Free food! In honor of our very own…

Dr. Zubizarreta

has been elected to the

National Collegiate Honors Council!!!

Next Thursday, Feb. 21 at 12:30 p.m. congratulate him in person at the CLC!  

Enter this: Rattle Poetry Prize

Check out Rattle, an awesome site devoted to Poetry.

RATTLE is pretty simple: We love poetry and feel that it’s something everyone can enjoy. We look for poems that are accessible, that have heart, that have something to say.

And then we publish them.

They’re allowing FOUR entries to be submitted for the $5,000 grandprize. Details on how to submit are here.

THE WORLD AS MEDITATION

“How about Wallace Stevens’s “The World as Meditation,” a grand tribute to love and imagination?” – Dr. John Z.

It is Ulysses that approaches from the east,
The interminable adventurer? The trees are mended.
That winter is washed away. Someone is moving

On the horizon and lifting himself up above it.
A form of fire approaches the cretonnes of Penelope,
Whose mere savage presence awakens the world in which she dwells.

She has composed, so long, a self with which to welcome him,
Companion to his self for her, which she imagined,
Two in a deep-founded sheltering, friend and dear friend.

The trees had been mended, as an essential exercise
In an inhuman meditation, larger than her own.
No winds like dogs watched over her at night.

She wanted nothing he could not bring her by coming alone.
She wanted no fetchings. His arms would be her necklace
And her belt, the final fortune of their desire.

But was it Ulysses? Or was it only the warmth of the sun
On her pillow? The thought kept beating in her like her heart.
The two kept beating together. It was only day.

It was Ulysses and it was not. Yet they had met,
Friend and dear friend and a planet’s encouragement.
The barbarous strength within her would never fail.

She would talk a little to herself as she combed her hair,
Repeating his name with its patient syllables,
Never forgetting him that kept coming constantly so near.

Today’s offerings come from Dr. Tuten, and the poet Galway Kinnell.

“Here is one of my favorites about love for a child—or among the parents and child:”

After Making Love We Hear Footsteps 

For I can snore like a bullhorn
or play loud music
or sit up talking with any reasonably sober Irishman
and Fergus will only sink deeper
into his dreamless sleep, which goes by all in one flash,
but let there be that heavy breathing
or a stifled come-cry anywhere in the house
and he will wrench himself awake
and make for it on the run – as now, we lie together,
after making love, quiet, touching along the length of our bodies,
familiar touch of the long-married,
and he appears – in his baseball pajamas, it happens,
the neck opening so small
he has to screw them on, which one day may make him wonder
about the mental capacity of baseball players -
and flops down between us and hugs us and snuggles himself to sleep,
his face gleaming with satisfaction at being this very child.

In the half darkness we look at each other
and smile
and touch arms across his little, startling muscled body -
this one whom habit of memory propels to the ground of his making,
sleeper only the mortal sounds can sing awake,
this blessing love gives again into our arms.

“And here is another favorite about learning to love oneself:”

St. Francis And The Sow

The bud
stands for all things,
even those things that don’t flower,
for everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing;
though sometimes it is necessary
to reteach a thing its loveliness,
to put a hand on its brow
of the flower
and retell it in words and in touch
it is lovely
until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing;
as St. Francis
put his hand on the creased forehead
of the sow, and told her in words and in touch
blessings of earth on the sow, and the sow
began remembering all down her thick length,
from the earthen snout all the way
through the fodder and slops to the spiritual curl of
the tail,
from the hard spininess spiked out from the spine
down through the great broken heart
to the blue milken dreaminess spurting and shuddering
from the fourteen teats into the fourteen mouths sucking
and blowing beneath them:
the long, perfect loveliness of sow.
 

The More Loving One

“I have always loved W.H. Auden’s “The More Loving One.” – Dr. Hait

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.

 

How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.

 

Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.

 

Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.

Credo

Claudia Brinson shares a favourite poem with us, for the Valentine holiday:

I believe there is something else

entirely going on but no single

person can ever know it,

so we fall in love.

It could also be true that what we use

everyday to open cans was something

much nobler, that we’ll never recognize.

I believe the woman sleeping beside me

doesn’t care about what’s going on

outside, and her body is warm

with trust

which is a great beginning.

~Matthew Rohrer ~

Amelia Bedelia’s European Adventures

 This first month in Wales has been a wonderful and enriching experience, but it has not been without its mishaps. The true humor, or even irony, lies in the fact that a main reason that I wanted to come to the U.K. was that people speak English here. Ha!

As English majors, we all should know that subtle variations in language make substantial differences in meaning and that one word can have several different meanings. It would seem that I have not mastered this sensitivity for language yet because I failed to consider that in America, we speak American English and in Britain, they speak British English. I dismissed the distinction and assumed that they were only different because the British have lovely pronunciations and are fond of the letter “u” when spelling. Just in case there is someone who is as dense as I am, let me clarify that American English and British English are two completely different languages with enough similarities to make you look foolish.

One of the most embarrassing illustrations of the differences is something that could have landed me a spot on a list of predators. As a part of my studies here abroad, I have been doing an internship at a local primary school. The children really seemed to be taking to me as one child explained that I sounded like a character from his cartoon and another asked, “Miss Ellis, can you speak American?” After they scrutinized me like some foreign object that had washed up on shore, which I have since realized is exactly what I am, they settled down, and I began to feel comfortable with them. I even developed a bit of a British accent because the children did not understand some words in my American accent. I was adapting; I was becoming a Brit! My British bliss lasted two days at most.

The day of the mishap, one of the boys ran in from recess, showed me that he had soaked his pants from falling in a puddle, and asked me what he should do. I told him to go change into his P.E. clothes. When he returned in his gym shorts and handed me his wet pants, I gave them back to him and said, “Don’t give them to me. Take your pants and put them near the furnace to dry.” He did not do as I told him to, but, instead, he stared at me with a deeply confused look on his face and asked, “What did you say?” At that moment, I realized that my perfectly innocent American English direction was a perfectly obscene British English command. While alone with an eight-year-old boy, I had accidentally told him to remove his underwear and put them near the furnace. “Your trousers,” I corrected, “You need to put your trousers near the furnace so that they can dry.” He complied, and I sank into a chair and thanked God that there had not been anyone else in the room.

As you can see, though Americans and Brits share the same words, we do not speak the same language because half of the words do not even mean the same thing. Although I have thoroughly embarrassed myself, I believe that this experience has made more alert to shades of meaning. I still need to work on calling potato chips “crisps” and French fries “chips,” but things are getting better.

On another note, I do so desperately miss Columbia College and the English Department. I went off to this other country expecting to never want to return, but I have found that attending Columbia College has been one of the best decisions I have ever made. Although my classes here are actually smaller despite the fact that there are fourteen-thousand students, the professors have not attempted to learn my name. They merely point to me when they wish for me to speak and raise their eyebrows when they see me in the hall. I am a number in a classroom of twelve! In an honors course that I am taking, we have been discussing how we are in the unique position to learn, through cultural comparison, who we are, are not, and who we want to be. The personal growth that I have experienced in the last month has been greater than any that I have ever experienced.

I now understand the cliché, “I left my heart in ____.” I am physically in Swansea, Wales, U.K., but when my mind begins to wander, I find that I inevitably end up walking through the mall or sitting on The Green at Columbia College. I have even learned to love the things about South Carolina that I have always hated like fried foods, year-round summer, and feigned friendliness. Give me C2, 70s chairs on mustard carpet, Dr. Z doing pull-ups on blackboards, purple grammar dots, 6 a.m. Saturday mornings for Home Works, Literary Jeopardy, busts of Shakespeare, parking tickets, fried chicken, 70 degree winters, and people saying, “Well bless your heart.” Those are the things that I need to be happy. I love and miss you all! I am counting down the days until I can finally return to my home, where I belong, but I am still enjoying this “holiday” in Wales. (The students never have classes here!)

Much love from Wales,

DeAnna Ellis

Get published! Win monies!

Western Reading Services publishes poetry anthologies each year. They’re holding their annual call for submissions – no fee to enter, no charge to be published if you win.

Give it a shot!

http://westernreading.com/In%20Other%20Words.htm

Free Planet Radio: music & Egypt at the UU

The UU Coffeehouse and the Columbia Museum of Art bring the phenomenal Free Planet Radio to Columbia, Friday night, February 8.

Doors open at 7:00 p.m. for this special show. Come early to tour the Excavating Egypt show, and stay for the concert which begins at 8:00.

An assortment of beverages and desserts will be available for purchase

The Art: Excavating Egypt: Great Discoveries from the Petrie Museum of Egyptian Archaeology

This major exhibition offers a fascinating view into the lives of both royal and average Egyptians with ancient objects and artwork from the earliest periods of Egyptian history to the late Roman period.

For more information, visit http://www.columbiamuseum.org/programs/exhibitions.php?exID=10 .

The Music: Free Planet Radio

For world fusion music that is beautiful, complex, diverse and played by masters of their instruments, look no further than the trio of Chris Rosser, River Guerguerian and Eliot Wadopian. Collectively they’re a trio called Free Planet Radio and the sum of the whole is pretty powerful, especially considering the strength of the parts.

All three are educated and experienced masters of their groove, skilled craftsmen who come together with some pretty powerful sounds that cross from East to West with jazzy and sometimes dizzying forays into odd times, syncopations and electronic sounds.

The Musicians

Chris Rosser

Chris is a multi-instrumentalist, singer-songwriter, composer and producer. As a solo performer, he tours nationally playing at festivals, clubs and listening rooms, and has shared stages with folk and pop luminaries such as Nickel Creek, John Mayer, Shawn Mullins, John Gorka, David Wilcox, Tom Rush and more.

River Guerguerian

River is a multipercussionist/composer/educator who has been performing professionally for 20 years with such groups as the BBC Concert Orchestra, New Music Consort, Grammy and Oscar winning composer Tan Dun, Tibetan Singing Bowl Ensemble, Talujon Percussion Quartet, Omar Faruk Tekbilek, Chuck Berry, Sophie B. Hawkins, and Ziggy Marley/Gipsy Kings.

Eliot Wadopian

Grammy Award–winning bassist Eliot Wadopian has been a professional musician for more than twenty seven years. He began his studies at the Berklee College of Music and has performed extensively throughout the United States, Europe and the Orient with many professional ensembles. Eliot has held the bass chair for such artists as Paul Winter and the Paul Winter Consort, David Wilcox, Eugene Friesen and Paul Halley, Donald Harrison, Jon Faddis, Glen Velez, Mark Lavine, Gene Bertoncini, Paul Sullivan, Oscar Castro-Neves, Judy Collins, Yo Yo Ma, Gil Shaham, the Cab Calloway big band, and Davy Spillane, to name a few.

www.freeplanetradio.com/

Tickets

At the door: $12 for adults and $7 for high school and college students (students through 8th grade are free with a paying adult)

With a reservation by calling 1-888-849-4224 extension 4: $10 and $5

With a museum membership, at the door: $10 and $5

FAMOUS AUTHORS PREDICT SUPER BOWL XLII

Cormac McCarthy

Overhead, the sun is a wrathful god. It is made to ravage a dying land.

The boy stands in a dry gulch. He tilts his hat to the sting of the wind.

These men are patriots, says The Coach.

I reckon.

Do you know their soul?

Reckon not.

A hoarse laugh echoes through the heat. It singes the cragged escarpments of the red canyon.

You won’t be the first, says The Coach.

I ain’t scared of you.

Tengo otros cuerpos. Quiero el tuyo.

The Coach wears a bone around his neck. It is hung from dead sinew. Other bones he has ground by pestle and mortar. In the ancient caves he swallowed white dust.

I am here to erase you.

The boy squints at the arroyo bed. The earth is scorched in jagged lines.

It ain’t no kind of life, he says.

Overhead, the sun is a wrathful god. It will bake the world.

Prediction: Patriots 27, Giants 6

Ayn Rand

When he saw Bill Belichick in the hallway before the press conference, Tom Coughlin’s face contorted into a whine. “It isn’t fair!” he shrieked. “You have all the best players!” he whimpered. “What happened to helping your fellow man?!” he mewled. “You … all you care about is winning!” he sniveled.

The muscular coach set his prominent jaw, and his hard, handsome eyes glistened. “Why, Tom,” he asked with a smile, “isn’t winning what the NFL is all about?”

Coughlin’s face turned bright red as he flapped his effeminate hands in hysterical gestures. By this time, a large crowd of reporters had gathered. “But, but … your players are the best in the league! Your offense is unstoppable! How am I supposed to go on the field with my weak players or my simple, predictable playcalling?? We’ll be destroyed! I tell you it isn’t fair! We deserve to be helped! This is social treason!”

Belichick squared his broad shoulders as he stared Coughlin in the eye. The smaller man cowed and threw his hands to his face in a pathetic flail. “Tom,” said Belichick, “I bet nobody has been honest with you in your entire life, so let me be the first. I was taught in the ways of strength. Yes, my men will win today. But it’s because we’ve had the courage to act on our judgment, and the fortitude to trust our decisions. Long ago, we were faced with a choice—the same choice you faced. We chose conviction. You chose impotence. And now, today, you ask me not only to cut my wrists and bleed on your behalf … oh no. You would also have me fund, design, and build the knife. You accuse me of social treason, and yet you beg me to betray myself.” The beautiful man laughed a throaty, attractive laugh. “You are a coward, Tom, and a coward in this world deserves nothing.”

With a great cheer, the reporters stood in unison and applauded.

Prediction: Patriots 326, Giants –27

Jack Kerouac

Like BAM-skip-a-tap young Eli shouts down the line and oh me oh my it’s a beautiful thing to behold out in rusty Arizona twilight where American ghosts have come to die and be born again in a land of ten thousandzilliontrillion dry summers nursing the prickles on a cactus’s back. Don’t sing to me about patriots, old man, because iftheretrulyis agoddamnflagatall it was wrought from what we did not what we said and young Eli knows it without knowing and says it without speaking down on that dusky field all brown and bright green with blueclad muscled lineboys gone berserk and fierce A-FWOP-youaintseennothinyetoldman-CRACK-POP.

Watch while those hard-raised salt-of-this-or-any-other-earth calloused hands uphold what became more than a youngman’s idea. Watch them put down those others, oh America, those slinkingshirking fallen boys who for sixty true minutes (may the Blue God bless you one and all) are no kind of patriot I’d ever dream.

Would a man be baptized in all that?

You’re goddamn right.

Prediction: Giants35 and a dance in goldendusk
 

Jane Austen

Hyacinth and amethyst adorned the landscape of her heart, betrothed to fragrant oakmoss and blazing scarlet within the amorous lovestrokes of an incandescent horizon. In the shade of the gray branches, she put pen to paper. “I love you, Tom Brady,” it began. “Though others call you wicked.”

Prediction: Handsome Tom 46, Stern Aunt Louisa 9
 

James Joyce

Thusly and thricely slaked he uptrod the spiral staircase and fancied for himself only a briny frieze.

— Give out, Jesuit, or forever in peace may you lie.

Sardonic, sardonic was the smile then adopted. It can twist forever (if the vicars will allow, if the oxen pull the plow).

— Dearly beloved, he quipped through shut mouth, did not Rapunzel cry from on high?

She skipped with a slow whistle to the first stone slab. As at Young Colin’s, on the eve of Fata Morgana, all rose quietly. How could it be remiss?

Thanatopsis. Requiescat In Pace.

Prediction: Unclear