Tribute

Every life lost and person killed at Virginia Tech is to be mourned. There are some stories that touch us differently, and the story of Liviu Librescu was the first I read — and it took my breath away.

The Tech professor, a native of Romania, survived the Holocaust (despite being sent to a labor camp and a ghetto) and was able to emigrate to Israel only after the personal intervention of Israeli Prime Minister Menachem Begin. After a sabbatical at Tech in the mid-1980s, the engineer chose to stay in the bucolic countryside and made Blacksburg his home. (Please read his life history — I cannot do it justice here. Please check out the information on Wikipedia and the Washington Post, among other resources.) (And yes, now you understand one of the reasons this man is dear to my heart.)

On the morning of April 16, despite already being shot, he held his classroom door closed while most his students lept out the windows before the gunman broke into the room. Librescu died giving many of his students a chance to live. His death, ironically enough, occurred on Yom Hashoah (Holocaust Remembrance Day).

I am among the many who never met him, yet weep at his death and admire his selfless act. I can only hope that I can find in myself even a small modicum of such bravery if ever I need it.

Philip C. Selz wrote a poem as a tribute to Librescu, and I thank him for his kindness in allowing me to share it with you. You may contact the poet at braniac@aol.com.


My Stand
A Tribute to Liviu Librescu


In the darkest times we've seen, I was sent into the camps
As I smelled the stench of burning flesh, I knew my kin were gone
Survival was my only thought, I knew I must come through
But I didn't know the reason that my living must go on

And when the war had ended, liberation finally came
And I grew to be a man and shortly after took a wife
And we raised our kids in Israel and we did the best we could
And we lived for those who died and worked to make a useful life

Then a teaching job came to me in America one day
And I thought that building new young minds was destiny for me
So I traveled to Virginia and I made a brand new start
And I taught engineering in this homeland of the free

Now I hear the hallways screaming as shots are fired there
And I hear the terror in the screams and understand their plight
So I bar the door from danger and I tell my students "Run!"
And as the bullets breach the door I know that I must fight

And in these final moments as my life is seeping out
I think back over 60 years and finally understand
My own salvation now makes sense as children flee and live
I was saved that day to save this day, I've finally made my stand.

by Philip C. Selz

Round out National Poetry Month with a visit to the Washington Post Web site Celebrating Poetry.

In the meantime, enjoy this gem from The Writer's Almanac.


Doing Nothing

When I passed him near the bus stop
on Union Square while the cops
cuffed his hands behind his back, while he
said, "I didn't do anything,"
I didn't, either,
do anything but look away,
a little afraid they might cuff me
if I paid too much attention,
and walked on still wondering
what he might've done
and still more what I
might've done.

by Dan Gerber from A Primer on Parallel Lives.

A Classic, an Arachnid

Written and published in 1821, this fine verse is well-known and really fun. And who can't love a poem about a spider? (Arachnophobes are exempt from this question.)

However, do not dismiss this as a "silly" children's poem. The author, a Quaker, and her husband were very influential in their time, publishing 180 books between them and launching the careers of other famous writers. And who is to say a spider can't teach us something?



The Spider and the Fly


An Apologue.
A New Version Of An Old Story.

Will you walk into my parlour?" said the Spider to the Fly,
'Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy;
The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,
And I've a many curious things to shew when you are there."
Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "to ask me is in vain,
For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again."

"I'm sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high;
Will you rest upon my little bed?" said the Spider to the Fly.
"There are pretty curtains drawn around; the sheets are fine and thin,
And if you like to rest awhile, I'll snugly tuck you in!"
Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "for I've often heard it said,
They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!"

Said the cunning Spider to the Fly, " Dear friend what can I do,
To prove the warm affection I 've always felt for you?
I have within my pantry, good store of all that's nice;
I'm sure you're very welcome -- will you please to take a slice?"
"Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "kind Sir, that cannot be,
I've heard what's in your pantry, and I do not wish to see!"

"Sweet creature!" said the Spider, "you're witty and you're wise,
How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes!
I've a little looking-glass upon my parlour shelf,
If you'll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself."
"I thank you, gentle sir," she said, "for what you 're pleased to say,
And bidding you good morning now, I'll call another day."

The Spider turned him round about, and went into his den,
For well he knew the silly Fly would soon come back again:
So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner sly,
And set his table ready, to dine upon the Fly.
Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did sing,
"Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, with the pearl and silver wing;
Your robes are green and purple -- there's a crest upon your head;
Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead!"

Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little Fly,
Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by;
With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew,
Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue --
Thinking only of her crested head -- poor foolish thing! At last,
Up jumped the cunning Spider, and fiercely held her fast.
He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den,
Within his little parlour -- but she ne'er came out again!

And now dear little children, who may this story read,
To idle, silly flattering words, I pray you ne'er give heed:
Unto an evil counsellor, close heart and ear and eye,
And take a lesson from this tale, of the Spider and the Fly.

by Mary Howitt

From Sketches of Natural History (1834), Effingham Wilson : London.

Great Grammar

I just purchased another grammar book to enjoy, so I think you can see why I enjoy the poem below.

The grammar book is my "light" reading. Also on my nightstand is a novel about Lady Jane Gray, a collection of essays on stepfamilies, a book of short stories involving time travel, Good Poems by Garrison Keillor and a book of Spanish idioms.

What are you reading? Let me know!



Appeal to the Grammarians

We, the naturally hopeful,
Need a simple sign
For the myriad ways we're capsized.
We who love precise language
Need a finer way to convey
Disappointment and perplexity.
For speechlessness and all its inflections,
For up-ended expectations,
For every time we're ambushed
By trivial or stupefying irony,
For pure incredulity, we need
The inverted exclamation point.
For the dropped smile, the limp handshake,
For whoever has just unwrapped a dumb gift
Or taken the first sip of a flat beer,
Or felt love or pond ice
Give way underfoot, we deserve it.
We need it for the air pocket, the scratch shot,
The child whose ball doesn't bounce back,
The flat tire at journey's outset,
The odyssey that ends up in Weehawken.
But mainly because I need it—here and now
As I sit outside the Caffe Reggio
Staring at my espresso and cannoli
After this middle-aged couple
Came strolling by and he suddenly
Veered and sneezed all over my table
And she said to him, "See, that's why
I don't like to eat outside."


by Paul Violi, Copyright © 2007, courtesy of the Academy of American Poets.

Silence or truth: which is more painful?

I had the great opportunity to study with Lucille Clifton when she was a visiting writer at GMU. I truly enjoyed working with her and learned much.

I also enjoy her poetry immensely and have gone to her readings whenever possible. There are a number of her poems I can recommend, including Homage to My Hips (check out her audio), The Message of Crazy Horse and wishes for sons.

The following poem tells about a tour Lucille took of a South Carolina plantation. The tour guide did not mention the slaves who lived on the plantation, later telling Lucille, the only black person in that particular tour group, that he thought mention of it would bother her. So, which is worse: the truth, or the silence it its absence?



at the cemetery,
walnut grove plantation, south carolina, 1989


among the rocks
at walnut grove
your silence drumming
in my bones,
tell me your names.

nobody mentioned slaves
and yet the curious tools
shine with your fingerprints.
nobody mentions slaves
but somebody did this work
who had no guide, no stone,
who moulders under rock.

tell me your names,
tell me your bashful names
and I will testify.

the inventory lists ten slaves
but only men were recognized.

among the rocks
at walnut grove
some of these honored dead
were dark
some of these dark
were slaves
some of these slaves
were women
some of them did this
honored work.
tell me your names
foremothers, brothers,
tell me your dishonored names,
here lies
here lies
here lies
here lies
hear


Copyright ©1991 by Lucille Clifton. Reprinted from Quilting: Poems 1987-1990.

A good day

Sometimes

Sometimes things don't go, after all,
from bad to worse. Some years, muscadel
faces down frost; green thrives; the crops don't fail.
Sometimes a man aims high, and all goes well.

A people sometimes will step back from war,
elect an honest man, decide they care
enough, that they can't leave some stranger poor.
Some men become what they were born for.

Sometimes our best intentions do not go
amiss; sometimes we do as we meant to.
The sun will sometimes melt a field of sorrow
that seemed hard frozen; may it happen for you.

by Sheenagh Pugh
Courtesy of Good Poems by Garrison Keillor

Stop all the clocks

I took a class on W.H. Auden while in grad school and, although I could have had no better instructor for Auden than Roger, the poet in question remained as much a mystery to me as when I began.

And yet this poem is as clear as the grief it conveys. I think of my friend Kathy and her dear friend Cindy, and of how sometimes words fail me. I'm grateful that, for Auden, they did not.


Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.


While searching for an online version of this poem (I may be ambitious, but can be a little lazy), I found some great resources. Please consider exploring them at your leisure:

• End of Life: Exploring Death in America (with images of the Adams Memorial statue)
• Academy of American Poets entry on Auden
• Wikipedia entry on Auden (praised by the Auden Society)
• and, finally, The Auden Society.