Ghost of Myself

VICTORIAN HOUSE GHOST, ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

2014

Following Halloween, I like to change the bow on my ghost
and leave her out for the remainder of the year.
Thanks to my friends Claude & Sue who wrote:
"Your lace Ghost of Christmas Past
is one of best yard decorations we've seen!"
And to dear Victoria Amador
who inquires every year if the ghost is up!

2018

The following two poems -- "i am running into a new year" by Lucille Clifton and "in celebration of surviving" by Chuck Miller -- have appeared recently on several different blogs and New Year posts and websites. Yet, I've never seen them posted together. As my contribution to the conversation, I will compare and contrast, in keeping with my goal to provide "a poem for every poem."

Here they are side by side: Clifton's almost middle - aged narrator, "running into a new year"; Miller's almost elderly narrator standing outside in January, coming "through on the stretch in a photo finish." The two narrators contemplate various ghosts of themselves as they resolve to take the New Year and run with it. Even so, they spare a moment to reckon with the ghosts of "Auld Lang Syne" [literally: "old long since"; idiomatically: "long long ago," "days gone by," "old times' sake]. I like to think of these poems as "Auld Lang Syne" reveries, midnight resolutions to cut loose the old trappings and embrace the new energy of the present. As Robert Burns reminds us when we put his poem to music every New Year's Eve, we drink the cup of kindness now.

Clifton begs the ghosts of her old broken promises and her younger selves to forgive her for choosing the present over the past. Miller stands, however briefly, in the "golden envelope" of the present -- not the past, not the future. What matters more is history as we are living it moment by moment; not history as we look back on it. The present is real; the past and the future are imaginary. Or is the opposite: there is no Now; there is only Before and After?

Remember what Thomas Jefferson said:
“I like the dreams of the future
better than the history of the past."

Contemplative essayist and novelist Scott Russell Sanders (American, b 1945) has the perfect phrase for what is happening in these poems. He begins the new year by sharing this thought from a friend: "Memory grips the past and hope grips the future." In both poems, you can feel the icy wind of winter, and the exhilarating wind of change:

i am running into a new year
i am running into a new year
and the old years blow back
like a wind
that i catch in my hair
like strong fingers like
all my old promises and
it will be hard to let go
of what i said to myself
about myself
when i was sixteen and
twenty-six and thirty-six
even thirty-six but
i am running into a new year
and i beg what i love and
i leave to forgive me

~ Lucille Clifton (American poet, 1936 - 2010)

******************************

in celebration of surviving
when senselessness has pounded you around on the ropes
and you're getting too old to hold out for the future
no work and running out of money,
and then you make a try after something that you know you
won't get
and this long shot comes through on the stretch
in a photo finish of your heart's trepidation
then for a while
even when the chill factor of these prairie winters puts it at
fifty below
you're warm and have that old feeling
of being a comer, though belated
in the crazy game of life

standing in the winter night
emptying the garbage and looking at the stars
you realize that although the odds are fantastically against you
when that single January shooting star
flung its wad in the maw of night
it was yours
and though the years are edged with crime and squalor
that second wind, or twenty-third
is coming strong
and for a time
perhaps a very short time
one lives as though in a golden envelope of light

~ Chuck Miller (American poet, b 1939)

Thanks to Katie Field for recommending Lucille Clifton;
and to Peter Bunder for recommending both Chuck Miller
and Scott Russell Sanders

More on this topic
and these poems next time . . .

******************************

January: Always a Time for
Gazing Forward & Hearkening Back

Christmas Forward Backward ~ January 15, 2016

Perfect Twins: Going Out, Coming In ~ January 14, 2016

Janus, Orpheus, Obsolescing ~ January 30, 2011

January: Forward Vision, Backward Glance ~ January 28, 2011

Janus ~ January 8, 2010

Fast Away the Old Year Passes ~ December 28, 2009

SEE YOU IN TWO WEEKS ON MY
Next Fortnightly Post
Monday, January 28th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogspot.com

Robert Burns, The Man's the Gold

SCOTTISH PLAIDS, ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS
From Find a Tartan ~ Top: McCartney Day / McCartney Night ~
Bottom: Carrick Day / Carrick Hunting
Don't worry, I realize that "Carrick" is not the same as "Carriker"
and that aside from some of the dark classic plaids, such as
Black Watch, the rest are latter day tourist inventions --
but still, they are fun, right? And mostly harmless!
If you want to see a lot of Scottish plaid, in the form of elaborate kilts and scarves, then you might want to attend a Robert Burns Birthday Dinner, which is what Gerry and I did last night, along with our friends Jack and Leta. These events are held annually throughout the UK and USA around this time of year in honor of the favored and favorite Scottish poet, who was born in 1759 on 25 January (British novelist and essayist Virginia Woolf was born on the same day, 123 years later: 25 January 1882). Sadly, Burns died young on 21 July 1796.

The 259th birthday celebration of Burns' birthday that we attended -- our first time ever! -- was being hosted for the 35th time by ~

The 42nd Royal Highlanders of Lafayette, Indiana
Band of Music ~ Bagpipes, Fifes and Drums

My favorite lines from Burns have always been the last two stanzas from his poem To A Mouse, On Turning Her Up In Her Nest With The Plough (1785). During my teaching years, I would print these verses at the conclusion of every syllabus, not only as a way of introducing the Scottish English dialect of Robert Burns but also as a reminder to the students that, control being but an illusion, we were likely to deviate from the syllabus at any time:

But, Mousie, thou art
no thy lane, [not alone]
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men
Gang aft agley, [go oft astray]
An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promis’d joy!

Still thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me
The present only toucheth thee:
But, Och! I backward cast my eye
On prospects drear!
An’ forward, tho’ I canna see,
I guess an’ fear! (1785)

At the Burns Supper, however, the tone was lighter and more joyful. Never mind the existential angst of all creatures great and small! Instead, the opening poem is an ode to a haggis. Should you be unfamiliar with this unusually named menu item, think of a cross between a meatloaf and a pâté. Not necessarily your typical subject of introspective poetry, but here goes:

Address to the Haggis [click title for original Scots version]

All hail your honest rounded face
Great chieftain of the pudding race;
Above them all you take your place,
Beef, tripe, or lamb:
You're worthy of a grace
As long as my arm.

The groaning trencher there you fill,
Your sides are like a distant hill
Your pin would help to mend a mill,
In time of need,
While through your pores the dews distil,
Like amber bead.

His knife the rustic goodman wipes,
To cut you through with all his might,
Revealing your gushing entrails bright,
Like any ditch;
And then, what a glorious sight,
Warm, welcome, rich.

Then plate for plate they stretch and strive,
Devil take the hindmost, on they drive,
Till all the bloated stomachs by and by,
Are tight as drums.
The rustic goodman with a sigh,
His thanks he hums.

Let them that o'er his French ragout,
Or hotchpotch fit only for a sow,
Or fricassee that'll make you spew,
And with no wonder;
Look down with sneering scornful view,
On such a dinner.

Poor devil, see him eat his trash,
As feckless as a withered rush,
His spindly legs and good whip-lash,
His little feet
Through floods or over fields to dash,
O how unfit.

But, mark the rustic, haggis-fed;
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Grasp in his ample hands a flail
He'll make it whistle,
Stout legs and arms that never fail,
Proud as the thistle.

You powers that make mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill of fare.
Old Scotland wants no stinking ware,
That slops in dishes;
But if you grant her grateful prayer,
Give her a haggis (1786)

According to tradition, the dinner continues with more feasting, more poetry, and various other readings. The conventional "Toast to the Lassies" and "Toast to the Laddies" may vary from venue to venue, depending on who has been nominated to deliver the address. I like the idea of choosing a poem by Burns to fill these slots on the program. How could you go wrong with this tender tribute, especially when sung by Andreas Scholl:

A Red, Red Rose

O my Luve is like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June;
O my Luve is like the melody
That’s sweetly played in tune.

So fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry.

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;
I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only luve!
And fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my luve,
Though it were ten thousand mile. (1794)

The next poem, a fitting toast for lads and lasses alike, was written during the French Revolution and exemplifies the rising tide of democracy that informed the poetry of the time. Burns' words continue to inspire and express what we all crave -- to be known for our own worth:

A Man's A Man For A' That [click title for original Scots version]

Is there for honest poverty
That hangs his head, and all that?
The coward slave, we pass him by -
We dare be poor for all that!
For all that, and all that,
Our toils obscure, and all that,
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The man's the gold for all that.

What though on homely fare we dine,
Wear rough grey tweed, and all that?
Give fools their silks, and knaves their wine -
A man is a man for all that.
For all that, and all that,
Their tinsel show, and all that,
The honest man, though ever so poor,
Is king of men for all that.

You see that fellow called 'a lord',
Who struts, and stares, and all that?
Though hundreds worship at his word,
He is but a dolt for all that.
For all that, and all that,
His ribboned, star, and all that,
The man of independent mind,
He looks and laughs at all that.

A prince can make a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and all that!
But an honest man is above his might -
Good faith, he must not fault that
For all that, and all that,
Their dignities, and all that,
The pith of sense and pride of worth
Are higher rank than all that.

Then let us pray that come it may
(As come it will for a' that)
That Sense and Worth over all the earth
Shall take the prize and all that!
For all that, and all that,
It is coming yet for all that,
That man to man the world over
Shall brothers be for all that. (1795)

It's only right that an evening - long tribute to the enduring legacy of Robert Burns should conclude with a rousing group rendition of his most beloved poem. Anyone who missed out in the early moments of the New Year is granted another chance here at the end of the month to sing -- for old time's sake -- of forgiveness for the past and congenial commitment to a kinder, gentler future:

Auld Lang Syne

Should old acquaintance be forgot
and never brought to mind
Should old acquaintance be forgot
for the days of old lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my dear
for auld lang syne
we'll take a cup of kindness yet
for auld lang syne.

And surely you'll buy your pint cup
and surely I'll buy mine
we'll take a cup of kindness yet
for auld lang syne,

And here's a hand my trusty friend
And put your hand in mine
We'll take a right good-will draught,
for auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear
for auld lang syne
we'll take a cup of kindness yet
for auld lang syne. (1788)

"Jack Frost" on the Garage Floor

SEE YOU IN TWO WEEKS ON MY
Next Fortnightly Post
Wednesday, February 14th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogspot.com