My wife introduced me to an astute phrase: “Seasons of life.” Life is cyclical; with the changing of circumstance, the demands of justice change. What was once fitting would now be obtuse. What trials we endure today shall not themselves endure.
In the last few months, I committed to reading one book, and only one, until I finished. Moreover, I am writing one poem. Apart from finishing projects that I start, my goal has been to build consistency in reading and writing well, every morning: “Nulla dies sine linea.”
Inspired by Sertillanges’s La Vie Intellectuelle (a most-excellent book for any scholar seeking his intellectual vocation), I have tried to sharpen the focus of my study. This sharpened focus necessitated a curbing of my attention to The Palaestra. With the summer recess from teaching, I anticipate that weekly posts will resume. To all who have supported my work via kind remarks, fervent shares, and thoughtful responses, thank you.
The poem I am working on is, by my standards, long. I suspect I am past the halfway point, but who can say?
Zanzabar Sea (an excerpt)
Certain his hands, manning the till', First were his feet, charging the hill, His was the blade their king to kill, Plunging by Zanzabar Sea. Hawk at the head of ships on wing, Leading voice as the rowers sing: Glorious, ruinous, self-styled king For as far as the eye can see! While sailors talk, guzzle and pour, Drowning in drink, lost to the shore, All-knowing hinges rasp once more, Rasping by Zanzabar Sea. Darkest the blue of storm-rent sky— Shuf'ling minstrel to chieftain's eye— Barred now the gate—the droplets fly From the traveler shaking the sleet. Hidden his gaze, hooded his brow, Harp shedding tears, songs to endow, Washed by the storm with verse enow, Dripping by Zanzabar Sea. Across the room a kingly sneer; All about, univocal jeer: Play for us, minstrel, we long to hear How we set all our foes to flee!