Robert Edward Nicholas Kleppel--Welcome to the World!

The Night Before Christmas

Reading "The Night Before Christmas" to Colin. December 24, 2013

Carolan, with her travel piggy bank.

White Christmas this year.

Colin talking to his new brother, who will be born soon!

Brian, Colin, Linda, Carolan

Emily

Beloved Christmas Poem by Frank O'Malley

Christbrand

By Frank O’Malley

Let the Christbrand burst,
Let the Christbrand blazon.

Dartle whitely under the hearth-fire,
Unwind the wind, turn the thunderer,
And never , never thinning,
Forfend fear.
Flare up smartly, fix, flex, bless, inspire,
Instar the time, sear the sorcerer,
And never, never sparing,
Save all year.

Let the Christbrand burst,
Let the Christbrand blazon.

(Frank O’Malley was a beloved English Professor at the University of Notre Dame)

"Mary"--Great Song by Patty Griffin

“Mary”

by Patty Griffin

Mary, you’re covered in roses, you’re covered in ashes, you’re covered in rain.

You’re covered in babies, you’re covered in slashes

You’re covered in wilderness, you’re covered in stains.

You cast aside the sheet, you cast aside the shroud

Of another man, who served the world proud.

You greet another son, you lose another one

On some sunny day and always you stay, Mary.

Jesus says, “Mother I couldn’t stay another day longer,”

Flies right by and leaves a kiss upon her face

While the angels are singing his praises in a blaze of glory

Mary stays behind

and starts cleaning up the place.

Mary, she moves behind me, she leaves her fingerprints everywhere;

Everytime the snow drifts, everytime the sand shifts, even when the night lifts, she’s always there.

Jesus said, “Mother I couldn’t stay another day longer,”

Flies right by and leaves a kiss upon her face

While the angels are singing his praises in a blaze of glory

Mary stays behind and starts cleaning up the place.

Mary you’re covered in roses, you’re covered in ruin, you’re covered in secrets

You're covered in treetops, you’re covered in birds

who can sing a million songs without any words.

You cast aside the sheets, you cast aside the shroud

of another man, who served the world proud.

You greet another son, you lose another one on some sunny day

and always you’ll stay,

Mary, Mary, Mary.

A performance with Patty Griffin and Natalie Manes:

Poem for Winter Solstice

Winter Solstice

The chill creeps into the bones:
December 21 and sun gone long before 5 o’clock;
huge gray clouds roll in off Lake Erie
riding the Witch’s gale, spitting sleet and

fears as real and as organized as the swirl
of pin oak leaves down Lakeshore Boulevard.
This day, shaken by nameless fears,
seems to last forever:

I wonder how I will get through the next minute,
and the minute after that,
and the minute after that,

wonder if I can make it
until hope returns

until peace-which-surpasses-understanding,
as mysterious as winter solstice’s fear--
my heart standing still, turning cold,
my spirit abandoned--

until peace returns like grace like unexpected

gift.

                        Robert M. Coughlin

Colin and Nana Yinda Build a Snowman

Playing My Banjo for My Grandson Colin

Kids always love the banjo. But Colin seems a bit more interested in his toy horse.

Lesson from a 107-and-a-half-year-old, Frank Semola, mandolin player

Frank Minola, 107, on the mandolin

Gorgeous Music at St. Mary's in Painesville!

Today Mary Ann Ratchko-Gamez played an ancient tune ("Creator of the Stars of Night") on her whistle at 9 o'clock mass. The tune is from the 9th century chant "Conditor Alme Siderum." Mary Ann also played "O Come O Come Emmanuel" on whistle. Nobody plays the Irish whistle better than Mary Ann Ratchko. St. Mary's, this little church in Painesville, Ohio, with Mary Ann on flute and whistle and Francesco Binda on piano, has some of the greatest liturgical music in Greater Cleveland.


Today we lit a candle for my mother, Margaret Ann, who died 10 years ago today. Her beautiful spirit is alive in our hearts!


A line in today's gospel from St. Matthew, chapter 3, verse 9:

Don't think to yourselves, "We have

Abraham for our father," for I tell

you that God is able to raise up

children to Abraham from these stones.

My family knows this to be true. We were the discarded, the riffraff of Ireland, barely surviving the Great Famine. We believe that the Lord can raise up these stones and know that "the stone the builder rejected has become the cornerstone." This is the truth for the poor, the hungry, the homeless, the outcast, the riffraff, the rejected. It has happened over and over in human history.

Here is a youtube version of this beautiful advent chant (alas, without the whistle):

Christmas Tree at Manners Tree Farm, New Lyme, Ohio

Linda by Manners' Barn.

Eddie starting to cut down the pretty blue spruce.

Me finishing the job.

Julia and Colin waiting for the horse cart to take us back to the lodge.

Colin and me getting toasted by the hot fire in the lodge.

Carolan and Megan's Book Available on Amazon

The children's book my daughter Carolan Coughlin and her cousin Megan Hartfelder wrote is now available on Amazon for the bargain price of $8.99. Here's a link to Amazon and the book: http://www.amazon.com/Great-Bear-Surprise-Carolan-Coughlin/dp/1492892890/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1386180954&sr=8-1&keywords=The+Great+Bear+Surprise

The authors' biographies are very nice:

About the Author: Carolan Coughlin is currently working as an outdoor professional for Montana Conservation Corps in beautiful Northwest Montana. She grew up in Ohio with a passion for reading, writing, and exploring the wonders of the outdoors. Her explorations have taken her across the US, through Central America, Europe, and New Zealand, and she feels lucky for all the great writing material these trips have given her. She wrote this book while living remotely in the Bob Marshall wilderness for three months. Forevermore, she will dream of the days she lived in her tent in the wilderness. In the meantime, you can find her searching out new adventures and scribbling out letters to her loving family. About the Illustrator Megan Hartfelder is a children’s book illustrator and landscape painter. Born and raised in Ohio, Megan was very fortunate to spend summers with her family in Germany where she acquired a love for travel. After earning degrees in Art Education, Painting, and a Master’s degree in Illustration, she lived and traveled throughout Europe, South America and the United States. She is also an outdoor enthusiast who enjoys running, cycling, hiking, and camping. Her experiences in new places are an inspiration for her illustrations and fine art. She now lives with her husband in Southern California. You can see more of her work at www.meganhartfelder.com.

Reading a Poem with Grace Butcher in Painesville

Last night we had our monthly poetry reading at "Your Vine or Mine" micro winery in Painesville, Ohio. Grace Butcher, the extraordinary Chardon-area poet and athlete, was the featured reader. For her last reading of the evening, she asked me to be "the Voice of God" in her poem. Well, it doesn't come off exactly as the voice of God, but it was fun!

Colin visits Santa

Colin is comfortable with fat guys with beards!

"Sweet Baby James"--Great Song for the 1st of December

I always think about this beautiful tune on the 1st of December. The song includes the lines "The First of December was covered with snow / So were the turnpikes from Stockbridge to Boston /And the Berkshires seemed dreamlike on account of that frosting / With ten miles behind me and 10, 000 more to go."

I would think of these lines when I was hitchhiking around America 40 years ago, just starting out on a journey. And now I think, for James Taylor and the likes of me, that it's 10,000 miles behind me and 10 miles left to go. It's been a great trip. And that's life. And I am grateful.

Postscript: This song, and James Taylor in general, make me think of the Gerrity brothers, Marty and Mike, who brought the Sweet Baby James album to Notre Dame and introduced us to this great artist.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Thanksgiving 2013--Chardon, Ohio

Ode to Joy--in a Plaza in Sabadell, Catalonia, Spain

Poem by Wendell Berry--Last Blog Entry (Ever?) on JFK

November 26, 1963

Wendell Berry
The Nation, 21 December 1963, page 437

We know the winter earth upon the body of the young
      President, and the early dark falling;

we know the veins grown quiet in his temples and
      wrists, and his hands and eyes grown quiet;

we know his name written in the black capitals
      of his death, and the mourners standing in the
      rain, and the leaves falling;

we know his death’s horses and drums; the roses, bells,
      candles, crosses; the faces hidden in veils;

we know the children who begin the youth of loss
      greater than they can dream now;

we know the nightlong coming of faces into the candle-
      light before his coffin, and their passing;

we know the mouth of the grave waiting, the bugle and
      rifles, the mourners turning away;

we know the young dead body carried in the earth into
      the first deep night of its absence;

we know our streets and days slowly opening into the
      time he is not alive, filling with our footsteps and
      voices;

we know ourselves, the bearers of the light of the earth
      he is given to, and of the light of all his lost
      days;

we know the long approach of summers toward the
      healed ground where he will be waiting, no longer the
      keeper of what he was.

"The Far Side of Revenge"--The "Birth-Cry" of the Beloved Community. Remembering John F. Kennedy

Below, part of Seamus Heaney's work, "The Cure at Troy." Seems like fitting words to remember John F. Kennedy. Thanks to Maggie Brock for sending me this.

History says, don’t hope
On this side of the grave.
But then, once in a lifetime
The longed-for tidal wave
Of justice can rise up,
And hope and history rhyme.

So hope for a great sea-change
On the far side of revenge.
Believe that further shore
Is reachable from here.
Believe in miracle
And cures and healing wells.

Call miracle self-healing:
The utter, self-revealing
Double-take of feeling.
If there’s fire on the mountain
Or lightning and storm
And a god speaks from the sky

That means someone is hearing
The outcry and the birth-cry
Of new life at its term.

William Butler Yeats and John F. Kennedy: The Light Shines in the Darkness

Below is part of a great poem written by WB Yeats. When I think of the killing of John F. Kennedy, I think of parts of this poem. Thanks be to God, evil has not prevailed.

The light shines in the darkness . . .
And the darkness has not overcome it! (John 1:5)

William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)
       THE SECOND COMING (parts)

    Turning and turning in the widening gyre
    The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
    Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
    Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
    The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
    The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
    The best lack all conviction, while the worst
    Are full of passionate intensity . . .
    
    And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
    Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

An Older Poem on the Assassination of John F. Kennedy

November 22, 1963

I remember the very moment

as if it were branded on my soul:

It was 2:05 pm.

We were in Brother O’Connor’s 10^th grade 
     religion class,

St. Joseph High School in Cleveland, 
     eager for the end of the day.

A crying voice came over the PA

saying, Please Pray for Him, Boys,

He’s Been Shot!

For 30 minutes there was stunned,

uncomprehending silence,

punctuated by confused attempts to pray;

but all our prayers were incoherent,

crazed dancing of a chicken, its head cut off.

At 2:35 Brother Matthew’s quavering voice

said, He’s Dead, Boys. Let’s Pray

For Him And For Ourselves

pray that love and light

overcome the furious violence

and darkness

in our souls.

                               Robert M. Coughlin/November 22, 1983

This poem, written 30 years ago, reflects quite accurately my experience of Friday, November 22, 1963. Of course memory is very fallible, and a few details might be wrong. I'm not 100% sure that it was St. Joe's principal. Brother Stanley Mathews who spoke on the PA that day. But I do remember being in Brother O'Connor's religion class, last period of the day. And I remember how stunned, saddened, and disoriented we all were. Notice how the last part of the poem indicts not only the murderer, but all of us--all with "the furious violence / and darkness/ in our souls." All of us.

Poem about the murder of JFK--and many other losses

Grace and Darkness in Matala, Crete--April 6, 1968

In this little Cretan village, Pitsidia,

Just kilometers north of Matala,

Anastasios invites me into his home,

Hands me his precious bouzouki.

Photos of Pope John XXIII, an Italian, 
and John F. Kennedy, Irish-American,

Festoon this Greek's whitewashed walls.

Two days before, Martin Luther King Jr. murdered

In Memphis. Two months from now Bobby Kennedy

Will be murdered in Los Angeles. Anastasios

Introduces us to his beautiful daughters, Kharis (Grace),

Maria, Magdalena. Shows me a photo of his cousin Nick

In New York City. I weep over his kindness,

His sweet bouzouki, his beautiful girls,

The passing of John XXIII, the murder of Jack Kennedy.

Robert M. Coughlin/November 22, 2013

Notes:

1. This poem recounts, with great fidelity, an encounter my roommate Brian Wilson and I had just outside Matala, Crete in early April of 1968.

2. A “bouzouki” is a Greek musical instrument similar to a mandolin.

3. The Greek name “Anastasios” means “resurrection.”

4. The Greek name “Kharis” means “grace” or “undeserved kindness.”

5. Thanks to Frank Prpic for help with the above photo.

Cover Page of Issue 3, Chagrin River Review

Look at Amy Dwyer Peck's beautiful cover of issue 3 of Chagrin River Review. A beautiful issue! Two of our poets have recorded themselves reading their poems. Some great stories. Check it out!

Here's the link: Chagrin River Review--Issue 3

Colin Playing in a November Snow

The boy knows how to have fun!

Colin in the November 12, 2013 snow

A Lake Erie Story (for a Wintry November Day)

This story is about 90% true, with some fictionalization at the end.

Cruising the Big Lake a Late Summer Evening

 By Bob Coughlin

The air was benevolently warm as we skimmed the surface of the calm lake last Thursday in my old Sea Ray. We were a quarter mile off shore of the Mentor Lagoons, cruising Lake Erie, one of the world’s largest and most beautiful lakes. Late summer, the sun sinking down now before 8 pm, the sky glowing red, creating a path of gold from the setting sun to the shore.

Around 7 pm the onshore wind begins blowing, enough to fill the sails of the boats from the Mentor Harbor. About a half dozen sailboats go out onto the lake, hoist their sails, and follow the wind toward Fairport Harbor and the Grand River. Coming back against that wind will take some skill, tacking back and forth back to the Lagoons.

We head east, toward the Fairport Harbor Light at the entrance to the Grand River. Our first vision is the eroding clay cliffs near the Lagoons. There are yellowish, grey, and brown strata on these cliffs, in the most interesting whorls, carved vertical by 15-foot waves from last fall and winter. Perched precariously on the lip of the cliff we see gigantic red oaks, their roots partially exposed, waiting for the gales of November to go diving into the Lake. I hate to see these ancient giants go! Right on the rim of the cliff a deer browses on some grass, oblivious to the danger and unaware of its own surprising beauty. This square mile of beach and upland forest and marsh is thick with nearly tame deer.

We move further east at about 20 knots, along the mile-long wild shoreline, one of the only undeveloped shorelines on the south coast of Lake Erie (which, interestingly, is the north coast of the United States!). I see a few walkers, with their dogs racing along the beach. A guy throws a stick into the lake, and a big yellow lab plunges in after it. The perfect joy of being a dog chasing a stick!

Further east the beach is totally empty, as close to a wilderness as we have in Northeast Ohio. Driftwood, some of it the remnants of giant red oak and cottonwood, litter the beach. Back from the beach about 50 feet I see a small grove of willow trees and cottonwood. Then eroded hillside, full of small trees and some rather exotic shrubs, more reminiscent of much further south—yucca is everywhere; even some prickly pear cactus in the sand right below the hillside. Don’t these plants know what January is like in this environment? The lake will freeze, maybe freeze solid; then no more warming by a benevolent heat sink, the Big Lake!

Now, only a mile or two from the mouth of the Lagoons and a perfectly calm lake, a chop kicks up—not bad yet, but the Sea Ray begins rocking and rolling. I’ve learned to relax with this movement, not worry about it. My first couple years with this boat I would shift into panic mode when the lake kicked up. Not so much anymore.

We move further down toward Mentor Headlands and the great sand beach, a quarter mile wide and a mile and a half long. There are still a number of late-summer visitors on the beach, most of them on shore, lounging, reading, some playing beach volleyball. We cruise the boat very close to shore, maybe 200 feet off the beach. Many people wave to us and we wave back. A few hardy souls are in the water. Today is one of those days when the water is warmer than the air. The trick is to get in. I do it slowly and painfully; the brave and smart ones jump right in and get the initial shock over with quickly.

Soon we are along the wild part of Headlands beach, where there are no lifeguards and where the sand dunes are covered with beach oats and other hardy plants that can handle the wind and the sand. This part of the beach is nearly empty of people and is littered with driftwood and the trunks of giant trees. I remember how, as I kid living in Euclid, my brother Denny and I would launch one of these logs and ride it a mile out into the Lake. Today’s over-protective parents would have a hissy fit with something like that! Heck, police would probably get involved and the Coast Guard would come to the rescue!

As we approach the Grand River breakwall, I steer the boat south so we can enter the harbor by the lighthouse. I notice the lake is really kicking up now, contrary to the weather predictions I heard earlier on the marine radio. As I make the turn around the far end of the breakwall, we experience big waves and intense rocking and rolling. And then I see off the port side a small sailboat flipped over in the water. Three people, not wearing life jackets, are clinging to the boat and waving frantically to me.

I want to call a mayday in to the Coast Guard (who are stationed less than a mile from this very spot), but the urgency is to get these people out of the water. Linda grabs 2 telescoping hooks we use when we’re docking. She also grabs several life jackets and the life preserver ring to throw to the people in the water.

I maneuver the boat close to the overturned sailboat, careful not to hit anyone with the 5500 lb boat. Linda throws the ring to the teenage girl in the middle of the three and launches three life jackets to them. The three are frantic as they try to grab the life jackets and get them on as they tread water in the now very rough lake.

I wish I had another hand on board, but decide I need to make the mayday call to Channel 16 right now. Believe it or not this is the first time I’ve ever called on my marine radio. I sure hope it works. I call the mayday and the Coast Guard answers immediately. They are on their way and should be here in minutes. I hope it’s not too late.

By now Linda is using the telescoping hooks trying to reach the outstretched hands of the folks in the water. They all have lifejackets now, but only one was able to get it put on correctly; the other two are grasping them to their chests. Linda reaches the teenage girl and begins to pull her toward the Sea Ray. The girl reaches the swim platform and, with help, is able to climb the boat ladder and board the boat (which is bobbing and twisting in the increasing waves). Linda turns toward the other woman--she was not able to put on the life jacket. She grabs for the telescoping hook and Linda begins to pull her toward the boat. She gets to the boat but is too weak to climb the ladder and pull herself on board. She grasps the boat’s ladder, holding on for dear life.

The third boater in the water has begun to drift away from his overturned sailboat and my Sea Ray. Luckily the Coast Guard is approaching in a speedboat that looks like it’s doing 60 knots if anything.  As it approaches the man in the water, a guardsman dives into the lake and comes up behind and under the victim. He secures the man with a line and attaches an inflatable device of some sort. Another Guardsman reaches out with a real hook, one meant for the purpose of saving a person in the water. He quickly draws him to the Coast Guard boat and pulls him in. The rescue is over. Everyone is all right.

I haven’t had time to even think about what was happening. I notice now that my heart must be beating 150 times a minute and my head is throbbing. I feel suddenly nauseous and want to be back on terra firma.

New Poem in German

Das Ende

(Mai 1973)

Zuhause vom Spital kam Klara,

neues Baby in den Armen.

Kein Platz mehr fuer mich in ihrem Bett,

Kuesse weg, Liebe weg.

Vermisse ich ihren Duft,

die Farbe ihres Haares,

Gefuehl ihrer sanften Wange.

Mein Bett, jetzt kalt wie eis.

Mein Herz mein Herz.

Robert M. Coughlin

10. November 2013

Poems and the Universe: We Are Stardust

Thanks to Kathy Flora for this image

Well maybe it's not exactly made of poems (I favor green cheese). But we poets sing about the universe. Joni Mitchell has a phrase in her song "Woodstock" that "we are stardust." Chet Raymo, the great writer, astronomer, and physicist, says that we are literally stardust. Every atom in our beings was forged in a star. Every atom of every thing in our world was forged in a star. "We are stardust, we are golden, and we've got to get ourselves back to the Garden" (Joni Mitchell).

Walsh Jesuit High School (and Katie Quinn) Wins Girls State Championship

Katie Quinn, on right, Walsh Jesuit High School State Champs

I just saw the Plain Dealer article--Walsh Jesuit (Cuyahoga Falls) beat Mason High School 2-0 to win the 2013 girls state soccer championship. Katie Quinn, who is a 2nd cousin, scored the second goal for Walsh. Click on the link below.

Plain Dealer story

Great Night of Poetry in Painesville

Last night we had our second monthly poetry reading in Painesville at the winery/restaurant "Your Vine or Mine." Tobin Terry emceed the evening of poetry reading. The night was kicked off by Linda Tuthill and her husband Tim Tuthill. Linda's poems exhibited very precise word choice and a great eye for the natural world. The poem I liked best was set in Pennsylvania Dutch country, where she grew up. The poem even had a bit of Pennsylvanian German in it (I remember hearing the phrase "was ist los?" which means either "what is going on" or "what is wrong?"). Tim Tuthill followed with very short, exquisitely formulated poems. They were over in a flash and you had to really pay attention for the punch, the twist. You could tell that both Linda and Tim had read a lot of poetry and had written a lot, they were that good.

Margie DeLong then read some poems, as did I. Margie is the person responsible for resurrecting the Painesville poetry night, and is now co-hosting the event with Tobin Terry. Margie's poems were wonderful. I like her eye and how she reached into memory for her poems. My poems were about the coming of winter and waiting for the grace to get through the darkness. I hope the heaviness of these poems didn't put a pall over the evening! I tried for great sounds in this poem (I love sound and rhythm--the music of poetry) combining with the imagery of darkness and storms--and grace.

The featured reader of the night was a poet from the Dayton/Waynesville area of southwest Ohio, Grace Curtis. I didn't know what to expect, but was pleasantly surprised. Grace is a terrific poet and a great reader/performer of her own poems. Her poems play with words and ideas, reach into memory like the poems of Linda Tuthill and Margie DeLong (and actually, the way many of my own poems do). Grace's poems are also a lot of fun, and at times very humorous. And she is not afraid to play with some big, complex ideas. In short, Grace's performance was terrific.

Many of Grace's poems can be found at her website: http://n2poetry.com/poems/

Below are some photos of the readings:

Tobin Terry

Linda Tuthill

Tim Tuthill

Margie DeLong

Grace Curtis

Three Poems for the Coming of Winter

November in Northern Ohio

Before the darkness descends,

This moment of distilled grace--

Skies blue as robin egg,

Woods aflame with sugar maple

Dressed in fall finery

Oranges, yellows, reds.

Keep the clear days and nights in memory

When December falls—

            With its gloom of cloudy darkness,

When your heart is on ice waiting for the transplant!

                                                

November 22, 1963

I remember the very moment

as if it were branded on my soul:

It was 2:05 pm.

We were in Brother O’Connor’s 10^th grade religion class,

St. Joseph High School in Cleveland, eager for the end

of the day.

A crying voice came over the PA

saying, Please Pray for Him, Boys,

He’s Been Shot!

For 30 minutes there was stunned,

uncomprehending silence,

punctuated by confused attempts to pray;

but all our prayers were incoherent,

crazed dancing of a chicken, its head cut off.

At 2:35 Brother Matthew’s quavering voice

said, He’s Dead, Boys. Let’s Pray

For Him And For Ourselves

pray that love and light

overcome the furious violence

and darkness

in our souls.

                                    

Winter Solstice

The chill creeps into the bones:
December 21 and sun gone long before 5 o’clock;
huge gray clouds roll in off Lake Erie
riding the Witch’s gale, spitting sleet and

fears as real and as organized as the swirl
of pin oak leaves down Lakeshore Boulevard.
This day, shaken by nameless fears,
seems to last forever:

I wonder how I will get through the next minute,
and the minute after that,
and the minute after that,

wonder if I can make it
until hope returns

until peace-which-surpasses-understanding,
as mysterious as winter solstice’s fear--
my heart standing still, turning cold,
my spirit abandoned--

until peace returns like grace like unexpected

gift.

                        Robert M. Coughlin