of these readings is privilege.  When Sarah says, “the son of this slave woman shall not inherit along with my son Isaac,” she is claiming privilege for her son.  Hagar’s son Ishmael was of a different race from Sarah’s son Isaac.  Ishmael was Arab, Isaac was an Israelite.  Further, Ishmael was the son of a slave.  Isaac was the son of a free Israelite.  Sarah doesn’t want her slave’s son to share in the prosperity of her privileged son.

The parallels with the racial issues surfacing in the US are clear.  Protesters are talking about systemic racism.  And a primary indicator of systemic racism is the wage disparity between white Americans and Americans of color.  Another salient issue is the disparity in policing between white Americans and Americans of color.  The murders of George Floyd, Rayshard Brooks, and Breonna Taylor by police are but three examples of countless cases that people of color know about in their day to day lives.  A newscaster on TV brought up the fact that an African-American senator had been pulled over by the police seven times in the past year.  A US senator!  Then the newscaster looked straight into the camera and asked, “How many times were you pulled over last year?”  I haven’t been pulled over for about seven years.  And that time was because the Canadian police didn’t have a record of my US driver’s license before I got a Canadian license.  But this US senator had been pulled over seven times in one year for no other reason, apparently, than the color of his skin.

I suspect that I may be losing my Canadian friends at this point as I am talking about the US.  For Canada, our reading from Matthew seems more appropriate.  In Canada, we aren’t seeing protests but that doesn’t mean we’re insulated from racial injustice.  I think the line from Matthew 10:26 applies to life here, “for nothing is covered up that will not be uncovered, and nothing secret that will not become known.”  We don’t see racism in Canada because we are in the majority, what would be called privileged.  But even here, downstairs in this very church, we had a Muslim woman speaker who said some disturbing words.  She said people here in Edmonton tell her to go home, just because of the color of her skin and her religion.  And she was born in Canada.  Go home means stay in Canada!  She told us that she is scared for the wellbeing of her son, because of the color of his skin and his religion.  Carol’s own hairdresser, a Canadian of East-Indian decent, told her that when he and his friends went into a diner in Red Dear, the whole white crowd of customers were staring at him and his friends.  They left without ordering.

And in Canada, the Truth and Reconciliation Commission began in 2007.  That’s one year after I got here.  The Truth and reconciliation Commission was established to repair the damage from the Residential Schools.  The Residential Schools were set up to systematically destroy the Indigenous culture and spirituality.  To eradicate every vestige of Native life and to replace it with the culture of white Christianity.  Practically every Christian denomination was involved in the systematic obliteration of First Nations.  Children of children of the Residential Schools are still suffering the effects of the schools.  Their parents, who were interred in the schools didn’t grow up in families.  They grew up in huge dormitories with little sanitary facilities.  The Residential Schools largely succeeded.  Many spirits of First Nations individuals have been crushed.  Hence, their parenting skills are often diminished.  Life on reservations is often impoverished, some even lack adequate drinking water.  I’ve heard Canadians tell me that the government sends plenty of money to the reservations but the chiefs keep it all for themselves.  I know a chief who told me he made $30,000 when he was serving his Nation.  When I toured Blue Quills University in Saddle Lake, I noticed a stack of fliers that read, “Do you know anyone who has been murdered, or have you heard of anyone who was murdered?”  Then there was a number to call and an office set up to deal with these murders.  The fliers were just sitting there on the table.  Have you yourself ever in your life seen a flier asking you if you know someone who was murdered?  Then giving you a number to call?  What does that say?

These issues I have been discussing are our symbolic father.  They are the culture we have inherited.  They are the society that has given us birth and these issues are the issues we have been brought up in.  It is for this reason that Jesus says,

Do not think that I have come to bring peace to the earth; I have not come to bring peace, but a sword.

35 For I have come to set a man against his father,
and a daughter against her mother,
and a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law;
36 and one’s foes will be members of one’s own household.

The voices that are rising up in the US are the sword of truth.  In Swedenborg’s system of symbolism, a sword stands for truth.  Jesus does not bring peace when there are festering wounds infecting society.  Then Jesus calls us to set ourselves against our father, mother, and household when that family is diseased with injustice.

In Canada, we have issues of racial injustice, but no mass protests.  It was a brave teen-aged girl who used her smart phone to record the murder of George Floyd that set off the powder keg in the US.  We don’t have something like that smart phone recording here in Canada.  Though the power of privilege and racial injustices are rampant under the peaceful surface of Canadian society.

“Do not think I have come to bring peace to the earth; I have not come to bring peace, but a sword.”  That sword of truth is intended to cut through the peaceful surface of unjust social structures.  And we need to be swordsmen and women.  It is our duty to seek out the truth and to become informed.  I think it’s easy to go with what we’ve always heard.  It’s easy to go with opinions about issues that may not be true.  I personally know people in Canada who think that Muslim women like Salima are trying to overturn the Canadian legal system and replace it with Sharia Law.  They think this especially about refugees from war torn middle eastern countries.  It is opinions like this that need to be measured against the sword of truth.  One truth about this very issue is, “Which Sharia Law?”  There are at least four schools of Muslim tradition, much the same way we have Catholics, Lutherans, and Swedenborgians.  Each of the more than four schools of Muslim tradition have their own style of Sharia Law.  So the whole opinion that Muslims are trying to replace the Canadian legal system with Sharia Law falls apart when we ask which Muslim sect is trying to do this with what Sharia Law.

Swedenborg teaches that the religious life is characterized by a love for truth.  In fact, faith itself is called a cohering arrangement of many truths.  An incoherent mash of opinions is not faith.  As Christians, it is incumbent on us to search for truth.  As Christians, it is incumbent on us to measure our opinions against the sharp sword of truth.

And finally, Swedenborg teaches that the sword of truth must be wielded by a loving hand.  It was Gandhi who said, “When you have a truth to tell, it must be given with love, or the message and the messenger will be rejected.”  The riots and looting in the US got the attention of the world several weeks ago.  But I suspect that the subsequent weeks of peaceful protests will do more to make lasting structural change in the US.

Well, this is supposed to be a Fathers’ Day sermon.  I’ve gone all-in Swedenborgian, though, and spoken about father as our inherited evils.  Not personal evils, but collective social evils.  We Swedenborgians have an advantage in all this.  Repentance, reformation, and regeneration are central doctrines in our theology.  And never in my lifetime, has the call for repentance been louder.  And our world is in dire need of reformation.  And regeneration means re-birth.  If we are zealous about our repentance, and dedicated to reformation, we will see a rebirth in society.  We need to be aware of our privilege.  And being of the privileged race, it is especially important for us to educate ourselves.  And some of us may even be moved to wield the sword of truth to cut through centuries of oppression and social injustice.  And the children of enslaved persons will finally find their rightful share in the prosperity we take for granted.

 

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