Missing Jim Leyland

Tuesday October 22

To me and lots of other people, Jim Leyland has been a class act manager.  I looked forward to his post game analyses — understated and funny, down to earth, smart.   I happened to be free during most of his retirement press conference yesterday.  Here’s a 4 minute clip from  the press conference.
http://mlb.mlb.com/news/article/det/jim-leyland-steps-down-as-detroit-tigers-manager?ymd=20131021&content_id=63201648&vkey=news_det

and a pretty good tribute by Tom Cage
tribute.http://www.detroitnews.com/article/20131022/SPORTS0104/310220023/Jim-me-Tigers-manager-one-kind-around?odyssey=tab|topnews|text|FRONTPAGE

john sj

Today’s word:  Ernie Harwell’s classic recitation for many  opening days.

 

“For, lo, the winter is past,

the rain is over and gone;

the flowers appear on the earth;

the time for singing of birds is come,

and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.”

 

Song of Solomon

Read on Tigers Opening Day for decades by Ernie Harwell

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Monday – Autumn colors

Monday October 21

Here’s another Gerard Manley Hopkins, maybe my favorite — exulting in autumn stirs my blood every year about now; leaves reaching to catch my attention and open me to stillness in the middle of a day’s hustle. You too, I hope.

Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844–89). Poems. 1918.

14. Hurrahing in Harvest

SUMMER ends now; now, barbarous in beauty, the stooks arise
Around; up above, what wind-walks! what lovely behaviour
Of silk-sack clouds! has wilder, wilful-wavier
Meal-drift moulded ever and melted across skies?

I walk, I lift up, I lift up heart, eyes,
Down all that glory in the heavens to glean our Saviour;
And, éyes, heárt, what looks, what lips yet gave you a
Rapturous love’s greeting of realer, of rounder replies?

And the azurous hung hills are his world-wielding shoulder
Majestic—as a stallion stalwart, very-violet-sweet!—
These things, these things were here and but the beholder
Wanting; which two when they once meet,
The heart rears wings bold and bolder
And hurls for him, O half hurls earth for him off under his feet.

 

john sj

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G M Hopkins “To R.B.”

Friday October 18

At the History of Technology Annual Meeting in Porland ME last week I got talking with a younger colleague about some of the demanding challenges of adult commitments. Somewhere in that conversation I mentioned the Jesuit Poet Gerard Manley Hopkins. She asked me to send her some of his six “terrible sonnets” which take the reader into some of the terrible places of those commitments.

Here’s one. Poem # 51 from GMH’s brief extant collection. “To R.B.” R.B. in the title is Robert Bridges, who in the early 20th century collected and published the first compendium of Hopkins’ poems. Bridges was poet laureate of England at the time. While Hopkins was alive (d. 1889) Bridges repeatedly demonstrated both his friendship and his lack of comprehension of Hopkins’ sprung rhythm revolution in poetic rhythm and cadence. But he kept all GMH’s poems.

It’s about writer’s block experienced as mystical anguish.

Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844–89). Poems. 1918.

51 To R. B.

THE fine delight that fathers thought; the strong
Spur, live and lancing like the blowpipe flame,
Breathes once and, quenchèd faster than it came,
Leaves yet the mind a mother of immortal song.
Nine months she then, nay years, nine years she long
Within her wears, bears, cares and moulds the same:
The widow of an insight lost she lives, with aim
Now known and hand at work now never wrong.
Sweet fire the sire of muse, my soul needs this;
I want the one rapture of an inspiration.
O then if in my lagging lines you miss
The roll, the rise, the carol, the creation,
My winter world, that scarcely breathes that bliss
Now, yields you, with some sighs, our explanation.

 

Have a good weekend. May the Tigers claw back from the wall.

john sj

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Better Angels

Thursday October 17

Two pieces of good news last night suggested this poem.     Congress pulled back from its cliff of craziness and the Tigers won! 

The drama in Congress and a moment of respite and temporary resolution brought the conclusion of Abraham Lincoln’s 1861 inaugural to mind.

“We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained it must not break our bonds of affection.   The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living heart and hearthstone all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.”

Abraham Lincoln — 1861 Inaugural

It is good to be home.

john sj

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poems taking a break after this morning

Wednesday October 9

I’ll be in Portland Maine from today til Sunday for the History of Technology Annual Meeting and in Philadelphia Sunday til Wednesday for the Conference of Mercy Higher Education annual meeting for Mission & Identity officers.  Crowded days so I won’t send another poem after this morning until next Thursday.   Thanks for all your comments, insightful, creative just like we should be as a community of research, teaching, and service.

A cheeky Haiku for today.   Anonymous as far as I know.

By way of pretext, I said
“I will go to consider the condition of the bamboo fence . . . ”

But

It was really to see you.

Have a good weekend and fall break.

john sj

a wisdom-saying born on the Pine Ridge Lakota Reservation

“Time spent baking bread follows the pace of yeast”
“Motorcycling alone; I move as a  tiny person in a vast world”

“If I pause long enough, I  hear the sound of grass growing,  and trees, each at its own pace.”

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Tagore # 38

Tuesday October 8

Sweet sunrise this morning.   Here’s another of Tagore’s 100 prayer-poems from  Gitanjali  Have a good day.

john st sj

That I want Thee, only thee–let my heart repeat without end.

All desires that distract me, day and night,

are false and empty to the core.

As the night keeps hidden in its gloom the petition for light,

even thus in the depth of my unconsciousness rings the cry–

“I want thee, only thee.”

As the storm still seeks its end in peace when it strikes against

peace with all its might, even thus my rebellion strikes against thy love

and still its cry is–“I want thee, only thee.”

Tagore, Gitanjali  # 38

 

Tagore died in the city of his birth, Calcutta, in 1941.  He vastly influenced poetry, sacred and secular, not only in India but around the world.  He is the first non-European to win the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1913.  If you buy Gitanjali, a book of 100 short sacred poems, prepare yourself to only read one poem at a time so you can sit with it.  Here is # 1.   These poems have no titles, only numbers.

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Habakkuk

Hard times —  a Congress locked in venom and contempt for those with whom one must negotiate,  “partisan” is a common adjective for elected officials at the national level;   Detroit city caught in uncertainties about bankruptcy that stir mistrust and fear for the future;   UDM negotiating a McNichols faculty contract turned acrimonious and hurtful.

Monday, October 7

Yesterday at Sunday mass, one of my favorite prophecies popped up out of the grass, Habakkuk.   Habakkuk’s time of composition is obscure.  The Jerusalem Bible suggests c. 600 shortly before the first Babylonian siege of Jerusalem in 597.   Hard times for sure for the prophet’s hearers.   In light of the troubles of those years, this short oracle is daring and demanding.  Patient waiting for a vision and its hope in hard times is outrageous.   Sometimes I wonder, with challenges like this, how the words, or the obscure name Habakkuk, survived and is still remembered.

Such, perhaps, is the story of bravery all over the world, time after time.  Lots of bravery on our three campuses too.

john sj

 

The Lord Says:

Write the vision down.
inscribe it on tablets
to be easily read,
for the vision has its own time,
and presses on to its own fulfillment;
it does not deceive;
if it delays, wait for it,
for come it will, without fail.

Habakkuk  2:2-3

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D H Laurence

The last couple weeks I have been alert to poems and sayings rich with humanity and wisdom,

Here is one for a Friday in the U.S. when the national government is locked in suspicion about and contempt for those elected people with whom one disagrees.  Venomous suspicion.   I was looking through an old journal from 1991;  on a 4″ by 6″ card, 20 + years ago I typed this saying.   Ointment for healing suspicion.

today’s word

What is the knocking
What is the knocking at the door
in the night?
It is somebody wants to do us harm.

No.  No. It is the three strange angels.
ADMIT THEM.
ADMIT THEM.

D. H. Lawrence

blessings for Friday and this early October weekend.

john st sj

 

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mountains and cities

Hard times —  a Congress locked in venom and contempt for those with whom one must negotiate,  “partisan” is a common adjective for elected officials at the national level;   Detroit city caught in uncertainties about bankruptcy that stir mistrust and fear for the future;   UDM negotiating a McNichols faculty contract turned acrimonious and hurtful.

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

I’m in Denver for a meeting; the sun rose onto the Front Range of the Rockies s half hour ago.  Serene and majestic, these mountains —  Crisp dry air about 70º  — a great recruitment poster for Regis University where I am meeting; of course tomorrow will be rainy with a high of 45º and snow showers; mountains can be volatile.  And Denver is a city with city problems too.   Regis works at engaging them as do we in Motown.

The mountains remind me of our home town, Detroit.   One narrative defines  “Detroit” as the home of ruins porn, corruption,  and broken dreams.   Another narrative, newer and fresher, defines “Detroit” as a home of renaissance, courage, and improbable creativity.   Sometimes UDM has portrayed its strengths — a great faculty, excellent programs, a beautiful campus — as if we operate in a place-less bubble.  dodging the word “Detroit.”   Increasingly, though, I see signs that “Detroit” might become our best recruitment poster.   A city already bustling with urbanity in its center, a city poised to teach other cities around the world how to restore battered neighborhoods, a university with guts and imagination, vital and alive right in the middle of that restoration.

Today’s word is not a poem but a little bit of history about our two core traditions, the Sisters of Mercy and the Jesuits:

When Catherine McAuley began the Sisters of Mercy (September 24, 1828) she had the gall and the wit to spend her inheritance  building in the heart of Dublin (where the well-off held sway), a place of home and schooling for Dublin’s desperately poor women and their children.  “The House of Mercy” still stands and remains the heart of the Sisters of Mercy world wide.   St. Ignatius Loyola, founder of the Jesuits,  loved and believed in cities.  He insisted that Jesuits look for places to live and work at the heart of cities.   That is why Ignatius has his place, with 3 other founders of Catholic religious orders of men, in this moderately well-known  saying, probably anonymous.

“Bernard loved the valleys
Benedict loved the mountains
Francis the towns . . .

Ignatius loved great cities.”

p.s.  A correction from yesterday, embarrasing evidence that editors can create and then miss typo’s:

A poem for days of diminishing light

Here come the stars to character the skies,
And they in the estimation of the wise
Are more divine than any bulb or arc,
Because their purpose is to flash and spark,
But not to take away the precious dark.
We need the interruption of the night
To ease attention off when overtight,
To break our logic in too long a flight,
And ask us if our premises are right.

Robert Frost “The Literate Farmers and the Planet Venus”

 

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R Frost “Here come the stars”

Hard times —  a Congress locked in venom and contempt for those with whom one must negotiate,  “partisan” is a common adjective for elected officials at the national level;   Detroit city caught in uncertainties about bankruptcy that stir mistrust and fear for the future;   UDM negotiating a McNichols faculty contract turned acrimonious and hurtful.

This morning reminded me that I like getting up while it is dark outside.  It helps me recognize a balance of light and dark.  The descent of the sun toward December solstice doesn’t just cheer me up because autumn colors start to replace the dreadful pollens of ragweed season (asthma).  Early dark opens awarenesses that hustling along in the light I sometimes miss.   I once got in a fight at MIT when I gave a talk about the West’s coupling the emergence of Western scientific methods with a devaluing of Europe’s mystical disciplines.  A friend, Leo Marx got upset with that talk and some other MIT-Harvard types got angry and insulting that I would  call the dark “holy” and celebrate mystery and mysticism at MIT.   But it was Leo who introduced me to this piece with which the published paper now ends.

Have a good day.

john st sj

 

A poem for days of diminishing light

Here come the stars to character the skies,
And they in the estimation of the wise
Are more divine than any bulb or arc,
Because their purpose is to flash and spark,
But not to take away the precious dark.
We need the interruption of the night
To ease attention off when overtight,
To break our logic in too long a flight,
And ask us if our premises are right.

Robert Frost “The Literate Farmers and the Planet Venus”

 

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