Family Poems

It's time for some poetry, again. I listened to an interview with Carol Lynn Pearson, and I related to this poem she read.

Pioneers

My people were Mormon pioneers.
Is the blood still good?
They stood by in awe as truth
Flew by like a dove
And dropped a feather in the West.
Where truth flies you follow
If you are a pioneer.

I have searched the skies
And now and then
Another feather has fallen.
I have packed the handcart again
Packed it with the precious things
And thrown away the rest.

I will sing by the fires at night
Out there on uncharted ground
Where I am my own captain of tens
Where I blow the bugle
Bring myself to morning prayer
Map out the miles
And never know when or where
Or if at all
I will finally say,
“This is the place,”

I face the plains
On a good day for walking.
The sun rises
And the mist clears.
I will be alright:
My people were Mormon pioneers.

“Pioneers,”
by CAROL LYNN PEARSON


I think I like a bit of melodrama, and I certainly did in the past. Some of the language of my next poem reflects that, but my poem, and the one from my brother that inspired it, are family relationship poems, so I think they are fitting to pair with "Pioneers." I'll admit, I still find some pleasure in my brother's flattery.

To a Brother

Andrew G. Cannon

1997

I’ve always felt this way;

Like a spring, bubbling and rumpling

over your rock;

Like a wind, laugh-whistling

through your mountain canyons.

And I’m doing it again:

too much stagger and swoon,

too much caper and fancy, loose-foot step.

When I think of you,

I’m still.

I’d gladly be an Aaron,

to your Moses.

Brother Tree, Brother Bird

1998

How are you strong? What are the depths

That my eyes can’t see that your roots have conquered?

How can you day after day hold so firm

Your reaching branches, so straight your trunk?

How can you lose your leaves and patiently

Wait month after month their return?

What essence flows in your veins that year

After year makes you grow and bud and blossom?

As I flit here and there through your shade,

Like one more shadow of your windblown leaves,

What makes you constant?

You wrong yourself my unsure brother.

Don’t you remember we grew together?

My trunk grew straight, your wings grew strong,

My leaves spread wide, your eyesight long.

You see the stream that feeds my soul?

It’s the same that feeds yours—the very same.

I draw what it whispers down through the earth

That it carries so cleanly from distant hills;

You gather its joy as it laughs and twirls

And channels the words of messenger clouds.

It is true that my heart is bound in the earth

So that all who know me can find me and rest,

And they call me constant, they call me calm,

They call me strong, they call me friend.

You think you’re inconstant because your feet

Have only scratched the hard brown earth

And never taken root to send

Your body straining towards the light,

But you wrong yourself, my doubting friend.

You forget the wind, the wind that I

Can barely touch when it comes to me.

The wind that makes me desire to soar

So near the sun where you often go.

Yes, maybe you’re not gone for long

And always return to my waiting branches,

But you carry back a taste of the light

That my patient branches cry out to possess,

And my tormented roots, that seem so strong,

Drive down for the hold to free their hope

And throw their branches to the sky

Where all will see as they now watch and marvel

At you, soaring and circling in the light

And on the wind that you possess,

Which I can only feel as, rustling,

It passes me by.

Transhumanist Aesthetic

My friend, Lincoln Cannon, put out a challenge to create a Mormon Transhumanist aesthetic. One that matches the future we hope for and that we imagine can come as we apply technology to the benefit of humanity and as we become more than human. I don't know that my aesthetic matches anyone else's, because I'm not much of a transhumanist. I just like the community of people associated with the Mormon Transhumanist Association. I do have stories I tell myself about the kind of god I hope to become, and the kind of community of gods I hope to belong to. I only think about technology in these stories in the broadest sense--that is if you include as technology any application of knowledge to accomplish an end. I would like to share those stories, if I can figure out how to do it well. Any poems will start out as prose, and I think I'll write some thoughts here when my son lets me type unmolested.

Giovannino Guareschi--Italian Politcal Satirist

My dad introduced me to The Little World of Don Camillo when I was a teenager. I then went to Italy and discovered that Guareschi was quite a prolific writer. His most famous work is short stories about a small, fictional town in northcentral Italy on the plains of the broad, Po river valley. Don Camillo is the parish priest, and his arch rival and sometimes friend is Peppone, the communist mayor of the town. Guareschi spent two years in a prisoner of war camp in Germany during the last part of World War II. He later published the things he wrote to entertain his fellow prisoners during their time in the camp. There is usually a morbid bent to this humor, unlike his political satire, which can be serious or even sad, but is fundamentally positive. I read one of his brief journal entries, and found it very funny. It took me three readings to get the last line, though. I hope my English translation makes it easier for the rest of you. I've asked an Italian about the meaning of a couple of cultural references. He'll see if he can figure them out for me, but didn't know off the top of his head. I'll edit it when he gets back to me.

The Father
Once upon a time there was a father: a lordly man of notable dignity, two important mustachios, and formidable experience.

This father would say, scandalized, that the youth of his day never smoked, drank alcohol, danced, or stayed out late, never asked for money, never asked for new clothes, didn’t wear out the toes or heels of their shoes, never ate junk from pastry shop, never cruised around in cars, or wasted their lives at the movies, never lit matches and left the sticks lying around, never read the idiocies published in the newspapers, didn’t leave dirty water in the bathroom, didn’t murder all of their socks in the heels, never went without a hat, never planted themselves in front of the radiator, didn’t leave the lights on until two in the morning, never wasted time in frivolous pursuits like skiing, biking, playing tennis, or listening to various Semprini(?), never wasted money on mail(?), never tracked mud in the house, never asked what was for dinner, etc.

A most authoritative figure who made it his duty to teach that the serious minded man must never get involved in politics, but must only follow the masses and respect his superiors and the institutions of the State, and obey orders without ever questioning, thus avoiding, assuredly, any responsibility or trouble.

And the children treasured his fatherly teachings and, in this way, found themselves—surrounded by safe fences—the wisdom of the youth of their father’s day. And they didn’t smoke any more, they didn’t dance, didn’t stay out late, didn’t waste their lives at the movies, didn’t eat junk from the pastry shops, etc. etc.

But Papa, if we ever get home! . . .