poetry and prayer on Good Friday

I subscribed to Garrison Keillor's Writer's Almanac, a daily newsletter that highlights historical events and provides a brief biography of a few notable people born on that day. I subscribed just in time for my all time favorite poet Louise Gluck's birthday (today!). I got so excited when I opened my email and one of her poems was the first entry in the newsletter. It makes me happy that other people have also started the day with a Louise Gluck poem, perhaps being exposed to her work for the first time. If you are interested, here is a list of some of them. Pick one and read. Many of the poems from her book The Wild Iris are firmly entrenched in my memories of phases and seasons going back to my sophomore year of high school. Still, every few months, I read one that voices to my current questions, desires, or sacrifices and I'm grateful.

Today is Good Friday. This prayer helps my "faith imagination," encouraging me to take hold of what's really possible in Christ. It is originally from People's Companion to the Breviary, Vol II. I read it in The Divine Hours: Prayers for Springtime.

"O God, you sent Christ Jesus to be my shepherd and the lamb of sacrifice. Help me to embrace the mystery of salvation, the promise of life rising out of death. Help me to hear the call of Christ and give me the courage to follow it readily that I, too, may lead others to you. This I ask through Jesus, my shepherd and guide."

travel plans

Plane tickets to Chicago PURCHASED. It's been nearly 4 years since I've seen my dear roommate. I've been itching to travel, especially to visit friends in their post-college cities.

Next stop: South Carolina, perhaps?

Cloves galore

Last night I made this. 44 cloves of garlicky goodness. I came across the recipe and instantly thought of my mom, who only eats garlic when my dad is out of town because he hates the smell and won't kiss her if she eats it. This is the man who nearly always prefaces his criticisms with "I'm not that picky BUT..." Yes, Dad, you are.

Anyway, I was a little nervous, but the soup was a success and my mom and I enjoyed two nights of this creamy, surprisingly subtle-tasting (because of the parmesan and whipping cream) soup.

Don't be afraid. If you are in an adventurous mood, try it!

echoes of Dante

Scenes of Hell - Billy Collins

We did not have the benefit of a guide,
no crone to lead us off the common path,
no ancient to point the way with a staff,

but there were badlands to cross,
rivers of fire and blackened peaks,
and eventually we could look down and see

the jeweler running around a gold ring,
the boss captured in an hourglass,
the baker buried up to his eyes in flour,

the banker plummeting on a coin,
the teacher disappering into a blackboard,
and the grocer silent under a pyramid of vegetables.

We saw the pilot nose-diving
and the whore impaled on a bedpost,
the pharmacist wandering in a stupor

and the child with toy wheels for legs.
You pointed to the soldier
who was dancing with his empty uniform

and I remarked on the blind tourist.
But what truly caught our attention
was the scene in the long mirror of ice:

you lighting the wick on your head
me blowing on the final spark,
and our children trying to crawl away from their

eggshells.

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Billy Collins first enticed me with his use of crisp images and brilliant metaphor in this poem but of course the Dantean spirit is what wins me over. He certainly makes it his own - this poet's "lostness" is different from Dante's, no "ancient guide" (i.e. Virgil) to lead the way. He imitates the structure of the Inferno: he starts off lost on a path and even his first observation involves a circle (the ring). Using abbreviated phrases, he initially alludes to menial sins paired with nearly comic images but then gradually descends into the grotesque (whore impaled by a bedpost, children with toy wheels for legs). True to Dante, ice composes Hell's center.

I'm not sure what to make of the images he and his companion point to - she points to a soldier dancing with his empty uniform, him to a blind tourist (notice he has emphasized the sense of sight so far). Are they struck by those who mirror their own weaknesses or do they point out the other's? I think the the latter interpretation aligns with human nature's tendency. Does she idolize superficial signs of importance or is she suggesting that he does? Is he the one who travels but has not the eyes to see or is he suggesting this to her?

The last images are striking - each family member's particular suffering at the hand of another. The extinguished flame and the eggshells accompanying conflict.

I borrowed the title for my blog (The fire becomes the mirror) from a Louise Gluck poem, and I associate that fire with suffering which purifies sight. But in "Scenes from Hell", ice is the mirror exposing vice. And now I'm contemplating what image I would see....