Although his ode to "Trees" was the first piece of verse committed to memory by several generations of American schoolchildren, Alfred Joyce Kilmer had a lot to overcome, including the fact that his parents chose to identify him by his middle name. After surviving what, one presumes, were dozens of playground brawls about his moniker, Kilmer had the further misfortune to become a poet whose work not only made sense but actually rhymed. This, of course, amounted to the kiss of death among literary critics, so much so, that the effete highbrows at his alma mater,Columbia, now pay homage to him with an annual "Bad Poetry Contest."
As I first did some four years ago, I beg to offer Joyce Kilmer's "Kings'" which might not be great poetry, but still strikes me as damn good and ironic insight, worthy both of the immediate season and the times in which we live:
The Kings of the earth are men of might,
And cities are burned for their delight,
And the skies rain death in the silent night,
And the hills belch death all day!
But the King of Heaven, Who made them all,
Is fair and gentle, and very small;
He lies in the straw, by the oxen's stall --
I posted this verse in 2005 as part of a critique of a warrior president who seemed to believe he had been elected king. Now, here it is again,even as the winner of the Nobel Peace Prize who is our new commander-in-chief orders the escalation of American involvement in Afghanistan on the premise that this is the best way to achieve peace in that region. To invoke an old analogy, fighting for peace strikes me as about as efficacious as fornicating for chastity, and any "peace" achieved by wielding the proverbial big stick is likely to last only until the other guy finds a bigger stick.
(The following are excerpts, first from the 2010 posting, after the birth in May of our precious grandson, Barrett, and then from 2011, anticipating the impending arrival of our equally precious granddaughter, Virginia.)
When I read every day about our courageous young men who are being killed or horribly maimed every day in Afghanistan, I can't help but question the reasons behind such sacrificial slaughter and remember that many of these young heroes are not even two decades removed from the warm, cuddly, infinitely curious and wide-eyed little boy. I can't wait to hold as close as I can for as long as I can....
[A year later,] Barrett remains all those things, although he is now fully ambulatory and picking up new words ( Careful, Grandpa OB!) at the rate of about one per minute. He has no idea, of course, that , God willing, at the tender age of twenty months, he will soon be assuming the awesome responsibility of being big brother to a newly arrived little sister. Thus, bless his heart, this stands to be his last year as the only star in the Christmas firmament for his doting and utterly devoted parents and grandparents.
As you can see here, Joyce Kilmer knew about these things, for he served in the vaunted "War to End all wars," and died in 1918, about a year after he wrote "Kings," reportedly killed by a sniper at the Second Battle of the Marne.
Obviously, the Ol' Bloviator is in a bit of a somber mood right now, but he hasn't forgotten that this is supposed to be a season of hope and good cheer, and it is in that spirit that he presents the second annual Redneck Festival of Lights (Mash below) as may be witnessed any evening these days in front of the humble abode that he shares with the longsuffering Ms. OB, who, needless to say, both enjoys and deserves the deepest sympathies of the neighbors. If you can't come by to admire the Ol' Bloviator's artistry firsthand, let me wish you the happiest and safest of holidays. In other words, as they used to say in the country,"Have a good'un," or as they still say over at Ga. Tech, "Felice Bobby Dodd!"
