Showing posts with label Irving Berlin. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Irving Berlin. Show all posts

Sunday, December 29, 2024

December 29, 2024: "A Word About Transitions," President Jimmy Carter, Moral and Ethical

Some transitions are easy:  the Darrens on Bewitched.  Some transitions are difficult:  President Biden to President-elect Musk . . . I mean Trump.  

Billy Collins says a few things about transitions . . . 

A Word About Transitions

by: Billy Collins

Moreover is not a good way to begin a poem
though many start somewhere in the middle.

Secondly should not be placed
at the opening of your second stanza.

Furthermore should be regarded
as a word to avoid.

Aforementioned is rarely found
in poems at all and for good reason.

Most steer clear of notwithstanding
and the same goes for

nevertheless, however, 
as a consequence, in any event,

subsequently,
and as we have seen in the previous chapters.

Finally's appearance at the top
of the final stanza is not going to help.

All of which suggests (another no-no)
that poems don't need to tell us where we are

or what is soon to come.
For Example, the white bowl of lemons

on a table by a window
is fine all by itself

and, in conclusion, so are
seven elephants standing in the rain.




Today was a difficult transition day.  Earlier this afternoon, I learned the President Jimmy Carter died at the age of 100.  So, we are now transitioning to a post-Jimmy Carter world.  

Jimmy Carter was the first President of the United States I remember.  I was too young for Nixon or Ford to have made any kind of impression on me.  But I remember clearly the Jimmy Carter years, which were marked by long lines at the gasoline pump and the Camp David Peace Accords (for which he won the Nobel Peace Prize), among other things.  

Jimmy Carter was by no means a perfect man or president, and he would have been the first person to admit that.  Humility was a huge part of who he was.  He recognized his mistakes, owned them, and learned from them.  In his post-presidential years, he did remarkable things.  Habitat for Humanity.  The Carter Center.  Books of memoir, religion, and poetry.  He was faithfully married to his wife for 77 years.  

In short, Jimmy Carter was moral, ethical, and honest in his personal life and as President of the United States.  Some people criticize his progressive values and label his four years in the Oval Office as a failure.  My response to such criticisms:  we should be so lucky to have a failure like him as President-elect right now.

I'm not kidding when I say that I hope I can be half the man that James Earl Carter was.  It feels like the Grand Canyon has been filled in or the Mississippi River has dried up.  I know, I know.  People die.  Death and taxes, blah blah blah.

I just wish this particular transition had been gentler, like the shift of light from afternoon to evening,  Or the last minor chord in Irving Berlin's "White Christmas," when we're all reminded of things we used to know.  

So, finally and in conclusion, Saint Marty gives thanks for the life and work of Jimmy Carter, who once said, "The measure of a society is found in how they treat their weakest and most helpless citizens."

Amen, Mr. President.  Amen.


Tuesday, November 27, 2018

November 27: Billy Collins, "Winter," Irving Berlin

Winter

by:  Billy Collins

A little heat in the iron radiator,
the dog breathing at the foot of the bed,

and the windows shut tight,
encrusted with hexagons of frost.

I can barely hear the geese
complaining in the vast sky,

flying over the living and the dead,
schools and prisons, and the whitened fields.

_________________________

A cold winter night.

After I'm done typing this post, I'm going to make myself something warm.  Hot chocolate.  Bailey's Irish Cream.  White Christmas on the TV.  Bing Crosby.  Danny Kaye.  Irving Berlin.

Saint Marty is dreaming of . . . alcohol.


Friday, November 25, 2016

November 25: Hard Work, Miller Williams, "If Ever There Was One"

The holidays are hard work, starting with the cooking of Thanksgiving dinner.  I am not complaining.  I'm always the first person in my neighborhood to have my Christmas tree up (the day after Halloween, usually).  I listen to Christmas music all year long.  It calms me down, makes me happy.

But the holidays require a lot of energy and effort.  Sort of like a marriage.  There's good days and bad days.  There's happiness and sadness.  Tonight, after two days of cooking and family, I am beat.  I have a feeling that I will be in bed pretty early, right after I watch the fiftieth anniversary broadcast of How the Grinch Stole Christmas.

Miller Williams talks about the great effort of happiness and love in tonight's poem.  It's a depressing little narrative, but it makes sense.  No matter how hard you try, you can't be a perfect husband or wife.  And no matter what present you buy, what cookie you bake, what carol you sing, you can't have a perfect holiday season.  There will be disappointment, no matter how much effort you've expended.

The trick is not to expect an Irving Berlin kind of Christmas.  It doesn't exist.  Never existed.  However, happiness is attainable.  It's just a matter of letting go.  Don't expect gingerbread and Bing Crosby all the time.  Find small moments to celebrate.  Take time to read the Christmas cards that come in the mail.  Treat yourself to a cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows.  Watch A Charlie Brown Christmas.  Drop a few coins in the Salvation Army bucket.  Like I said, small moments of Christmas joy.

Saint Marty recommends adding some Bailey's Irish Cream to your hot chocolate.  It warms his chestnuts every time.

If Ever There Was One

by:  Miller Williams

She could tell he loved her. He wanted her there   
sitting in the front pew when he preached.   
He liked to watch her putting up her hair
and ate whatever she cooked and never broached

the subject of the years before they met.   
He was thoughtful always. He let her say   
whether or not they did anything in bed
and tried to learn the games she tried to play.

She could tell how deep his feeling ran.
He liked to say her name and bought her stuff   
for no good reason. He was a gentle man.   
How few there are she knew well enough.

He sometimes reached to flick away a speck   
of something on her clothes and didn’t drum   
his fingers on the table when she spoke.
What would he do if he knew she had a dream

sometimes, slipping out of her nightgown—
if ever God forbid he really knew her—
to slip once out of the house and across town   
and find someone to talk dirty to her.