Handfuls and War Poems by Carl Sandburg

Source of book: I own this

 

For this post, I read two of Sandburg’s shorter collections, Handfuls and War Poems. The former consists of eleven short poems about various topics. The latter likewise consists of eleven poems, but these are all about World War One. I combined them as both were quite short. 

 

I previously wrote about Sandburg’s famous and far longer collection, Chicago Poems. 

 

Handfuls includes one of Sandburg’s most famous poems, “Fog,” which many of us read back in our school days.

 

Fog

 

The fog comes

on little cat feet.

 

It sits looking

over harbor and cit

on silent haunches

and then moves on. 

 

That’s classic imagery that has stood the test of time. The other one I selected from this collection is one that speaks to the choice all of us face in these troubled times. So many, alas, have chosen poorly. 

 

Choose

 

            The single clenched fist lifted and ready,

Or the open asking hand held out and waiting.

                        Choose:

For we meet by one or the other. 

 

There are other poems I could have chosen - I thought this was a strong collection despite its short length. 

 

For War Poems, Sandburg’s opposition to war generally, and to the senseless stupidity that was World War One in particular is the theme. And really, in a history of truly stupid, pointless, and needlessly destructive wars, World War One stands out as particularly dumb. It also accomplished nothing of benefit to anyone, instead leading directly to another war, one even more destructive and bloody. 

 

I picked two poems from this collection as well, although I think any of the others would have served as well. It is a particularly coherent book, with all the poems leading in the same philosophical direction. I find I agree with Sandburg throughout these days. Remember, my generation hasn’t seen our country engaged in a single morally defensible war. We have literally made the world - and the countries we have invaded - worse by our actions. 

 

Iron

 

Guns,

Long, steel guns,

Pointed from the war ships

In the name of the war god.

Straight, shining, polished guns,

Clambered over with jackies in white blouses,

Glory of tan faces, tousled hair, white teeth,

Laughing lithe jackies in white blouses,

Sitting on the guns singing war songs, war chanties.

 

Shovels,

Broad iron shovels,

Scooping out oblong vaults,

Loosening turf and leveling sod.

 

            I ask you

            To witness - 

            The shovel is brother to the gun.

 

I would compare here a British poet, Wilfred Owen, who died in World War One just a week before the armistice. 

 

I’ll end with this commentary on the stupidity of war. 

 

And They Obey

 

Smash down the cities.

Knock the walls to pieces.

Break the factories and cathedrals, warehouses and homes

Into loose piles of stone and lumber and black burnt wood:

            You are the soldiers and we command you.

 

Build up the cities.

Set up the walls again.

Put together once more the factories and cathedrals, warehouses and homes

Into buildings for life and labor:

            You are workmen and citizens all: We command you.

 

Yeah, just saying. 

 

We live in incredibly stupid times, when stupidity is cultivated and celebrated and the rest of us are supposed to pretend that this is all genius rather than stupidity. Included in this seems to be the return of the idea that waging wars of conquest are a way to national greatness, even as the realities of modern weapons have proven this to be a lie. 

 

And really, war has, for the most part, been a matter of narcissistic old men gaining “glory” at the expense of the lives of their less wealthy and powerful fellow humans. 

 

In many ways, the time of Carl Sandburg resembles our own: soaring inequality, global unrest, the rise of Fascism. And thus, his poems speak well to our own situation and moral needs. 

 

Ferris by Kate DiCamillo

Source of book: Audiobook from the library

 

Over the years, we have enjoyed various Kate DiCamillo books. Her characters are always memorable and realistic, although the styles of the books vary greatly. I mean, everything from a talking mouse to a squirrel with superpowers on the one end, and highly realistic human stories on the other. Whatever the topic, her stories are full of nuance and real emotions. I’ll put a list at the bottom of this post. 

 

Ferris is her latest book, and just happened to be available without a wait for our last camping trip. 

 

The title character, Ferris, is a young girl, living in a fairly normal family. Mother, father, elderly grandmother living with them. Aunt and uncle down the street. 

 

Except, she has a little sister, Pinky, who is…a handful. At all of age six, she has decided that she is an outlaw. And literally tries to rob a bank. And that is just one of the crazy things she does in this book. 

 

But there are other, well, complications in Ferris’ life. Her beloved grandmother is on the decline with congestive heart failure. And not only that, but grandma Charisse can see a ghost, who apparently wants something from them. Ferris cannot see the ghost, but can feel the wind when the ghost enters. 

 

Uncle Ted, meanwhile, is going through a mid-life crisis. He has unexpectedly quit his job and decided that God - or something - has called him to paint “The History of the World.” Her aunt wants nothing to do with this, and has kicked Ted out - he now lives in the basement at Ferris’ house. 

 

And now it seems bees AND racoons have taken up residence in the attic. And her aunt, the beautician, keeps messing with Ferris’ hair. 

 

Less troubling, but still yet another reason for Ferris to feel her life is being turned upside-down is that she is growing up, and has developed feelings for a boy her age - which seem to be reciprocated. He’s a nice kid, by the way. And the “romance” at their ages is more like friendship and talking about feelings, which is pretty darn healthy, actually. 

 

As Charisse says, “every story is a love story,” and that is how this tale plays out. Not just romantic love, but love of all sorts. 

 

This is a mostly realistic story, except for the ghost plot. Ferris is a delightful protagonist - the rule following, people pleasing first born that I recognize a bit of in myself. The tension in the story is mostly about relationship strains and complexities and how they might be put back together. 

 

The book is also notable in that there are no villains. Everyone in the story is likeable. Quirky? Flawed? Yep. But basically they are all decent humans, realistic humans, and mean well. 

 

It really is DiCamillo’s deft touch that makes the story come alive. It is gentle, generous, and subtle. 

 

The author grew up in an abusive household, and has noted that she has had to work through a lot of trauma as a result. (This is also one reason she has given for choosing not to have kids herself.) What is striking in her stories is the incredible range of parents portrayed. In this book, they are pretty normal. In others, well, there is often abandonment and abuse depicted realistically. I continue to note just how great of an observer of the range of human behavior she is. Particularly how well she writes children. 

 

***

 

The Kate DiCamillo list:

 

Beverly, Right Here

Flora and Ulysses

Louisiana’s Way Home

The Magician’s Elephant

Raymie Nightingale

The Tale of Despereaux

 

Surely You're Joking, Mr. Feynman by Richard Feynman and Ralph Leighton

Source of book: Borrowed from the library

 

One of the way you can tell the generations apart is what their association is for Richard Feynman. 

 

For Boomers or older, I suspect the answers would tend to be “he worked on the atomic bomb” or “a physicist who discovered stuff having to do with quantum mechanics.” 

 

For us younger Gen Xers, the first thing that often comes to mind is the Challenger disaster and Feynman’s role in the investigation. In particular, his reaming of NASA for lying about its own calculator of disaster likelihood, and his demonstration of how even ice water could make the booster rocket seals brittle. 

 

I highly recommend reading up on the Rogers Commission, and Feynman’s role in it - if you want a brutal dissection of institutional failure, it is quite a doozy. 

 

One thing that everyone can agree on is that Feynman was a Character™, one of those larger than life personalities that nobody forgets, for better or worse. 

 

Surely You’re Joking, Mr. Feynman is the earlier of two autobiographical books by Feynman. Ralph Leighton is listed as an “As told to,” which usually means a ghost writer, but it is more complicated in this case. Leighton recorded Feynman’s stories on tape, then transcribed them, cleaning things up so that they work as a book. The result reads very much like listening to Feynman tell rambling stories rather than a formal memoir. For this reason, I credit both as authors. 

 

A few things to start off with. Feynman was born in 1918, and was very much of his generation in certain ways. The way he talks about women in the book is at times really awful, for example. As is his approach to picking up women. Even back then, he probably got away with it in part because he was “brutally handsome,” as the Eagles put it. 

 

He also had a reputation for making sexist jokes while teaching, which is pretty much in line with his generation of white males. That said, there is some nuance. Later in life, he went to bat for a female colleague in her claim of gender discrimination, which perhaps shows some positive growth. 

 

With those caveats, the book is really quite funny, and full of interesting stories, both about science and about things far removed from science. 

 

I particularly loved the chapter on his learning to pick locks while at Los Alamos. Apparently security was not as tight as people thought - he usually just got into people’s files, and then handed them back in person when he was done. 

 

Feynman’s stories about music are also quite good, from his learning to play Samba music while in Brazil, to the time he got hired to play percussion for an avant garde ballet. 

 

The book moves in essentially chronological order, from childhood to his teaching in the 1970s. I definitely smiled at the tales of his weird electronic and other scientific experiments as a kid - including nearly burning his house down. I probably should plead the 5th here about some of the stuff my brother and I did - and the stuff I myself did without any co-conspirator. I’m no genius, but I did love to play with science. 

 

Another story which caught my eye was the time he went to a dance and ended up hanging out with a couple of deaf girls, who invited him to their own dance event. Feynman was generally a good sport about trying things - the book is full of stories that contain “why not?” that end with fun things happening. This is one of those, and ended up being a formative experience for the young Feynman, as he realized that other subcultures could be vibrant and comfortable, leaving him as a sort of outsider yet welcome. I too have had those experiences, and found them as wonderful as Feynman did. 

 

Throughout the book as well, Feynman goes down these weird rabbit trails. Like the time he was in a philosophy class, and the “stream of consciousness” became a theme. He went on to carefully record his experiences as he went to sleep. 

 

At first I noticed a lot of subsidiary things that had little to do with falling asleep. I noticed, for instance, that I did a lot of thinking by speaking to myself internally. I could also imagine things visually. 

 

Wow, that is so very much me. I have a lively internal conversation, and always have. That’s how I think. When you read my blog posts, what you see is the end result of my own thinking things through by talking to myself. 

 

Another truly hilarious chapter is the one on how Feynman got drafted after he completed is work at Los Alamos. He was rejected on grounds of mental unfitness. His account of his interview with the psychologist is an epic troll job. I mean, the questions were pretty damn stupid, and Feynman refused to take them seriously. 

 

He openly admitted he talked to his deceased wife (she tragically died of tuberculosis during his work on the bomb - they got married knowing she was gravely ill.) And then got pissy when asked what he says to her. And also started asking the questions back to the psychiatrist. 

 

But the best might be when asked “How much do you value life?” and he answered “Sixty-four.” I mean, how does one answer the question? What is the unit of measurement? 

 

Some of the stories are a bit more serious. As a new professor at Cornell, he was tested on his approach to students by being asked to decide whether to take a late application from a student. When Feynman made his decision without looking at the photo, he passed, asking why the photo would be relevant. 

 

I also liked his explanation as to why he ended up turning down a lot of invitations. He felt they put pressure on him to perform, to accomplish something. 

 

It was a brilliant idea: You have no responsibility to live up to what other people think you ought to accomplish. I have no responsibility to be like they expect me to be. It’s their mistake, not my failing. 

 

“It’s their mistake, not my failing.” I am feeling that a lot these days. I know I am a tremendous disappointment to my parents. But that really isn’t my failing, but their mistake about who I am and what I want to be and do with my life. 

 

On a more humorous note, there is the story of the time he ended up signing one of those law school contracts. By that I mean, one where the concept of “consideration” is central. He agreed to hand over some patent idea to the government “for the sum of one dollar.” 

 

Unlike most people who sign these nominal consideration contracts, he literally demanded his dollar. This warms my lawyer heart. 

 

He then went and spent that buck on candy which he shared with everyone back at the lab. 

 

Oh, and the other time, when he agreed to give a lecture at a local city college. He did it on condition that he didn’t have to sign his name more than thirteen times - including for the check. 

 

The problem? It ended up that the form to receive the check was….number fourteen. So he refused to sign. But they couldn’t not pay him - that messed up the whole system. Ultimately, someone had to pull strings to get that signature waived. Good stuff. 

 

There is a whole chapter devoted to Feynman learning to draw. It started with a discussion, and a sort-of friendly bet. It took time, but eventually he got pretty good at it. His attempts to teach physics to his artist friend weren’t as successful - said artist eventually said about some demonstration that it was” just like fucking.” And that was the end of that. 

 

A few of Feynman’s artworks sold, believe it or not. He never did quite understand how, but I think he eventually did realize how art works. 

 

I understood at last what art is really for, at least in certain respects. It gives somebody, individually, pleasure. You can make something that somebody likes so much that they’re depressed, or they’re happy, on account of that damn thing you made! 

 

I also found fascinating his account of being consulted by some young Orthodox rabbis. Feynman was raised vaguely Jewish, but was not religious himself, for context. 

 

They said, “Well, for instance, is electricity fire?”

“No,” I said, “but…what is the problem?”

They said, “In the Talmud it says you’re not supposed to make fire on a Saturday, so our question is, can we use electrical things on Saturdays?”

I was shocked. They weren’t interested in science at all! The only way science was influencing their lives was so that they might be able to interpret better the Talmud! They weren’t interested in the world outside, in natural phenomena; they were only interested in resolving some question brought up by the Talmud.

 

This totally resonates for me, having grown up in a conservative religious subculture. Science really did only exist to confirm their beliefs, or to help make an argument against other ideas. There was zero curiosity about the world for its own sake. 

 

I’ll end with one particularly amusing anecdote. Feynman was at Los Alamos and found that one way of letting off steam, and getting some introvert time, was to play on some drums. In order to not disturb anyone, he went off into the woods, where he thought nobody could hear him. 

 

Instead, what happened was that there grew this legend about some crazy guy by himself beating on drums in the woods - probably some native american. 

 

They told their wives what they saw, and the wives said, “Oh, it must have been Feynman - he likes to beat drums.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” the men said. “Even Feynman wouldn’t be that crazy!” 

So the fella who’d been talking to me was just checking at the last minute - husbands always like to prove their wives wrong - and he found out, as husbands often do, that his wife was quite right.

 

This was a nice light, amusing book to mix in with my more serious stuff. It’s worth checking out. 

 

Parade (Touring 2025)

This musical was on my wife’s list of ones she wanted to see, so when the touring production came to Los Angeles, we decided to go see it. 

 

Also a reason was that Brian Vaughn, a longtime favorite at the Utah Shakespeare Festival, has a role. A highlight from the past is his role-swapping turn in The Odd Couple. 

Parade is a dramatization of a true story, and really highlights the fact that history is often messy and complicated, and sometimes there is really no such thing as justice. 

 

In 1913, a horrific crime was committed. Thirteen-year-old Mary Phagan, a child laborer, was found raped and murdered in the basement of the pencil factory she worked at. 

 

That much is undisputed. What was less clear was who committed the crime. Because the case garnered media attention - some really yellow journalism, with xenophobia and scapegoating - there was a lot of pressure to gain a conviction, preferably one that matched the community’s existing prejudices. 

 

The primary suspects were a pair of African American workers - the night watchman who found the body, and the janitor - and the Jewish Yankee Leo Frank, the superintendent. 

 

In the play version, the decision to go after Frank was made because public anger required more than just “hanging another n------r.” It is less clear if this was the case in real life, but in any case, once the decision to pin the blame on Frank, the usual Southern machinery of bribing witnesses to lie went on overdrive.

 

Frank was convicted, but there was sufficient doubt about his actual guilt that the governor, John Slaton, commuted his sentence to life imprisonment. This ended Slaton’s political career, and led him to flee Georgia for a decade because of the death threats. More about him later. 

 

Soon thereafter, Frank was kidnapped by a lynch mob and hanged when he refused to confess to the murder. Even though the lynchers were well known citizens, they were never prosecuted. 

 

The aftermath of this was definitely interesting. The negative publicity ended up leading to a decrease in lynchings. American Jews formed the Anti-Defamation League to combat the virulent antisemitism in society at large but specifically in the media. 

 

Unfortunately, the backlash also contributed to a revitalized Ku Klux Klan, which was both anti-black and anti-Jewish. 

 

 In 1986, the state issued Frank a pardon based on the failures of the state, both in a corrupt prosecution, and in failing to protect him from lynching. More recently, the state reopened the investigation. That effort is still pending. 

 

There are so many issues in the case, it is difficult to untangle them all, let alone come to a definitive conclusion as to guilt or innocence. 

 

To start with, everyone connected to the crime was in some way a victim of systemic injustice. 

 

Mary Phagan was forced into long hours of labor starting at age 10 because of the untimely death of her father. Faced with brutal impoverishment, many children like her sacrificed their well-being, health, and even lives to feed the capitalist machine. Her rape and murder wasn’t even all that unusual. Factory children died all the time. And men felt free to harass, assault, and rape low income girls. This was even worse for African American girls, of course, but white skin wasn’t that much of a protection from sexual violence. 

 

The two black men who might have been guilty of the crime were likewise largely unprotected from societal violence. Had Frank not been targeted, one or both of the black men would have been, and they too likely would have been faced with trumped up evidence, and perhaps lynched. Whether or not one of them was guilty (historians seem to lean toward the janitor, Conley, as the actual perpetrator - and he was the “star witness” against Frank.) 

 

The one thing that is certain is that the evidence was shaky, circumstantial, and likely manufactured. But could anyone have gotten a fair trial? Probably not. 

 

Leo Frank too was in a precarious social position. Jews were widely hated and slandered at the time, particularly in the South. Even in the 1930s, as European Jews tried to flee Hitler, the United States closed its doors to them, leading to hundreds of thousands of preventable deaths. 

 

Frank was also a Yankee - not a Southerner. He had married a Southern wife, and been offered his job by one of her relatives, but he was still not “one of us” to the Southerners. 

 

Just as the suspects and the victim were largely unprotected by society, making the case more complicated than a simple “who did it?” there are no clear heroes in this case either. 

 

The closest, perhaps, would be defense attorney Luther Rosser (played by Brian Vaughn in this production) and his assistants, who, by any measure, put up a spirited defense. 

 

But there was a problem there as well, not specifically involving the trial, but its aftermath. It turned out that Governor Slaton was in partnership with Rosser, thus creating a potential conflict of interest. It is a tough case, because there really wasn’t anyone else who could commute the sentence, yet Slaton gave an appearance of bias. 

 

And then there is the media, which doesn’t come off too well in this case. While some papers at least made a cursory attempt at objectivity, the overall coverage fanned the flames of antisemitism and made a fair trial all but impossible. 

 

Just an ugly look for an ugly period of our history. 

 

And, naturally, one that the Trump Regime wishes to erase. There are several people in his regime that are still furious that Frank’s sentence was commuted, and want the pardon rescinded. The neo-Nazis have come out to protest Parade, although we didn’t see any at our performance. They are probably scared shitless that Los Angeles residents would beat their yellow asses. 

 

Speaking of which, an interesting experience is watching any play with political content in my home city. LA is not down with the MAGA movement. Most of us Californians love our diversity, we consider immigrants our neighbors, and actually known plenty of undocumented immigrants that we want to see get legal status, not brutalization by ICE. 

 

I remember back during the first Trump term seeing Hamilton, and hearing the line, “Immigrants - we get it done!” and the entire theater erupting in cheers, pretty much blowing the roof off. 

 

There was a corresponding moment in this play. Mary’s mother gets her aria, testifying at trial, but unfortunately channels her legitimate grief into an antisemitic screed. After she finished….dead silence. And I mean, literally nothing. No clapping. No sound. Even though it was just a play, and the actor portraying the mother is probably a thoroughly decent person, there was nothing. The LA audience wasn’t going to dignify racist shit with any acknowledgement. 

 

Damn. 

 

I don’t think most Republicans understand how deeply Trump is hated here. And one in eight Americans are Californians. Does he really think he is going to conquer us like some sort of vassal state? More and more of us, even in redder counties, are realizing that MAGA has declared war on us, the fourth largest economy in the world, and the heart of American innovation for the last century. So stupid. 

 

Another note about the musical is this: while the historical events are the basis for most of the plot, there is a certain emphasis on the relationship between Frank and his wife Lucille. 

 

At the beginning, Leo is dismissive of Lucille, disregarding her advice, keeping information from her, a mere woman. 

 

As time goes on, however, it is her efforts which finally result in the commutation. In a bit of artistic license, Lucille directly meets the governor and accuses him of being a coward and a fool. 

 

I couldn’t find any evidence that this happened. However, the Judge in the case wrote the governor recommending the commutation, as he felt it was a wrongful conviction. (Really, the lawyers are about the only good guys in this story. But not the crooked prosecutors…) 

 

By the end of the story, Leo and Lucille have come to appreciate each other, and part on terms of love. So that’s kind of a feel-good part of an otherwise really dark story. 

 

I won’t say too much about the production itself. As one would expect from a professional production, the acting, singing, dancing, lighting, sound, and so on, were all polished and excellent. 

 

Max Chernin as Leo Frank was particularly memorable, between his smooth baritone voice and his haunted look throughout. 

 

Ramone Nelson brought down the house with his physical and bluesy performance in “Feel the Rain Fall.” 

 

Talia Suskauer was delightful as Lucille Frank.

 

And, of course, because of my history seeing him, I loved Brian Vaughn’s turn as the good guy of the story, Luther Rosser. 

 

The staging was fascinating, with a central raised portion that doubled for everything from the courtroom to the prison, and a lot in between. In the wings were various chairs and benches. Very little moved throughout. 

 

In another interesting touch, Leo Frank is in jail at the end of the first act, and remains there on stage throughout intermission. 

 

My wife commented on the creative use of projected backgrounds. This included a lot of historical photographs, including the locations used during the play, pictures of the various real life characters, copies of the newspapers covering the crime and trial, and pictures taken at the lynching. 

 

Behind the screen was the orchestra, which consisted of keys, percussion, and strings. For a sparse group, the music was surprisingly varied, including jazz and blues. 

 

In fact, I really should talk a bit about the music, which I found fascinating. I sometimes struggled to follow the story and the lyrics because I was paying so much attention to the musical element of storytelling. 

 

Alfred Uhry wrote the book and the lyrics. Best known for Driving Miss Daisy, he originally intended Parade to be a play, but was eventually convinced to make it a musical. He has a personal connection to the story, as his great uncle owned the pencil factory that Frank worked at. 

 

Uhry first asked Stephen Sondhiem to write the music, but Sondhiem turned him down. The director Harold Prince suggested Jason Robert Brown after Prince’s daughter mentioned him as a young friend who had some potential. Brown would go on to win a Tony for the score. 

 

My previous experience of Brown’s music was in a local production of The Last Five Years, which was a bit of a stretch for an amateur company, not least because of the brutally difficult music. 

 

Parade is every bit as hard. And even, in a few cases, likely more challenging. 

 

Where to start? I’ll go with the fact that, like many classical opera composers, Brown does as much to tell the story through the music as through the lyrics. 

 

The music, while only occasionally quoting actual songs of the era, very much is in the style of its setting. From gospel to blues to jazz to pop, it sounds much like the 1910s. 

 

But it is more complicated than that too. Brown uses a technique that originated with Charles Ives: at times, the cast is singing two different songs in very different keys. This is particularly noticeable when there are competing factions. The angry white people sing one song, while the black servants sing another, while the Jewish people sing a third. Likewise for prosecution and defense. 

 

This can get quite dissonant. And in fact, throughout, many songs build to a dissonance and then end unresolved. Which parallels the story. 

 

Another way the story is told in music is that the numbers when Leo and Lucille sing together change dramatically. At first, the music clashes, and ends in dissonance. But by the final duet, the music has become harmonious, consonant, and resolves with peace and love. 

 

As with the other Brown musical I have heard, a lot of the exposition of the plot happens through music as well. Thus, paying attention to the lyrics is crucial. Fortunately, the Ahmanson has great acoustics, and the sound mixing was well done. 

 

I do want to mention two of the songs that I particularly liked. I already mentioned “Feel the Rain Fall,” which is such a blues tour-de-force that it really brought the house down. Here is a bit from the production earlier on the tour. 

 

Also excellent - and razor sharp satire - is “A Rumblin’ and a Rollin’” - sung by the servants of the Franks. I mean, yeah, the Yankees come around once a Jewish guy gets lynched in a way that they didn’t care as black Americans were lynched by the dozens. It also captures the ongoing reverberations from racial politics between the two marginalized groups dating back before the Civil War. 

 

As I keep saying about the whole story: “It’s complicated and totally fucked up.” 

 

This is, of course, the reason that MAGA doesn’t want accurate history taught. Because ultimately, as a perceptive Southerner once said, “The past is never dead. It's not even past.” We are still dealing with the same issues today. 

 

I did enjoy Parade, although “enjoy” might be the wrong word. As a feat of storytelling through word, song, music, and acting, it is outstanding. And the performance was excellent. But yeah, it’s a tough story to tell. 

 

But it is one we need to tell. And a story that can and should influence our own approach to issues of legal justice, social justice, and propaganda. 

Black Feeling Black Talk, and Black Judgment by Nikki Giovanni

Source of book: I own this

 

Both of these collections came out in 1968 - they were Giovanni’s first poetry collections. Because neither was that long, I decided to read both of them. 

 

Nikki Giovanni was one of the luminaries in the Black Arts Movement of the 1960s. She was an activist and educator, in addition to writing poetry and prose. 

 

While I have read fairly extensively from the Harlem Renaissance, I hadn’t spent as much time with the next great flourishing of African American artistry until recently. James Baldwin is probably the one I started with. More recently, I have read poetry by Gwendolyn Brooks and Audre Lorde and plays by Adrienne Kennedy. 

 

The Black Arts Movement may be in the same tradition as the Harlem Renaissance, but the forms and aesthetic are quite different. The earlier movement mostly adopted traditional European forms - rhymed poetry, linear novels, persuasive essays - while the later one was far more experimental. And more overtly political. 

 

This is certainly the case for Giovanni. These two collections contain many political poems, and even the ones that seem less so contain pointed references to the political situation. 

 

Giovanni was a lesbian, who was eventually able to marry her long-term partner Virginia Fowler after gay marriage was legalized. She also had a child as a single parent by choice in her 20s. 

 

She taught for many years at Virginia Tech, and had the mass shooter in her class. She demanded he be removed, and threatened to quit, because he was such a nasty hateful person. She succeeded in having him removed from the class, and was totally unsurprised when he shot up the campus two years later. 

 

She taught well into her late 70s, and only retired a couple years before her death. 

 

These poems are by the young Nikki Giovanni, and reflect her activism in the Civil Rights Movement as well as the big emotions and idealism of youth. They feel very fresh and relevant today, and also sound great read aloud. 

 

Here are the ones that I chose to feature. 

 

I’m Not Lonely

 

i’m not lonely

sleeping all alone

 

you think i’m scared

but i’m a big girl

i don’t cry

or anything

 

i have a great big bed

to roll around

in and lots of space

and i don’t dream

bad dreams

like i used

to have that you

were leaving me

anymore 

 

now that you’re gone

i don’t dream

and no matter

what you think

i’m not lonely

sleeping

all alone

 

I love the irony in this one, the way the meaning and the words are so opposed. 

 

The Funeral of Martin Luther King, Jr.

 

His headstone said

FREE AT LAST, FREE AT LAST

But death is a slave’s freedom

We seek the freedom of free men

And the construction of a world

Where Martin Luther King could have lived

and preached non-violence. 

 

The freedom of free men indeed. 

 

For Saundra

 

i wanted to write

a poem

that rhymes

but revolution doesn’t lend

itself to be-bopping

 

then my neighbor

who thinks i hate

asked - do you ever write

tree poems - i like trees

so i thought

i’ll write a beautiful green tree poem

peeked from my window

to check the image

noticed the school yard was covered

with asphalt

no green - no trees grow

in manhattan

 

then, well, i thought the sky

i’ll do a big blue sky poem

but all the clouds have winged

low since no-Dick was elected

 

so i thought again

and it occurred to me

maybe i shouldn’t write

at all

but clean my gun 

and check my kerosene supply

 

perhaps these are not poetic

times 

at all

 

I love the dig at Richard “I am not a crook” Nixon. Honestly, the root reason Trump is not in prison where he belongs dates back to the pardon of Nixon. He too should have died in prison. And man, this poem seems of our own time too. 

 

I’ll finish with this personal one. 

 

For Teresa

 

and when I was all alone

facing my adolescence

looking forward

to cleaning house

and reading books

and maybe learning bridge

so that i could fit

into acceptable society

acceptably

you came along

and loved me

for being black and bitchy

hateful and scared

and you came along

and cared that i got

all the things necessary

to adulthood

and even made sure

i wouldn’t hate

my mother

or father

and you even understood

that i should love

peppe

but not too much

and give to gary

but not all of me

and keep on moving

‘til i found me

and now you’re sick

and have been hurt

for some time

and i’ve felt guilty

and impotent

for not being able

to give yourself

to you

as you gave

yourself 

to me

 

There are more, but given the short length of the collection, I didn’t want to just reproduce the whole thing. I would definitely recommend adding these poems to your own collection. 

 

Lent by Jo Walton

Source of book: Borrowed from the library

 

This book was this month’s selection for the book club I am in, The Literary Lush. This isn’t a book that was on my list, which is often the case - the club encourages me to read outside my usual genres.

 

Jo Walton apparently writes mostly in the science fiction and fantasy genres. A quick web search will reveal her wearing a decidedly pointy hat, and she does look the part of a roundish, benign witch character in one of the classic stories. 

 

Currently a resident of Canada, she was born in Wales, and speaks fairly fluid Welsh. 

Lent is essentially two books in one. The first third or so is a pretty straight forward historical fantasy. It tells the story of Girolamo Savonarola, the famous (or infamous if you prefer) Dominican monk of the 15th Century, who attempted to reform the church and local politics, before running afoul of the secular government and the corrupt Catholic church. He was executed as a traitor and a heretic. 

 

One of the quirks of my fundamentalist homeschool curriculum from my childhood is that, while it was a pretty egregious whitewashing (and protestant-washing) of history, it did introduce me to some eras of history that few students even study these days. 

 

One of those eras was the Renaissance, and I learned about a lot more than just Dante and the great artists. 

 

Savonarola was one character I learned about as part of the curriculum. It has been a long time, so I didn’t remember everything - I definitely did a bit of brushing up as read this book - but I do recall that the curriculum (which editorialized about literally everything), had mixed feelings about Savonarola. 

 

On the one hand, he was everything a Fundie could love: opposed to secular culture and sexuality, tried to establish a theocracy of sorts, was big on moral reform. On the other, he was very, very Catholic, which was Bad™. And also, he didn’t just focus on supposed moral contaminants - he fought against church corruption, and advocated for civic care of the poor, which is, as has become ever more apparent, a big bogeyman for American right wing religion. 

 

He also had a bit of a gift for prophecy, which led to his rise. 

 

So, the first part of the book is all about the historical Savonarola, from his own perspective. But, with things like his ability to see and banish demons, and foretell the future very real. Thus, historical fantasy. 

 

But then, things take a different turn. We discover, when Savonarola finds himself in hell, that he is actually a demon, condemned to repeat a human life over and over again, like Groundhog Day.

 

This is, in fact, the central pun of the title. Yes, the season of Lent comes into the story a lot. But it is also about Girolamo being “lent” to the human world, then “returned” to hell, where he belongs. 

 

In that first iteration, he is given a magic stone, which he doesn’t know how to use. But when he returns, things go slightly differently, and he regains his memory of his past lives. 

 

Armed with this knowledge, he decides to change the future in two ways.

 

First, he attempts to avoid the mistakes of his prior lives, which led to his death. In addition to this, he hopes to make his reforms even more permanent. 

 

The second thing, however, is that he, along with fellow monks, theorize that maybe, just maybe, they can undo the damnation of the demons. Maybe they too can be saved, as mortals are. 

 

I won’t give away the rest of the book - a good bit of the fun is finding out all the alternative histories that the author dreams up. And also, whether any of the attempts to break the spell of damnation succeed. 

 

I found it an interesting read for a number of reasons, not least of which is the fact that the author clearly put in the work to get the historical - and theological - details right. This is historical fiction done right, not sloppily like so many modern genre novels do it. (One reason I don’t read that much genre fiction - there is a lot of dreck out there, and finding the gems isn’t always easy.)

 

The book is filled with actual historical figures, events, and controversies. There is a certain amount of artistic license taken in the sense that Walton puts thoughts into the characters’ heads, and invents conversations. But the backbone of the story - at least the first part - is thoroughly plausible. 

 

Also fascinating to me is that the various characters remain the same throughout each iteration. Yes, they do different things, they say different things, and they are worked upon by totally different events. But their essential characters remain true regardless of situation. 

 

So, the good, empathetic, thoughtful sorts remain that way in very different circumstances. The bad, cruel, and vicious ones likewise. Ditto for the greedy, the power-hungry, the immature, and so on. 

 

What changes most, perhaps, are the options open to the characters as each alternate timeline unfolds differently. 

 

The book also functions as a social commentary on history and our own times. Many of the issues still plague us today. The lust for political power. The hypocrisy of religious leaders. The sexual double standard. The questions of “moral” versus economic reform. 

 

And, more than anything, the seduction of pride and its seeming ubiquity even in otherwise good actions. 

 

There are a number of pithy lines that I thought were worth sharing. 

 

First is this early line from Savonarola, after he has banished a demon that had possessed a nun. The other nuns worry she could have been killed. He explains that God doesn’t give demons actual power to do true harm by themselves - they don’t kill or injure humans. But their true power lies elsewhere. 

 

“But their power to harm seems limited, unless they have human help. Then they can be truly dangerous…Strange as it is to think, some will risk eternity for Earthly power.”

 

Hmm, relevant to today, perhaps, with those currently in power? 

 

But Savonarola also notes that with the exception of those who lust for power to use to harm others, humans tend to have complex motives. 

 

William of Ockham wrote that going to church to display yourself and your piety was a sin, while going to church out of love of God was a moral act, but the two are indistinguishable to any Earthly witness. Old Giovanni Rucellai wants to give to God, and to save his usurious soul from Hell, and to make people think well of his family, all at the same time. Only God can judge the complex motives of a human soul. 

 

This is primarily true in the context of doing good, which can be done for any number of motives. The US probably ended Jim Crow primarily because it was losing the Cold War abroad because white supremacy undermined the argument in favor of capitalist democracy. 

 

I think it is less true of true vicious evil. Nobody commits genocide out of “good” motives, because there are none. Nobody rapes out of “good” motives either. You can see the difference. You can know people by their fruit, but good fruit isn’t always as good as it seems. That said, good deeds from impure motives are still good, and should be encouraged regardless.

 

One recurring scene is the death of Lorenzo D’Medici. As often happens, the relatives of the rich hover like vultures. 

 

No matter how big or lavish the room, it reminds Girolamo of many other rooms where families have gathered and squabbled waiting for death. 

 

There is also an interesting commentary on an issue that has plagued the Catholic Church for centuries. Walton addresses it from the perspective of its time, but also cuts to the bigger issue. Angelo, the poet, is attracted to men, and confesses on his deathbed. But his actions have always been with men, not boys, which eases Savonarola’s mind a little. 

 

He hates to see the young boys from poor families sell their bodies down under the Old Bridge. The sodomites seduce them into unchastity, turning their heads with flattery and paying them a little for their favours. If they get caught, it is the boys who suffer, who cannot afford to pay the fines. There are young boys there every day. Girolamo wishes he could rescue them, but what could he do with them? There are so many of them and they are hungry. 

 

Another recurring issue in the various lives is what to do with Isabella. She is a young woman that the Count has taken as his mistress. He now feels called to the church, but wants to do right by Isabella. 

 

He cannot marry her - she is below his social station. She cannot join one of the main orders as he can, because she is a “fallen woman.” The best he can do is either find someone who will marry here despite the stigma, or at least set her up with some money to start a business. 

 

There is also the option of one of the “Magdalen” orders - ones that fallen women could join. Isabella does not wish for this, as she does not accept lifetime humiliation for doing exactly what the Count has done. Except she at least had the excuse of being poor and lacking better options. As she puts it, “I have done nothing the count hasn’t done.”

 

She is one of two strong women in the book. The other is Lorenzo’s daughter, who really should have been his heir. Instead, she is relegated to popping out a never-ending stream of babies while watching the men fuck everything up. 

 

Another line that really struck me is one regarding the Count’s death (by poison in the first part.) I have seen in real life where people who weren’t particularly close to a decedent go around bragging about the relationship. Sometimes this was to try to get money. But often just for prestige. 

 

Now the Count is dead, Benivieni will spend the rest of his life going around telling people how close they were, how he was his best friend. Girolamo sees it so clearly he isn’t sure whether it’s prophecy or just an observation of human nature. 

 

In another passage, Girolamo contemplates the inefficiency of government. 

 

It seems crazy, and it certainly isn’t efficient. But efficiency is not the only merit in government. It is a bulwark against tyranny, and as one Italian city-state after another has succumbed to a powerful tyrant, their odd way seems better and better to the Florentines.

 

Take note of this with calls to make government “efficient.” That’s usually a code word for making government a weapon against its people. 

 

One set of recurring minor characters are Camilla and Ridolfo. They are parties to an arranged marriage, which she is unhappy in. The couple decide to dissolve their marriage, and take vows. However, his heart isn’t in it. As Girolamo tells Camilla, “God wasn’t calling him, it was just you and me.”

 

I suspect this is the case all too often. Let’s just say that I was not called to be a part of Gothard’s cult - God had nothing to do with it. But my parents “called” me - that is, ordered me - to join. 

 

I’ll end with a bit of theology. There is a passage in I Peter which refers to a belief of the early church, that between Christ’s death and his resurrection, he went down to hell and released the captives. This is referred to as the Harrowing of Hell. There are many perspectives on the meaning of this, and have been over time. 

 

The Evangelical one is pretty much the shittiest, of course, because a core Evangelical belief is that God will torture most of the humans he creates forever. 

 

An alternate which dates back to the early church, however, is the universalist one, that Christ saves all. 

 

This book adheres to that idea. Indeed, when Girolamo returns to hell each time and realizes he is a demon, he notes the utter and complete absence of human souls. They are all either in paradise or in purgatory. 

 

Hence, the hope that perhaps hell can be harrowed once again, and the demons given the chance to repent and be saved. 

 

This is the deeper meaning of the book. What does damnation and salvation mean? And how is the way we live our lives connected to that? I won’t give away any spoilers, but the conclusion is at least interesting in its hint about that. 

Sandwich by Catherine Newman

Source of book: Audiobook from the library

 

This was another random selection - I wanted an audiobook, and it happened to come up as available and recommended for me based on other books I have borrowed. 

 

It is probably the second-most “chick-lit” book I have read this year - the title for most goes to the gay farce I Might Be In Trouble. But that is to misrepresent the book a bit. This isn’t breezy chick-lit at all, but rather a thoughtful female-centered story that I think qualifies as literary. 

 

I think the reason my initial reaction was to classify it as chick-lit was that it does check some of the usual boxes, including what initially felt like a gender stereotyping of women as the emotional sex. But as the book unfolds, it becomes clear that there is a lot more going on than the opening pages would suggest. By the end of the book, the characters have all become more complicated and nuanced, and the emotions far from simple or black and white. 

 

The other reason, perhaps, and one I am aware doesn’t reflect well on my cultural conditioning, is that the book is all about emotions, relationships, and [gasp!] menopause - this is a book written specifically for a female audience, and definitely not with the intent of catering to men. 

 

I have thought over and over about how to write this post without spoilers, and I just don’t think I can do it. Thus, after setting the stage, I will give a warning, and the reader can decide whether to proceed. 

 

The title itself is a double entendre. Not a naughty one, but one which gives a clue as to one of the main themes of the book. 

 

On the surface, dang the characters eat a lot of sandwiches. But really, this refers to the fact that the protagonist, Rachel (aka Rocky), is at the “Sandwich Generation” stage of life: still getting a kid through college while also looking after aging parents. 

 

She is also going through menopause. And also still feeling guilt from a 20 year old secret - something she has told literally no one, not even her husband or her therapist. 

 

And her secret isn’t even the only one. Each generation has its own. 

 

The setting is a vacation cottage at Cape Cod - the family has spent a week there every year for decades. For this one, Rocky and her husband Nick are joined by her parents, and also by their adult children, Willa and Jamie. And also Jamie’s girlfriend Maya. 

 

Between the menopause, the secrets, and the difficulties of this time of life - children growing up and going their own ways, parents growing frail and ill - there is a lot of drama during this week. 

 

And yet, to refer to it as drama is perhaps too much. 

 

The thing is, while imperfect and human, the family is shockingly functional. They actually can talk about their emotions, listen to each other, and act kindly. And they all truly love each other. 

 

So when I say “drama,” what I really mean is that there are emotions, there are illnesses, there are some mild arguments, but everything comes from a place of love, respect, and mutual good will. 

 

And, coming from my own family background, WHAT THE FUCK???

 

You mean families can actually work like this? They can actually talk about things, listen, and show love and compassion, without a need to control? That’s crazy!

 

This book also really resonated with the time of life I am in right now. 

 

Our kids are starting to fly the nest, make their own lives, and separate from us as they should. Our parents are aging and experiencing health issues. Although I am not the one who will be going through menopause, a lot of the stuff in the book about that feels familiar. Rocky finds that everything irritates her, for example, whether it should or not, and even though she knows it, her emotions still exist. 

 

The family also is both familiar and aspirational. My wife and I are liberals compared to our parents (and I am the most liberal in my own family.) We too have had a kid come out to us, and chose to handle that in an affirming way, rather than in the condemning way my parents have. We are trying, in general, to raise our children in a less toxic and controlling environment than we grew up in, and to allow our children to become who they are, not political and cultural clones of ourselves. 

 

Definitely, the idea of navigating college, career, and partners with one’s children is where we are at. 

 

I really want to be like Rocky and Nick, mostly. (And, if I am honest, I really am more like Rocky…) 

 

At this point, spoilers, so….

 

As the week unfolds, so do the secrets. 

 

Maya is pregnant, and is unsure if she wants to keep the pregnancy. But worse, she hasn’t told Jamie, but instead tells Rocky (who has already guessed.) Unsurprisingly, this upsets Jamie. This bit of drama, though, results not in a big blowup, but in the characters talking it out, expressing their emotions, and moving forward in a positive way. Part of this is that Rocky acknowledges that Jamie’s feelings are valid, even if it wasn’t Rocky’s fault Maya told her. She also gives full support, regardless of what decision Maya makes. 

 

Likewise, rather than attack his mother, Jamie is able to express his hurt without accusing her of wrongdoing. 

 

So, that is one level of secret. And some decisions that will need to be made. 

 

But the older generation has some secrets too. Rocky’s mom is having heart issues, something she hasn’t told her daughter (and only child.) So this has to be talked through, particularly after a fainting episode at the beach followed by an emergency room visit. 

 

That isn’t the only secret either. Rocky’s dad has never told her that his parents died in the Holocaust - something that comes out when Willa starts asking questions. 

 

So yeah, big time generational trauma. It is amazing that this family is as functional as it is. But that seems in significant part because each generation has chosen to respond with love, even if imperfect, rather than control. 

 

And then, there is the big one for Rocky. 

 

Twenty years prior, in the throes of having two small children, and probably postpartum depression (before that was regularly diagnosed and treated), she found herself pregnant. She got an abortion, but never told anyone. 

 

Despite being (and remaining) pro-choice, she was blindsided by her feelings, which went from ambivalence to a deep desire to get pregnant again. This was followed by miscarriage and then an inability to conceive. So, a big festering ball of guilt, grief, and loneliness, because she never talked about it. 

 

Menopause brings up all these suppressed emotions. The end of Rocky’s fertility, her feeling that her body is betraying her, and her struggle to deal with hormonal emotions. 

 

I hope this doesn’t sound like a downer of a book. It isn’t. At times it is laugh out loud hilarious. Rocky is a superb protagonist and narrator, likeable even when frustrating. And so very human. She is obviously the glue that holds the family together, so her tendency toward anxiety is understandable, even though she knows it isn’t always healthy. 

 

The other characters are believable, individual, and human as well. As are the family dynamics. The petty frustrations, the personality clashes, the predictable and longstanding tensions. But also the way that people who genuinely love, respect, and like each other work through the inevitable clashes. 

 

My own experience has been and is like this in part. My wife and I definitely fit this pattern - we have been together more than a quarter century, and we really do make the effort to fight fair, to work through disagreements, and to find common solutions. Likewise, my brother and I have always been close, so that side of the family relationship fits. 

 

I wish the other relationships in my family could have gone this direction. Unfortunately, mental illness, personality disorders, and toxic authoritarian parenting beliefs ultimately severed those relationships. In the book, there is a nod in this direction - Nick’s mother is a bigoted addict, and thus, really doesn’t have a relationship with Nick’s kids. Thus it goes, and for my parents as well. 

 

Sandwich isn’t the sort of book I would normally seek out, but it was a good read. I should say as well that I approve of the trend toward middle aged female protagonists - we have had so many middle aged guys already, but women have tended to be invisible. That is a shame, because, in my experience, middle aged women are actually pretty awesome to have as friends. 

 

The audiobook was narrated by Nan McNamara, who I am not familiar with, but who did an excellent job. I think she captured Rocky’s voice well.