Through the Flaming Sword

This has nothing to do with Quakerism, but I am so taken with it that I want to share it with somebody.

I’ve been reading William Wordsworth’s “Prelude,” an (extremely) long poetic autobiography, so excellent in its self-exploration and commentary on so many things. This is from Book Seventh: Residence in London, in which the young Wordsworth comes to the big city from his idyllic home in the Lake Country not far from the geographic fountainhead of Quakerism, and after finishing college at Cambridge.

My title: In our time of trial (pun intended)

Pass we from entertainments, that are such
Professedly, to others titled higher,
Yet, in the estimate of youth at least,
More near akin to those than names imply,—
I mean the brawls of lawyers in their courts
Before the ermined judge, or that great state
Where senators, tongue-favoured men, perform,
Admired and envied. Oh! the beating heart
When one among the prime of these rose up,—
One, of whose name from childhood, we had heard
Familiarly, a household term, like those,
The Bedfords, Glosters, Salsburys, of old,
Whom the fifth Harry talks of. Silence I hush!
This is no trifler, no short-flighted wit,
No stammerer of a minute, painfully
Delivered. No! the Orator hath yoked
The Hours, like young Aurora, to his ear:
Thrice welcome Presence! how can patience e’er
Grow weary of attending on a track
That kindles with such glory! All are charmed,
Astonished; like a hero in romance,
He winds away his never-ending horn;
Words follow words, sense seems to follow sense:
What memory and what logic! till the strain
Transcendent, superhuman as it seemed,
Grows tedious even in a young man’s ear.

Marina, the life partner of another friend of ours, Claudio, was killed in a bicycle accident a few days ago. She was hit from behind by a young person who was distracted while driving—not sure exactly how at this point. 

This circle of friends, who live all over the place, meet every few months by Zoom, and we met night before last. Claudio spoke for a long time about their relationship, what he knows about the accident, his emotional state, the days following; he was visiting family in Italy when the accident occurred.

He said several times that he was not “spiritual,” it was Marina who was spiritual. But every word out of his mouth, every meditation of his heart, was deeply, deeply spiritual. Especially, for me, what he had to say about the driver, who is being charged with something very serious—involuntary homicide? I don’t quite remember, except that it was homicide of some kind.

Claudio didn’t know whether he would have an opportunity to address the judge in the case, but he know what he wanted to say.

The person (a man, he thinks) should spend as much time in jail as Marina lived on life support between when she was admitted and when her organs were harvested, a few days. Then he should not be in jail. He should have to address young people ten times a year for I don’t remember how long about the folly, danger, and wrongness of driving while distracted. And for some time, the duration of which I also don’t remember, twice a week, he should volunteer at an animal shelter to walk dogs; Marina was a dog walker for part of her income.

This, I thought, was such a great example of restorative justice, which tries to be transformative rather than punitive.

He also spoke about forgiveness, which he says he’s working on, with some success. It was a beautiful and horrible time we had together.

Dear readers:

I have published three books of poetry and a fourth is about to come out. You can learn more about them on my personal website, stevendavison.com.

The book. The first book is actually a hybrid book of poems, photographs, personal letters, short essays, and other elements. The poems in The Road to Continental Heart: Befriending, and Defending, the Spirit of North America were written for a friend who walked across the country with a group of environmental activists, one poem a week for nine months, most of the poems incorporating research I had done into the landscapes and places through which he would walk in the coming week.

A review. A review of Continental Heart has just come out on The Book Review Directory website, which, I’m glad to say, is quite positive.

More about the book. Continental Heart is a coffee table style book, hardcover, 8 ½ x 11, 320 pages, using fine paper stock to do right by the dozens of photographs that my friend and a friend of his took along the way. Whatever one thinks of the poems, everyone agrees that the book is beautifully designed. Kudos to my publisher, Boyle & Dalton.

The economics. Unfortunately, the book is quite expensive, at $49.99. I think it’s honestly priced, even underpriced, for its size and quality, but it’s still a lot of money. A window into the corrupt economics of the book publishing industry: at this price and given the standard book store discount of 40%, neither I nor my publisher make any money on bookstore sales. The reason is that my publisher and I agreed that charging enough to make any real money, say, $59.99, would make it too unattractive for a book of poetry; $49.99 is stretching it already. But Amazon gets a discount from the printer as well as from the publisher, so from Amazon we make a little money.

The other books. My second book, Dancing Mockingbird, is a collection of nature poems, with sections for mountains, animals, bodies of water, etc. The next book, Dancing with the Moon, is a full-length collection of love poems. I just signed off on the final proof and expect its release perhaps in August. This book has what I consider my best work. I will shamelessly promote it when it comes out.

On poetry. I suspect that more people write poetry and even publish poetry than read poetry. I only know of three people in my circle of friends besides myself who actively read poetry. Meanwhile, there are zillions of poetry journals, book publishers, and contests. These organizations stay alive, I believe, through the fees they charge for submitting your work, not through book and magazine sales. Fees range from $3 to $15 for submitting (usually) three to five poems, and $15 to $30 for submitting books and entering contests. It costs real money to get published today as a poet. I’m sure it’s the same for fiction writers. But still we do it. We are driven—or, as a Friend, I would say led, though, to be honest, it really does feel like a drive. It is immensely satisfying to get published, though, I have to say.

Thanks for indulging me in this post, off Quaker topic as it is.