IN PRAISE OF THE GRUMPY

 

And as you stand there

Arms crossed

Managing to look both infinitely patient and impatient at the same time

Trying not to roll your eyes and wonder how much longer all this will take

Let us now praise you.

You: the grumpy, the grouchy, the grumbling.

You: the beleaguered and the put-upon.

You: our hidden hero.

Because while you are

Short-tempered with the witless

Furious with the shallow and

Yelling at the television

It is only because you are so thoughtful

That everyone else seems so thoughtless.

And while you insist that you do not care about

What anyone is wearing or

What anyone said or did or

What so-and-so said or did back,

Nor do you give two figs about

The disenfranchised urban-dweller of today or

The illiterate or

The underprivileged of some foreign land or

Whomever it is we're supposed to be caring about today and that

You will not, under any circumstances,

Attend the choir concert or

The holiday party or

The 12-step meeting or

The neighborhood street fair or

The fancy dress ball or

The class reunion - for God's sake especially not the reunion - and that

You mustn't be relied upon for

Donations or

A ride home or

Free advice or

Help moving in to your new townhouse or a

Damn birthday present or

Whatever it is that all those people with all those

Outstretched hands

Seem to want

You must know that we all know

That you do, indeed, care and that

You will, if pressed, attend and that

We all do rely

On you.

We can tell that you care,

Because you so assiduously refuse to conform to

Some greeting-card version of caring

And instead insist on caring about us as individuals.

You remember the conversation we had about

Ry Cooder's guitar playing, and

Six weeks later you slip us a

Homemade cassette tape with no label.

You shun the collection plate, and yet

You shove a hundred dollars into the Youth Group's coffee can

(A check, of course - no sense missing out on the tax deduction just because you had a weak moment.)

And when you go to greet us,

You look us in the eye and take our full measure

And if you should

Notice that we look a bit sad,

You will grab our hand and

Kiss us roughly on the cheek and say,

"You OK, darlin'?"

You might grouse about Christmas Eve,

But you do love Christmas morning.

And while you would never voluntarily look at a

Photo album,

You forever hold a picture in your mind of

How we looked in

That Halloween costume

That prom dress

That uniform.

And we know you will attend

(Quit squirming - this poem isn't that much longer)

Because underneath your self-proclaimed

Disdain for all humanity

You are curious.

Intensely, insatiably, incorruptibly curious

And while you act repulsed

I suspect you are truly fascinated by us -

This clamoring horde of strangers you are compelled to share the planet with.

OK, OK: with whom this planet you are compelled to share.

Good grief you can be a pain sometimes.

And oh, how we rely on you.

And finally,

While you have largely succeeded in getting yourself off of

The phone tree

(That tactic you had about boring everybody silly with the excruciating details of your latest Water Filtration Project did wonders for removing you from any thinking hostess' guest list)

We do still rely on you.

Oh how we rely on you.

Oh how we rely on you.

You are our voice of sanity

Our comrade-in-arms

Our truth-telling ally in a world of endless bullshit.

You are our hidden hero

Deceptively chivalrous with

Your tender heart clad in dented armor.

And you must know that

When you are gone

We miss you.

So go ahead and

Sneak out at intermission and

Have an extra drink to get you through the reception and

Just turn and walk away from the

Over-gesticulating and the infuriatingly self-righteous.

Save yourself from these petty cruelties so that

When the world becomes just too much for us poor mortals to bear

We can rely on you to save us.

Oh how we rely on you.

Oh how we rely on you.

Oh how we rely on you.

Now stand still, because we're going to give you a nice, big hug. 

Samantha Bennett

© 2009 

A Poem In Praise of the Exuberant by Samantha Bennett

And as you stand there
Sunshining all over our Rain Parade
Voice cheering
Toes tapping
Eyes dancing

Let us now praise you.
You, the mango-coconut in our vanilla world.
You, the red balloon in our blue sky.

You, the hooray-for-your-new-job (or hooray-for-your-engagement or hooray-for-your-wedding or hooray-for-your-new-baby or hooray-for-your-divorce) party-throwing friend.

Your door is always open

And don't think we don't take advantage of it.

Your heart is always open
And don't think we don't take advantage of it.

You have a particular kind of bravery:
The not-being-afraid-of-feelings kind of brave
The stand-up-and-be-counted kind of brave
The jump-off-the-high-dive (again) (naked) kind of brave.

We always know when you're in the audience, because

We recognize your laugh.

And as you sit us down and give us your full-beam attention and as you ask us for every detail of our latest adventure (how do you always lead us to the conclusion that our life is an adventure?) and as we, flattered by your unwavering, bright-eyed gaze, end up going on and on and on and on, we have to mentally waft away the annoying, fluttering thought,

"Yes, but: Who takes care of you?"

Because we know that underneath the nonstop carnival there is a lot of

Damn hard work and that some of

Your sparkle
Is the glitter from the parts that got
Broken.

We've seen you fall and get right back up and assumed that it must not have been that much of a
Tumble but the truth is that

You alone have the
Strength to Rise.

And so it is from you we learn that while we may not always
Feel happy

We can always feel

Joy.

And as you Gush and Exclaim and Twist and Shout and Wiggle with pleasure and Yelp and Hoot and Swear out loud and Burst into tears and Rush in and Hug and Holler across the room in a way that some might think of as

Embarrassing, we

Bask in your fearless conviction that
No human experience is unlovable.

Thank you for that.

So let's break out the
Sequins and the feather boas and
Have dessert first and
Grin at strangers and
Let's do the Hokey-Pokey and really
Put our Whole Self in
And order one more bottle because it's so nice to all be together

Under the Abundant Sun.

© 2009 Samantha Bennett, excerpted from "By The Way, You Look Really Great Today: Selected Poems by Samantha Bennett"

In Praise of the Grumpy

IN PRAISE OF THE GRUMPY

And as you stand there

Arms crossed

Managing to look both infinitely patient and impatient at the same time

Trying not to roll your eyes and wonder how much longer all this will take

Let us now praise you.

You: the grumpy, the grouchy, the grumbling.

You: the beleaguered and the put-upon.

You: our hidden hero.

Because while you are

Short-tempered with the witless

Furious with the shallow and

Yelling at the television

It is only because you are so thoughtful

That everyone else seems so thoughtless.

And while you insist that you do not care about

What anyone is wearing or

What anyone said or did or

What so-and-so said or did back,

Nor do you give two figs about

The disenfranchised urban-dweller of today or

The illiterate or

The underprivileged of some foreign land or

Whomever it is we're supposed to be caring about today and that

You will not, under any circumstances,

Attend the choir concert or

The holiday party or

The 12-step meeting or

The neighborhood street fair or

The fancy dress ball or

The class reunion - for God's sake especially not the reunion - and that

You mustn't be relied upon for

Donations or

A ride home or

Free advice or

Help moving in to your new townhouse or a

Damn birthday present or

Whatever it is that all those people with all those

Outstretched hands

Seem to want

You must know that we all know

That you do, indeed, care and that

You will, if pressed, attend and that

We all do rely

On you.

We can tell that you care,

Because you so assiduously refuse to conform to

Some greeting-card version of caring

And instead insist on caring about us as individuals.

You remember the conversation we had about

Ry Cooder's guitar playing, and

Six weeks later you slip us a

Homemade cassette tape with no label.

You shun the collection plate, and yet

You shove a hundred dollars into the Youth Group's coffee can

(A check, of course - no sense missing out on the tax deduction just because you had a weak moment.)

And when you go to greet us,

You look us in the eye and take our full measure

And if you should

Notice that we look a bit sad,

You will grab our hand and

Kiss us roughly on the cheek and say,

"You OK, darlin'?"

You might grouse about Christmas Eve,

But you do love Christmas morning.

And while you would never voluntarily look at a

Photo album,

You forever hold a picture in your mind of

How we looked in

That Halloween costume

That prom dress

That uniform.

And we know you will attend

(Quit squirming - this poem isn't that much longer)

Because underneath your self-proclaimed

Disdain for all humanity

You are curious.

Intensely, insatiably, incorruptibly curious

And while you act repulsed

I suspect you are truly fascinated by us -

This clamoring horde of strangers you are compelled to share the planet with.

OK, OK: with whom this planet you are compelled to share.

Good grief you can be a pain sometimes.

And oh, how we rely on you.

And finally,

While you have largely succeeded in getting yourself off of

The phone tree

(That tactic you had about boring everybody silly with the excruciating details of your latest Water Filtration Project did wonders for removing you from any thinking hostess' guest list)

We do still rely on you.

Oh how we rely on you.

Oh how we rely on you.

You are our voice of sanity

Our comrade-in-arms

Our truth-telling ally in a world of endless bullshit.

You are our hidden hero

Deceptively chivalrous with

Your tender heart clad in dented armor.

And you must know that

When you are gone

We miss you.

So go ahead and

Sneak out at intermission and

Have an extra drink to get you through the reception and

Just turn and walk away from the

Over-gesticulating and the infuriatingly self-righteous.

Save yourself from these petty cruelties so that

When the world becomes just too much for us poor mortals to bear

We can rely on you to save us.

Oh how we rely on you.

Oh how we rely on you.

Oh how we rely on you.

Now stand still, because we're going to give you a nice, big hug. 

Samantha Bennett

© 2009 

Saying Goodbye

This week we've said goodbye to two icons.

David Bowie and Alan Rickman

Did I know them?

Why, no.  Of course not.

But did they manage to touch me in some way?

They did.



Music has always been a very big part of my life.

This started back when I was just a kid growing up in the amazingly quirky Arcade Apartments in Cambridge, MD.

My parents were both lovers of music.

And dancing.

Oh, how they loved to dance.

There weren't many Saturday nights that they weren't out dancing, often bringing the band home with them where they would end up spending the night.  Jamming, singing, laughing.  The band members and their wives or girlfriends were part of a very large extended family that I remember having around the breakfast table with us for a lot of years.

I remember sitting and listening to a lot of jam sessions.  And singing along.

When the bands weren't there, the radio was on.

And I can still hear my dad's voice saying, "C'mon, Hazel, let's dance," as he turned up the radio and swept my mom into a jitterbug in our kitchen.  It was a huge kitchen and was the perfect place for them to spin, spin, spin.  


One of the favorite family vacations would include music on The Steel Pier in Atlantic City, NJ.


There I remember seeing Fabian, Paul Anka, Conway Twitty (when he was doing pop, not country, music), Dion and Frankie Avalon.  And, my favorite, Louie Armstrong.




And because our apartment was directly over the only movie theater in town, I saw a lot of movies.  Formed a lot of crushes on those guys I watched on the big screen.




Things, it seems, change but stay the same.

All night jam sessions seem to have become, somehow, a part of my life even as I grew up and moved away from home.

I remember many of them in various different apartments in Atlanta.

And concerts became a part of my life.


This was when my friend Becky and I were in Underground Atlanta one night, walked into a bar and with serendipity walking along with us happened onto Percy Sledge on a small stage singing "When a Man Loves a Woman."  Pure magic.



Live music.  wow.  There is nothing like it.


I've been lucky enough to see a lot of the great bands and artists I love.  


Beginning, I guess with a Motown concert I sneaked into Baltimore to see.  Telling my parents I was going to a dance in the next small town on Salisbury.  Baltimore was easily on the top of the "You will not do this" list for me when I was in high school.  So driving into Baltimore with friends to see a concert just felt deliciously dangerous to this small town 15 year old girl.

It was worth knowingly breaking that rule to see Otis Redding, Martha & the Vandellas, Smokey Robinson and The Miracles and Mary Wells.

Was I hooked?

Pfft.

What do you think?

Hell, yes, I was hooked!


Getting to see The Temptations and The Four Tops at The University of Delaware when I was at Brandywine College just capped the love this gal now had for live music.

To sit in audience able to watch a favorite artist perform his music moves me in a way I can't express.  So usually, I just cry.  Cry buckets.  And yes, it's embarrassing.  But I can't help it.  Beauty moves me to tears.  Being able to watch someone make music they love, sing the words to a song they wrote - a song that came from their heart.  Man.  Yes.  I'm gonna cry.  I cried so hard at an Eric Clapton concert, poor Donald was afraid the people sitting around us were going to think he had done something awful to me.  Which, of course, he did not.  He just sat there and held my hand.  and he understood.

By the time it happened again at the Don Williams concert in Asheville, NC he saw it coming and quietly handed me tissues he had thought to bring.


So yes, David Bowie's death affected me.




And then Alan Rickman.




Who didn't love Alan Rickman?


Wasn't he everyone's secret crush?


Who else could have been Professor Snape?


To those of us already captured by the magic of Harry Potter, watching the actors chosen to bring the characters to life through the movies were captivated and enchanted once again.  And felt as though we knew these people.  They became more than fictional characters to us - and none more so than Alan Rickman's Professor Snape.


No, I didn't know him.  Not really.  But don't we all feel like we kinda do?  Don't we feel like we'd enjoy having dinner with a particular celebrity and hear him tell stories that we can just sit back and relish?  Watch his face become animated and hear him laugh?  Alan Rickman seemed to possess a wicked and sly and intelligent sense of humor.  I am always a sucker for a man with a wry and dry sense of humor.  



Last night I watched the Willie Nelson tribute concert for being awarded The Gershwin Prize.


And I cried.


The artists performing Willie's music did a fantastic job.


And then Willlie performed.


And he looked every one of his 82 years.  and I cried.


Watched him make music with his two sons.


and I cried.



I've seen Willie Nelson in concert maybe 15 or more times over the years.


If there's a celebrity icon out there that has touched me more than anyone else, it's Willie.


I have no explanation.


Why should I?



I've read some snide comments on Facebook this week ridiculing people who have expressed sadness at the deaths of celebrities.


These people, I believe, must be hard, unfeeling people.


So, I stopped reading those comments, instead focusing on the words of people who reacted with honest sadness.


One of those was Samantha Bennett who writes poetry that resonates with me.


Here's what she wrote this week - - - 

For the Shape Shifters 


You knew that life was a limited-time offer.
Luckily, you could see through walls 
and veils 
and minds. 
Silly you thought that everybody had x-ray vision 
But we don't. 
So we were always so surprised by what you perceived. 
Perception. Perspective. Perspicacious. 
Purr Purr Purr 
You could talk to the animals and they talked right back. 
In your silence we saw stars. 
You were not here for our entertainment. 
You were here for our illumination. 
Thank you for the light. 

And now, for your final trick 
You have disappeared. 
And we're still here believing that
time is real and 
money matters 
and that you were ever really here to begin with
or that you have truly gone. 

©2016 Samantha Bennett 
Created with love for:

1/7: Richard Libertini, 82, actor
1/8: Brian Bedford, 80, actor
1/10: David Bowie, 69, force of nature
1/12: C.D. Wright, 67, poet
1/13: Lois Weisberg, 90, Commissioner of Cultural Affairs for Chicago, IL.
1/14: Alan Rickman, 69, actor 


Share your work, people. We're not here forever.

Yours,
Sam

And, here's an excellent article which talks about "Why We Grieve The Loss of Cultural Icons."  It makes perfect sense to me.  You may enjoy it.  http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/david-bowie-alan-rickman-grief_5697d1cde4b0b4eb759d7102