November 20: Scant Young Nose, Gnawed by Dogs, Saint Cecilia

The owner of one scant young nose, gnawed and mumbled by the hungry cold as bones are gnawed by dogs, stopped by Scrooge's keyhole to regale him with a Christmas carol:  but at the first sound of

     "God bless you, merry gentleman!
      May nothing you dismay!"

Scrooge seized the ruler with such energy of action, that the singer fled in terror, leaving the keyhole to the fog and even more congenial frost.

This passage is just one of many instances during the course of the novel in which a song is sung.  As I've pointed out before, music and singing are central motifs of the book.  The carols recall childhood and innocence and, sometimes, poverty and want.  The beggar boy above sings.  Tiny Tim sings.  At one point, an old lighthouse keeper sings.

As a poet and musician, I appreciate this aspect of Dickens' tale.  Some of my best memories of childhood involve music.  When I took naps as a child, my mother would put a Doris Day LP on her record player, and I would fall asleep to "Once I had a secret love..."  Many of my Christmas memories revolve around music, as well.  Choirs I've sung with.  Midnight masses.  Candlelight and Christmas Eve and "Silent Night."  Music connects all people.

November 22 is the feast day of Cecilia.  Cecilia is the patron saint of musicians, poets, and singers.  At an early age, she made a vow of virginity.  Even though her parents married her off to a nobleman named Valerian, Cecilia preserved her vow.  She converted her husband to Christianity.  I have no idea what her connections to poetry and music are.  However, they must be significant.  I can tell you that Cecilia and her husband were both martyred for their beliefs somewhere between the years 161 and 193 A.D.

Music is the great equalizer.  It provides solace for the lonely, joy for the despairing, and hope for the hopeless.  It can put children to sleep.  It can make them feel safe and loved.  Saint Cecilia knew that.  Charles Dickens knew that.

Saint Marty knows that, too.  Sing with him:  "Que sera, sera.  Whatever will be, will be..."

Doris knew that, too

May 13: Mother's Day, New Poem, "Her Mother's Voice," New Cartoon

I'm stepping away from Scrooge and Charles Dickens today, in honor of Mother's Day.  I am going to share a poem I wrote for this morning's church worship service.  This poem is NOT the poem I wrote for the mother/daughter dinner earlier this week.  I will give you that poem tomorrow afternoon.

My wife and daughter sang a duet for special music this morning, as well.  They sang "I Was There to Hear Your Borning Cry."  It's a sweet little hymn, almost a lullaby.  I tried to incorporate a portion of the hymn's title into the poem, to tie them both together.  I'm not sure if it was successful.  Plus, I started crying in the middle of reading the poem.  I was a mess.  But my wife and daughter sang beautifully.

If you're wondering what I did for my wife this maternal 24 hours, I will tell you.  This morning, I gave her a card.  After church, I took her out to lunch.  Subway.  Nothing fancy, but we ate together as a family.  Now, she's taking a nap before dinner.

Currently, I'm at my parents' house for a Mother's Day barbecue.  Hot dogs.  Bratwurst.  Pound cake for dessert.

Saint Marty needs to go.  The dogs are on the grill.

Her Mother's Voice

My wife, Beth, doesn't remember
Her mother's voice, how it rose
When her mother lifted diaphragm
In laugh, how it fell near the end
When breathing was hard as birth.
At night, Beth wonders if she'd recognize
Her mother's voice in a recording,
If it would be familiar as Doris Day
Crooning "Que Sera Sera,"
John Lennon gliding through "Imagine." 
Or would it be scratchy, distant
As a wax cylinder.  Jelly Roll Morton
Grinding out "Fat Meat and Greens."
When she was five, Beth sang with her mother
In church.  She doesn't remember the song.
What she does remember:  her mother's fingers
On the guitar strings, stained glass
Light on her mother's face.  Beth remembers
Feeling like she was riding a bike
For the first time by herself,
Her mother receding, growing smaller, smaller.
She remembers this clearly, the way
She remembers the morning in the hospital
When she heard our daughter's borning cry.

Confessions of Saint Marty