Michael J Hoover

In part, most poets are chroniclers. They record truthfully, though maybe not realistically, the times in which they live. They couch their stories in metaphor and allusion. They compare and refer, rather than state directly.

Poets hold before us mirrors of our nature or behavior as human beings, but the reflection is distorted intentionally, like a carnival’s house of mirrors. The truth is easier to take in, sometimes, when it is not so bald-faced. As Emily Dickinson wrote, “Tell the truth but tell it slant.”

Distorting or slanting the truth does not mean that it is sugar coated, but rather indirect. Learning by discovery is one of the most effective ways to learn according to pedagogy. Poets create indirect paths to those places we may already know exist, but avoid, because such discovery may require an admission to an unpleasant aspect about ourselves or others which may necessitate change.

Conversely, poets can be quite direct, with imagery so intense as to provoke immediate reaction. The feedback can be emotionally charged, evoking disgust or desire, regret or alienation. And, sometimes poets can masterfully weave realism and imagination to produce an invitation to glean more than what is apparent at first encounter. Such is the poetry of Allen Taylor, next week’s guest columnist.

Taylor, who fell in love with the whole process of writing at ten, used writing to retreat within himself and to cope with a world which did not appreciate his need to be alone with his thoughts.
Eventually, Taylor took a poetry writing workshop in college and the first contemporary book of poetry he ever read, by Sharon Olds, had a profound influence on him. “It provided some fodder for my imagination and I just went wild with it. I opened up the floodgates and just let everything flow. No inhibitions, just raw passion on the page. . . . And honestly, I didn’t really know what I was doing. I just knew that I liked it and that I could get a response from people when I wrote.”

Today, Taylor intimates, “To me, poetry is about making sense of the world. It’s my way of processing knowledge and experience. Two things stand out as the most important qualities for a poet: An understanding of the craft and imagination. To me, those two qualities are the bedrock of poetics. . . . I think poetry is important because it keeps us connected – to each other and to nature.”

“I engage in sneaky tactics that take people surprise and you’ll never know what I’ll do next. If there’s a rule to be broken, I’ll break it. If there’s someone to offend, I’ll offend them. But most of all, I write to release my inner demons because if I don’t, they’ll eat me up from the inside out and I respect my gourd too much for that.”

Taylor’s self-perception as a poet rings true in his following poem. But, is the poem a literal depiction of a spirited lady striking out independently until her caretaker comes to bring her back inside?

Does the speaker render, rather, an imaginative characterization of a literal person he observes, something like the biker alter ego of Rose in the comic strip “Rose is Rose,” insisting upon being strongly independent until God takes her “home”?

Does the poet instead use the crone to symbolize the ancient struggle of all women who had to don the appearance of crudeness in order to divide, conquer, and resettle each “RoMAN Empire” grown arrogant in its domination?

Does the lady represent our own Old Liberty, ever displaying her spirited side, at last worn down and nearly overwhelmed, awaiting some other country or generation to come take hold of her legacy?

Or, does the poet see the spirit of humanity in feminine form because of its enduring nurturing aspect, but here harshly presented because of the barbarian nature we all must assume in our worldly struggle with each “civilized” people whose violent and eventually hypocritical nature must be confronted endlessly until the “Second Coming”?

Old Goth

Thigh-high boots glow with kiwi.
At eighty five, she still wears black
from toe to pale neck. Sagging
bags pull beneath her eyes,
dragging them down
like the chains hooked
and dropping from her ears,
dipping, dangling, drooping, all
beagled out. Her lips puff, powdered
blue with punk, purse, flesh out
dull cheeks like biscuits in a fry pan.
Plunges forward her walker
with the gusto of a tired farmer
plowing his field at the end of the sun
and when she reaches the edge
of the churchyard, stops!
clutches her hat, her heart, freezes
stiff as the cancer stick bursting
from her calloused, cracked knuckles,
then stands like a garden gnome
till the caretaker comes to take her home.
- Allen Taylor

Little did I anticipate when I accepted an invitation by Janet Lohr to read and talk about my poetry to the Poet’s Corner at Cross Keys Village this past Monday that the evening would include several “firsts.”

This was the first time in my tenure to be formally invited to work with a poetry group exclusively, although others attended. The poets from the group who read later were erudite, spontaneous, clever, and entertaining. Also in attendance were Hanover’s first and second poets laureate who also graced the evening by reading.

I decided to do something I had not done before by copying four poems I intended to distribute, so people could read along while I read aloud. Instead of letting each poem fly on its own merit, I elected to fill in most of the blanks with the stories behind each one, so that the audience could appreciate the various processes behind idea and form.

Another first came as a slight surprise, when Susan Kirby, Village Life Coordinator, said in her introduction that she “googled our guest,” then proceeded to read what she found. It did put a bit more edge to presenting my work, which most performers relish as that energy vital to good starts, whether they be on stage, on a field or court, or making a sale.

The most meaningful “first” was my Dad’s attending his first poetry reading where I was featured. He is a man who likes his poems rhymed and not stirred in free verse. I planned to open with one of the only rhyming poems I have, but when I got in front of the audience, I could not locate the poem. I extended my introductory remarks as I thumbed back and forth for a poem I had seen just that afternoon.

Eventually, I decided to open with a humorous one I brought along at the last moment, followed by a shorter one, before I embarked on the read-along lesson I had prepared. Then, having passed out the packets, I finally found the poem I sought to open the whole reading with. It almost jumped from a place I swear it had not been.

Rather than proceeding with my lesson, I decided to introduce the poem I found. In retrospect, it was probably better that my father be eased into a reading of a body of my poems by humor (really his favorite mode into anything) and a short love poem with one core image. The buffer of humor and love was a godsend, I realize now.

I explained how when our first child was born, our family’s first grandchild as well, during the final hours of her eighteen in labor, my young wife passed out between contractions. Every time she was coached to push, her whole head turned purple. I thought she was going to literally explode.

I told the audience I had a crazy thought. I said to myself, “My mother went through this for me. How could I have been such a pain in the butt to her when I was a teenager when she had gone through this for me?” I knew I would apologize to her later when I called to let my parents hear the good news!

When the actual birth began and the doctor said, “Here’s the head,” I looked into the mirror and saw my child’s face was a mass of wrinkles. He had no eyes, no nose. I desperately tried to think what I was going to tell my wife who was busy pushing and not watching the main event. I just knew something was wrong.

Then, the doctor blurted, “You’ve got a baby boy. I didn’t know at first because they usually come out face up. He came out face down.” A flood of relief washed me with joy. The following poem came from that inspiration.

Another Branch on the Family Tree

Recalling the birth of our first,
thinking my wife’s whole head would burst;
the OR’s antiseptic scent,
its stark walls and white fluorescent;

my mirrored view, perfectly round,
our imagined angel, earthbound;
emerging, matted, maroon crown:
his royal entrance, upside down;

his anticipated weight in my arm,
my silent promise to keep him from harm;
the panic as they lanced his heel for blood,
he was fast becoming my little “Bud.”

Foot-printed, in case of abduction,
turkey baster air passage suction;
if that weren’t enough to make him bail,
he’s weighed, naked, on a stainless scale.

They wrapped him in a blanket of blue
to complement his warm scarlet hue;
placed in mom’s arms, still shrilly screaming–
we all knew then we weren’t just dreaming.
- Michael J hoover

The last workday of school for teachers is usually one of mixed emotions and lots of activity. The kids have all departed for their summer break the day before, and so the halls are filled with staff of all levels as the great purge begins.

Projects, dittos, and bulletin board decorations must be sorted to see which can be used next year or be hurriedly put in the hall for collection and disposal. Books must be packed away on shelves and personal items stored or taken home.

Two weeks from then, one will feel like a civilian again settling into summer life of catching up on home projects, attending summer classes, visiting and writing people you’ve ignored during May, the most hectic of times for both teachers and students.

These thoughts of the year’s closure were going through my head last Wednesday while I was on my way to school, having left later than normal because homeroom would not meet that day. Fifteen minutes away, the road was blocked by two sheriffs directing traffic into local neighborhoods.

Since traffic had come to a standstill, I decided to relax to satellite radio and listen to NPR. A Fresh Air from WHYY interview of Ron Hansen concerned his new book Exiles that focuses on the inspiration for Gerard Manley Hopkins’ poem “The Wreck of the Deutschland.” Having read the online excerpt, I’m definitely going to include the book on my summer reading list.

Later that morning while sifting through piles of students’ projects to see which were salvageable, I mulled over the interview but then was struck by some serendipity. I held in my hand an illustrated famous quote assignment depicting a dandelion with Emerson’s, “A weed is a plant whose virtues have not yet been discovered,” beneath the art.

Of course my mind ran towards my students who somehow are growing beings, most of whom have not even uncovered their own virtue. If we are lucky as teachers, then sometimes we can hold a mirror up to some of them before they get away and on with the next phase of their lives.

While this thought faded, Gerard Manley Hopkins came back to mind. A poem not much appreciated by me in my youth and studied more closely in graduate school came instantly to mind as I tried to remember all the images.

The poem is a celebration of how unappreciated elements in the world broadcast their true beauty and value in spite of their aberrations. The poem literally depicts the spotted or pied things in nature, then progresses to an acknowledgment of workers by their tools.

Pied Beauty

Glory be to God for dappled things—

For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;

For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;

Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;

Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough;

And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;

Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)

With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;

He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:

Praise him.
- Gerard Manley Hopkins

One can see that Hopkins, whose heartfelt admiration borders on adoration of the apparent defects in the world, actually reveals the miracle of possibility to the discriminant viewer. May we all give weeds and kids and what we consider less beautiful a closer look this week!
erar

This Friday evening I will be walking our only daughter, April, down the aisle. I am happy to tears as I recall her journey from birth through childhood, from girlhood through her teens, and from college through her first years as a teacher. And now, she is a beautiful, sensitive, passionate, and kind young woman.

She is taking a new path of womanhood that begins with her becoming a bride. I must let go of her hand and entrust it to another to be her support and strength, her advisor and confidant, while settling in to just being her Dad. I know I will have her unchanged love as I always have had, but things will become different, a good and necessary different.

Sounds like I’m trying to convince myself here, but I am really confident in the young man who will be my son-in-law. Damon is bright, funny, family-oriented, hard working, loyal and true. He is faithful, traditional, innovative and unafraid to take a risk worth working at. He has dreams, but is grounded. But most of all, he is in love with my daughter. I feel so at ease putting my daughter’s hand in his.

My already good feelings about Damon solidified at a picnic last spring in Codorus Park. While my daughter and her aunt walked the dog and Damon and I continued the game of Bocce ball he had just taught me, he turned before his toss and asked me for April’s hand in marriage. I gained a whole new level of respect for him at this deferent gesture.

With my expectant reply we became equals. I felt it in my gut. It was a strong connection. It felt right and good.

It was from this point on that I tried to see my daughter from his point of view. I wanted to learn how he saw the young woman in his life. I wanted to know what his expectations had been to have had my daughter fulfill them. And, I wanted to see that he appreciated all I know she is and does. I have grown in admiration every day since. But, what else should I have expected from the man my daughter has fallen in love with?

This past week my best friend dropped by to share her excitement about a book of poetry she had been given by a relation of hers a couple days before right after Mass. It had come encased in soft plastic secured by a rubber band, showing a reverence to books and words which seems rare today. The giver knew the recipient would honor the gift most especially, being a fellow bibliophile, as well as being a poet and writer.

The book is an 1899 publication of love lyrics by James Whitcomb Riley complete with illustrative photographs. Of course, one poem that held my rapt attention was entitled, “My Bride That Is To Be.” Like the title itself, the poem is staged in iambic pentameter and begins with an apostrophe to the speaker’s Soul.

O Soul of mine, look out and see,
My bride, my bride that is to be!
Reach out with mad, impatient hands,
And draw aside futurity
As one might draw a veil aside–
And so unveil her where she stands
Madonna-like and glorified–
The queen of undiscovered lands
Of love, to where she beckons me–
My bride–my bride that is to be.

This opening stanza is followed by three more that idyllically render what the lover’s mind conjures his future bride to be like. But, in the final fifth stanza, the speaker admonishes his fantasizing and realizes what he truly desires.

Nay, foolish heart and blinded eyes!
My bride hath need of no disguise.
But, rather let her come to me
In such a form as bent above
My pillow when in infancy
I knew not anything but love.
O let her come from out the lands
Of Womanhood–not fairy isles,
And let her come with Woman’s hands
And Woman’s eyes of tears and smiles,
With Woman’s hopefulness and grace
Of patience lighting up her face;
And let her diadem be wrought
Of kindly deed and prayerful thought,
That ever over all distress
May beam the light of cheerfulness.
And let her feet be brave to fare
The labyrinths of doubt and care,
That, following, my own may find
The path to Heaven God designed.
O let her come like this to me–
My bride–my bride that is to be.

Ah, just when I needed a final boost of courage into next week, it comes from a poem via a poetry lover and a poet. I know how my son-in-law sees his soon-to-be bride. May they share a lifetime of love and support, fulfilled dreams and happy times, good health and many blessings.

We all have hoped for perfection, envisioned what it should be like, and have occasionally been so audacious as to plan for it sometimes, especially when meaningful events are in the offing.

Olympic athletes use perfection in their meditative training, picturing the perfect performance. Families desire sunny skies for the reunion picnic, eagerly anticipated since its conception the year before. Brides expect the perfect wedding day should be guaranteed by the coordinator of the happy event. Hosts want perfect homes and meals and itineraries to ensure guests of quintessential visits.

At times we selfishly want things to be perfect in this life though we know we have little control over time and weather and health. But mostly the perfection we desire is really to share what can be respite from the suffering, great or petty, that consumes much of our lives. We relish “perfect” days, events, meals, times.

This past week, I have been blessed with a barrage of perfection. Though to most, things may have appeared “different” or not “ideal,” I found the past week to be everything I could have ever hoped for in the circumstances I shared with my family.

My daughter’s wedding went off without a hitch as the saying goes. Even though the skies opened on her way to the outdoor site, the weather broke as the groom’s party arrived, to provide a perfect backdrop of breaking clouds and rolling mist. The photographer had perfect natural lighting for all the formal pictures.

All the music and ceremonial readings and toasts were pure and perfectly rendered from the heart. The groom’s Mom even sang to the happy couple during the ceremony accompanied on guitar by her son and co-best man, a perfect surprise to all. Tears of joy appeared in the audience throughout all the performances, even from corners one would never expect to find them.

My daughter called from her honeymoon destination to reveal that the newlyweds seemed to have landed in paradise. “Dad, I will take lots of pictures so you can see how ridiculous this place is” she laughed happily.

As the week progressed, the weather here became “perfect” and my family guests traveled about day and night with nature cooperating in splendid fashion. Meals and treats out were “simply perfect” every time. The best thing of all was that little was planned nor anticipated. We relished the surprise each time. We were ever so thankful and took nothing for granted. We just soaked every moment in.

Even in the tiniest of circumstance, perfection materialized from seemingly nowhere. A perfect example would be when we were engaged in conversation with re-enactors at Devil’s Den. Suddenly “Taps” pervaded the whole expanse, played by a lone bugler from “Little Roundtop.” Instantly, every tourist and visitor stood still and faced the hill in reverential pose until the last note faded into the white clouds and blue sky. Who could have planned to be part of such a moment?

One day later my family and I were treated to perfect baseball weather and a perfect baseball game, with great plays, key hits, a completed game for the pitcher, and even a victory by the home team down at Camden Yards.

If what we perceive even in the little things we encounter along the way to what we wish to be “perfect,” to be puzzle parts of perfection, each in themselves perfect, then every occasion and gathering, each day and person we enjoin, has the potential to reveal itself as a part of the larger ideal we all anticipate. Like the flower girl’s and ring bearer’s smiles and antics and near-perfect behavior, though not without doing “what kids will do,” —all the details, each simple and yet profound, gather themselves in retrospect, to become a composite of the nearest thing we have to perfection in this world.

As Shakespeare shared through Hamlet in Act II, scene ii, in his attribution to all mankind, if we care to reconsider every human in such light,

What a piece of work is a man!

How noble in reason, how infinite in faculties,

in form and moving how express and admirable,

in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like 

a god! The beauty of the world, the paragon of animals!
- William Shakespeare

I am ever grateful to each person who is or becomes a part of my life. You remind me that my idea of perfection in this world would be incomplete, and imperfect, without any one you in it.

Good deeds sometimes slip by unseen. Oh, sure, we notice their passing and at times even participate in them, aware or not, but occasionally the acts themselves warrant little attention. Such is the case with The Reader’s Café’s contribution to poetry and literacy in our community.

Eleven years ago, an artist friend sent me a clipping about a poetry contest in Hanover. Since the contest was then scarcely two weeks away, I felt I didn’t have adequate time to accrue and revise any of my work to contest level. I hadn’t realized it then, but I missed one of those rare opportunities in life.

With renewed determination, I set out to approach the establishment and see if indeed there were a poetry scene in Hanover. It was then that I met Derf Maitland and formed a friendship that will remain lasting. He informed me that it was his desire to foster interest in writing and discussing poetry and that he already housed a book group that met monthly.

Coincidently, the literati group was meeting that evening and Maitland invited me to attend. I said I hadn’t read the book they were discussing, but he replied that it didn’t matter what the book was about or whether anyone had read it, the discussion always got around to heated topics related to tolerance. If I were looking for great conversation, I should come.

Since I had been craving intellectual stimulation outside my career as an educator, I showed up that night as the new kid in town. That was a turning point in my life. For some reason opportunity usually knocks twice for me, a fact for which I am ever grateful.

That evening I realized that there were people in the Greater Hanover area whose literary interest paralleled my own and that they had an ideal place to congregate, an independent book store.

Soon after, Maitland had hooked me up with poets desirous of moving a critique group from York closer to home, and perhaps starting a reading venue in Hanover. Within a couple months, ideas formed into reality and the Hanover Poets was on its way to forging a core haven for poetical expression in the larger community.

I am grateful for the opportunity to have showcased my own work orally. I was and am able to exemplify what I encourage my own students to do. Public reading is humbling, a bit scary, and most rewarding once accomplished. The immediate audience feedback is invaluable to one’s confidence and continued growth. Alleluia!

From its inception, Hanover Poets has fostered writing, critique, publication, and public reading of poetry. The group is still strong after eleven years. Our five-year publication Digges’ Choice was sponsored by The Reader’s Café. If it weren’t for the support of Maitland and his wife Mary Ann, Hanover would not have been afforded the opportunity to shine a light on the talent existent in our greater community.

Maitland has also been most involved in promoting literacy by his book promotions and sales and discounts for local schools and at book fairs. He has brought in authors for readings and book signings, and he has presented book talks both at our library and on local radio. The café has also afforded local musicians a space to offer weekly live performances to the public. Mailtland himself is an accomplished musician and poet and philosopher.

Perhaps the biggest contribution that The Reader’s Café has provided to our community over the years has been their annual poetry contest. Each year scores of students from area schools and adults from the larger community submit their poetry in hopes of becoming finalists. Contestants are chosen for a public competition judged by three community members, usually including the previous year’s adult winner. This year is the 12th annual contest.

To witness students give a public performance before a packed house is nothing short of amazing. To hear their talent unfold before an audience and see their courage conquer critical eyes and ears is moving. I have always enjoyed watching kids in live performance whether my own or someone else’s. Sheer inspiration!

So, come out tomorrow night and see 7th and 8th graders compete against one another and then 9th and 10th graders vie for prizes thereafter. And, next Monday on the 28th, once the poetry bug has taken hold, come in to The Reader’s Café to enjoy 11th and 12th graders facing off, followed by the adult competition.

Treat yourself in these annual quintessential local celebrations of National Poetry Month. Both night’s festivities begin at 7:00 p.m. Come early to secure a good seat!

A special thanks and tribute to the Maitlands and The Reader’s Café and the many years of good deeds they have accomplished for poetry and literacy in our greater Hanover community!

Okay, okay. T. S. Eliot got it wrong. April is not the cruelest month. Sure, to some, being awakened from winter’s cozy forgetfulness is a drudgery, as spring stirs the memory, beginning the cycle of nurturing again with all its effort and pain. But, to others, resurrection is the promise of what is sown in suffering, i.e., hope, which is the very jewel of joy and worth the wait and work of seasons.

And so, April is a time to begin anew in our commitment to planting, to initiating, with dreams of miraculous harvest ever in mind. Poets believe, as Emily Dickinson does, that words begin to live as they are expressed. It is that philosophy that emboldens poets everywhere to trust in poetry’s power. To acknowledge poetry’s place in our lives is to honor its vitality one special time during each year. Thus, April is designated National Poetry Month.

According to the official website of the Academy of American Poets, Poets.org, National Poetry Month was inaugurated by the Academy in April 1996. Since then National Poetry Month has brought together publishers, booksellers, literary organizations, libraries, schools, and poets around the country to celebrate poetry and its vital place in American culture. Thousands of businesses and non-profit organizations participate through readings, festivals, book displays, workshops, and other events.

This year the Academy invites all of us to help celebrate the first national Poem In Your Pocket Day! The idea is simple: select a poem you love during National Poetry Month, then carry it with you to share with co-workers, family, and friends on this Thursday, April 17.

Poem In Your Pocket Day has been celebrated each April in New York City since 2002. Each year, city parks, bookstores, workplaces, and other venues burst with open readings of poems from pockets. Even the Mayor gets in on the festivities, reading a poem on the radio.

This year PIYP Day goes national! Poems from pockets will be unfolded throughout the day with events in parks, libraries, schools, workplaces, and bookstores across the country. Everyone is encouraged to create your own PIYP Day event using any of the ideas below or creating your own original event and passing it along to Poets.org.

The Academy further suggests that in this age of mechanical and digital reproduction, it’s easy to carry a poem, share a poem, or start your own PIYP Day event. They present some ideas of how you might get involved:

Start a “poems for pockets” give-a-way in your school or workplace

Urge local businesses to offer discounts for those carrying poems

Post pocket-sized verses in public places

Handwrite some lines on the back of your business cards

Start a street team to pass out poems in your community

Distribute bookmarks with your favorite immortal lines

Add a poem to your email footer

Post a poem on your blog or social networking page

Project a poem on a wall, inside or out

Text a poem to friends

The pocket poem I have selected to share is found under the pocket entitled “Pears.” It is by Claude McKay. It speaks to the sheer joy and despair of memory, much like the initial lines of Eliot’s The Waste Land.

The Tropics of New York

Bananas ripe and green, and ginger root
Cocoa in pods and alligator pears,
And tangerines and mangoes and grape fruit,
Fit for the highest prize at parish fairs,
Sat in the window, bringing memories
of fruit-trees laden by low-singing rills,
And dewy dawns, and mystical skies
In benediction over nun-like hills.
My eyes grow dim, and I could no more gaze;
A wave of longing through my body swept,
And, hungry for the old, familiar ways
I turned aside and bowed my head and wept.
- Claude McKay

What are you waiting for? Go pluck yourself a poem and share the joy of human renewal.

What is special about the sentence “The quick brown fox jumps over a lazy dog”? Who was the first poet laureate of the United States? Which NFL team bears the name of an Edgar Allan Poe poem? Which American poet has won the most Pulitzer Prizes?

These are a sampling of catchy, fast paced trivia questions asked of the audience at a recent local poetry competition to smooth transitions between recitations and collecting judges’ evaluation sheets and announcing the next contestant.

The setting was a beautiful room in the William T. Wolf Center for Philanthropy, York, PA, February 27, 2008. The occasion was the regional competition for the national recitation contest called “Poetry Out Loud,” presented by the National Endowment for the Arts, the Poetry Foundation, and the Pennsylvania Council on the Arts.

Over 100,000 students compete in classrooms from all 50 states and the District of Columbia to advance to school-wide competitions, regional competitions, state competitions, and ultimately to the National Finals. A total of $50,000 in scholarships and school stipends are awarded, with the top prize being a $20,000 scholarship for the National Champion.

Besides the monetary draw, each competitor from across the nation builds confidence from the discipline of memorization, enhances a personal mastery of public speaking skills, and develops an appreciation for our rich literary heritage.

Our regional finalists were Jayson Myers from Central York High School and Liz Scheib from York Suburban High School. A couple additional ironies were afoot beyond having both genders represented. Both students had competed in last year’s contest. Second, all the other competitors from neighboring school systems and counties could not make it to the competition for very legitimate reasons, from illness to too many weather related interruptions that prevented school-wide competitions and formal practice sessions to be realized.

But the remarkable thing was that this young man and young woman displayed the verve and pluck, acumen and poise, required of professional orators. They were experienced, well-coached, and confident. They both recited each poem as though they were vying against a roomful of competitors.

Each student memorized three highly complex poems. Among NEA requirements were that at least one poem be pre-20th century and at least one poem have fewer than 25 lines. The evaluation criteria included: physical presence and posture, voice projection and articulation, appropriateness of dramatization, level of difficulty, accuracy, evidence of understanding, and overall performance.

The panel of four judges was comprised of a businessman philanthropist, both a current and former poet laureate, and a professor.The audience was a mix of teachers, families, friends, community and Cultural Alliance members, and the Poetry Out Loud director of PA.

The room was ever electric. The performances were nearly impeccable. The tribute to our language, its vast tradition and artistic merit was accomplished with great pride and aplomb by these two solid performers. Their perseverance and determination were equally exemplary. In the end, Jayson Myers was awarded the regional title, advancing him to the state finals at the Governor’s Mansion which occurred on March 12. Although he didn’t place, Jayson was among the top thirteen competitors in the state, chosen from more than 7000 of Pennsylvania’s best students. The national finals will be in Washington, D.C. on April 27-29.

However, the whole evening’s flow would have been lost had it not been for the professional directorship and genuine enthusiasm of Gayle Cluck from stARTSomething, Arts in Education, a regional program of the Cultural Alliance. Her high energy, super organization, and team effort coordination contributed to a flawless execution of a most difficult task. The event ran so smoothly that one would have thought we all–finalists, judges, audience, staff–had rehearsed for weeks beforehand.

The trivia questions were a stroke of genius, emceed by Cluck to avoid the awkward silence of competitors’ walking back to their seats while judges’ evaluations were passed to the tabulator and the audience’s attention not given a chance to stray. Perfect execution! Cluck is a model public speaker and event coordinator.

Here is one of the poems recited by Myers, capturing a moment of solitary exuberance and unadulterated celebration of self.

Danse Russe

If when my wife is sleeping
and the baby and Kathleen
are sleeping
and the sun is a flame-white disc
in silken mists
above shining trees,—
if I in my north room
dance naked, grotesquely
before my mirror
waving my shirt round my head
and singing softly to myself:
“I am lonely, lonely.
I was born to be lonely,
I am best so!”
If I admire my arms, my face,
my shoulders, flanks, buttocks
against the yellow drawn shades,—

Who shall say I am not
the happy genius of my household?
- William Carlos Williams

And the answers to the trivia questions: the sentence contains all the letters of the alphabet; Robert Penn Warren; the Ravens; Robert Frost.

As curtains close on another year, we scurry in the wings to manage the set for next year’s opening. Scenes from the new season’s production include vacations we may take, places we may visit, promotions we may strive for, celebrations we may attend. In all the roles we may play in 2008, we picture ourselves as healthy and robust, confident and relaxed, waiting to take on any challenge or enjoy each scenario that presents itself.

No matter what part we play in our minds or in reality, one scenario that we annually partake in involves pledging to indulge less and exercise more to render our characters fit, even svelte, regardless of which role we land.

Having directed theater, I can sometimes see life as an imitation of the stage rather than visa versa. Men and women seem to fit themselves into roles, living as others perceive them, rather than in living lives true to who they are. Part of this image consciousness seems to center around their physical appearance, believing it to be the great equalizer in determining a person’s worth before they can be accepted, held in esteem, or even be considered attractive.

I’m not putting myself above any of the aforementioned. I, too, struggle with the anticipated roles and make a part of my resolutions the exercise and dieting regimen that I envision will assist the best performance in any part I play.

Thank goodness, my insightful son and his equally astute girlfriend provided me with salient reminders of what is most meaningful in remaining who we are or in becoming better who we are’s than in trying to perfect outer appearances. They gave me not only the gift of their presence but also a present that happens to be a remarkable gift: a copy of the Tao Te Ching, an ancient Chinese poem written by Lao-tzu. The poem traditionally has been translated into 81 chapters. The ninth chapter as translated by John Bright-Fey reads as follows:

Tao Te Ching: Chapter Nine

pull an archer’s bow past the limits of its construction
fill a gallon jug with two gallons of water
hone a knife to an excessively sharp edge
stretch overly a muscle towards achievement
all that you get is a
drained
dulled split
and broken
deformation of the miraculous
if you judge yourself by material things
that are temporarily in your possession
you will always be worried about who will take possession
of them next
if you are too proud of these material things
then you are courting personal disaster
the tao source of life has some advice for you
pause activity
enjoin with it
engage poise and relaxation
- Lao-tzu, translated by John Bright-Fey

For me, all this harkens to recent inspiration offered in a homily by Rev. Lawrence J. McNeil. Father McNeil said that in this season of expectations, we may be placing our hopes in external realities, instead of discovering that hope and its realization springs eternally from the goodness that resides within us. That we should expect great things to come from the miraculous within each one of us and not necessarily go seeking outside for miracles or signs or manifestations, small or large. That we should ever be prepared for and expectant of what may be revealed to us quite unexpectedly.

Maybe our primary resolution this year should be one that is readily attainable and guaranteed to make us feel good about ourselves. Let’s not overdo. Let’s not focus our thoughts on our material beings, what we have or don’t have, what we look like or don’t look like. Rather, let’s pause and appreciate ourselves for the goodness we know lives within us and recognize the goodness in others. Let’s wake expectant to receive the miracle in every day and in each life we encounter, to land a nomination for best supporting role in every act we play this coming year.

At the risk of sounding redundant, a wizened friend once remarked that great literature isn’t bound by national boundaries. This comment points to the obvious, that any statement about human nature or human behavior crosses all borders because of our shared experience with power and frailty.

Further, the sentiment hints that truth, even clouded in culture and masked by unfamiliar language, transcends barriers and pleads for a second chance to be considered. Second chances require open minds, patience, and imagination in order to reconcile misconceptions, misunderstandings, or misinterpretations.

My family at large occasionally jokes that my son Bryan is quite the world traveler, hinting that perhaps his life may have been better served by staying closer to home and working his part time jobs and continuing education into more meaningful full time employment. But, we also know for certain that he takes his traveling quite seriously.

He insists that his living with aborigines in Australia, his sharing a houseboat in Holland, visiting Amazonian rain forests, and watching active volcanoes from his balcony–all expand his understanding of the human condition. He says he doesn’t want to wait until he retires to appreciate and enjoy, but more importantly, to benefit his life’s direction by what he learns. He advocates strongly that most of our youth should experience another country and more of our own nation before starting college or working right out of high school.

The biggest cultural surprise, he maintains, is not the investing of one’s time in another place, but rather the shock of coming home, whether from another state, or more dramatically, from another country.

To see any of our east coast towns having been to Seattle or Yosemite, or to come back to the States having just been to Guatemala or Sydney takes a couple weeks not only to re-acquaint ourselves with our former selves but also time to evaluate our larger fortune and smaller blessings, and in addition, our extravagance and waste. However, it never pays to wallow in self flagellation, but to realize a healthy dose of conservation is good for the country and good for any soul.

Part of understanding other places and cultures is by immersion, so that one pays attention to what writers call local color. Local color lends realism to stories or poems by describing customs, manners and even re-creating dialects or direct foreign language when possible. To be truly observant while engaged in seeing another place, one can enhance recollection when sharing with others the narrative and description of the visit.

Notice how traveler and poet John Hutchinson invites his audience to experience another country by having the speaker in the poem use local color when most appropriate. The title itself not only provides setting but also initiates dialogue with something which cannot answer back. This ploy is called an apostrophe. In fact, the whole poem is an continuous apostrophe, posing rhetorical questions to all that Peru is, knowing answers will not be forthcoming.

PERU, PERU

Last night you came to me,
banging your words upon my bed,
shaking me from my walk of sleep.

Why did you come to me,
give fishes from the cold breath of your sea,
pour your poor upon the hills of hope,
send a shy brown smile from under the lip of her hat,
turn my ears to the Quechua hungering for their tongue to be heard,
raise your stone stairway to the Gate of the Sun, and
wave your red flag of chicha to pull the weary from the road?

Why did you
erase your Shining Path, the promise of a promise lost,
lift the weight of your people with a branch of cocoa leaf,
lay your terraced hills dormant in wait for a king,
walk your children miles just to give away their smiles,
cry those glacial tears from snow topped peaks, and
open your Andes to release the heart of your soul?

Peru, Peru,
why did you waken me?
- John Hutchinson

The questions become a dominant force in attempting empathy and eking some understanding about essential truths and traditions and history, not only of Peru, but also of any country upon returning home. In the speaker’s case, the visitation is a dream and his waking is a return to himself, the home of his soul’s heart.

As Ronald Wright points out in A Short History of Progress, Paul Gauguin painted on a mural three essential questions all mankind perpetually ask: what are we? where have we been? where are we going? In Hutchinson’s poem, beyond ascertaining the past, Hutchinson uses local color to conjure up reality, lending credence and sincerity to his literal questions, but perhaps having them transcend the local to become more universal questions about any country.

We all learn what we are by remembering our past. We chart the direction of what we become by being unafraid to visit the unfamiliar, projective future, so that we may return home to ourselves and be shocked into recognizing some truth about us that may need adjustment to achieve a healthier heart and soul.