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Christian Witness, Perspective, Poetry,

God on 9/11

From John Guzlowski at Everything’s Jake: Poems about God after 9/11

The following is the preface I wrote to a gathering of poems about God written in the aftermath of September 11. The preface and the poems by American, Polish, and Hungarian poets were published in the Scream Online in 2005:

Before 9/11, I didn’t think much about God, and I hadn’t thought much about Him for a long, long time.

Oh, of course, I thought about Him on occasion. I thought about Him at Christmas time when my daughter Lillian was young and she’d ask me about who baby Jesus was. And I thought about God when I got interested in Isaac Bashevis Singer and started writing a series of articles about him. You can hardly write about Singer without writing about God—but there, I was thinking about God in a different sort of way. It was the way I thought about Him when I taught the great religious writers like Ralph Waldo Emerson and T. S. Eliot and Fyodor Dostoevsky. God was an idea, a concept, that I was seeing through a lens and trying to make intellectual and academic sense of.

After 9/11, all that changed. When the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center came down, I discovered that God was no longer academic. He suddenly became important in my world. Not in the sense that I’ve come to believe what my father believed when he knelt every night and prayed in the darkness, nor in the sense that I came to believe what the Sisters of St. Joseph and the Christian Brothers taught me as I was growing up and attending grammar school and high school.

God became important in the sense that my world was suddenly touched and continues to be touched by those who believe in him firmly and absolutely…

In reflecting on this solemn day, we should recognize that the God we represent is more than our feeble attempts, and a greater sum of love than all our petty squabbles, and dangerous hatreds. We should recognize that He is not the God of the U.S., or of Israel, or Mecca, or Rome, but of every nation, and ultimately, of His heavenly Kingdom. We all belong to the same call, His call. His call leads to the cross, to service in the here and now, and to a resurrected life that surpasses today to eternity. If we place our desires and demands before His, and want it all now, and need our pound of flesh now, we will reap only the fruit of our faulty humanity. We will only blaspheme His call to love.

Christian Witness, Poetry, ,

Have you ever met a writer?

John Guzlowski has a new poem about the first writer he ever met, Paul Carroll, in Ode to Paul Carroll. The piece discusses Mr. Carroll’s influence on John’s writing and life. A great question – Who is the first writer you met (or the first person of significant influence on your life choices)?

Here’s Paul Carroll discussing history and human dignity in light of Catholic faith:

You, Gulls, Three Ghosts by Paul Carroll

Hard
spring
here. Sun seldom
sleet &
the rawboned winds.

But I see you in Paris, dear,
rummaging around the Flea Market
as if you’re searching for that Russian petticoat
embroidered by your mother for her wedding-day.

Or in a café,
sketching: trying to catch
the flip and sneer,
and the quick grace
Of the Paris rhetoric
around you.
Or in the Luxembourg-
a mild breeze crinkling through the tufts of buds
& your dark hair.

But seven months of separation
can turn affection to a photograph-
no flesh and blood
to it. Like the dream I had two nights ago
which I cant seem to shake:
Somehow I was hooting in my highschool stadium.
Clammy. Drizzly. Almost spring.
Beneath the hometeam goal post
six men in stovepipe hats
drew bead with dueling pistols.
But they shot blanks. Puffs of smoke
became a flock of frantic birds
scooping above me as I waded through alfalfa
somewhere in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia.
My arm
(or was it yours?)
bound in a sling
flung around
the shoulder of my friend
Frank Guest.
I think I felt ecstatic. But a tractor,
chugging, muffled what I had to say to him.
Arm became
an empty
flapping sleeve.
Or ghost.
Or bird maybe.

On the way to work this morning
I walked along the Oak St. beach
a wedge of fog
obscured the traffic
& the lake. Suddenly
dead friends began to flutter at the margin of my thoughts
just like the gulls above, sweet,
invisible
but for the swoosh
of wings. That handful:

a girl named Ruth I knew in college,
the sleet-bit look about her eyes
so like this spring hard,
uncompromising in the knowledge of
how niggardly are our attempts to touch.
Or try to talk
Together,

And Frank. Now a photograph like her.
How stubbornly he would insist
the age we live in is corrupt, lacking
(as perhaps it does)
any traffic with the preternatural.
Still. His love was ingrown, too
fiercely reticent. As if,
despite the good soil his intellect was rooted in,
he secretly believed the God he got from Plato & Augustine
was ignorant and stunted as his alcoholic father.

Kit Carney, too:
lost in the multiplication of his public self
frightened by the silence in his heart.

And you, Junie. Last & most.
Sometimes I think you are the blood
circulating in my arm. But even as I write, dear,
I cannot help but wonder if
even at our best
we too don’t cultivate
that curious corruption
I sought for in the others:

the unspoken guarantee that
regardless of how firm this present love
it will become a gull abandoned in the fog.

Perspective, Poetry, Poland - Polish - Polonia, , , , , ,

Dr. John Guzlowski – out, about, and reflecting

It is great to see John well on the road to recovery and writing. Two recent posts for your reading pleasure:

Charles Simic and Me: DP Poets

I got an email yesterday from a friend. He asked me what I thought about Charles Simic. He’s a poet that some of you might have heard of. He was the poet laureate of the US a couple of years ago. I think my friend was asking me about him because he figured that Charles Simic and I shared some history. We both came to the US after the war as Displaced Persons, refugees…

A really interesting reflection, and followed by a selection from Charles Simic and a new poem by Dr. Guzlowski, “A Dog Will.”

And for Father’s Day: Father’s Day

My father didn’t teach me to fish or play ball or paint a fence or drive a car. He couldn’t do any of those things. He was an orphan who worked on his aunt’s farm in Poland until the Nazis came and took him to a concentration camp. When he got to America after the war, he was too busy working to do much of anything else…

Also, compare and contrast to: My Father’s Gift to Me by Nicholas Kristof from the NY Times.

When I was 12, my father came and spoke to my seventh-grade class. I remember feeling proud, for my rural school was impressed by a visit from a university professor. But I also recall being embarrassed —” at my dad’s strong Slavic accent, at his refugee origins, at his —differentness.—

Christian Witness, Poetry, Poland - Polish - Polonia,

—This is not a Death Certificate—

The first line of Dr. John Guzlowski’s recounting his recent Heart Attack Cruise. Thankfully he is back home and I’m certain under expert care. Please offer a prayer for his health and well being.

O Holy Lord, Father Almighty, everlasting God, who by pouring the grace of Thy blessing upon sick bodies, dost preserve by Thy manifold goodness, the work of Thy hands; graciously draw near us as we call upon Thy Name, beseeching Thee to behold, visit, heal and deliver from sickness Thy servant John, and according to the multitude of Thy tender mercy, look with favor upon him, grant unto him patience, strengthen him by Thy might, defend him by Thy power, cast out from him all pain of mind and body, and mercifully restore him full health both inwardly and outwardly, that having recovered by the help of Thy loving kindness, he may be enabled to return again to his daily course of life and glorify Thee in Thy Holy Church. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.

Poetry, , ,

Poetry Out Loud Regional and State-wide competitions

Poetry Out Loud is a national program that encourages high school students to learn about great poetry as they memorize and recite notable poems in a series of competitions that begin in the classroom, and continue on to school-wide, regional, state-wide and national competitions.

During the month of February and March high school students from throughout New York State will compete in Poetry Out Loud Regional and State-wide competitions.

Please support Poetry Out Loud and those participating students by attending a competition! All events are FREE and open to the public.

Western NY Regional Competition
February 24, 2010
Amherst High School
Amherst, NY
6:00PM-9:00PM

Capital District Regional Competitions
February 25, 2010
The NYS Museum: The Huxley Theatre
Albany, NY
5:00PM-9:00PM

The Catskills-Area Regional Competition
February 26, 2010
SUNY Oneonta: The Hamblin Theatre
Oneonta, NY
5:00PM-9:00PM

Poetry Out Loud New York State Finals
March 6, 2010 I 1:00PM-5:00PM
The Linda Theatre, WAMC’S Performing Arts Studio
Albany, NY
Doors open 12:30PM

Everything Else, Perspective, Poetry, Poland - Polish - Polonia, , ,

2010 – the year ahead

Dearest readers,

I have several blogging projects I am going to work with in 2010.

I will likely not be doing a regular series on anything. The 2009 poetry project was a massive undertaking and frankly, was a bit too much. I’ve learned a lot in the process, but I need to take a break from that sort of posting schedule. Note too, there are a few gaps I still need to fill in for 2009 and will complete that shortly. I do hope that my poor personal translations, as well as my broader inclusions, will provide all of you with an appreciation of the depth and scope of Polish (and other) poetry. In some small measure I can see why Bishop Hodur encouraged the study of poetry. It is an inspiration, a history, a challenge, and part of humanity’s song.

On other fronts, I plan a recap of things I liked, enjoyed, found inspiration in, and had fun with in 2009. I would like to do a little with Polish art works on an irregular basis. I do plan to complete my 10 reasons series. I’m working on a piece on “The Flag in the National Church ethos.” I will also keep you abreast of the news across the PNCC, the Catholic faith in general, ecumenism, and all the goings on in Poland and Polonia.

Beyond that I am up to managing 12 websites, 9 PNCC Parishes, 1 Reformed Church site, 1 not-for-profit, and this blog. There are at least 2 other projects in the hopper.

Again, my heartfelt thanks to all my readers, correspondents, and all who gather information, inspiration, and challenge in what I write. God bless you in this new year.

— Dcn. Jim

Poetry

December 31 – New Year by Piotr Sobiech

At the coming of the New Year
Bid the old year farewell
and remember the best moments
Moments of sadness and despair
Moments of joy and love
When the old year passes
Each of us will forget the old year
Everyone wonders what the New Year will bring
They think of happiness
Raising toasts with wishes
Great joy
Drinking champagne
So that you may always have good luck
So that fortune will never forget us
Play until the morning
So that you will not sleep through the new morn

Translated by Dcn Jim

Kiedy nadchodzi Nowy Rok
Żegnamy stary Rok
I wspominamy najlepsze chwile
Chwile smutku i rozpaczy
Chwile radości i miłości
Kiedy stary rok przemija
Każdy z nas staje cię starczy o jeden Rok
Każdy się zastanawia jaką nowinę niesie Nowy Rok
Myślą że szczęście
Toast wznoszą życzenia wypowiadają
Wspaniałą radością
Szampanem popijają
Aby szczęściu dobrze się wiodło
Aby szczęście o nas nigdy nie zapomniało
Bawią się do samego ranna
Aby nie przespać całego rocznego ranna

Poetry

December 30 – Christmas in the Forest by Kornelijus Platelis

As evening fell we gathered in the juniper grove,
In the deep valley. And I was given
The gift of speech this night,
Comprehension. We selected
A full-branched tree in a small glade.
We sniffed its smells, on its branches
Hung small apples, carrots,
Dried mushrooms. Then raised
Our snouts to the moon and howled a half hour
Until moonlight silvered the snow
On the branches and the stars
Delivered their masks: the Evening Star —“
At the very top, others —“ for the branches
In place of candles… But how
To decorate the tree whose trunk
Turns into a backbone, on whose top a flower glows,
And at whose feet sleeps a serpent
Coiled into a triple ring? How can
It be made more beautiful? We polished our
Bloody fangs on the snow, the trees’ bark,
And with the stinking warmth of our bodies
Melted the snow around it,
So out of the earth
Could crawl worms and moles,
Spiders and snakes, toads and frogs, so fish
Could swim out from underground rivers, in the end
The Serpent would slither in, would wind round
The prickly trunk proclaiming
The holidays’ beginning —“ the birth
Of the new sun.

Later we ran in a circle around the tree
Howling, giddy
With joy and hunger.
We ate the snow, the bark of shrubs,
Last year’s leaves, and afterwards swallowed
The tree’s decorations
And attacked one another…

Translated by Jonas Zdanys

Vakarop susirinkom eglyne,
Giliame slÄ—ny. Ir man buvo
Suteikta kalbos dovana Ł¡iai nakčiai,
Suvokimas. IŁ¡sirinkome
Kuplią eglaitę nedidelÄ—j laukymÄ—j.
ApuostÄ—me, ant Ł¡akeliŁ³
PrikabinÄ—jome obuoliukŁ³, morkŁ³.
DŁ¾iovintŁ³ grybŁ³. Paskui pakÄ—lÄ—me
Snukius į mėnulį ir staugėme kokį pusvalandį,
Kol mÄ—nesiena nusidabravo sniegą
Ant Ł¡akeliŁ³, o Ł¾vaigŁ¾dÄ—s
AtsiuntÄ— savo kaukes: VakarÄ— —“
Pačiai virŁ¡Ł«nei, kitos —“ Ł¡akoms
Vietoj Ł¾vakučiŁ³… Bet kuo
PapuoŁ¡ti eglę, kurios kamienas
PlŁ«sta stuburu, virŁ¡Ł«nÄ—je spindi gÄ—lÄ—,
O papÄ—dÄ—je miega Ł¾altys,
Susisukęs į trigubą Ł¾iedą? Kuo
Ją dabinti? Ä® sniegą,
Ä® medŁ¾iŁ³ Ł¾ievę
NuŁ¡veitÄ—m kruvinas iltis,
DvokiančiŁ³ kŁ«nŁ³ Ł¡iluma
IŁ¡tirpdÄ—me sniegą aplinkui,
Kad galÄ—tŁ³ iŁ¡ Ł¾emÄ—s
IŁ¡lįsti sliekai ir kurmiai,
Vorai ir gyvatÄ—s, rupŁ«Ł¾Ä—s ir varlÄ—s, Ł¾uvys
IŁ¡plauktŁ³ iŁ¡ poŁ¾eminiŁ³ upiŁ³, galiausiai
AtŁ¡liauŁ¾tŁ³ Ł½altys, apsivytŁ³
DygŁ³ kamieną, paskelbdamas
Ł ventÄ—s pradŁ¾ią —“ naujos
SaulÄ—s gimimą.

Paskui bÄ—gom ratu aplink eglę,
StŁ«gaudami, apsvaigę
IŁ¡ dŁ¾iaugsmo ir bado.
Ä–dÄ—me sniegą, krŁ«mokŁ¡niŁ³ Ł¾ievę,
PernykŁ¡Äius lapus, po to surijome
EglaitÄ—s papuoŁ¡alus
Ir puolÄ—me vienas kitą…

Poetry

December 29 – Jesus’ Cradle by Kasper Twardowski

On the highway to Egypt
Near David’s Bethlehem,
Outside the suburbs, a retreat
A shed in open meadow meet.

No door and no cover,
Dry reeds piled there,
From of old the earth provides,
Purest Virgin there resides.

A moment before a donkey and an ox
Rested in that place
At this moment, the Mother of God
Sojourns after giving birth.

Jewess beloved of God
The Hebrew bore for us.
The name Jesus he gave,
As Eternal wisdom made.

Look, the man, lying there
Poorest of poor and without clothes,
In full view of the Father in heaven,
And with nothing to cover Him.

He who gives color to the birds,
On a bundle of hay lays.
He who held the whole world in his fingers,
Now reaches for milk at his Mother’s breast.

Joseph, compassionate and old,
Covers them under his gray cloak.
Cattle, sensing their Lord,
Fall on their knees before Him.

A mother’s veil,
A moment for her beautiful cheeks
As is custom she wraps,
Wrapped Him tightly in it there.

He goes to the bosom that bore Him
And in this nativity scene placed:
She, who bore You
Greets You first.

Translation by Dcn. Jim

Na gościńcu Egiptowym
Przy Betlejem Dawidowym,
W bok przedmieścia, na ustroniu
Stoi szopa w szczerym błoniu.

Niczym z wierzchu nie pokryta,
Suchą trzciną wnątrz poszyta,
Od starości w ziemię wległa,
Tam przeczysta Panna zległa.

Kędy przedtem osioł z wołem
Odpoczywał pod okołem,
Na tym miejscu Matka z Bogiem
Rozgościła się z połogiem.

Żydóweczka Bogu miła
Hebrajczyka nam powiła.
Imię Jezus mu nadała,
Jako wieczna mądrość chciała.

Patrz, człowiecze, jako leży
Ubożuchny bez odzieży,
Mając Ojca Boga w niebie,
A nie ma czym okryć siebie.

Ten, co ptaszkom barwę daje,
Na wiązce siana przestaje.
Co wszystek świat w palcach dzierży,
Żebrze mleka u Macierzy.

Użalił się Józef stary,
Posłał podeń swój płaszcz szary.
Bydło, czując swego Pana,
Padło przed Nim na kolana.

A Matuchna z bawełnice,
Którą swoje śliczne lice
Jako zwyczaj zawijała,
Pieluszek z niej nakrajała.

Na łonie Go swym powiła
I w jasłeczkach położył:
Ta, którego porodziła,
Sama naprzód pozdrowiła.

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