Mother Matters

To Mater

It doesn't much matter
If I say "Dear Mother,"
Or "Mater,"
Or "Madre,"
Or "Mere"

So long as I don't confuse
"Mater" with "Pater"
Or start call-
ing Mother
"Mon pere."

"That's easy," you mutter,
"To tell Mom from Fader
Or Pater
Or Padre
Or Pere."

But here's why it's murder
To not confuse mother
For Father
Or Vater
For mere,

For father is much more
In form a tomat-er,
And mother,
In form,
More a pear.



Though you mutter, I'll wager
That you've, on ocass-ier,
Confounded
Your geni-
tor pair.

Ben note-r: if mother's
Mistaken for father,
Then Mater
Might think
You don't care!

Ah, though she's eke daughter
And sister and lover
To others,
To me she's
most dear

As my own, loving mother:
I'll never consider
Another
my mater,
Not e'er.

Happy Mater's Day, Mudder!

What would we think of an alphabet poem cycle with an eco-conservationist theme? Who'd buy that for a dollar?

Okay, okay, so there are lots of these out there, but they tend not to be sophisticated or interesting poetically: sloppy, cliche', trite even. I want to write one that sings for its supper.

Poem the first (Adam, even you can deduce the structural conceit at work here; Earth Mother, if he asks you, that's cheating):



Albert Ross the Albatross

Auld Albert Ross, the albatross,
Adores the wide, blue sea:
Al loves its winds, its waves, its fins
And every kind of food that swims
But not the plastics, bottles, tins
Collecting annually therein
Because we treat it like a bin
And make life difficult for him,
Al’s friends, Al’s food (the kind with fins)
Across the wide, blue sea.
Auld albatross, our Albert Ross.


Of course, the next poem will have to follow suit: BBBBCDCBBBB, with the reversal in the last line (Y and Z would either have to dip back into A and B respectively, or I could use numbers instead). Or I could come up with a new poetic form for each letter. Or better yet, find a form for each that starts with that letter: ode for O, rubaiyat for R, sonnet for s, epithalamion or epigram for E, palindrome for P: you get the idea: world's first multi-tasking poetry primer for kids: an introduction to poetic forms, eco-conservatist political messages, and an introduction to alphabetical literacy. Whizbang.


Photocred: Dr. Mike Double

Potential problem: Ralph McTell's already done the "Albert Ross" thing. Not surprised: it's a no-brainer. But my poem is better than his. Trust me.

Happy Whatsama What? Huh?

File this under "Oddities." There were many things we expected to see, coming here. And there were many things we did not expect to see. We were told that Al Ain was like the Jeddah of the Emirate of Abu Dhabi, except not quite so much. But yeah, you can tell a difference between here and Abu Dhabi and Dubai, not only in what westerners generally try to pull off (and by "Westerners" we mean godless heathens--mostly European), but in what Arabs and Muslim "others" will get away with (or without).

We did not expect, for instance, to see so many flipping lingerie stores. Good golly. And even if we had, we wouldn't have expected provocative displays. Alright, so they're marginally toned down, but the dummies are anatomically correct, except for those without heads; and the models are always godless euro-heathens, but its not their compatriots who are in those stores, either as customers or employees. Weird!--I'ma say it again--Weird! to see women in the whole shootin' match--abaya (body covering), shaela (head scarf), and burkha (veil) shopping at Victoria's Secret and other local, and more, erm, lingerial specialty shops.

Okay, so we've grown accustomed to that. Not that we spend anytime there ourselves, or tend to look in as we walk by, of course. Ahem.

We were told not to hold hands in public, but guess what! Couples under 45 generally can and/or do around here, so all bets are off. We were also told to keep shoulders and knees covered at least, but the memo seems not to have enjoyed total distribution. I mean, you can tell a difference between here and, say, Ventura Boulevard or the Las Vegas strip. Generally speaking--98% of the time--even the Arabs who wear western dress sans abaya are in the main more modestly covered than the average 'tween at Johnson Memorial Junior High. So that's good. But now and then some godless euro-heathen blows by who would easily fit in on Ventura, the Strip, or at JMJH.

What's interesting is, despite my views of radical forms of dress and the mixing of social rule with religious dogma, I still experience a kind of sympathetic disappointment when I see Arab women dressed provocatively, at least by comparison. And the fact is they're not really being provocative.

But it makes me think that the veiling of bodies and faces is, at least culturo-historically, meant to be sensual--the very quality it has been appropriated by religious law to suppress. Because judging from what goes on at VS and fellows, well, let's just say Valentine's Day is a pretty big deal. No, we are not in Saudi Arabia, where that's all been more or less banned. Here it's on open display. Might not be very many folks at the movie theatre tonight.

But this is a family blog. Forgive me. I'm just in sociological shock, because I was over at the mall early tonight (V Day), and saw 5, that's FIVE, interracial couples. And I don't mean the common types: Arab and African-extraction, or Arab and Filipina, all-muslim. I mean by golly Arab and godless euro-heathen. 5 Arab men in different places in the mall in the company of geh's. 2 of the men were in dishdasha, spandex-wearing lipstick hos (God forgive them) at their sides. I had to rub my eyes and pinch my arms. I do verily believe that the Apocalypse is nigh.

With that, a special treat. Three items for your reading and viewing pleasure. The last makes fun of Bush's Iranian twin, so I don't think you have to worry too much. And another disclaimer: poems just happen to poets. It's a mood thing, a kind of oracular mood swing, if we must have the truth. I don't feel this way today. In fact, I both fear for this wonderfully, comparatively moderate society and celebrate it, as long as it lasts. And may it last. Insha'allah. Because in the main, whatever they've inherited or adopted, these are good people: kindly, thoughtful, whispery smooth, and profoundly alight. And when the luxury train makes its last stop, I hope they're wide awake and ready to hoof it on ahead. We'll need them.


Sila, Liwa, Bani Yas

They keep this up, there’ll be no desert left,
No space to wreck, no four-wheel desert cleft
To winnow down: no dry-heave, tinder bone
To let a man alone.

The death-gasp of the culture that could tear
The banshee shriek of what is drawing near
Is such a modern thing it makes me grin
Like poison: sick of sin.

They keep this up, these mincing, drifting ghosts,
These zebra forms with all their Babel boasts,
They’ll blister from the artificial cold:
The center cannot hold,

The falcon cannot hear the falconer,*
The tent is void, the women too demure,
And from the mosques a bitter incense fumes:
It’ll bring them to their tombs.


And my valentine to Wendy: she'll forgive me for posting it. I was hoping she would either laugh out loud or say it was the most romantic thing she'd ever heard, but she, well, never mind. Let's just say she passed Go without collecting the $200, and the moment kinda fell a little flat.


Heart Failure: Averted
(Thanks to you)

Here are all the things I’d do
If I hadn’t married you:

I’d drive a motorbike too fast
And wouldn’t slow until I’d passed
Each station wagon, bus, and van
Along the hairpin-turn TransCan;

I’d live in Europe, catch disease,
And contract head lice, maybe fleas;
I’d prowl her humid streets all night,
Or stay up reading in too-dim light;

I’d eat too much of the wrong thing,
And sleep too late, and never sing
And I’d hate kids, and adults, too,
If I had never married you.

If I hadn’t married you
I’d probably have learned kung fu
And used it on some smaller bloke
And done some time in the provincial poke.

I’d fail at work, make big mistakes,
Spend too much dough on crappy dates
Grow far too old for the singles scene
And drown my sorrows in ice cream.

Then I’d move home, get fat and bald,
Spend afternoons in shopping malls,
Write little, think less, be profoundly depressed,
And despise myself. Yep, I confess

That this is where I’d likely be
If you hadn’t married me.


And finally, from JibJab (we don't know what he actually says, though this was clearly taken from his Columbia U speech),




By the way, it is confirmed: "Rai-li" does indeed mean "my husband." In their dreams.

*Credits (before I forget): "sick of sin" comes from Wilfred Owen's great "Dulce et decorum est"; both "The centre cannot hold" and "The falcon cannot hear the falconer" are from Yeats' "The Second Coming." Lest ye think me a base thief, and curse me for a hack . . . .

Elegy for a Revelator

Worn thin, yet not to weakness,
This prophet worked, Donne's godly gold,
Warmed in Affliction’s furnace
Like his peers of Old.

His body bore the burdens
Of an entropic, skeptic Age:
Proved instrument in the garden!
Fiber optic Sage!

How blessed upon the mountain
Is the narrow path he trod:
He has reached the living fountain
Of th’Eternal God.

In Memoriam: Myrtle Jensen

Requiescat:
Your life too often touched
By loss, you learned to smile and suffer much.

Each loss--of child,
Of sibling, full-grown child--
But smoothed the rough, and made you Jesus-mild.

The vacant rooms
Soon burst with newer kin:
Job's blessing, and no space to hold it in.

You loved each one as each:
Your late-come daughter's daughter
You fostered with quick smiles and easy laughter,

Warm homemade love,
Knit kisses unrestrained,
And healed her of a heritage of shame.

The grandsons born
With weak heart or weak limbs
Were cradled in your wellworn love for him

Whose broken form
You bore, nurtured, interred.
By this same love your daughters, too, endure.

All our daughters
And our sons you claimed,
You knew their faces, murmured each new name

As if your own:
And your own we will be
In God's good time, and sweet eternity.

So rest: your
Altar-loss has been restored,
What's left behind will yet be your reward.


Wendy's maternal grandmother, Myrtle Jensen, died this past weekend after a long decline. It is both blessing and, of course, cause for mourning. She was a tender soul, quicker to smile than frown, even as her limbs lost strength and the fog of age grew thick around her. She was tended faithfully by her husband, Evan, and by fine, devoted children and grandchildren. She left as she came in: warmed by loved ones, blessed with the happiness earned by trials and joys alike.

Wendy's parents called us up early Sunday morning to see if she could return home for the funeral, and we quickly made the arrangements. Those of you in Alberta who would like to see or speak to her in person or by phone can reach her at the Raymond manse. She'll be there from Monday night through Sunday. We know you'll respect the reason for her visit, but no one will complain if you call. The funeral is planned for Thursday.

Salaam. Namaste. Shantih. Shalom. Peace out.

More from us boys in a day or two. Sorry we're a few days late and several dirhams short. We know you'll forgive us, considering.

Suspiri ispirati 1

Painting--Jean Leon Gerome, 1879

Lente, lente currite noctis equii (Allahu ackbar)

Given its head, the night runs faster than a man can breathe
Its nostrils pant, its dusky edges heave,
And I am pulled from sleep too soon:
The yellow tones of morning and the morning song
Too early crowed, but not in the cock’s throat.

The call to prayer comes early:
“Our alarm clock,” quipped a friend,
Indicating the humble mosque at his front door.
We have one, too. We all do in this garden city,
This oasis overrun but not yet ruined,

And the mosque with its staggered chorus
Of muezzin fairly owns us, night and day:
There’s hardly time to leave off praying my litany of regrets
From a day spent seeking more help than I had given
Before I’m called back to my knees.

I do not join the sweated worship of the immigrants,
But I think of prayer far more here than ever before,
For God is great indeed, and it is better to pray than sleep,
Even if all one does is pray to sleep a little more
Before the panting night is stabled, brushed, and fed,
And the mu'adhdhin clears his rooster throat.