The Youngest of These

As the sparrows in the loving arms of shelter

you huddle

               trust

Canons fire at the borders of your home

     and yet

               you don’t flinch

  for you know the sound; it soothes you,

          rocks you to sleep, to dream

of fields far away and nearby, where your protector

                     slaves in love, for his country, his homeland

    and yours.

You cannot always know the “why” of what he does

        and yet you’re proud

                stalwart

Standing at an attention of your own kind

        you know

   from the outside world, you’re not the same

they have police & grocery stores, convenience

you have MPs & commissaries, shoppettes

               it’s a different world

       and they’ll never know.

As he is promoted with full honor & bearing & grace

     and ceremony

             you watch

  learning of honor & bearing & grace

As he retires

               while – in the other world

                  a man leaving his job gets a watch and a

              “thanks and see ya (but won’t, of course)” dinner

               with kids at home with sitter or off away

     You are called to join

               stand in line beside him, quiet, respectful

          grace in its highest form

your protector, your personal hero

        receives with dignity a thank you & “we’re still here for you”

spouse & children, as well – always one

               a proud smile warms your knowing face while he

               accepts – with deep gratitude – his award

  and then

at his side

      you receive flowers, too

     for a military man never works alone

               his job is not only his – it belongs to all

         especially, it belongs to you

you who sacrificed

               moving homes

               leaving friends

               doing without your nightly hug because he’s away

           for days – months, eternity at times

               partnering with him, with your mom who pretends you

                              don’t know she cries

               becoming her strength as she gives hers to you

             
  he can’t do his job without you

                   without knowing your job is harder

                   simple childhood is non-existent in your world

     you are so much more

more than they – those on the outside – will ever know

            or care to know

        you are the strong

                       the strength

                       the persevered

        you are the proud

                        the knowing, the heart

it is you for which he fights, fears, gives:

            sacrifice that he sees not as sacrifice

            but as “is”

You will always know what others will not

               -- sympathy & empathy are not the same

               you want no sympathy

               (only others like you can give you empathy)

you want only respect

                              hard earned

                              hard to truly find

    it is for you, for every part of who you are

           & what you will become

        for which he fights

                              it is all

               or nothing – he knows no in between

                 neither do you

for you he fights, for love

          & it is you who shows him what true love

                                             is

The youngest of these pay for others’ sins

               & you are the proof of how beautiful that is

___
April is National Poetry Month, as well as the Month of the Military Child. This is for my children, and for military children everywhere.
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©2010 LK Hunsaker. All Rights Reserved.
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Abridged Arts

"People had longer attention spans.... The works have been abridged to make it easy, more accessible for the TV generation."
Mikhail Baryshnikov


I clicked on a link tonight that asked how many were planning to watch the Grammy Awards. Welcoming the chance to say, "No, thank you, I have better things to do," I was pleasantly surprised that the majority of voters agreed.

I love music. I used to watch all of the music award shows years ago in order to get a chance to see some of my favorite singers and musicians. And then came the MTV/VH1/CMT generation where we could watch them anytime we decided. I did watch videos for a while. Rarely able to attend concerts, I used them as a substitute, having them on as often as my radio, or nearly. Now they are all over the internet. Is it any surprise award shows have lost their charm considering the availability of picking and choosing who we want to watch instead of whomever the powers to be decide to invite?

As a curiosity, I did click the link that told me who was nomimated for the top three awards. After wondering if I had the right list, I could see why so few are interested in watching. Has music declined that far? There was not one act I care to listen to on the radio, much less waste 3 hours of precious time seeing who comes out "ahead."

I posted this in my daily journal and another writer replied it's the same in the writing world. "Poets" who so apparently haven't studied the artistry and technique of poetry are publishing their works. Essays are nothing but rants without real thought other than fleeting anger. Journalists who have forgotten or never bothered to learn the concept of integrity of the written word abound in print and online. Where is the artistry in the arts?

I am an advocate of the indie arts. I'm an indie artist. The internet has become an incredible tool for those outside main genre publishing, in both music and writing. Readers and listeners now have many more choices than one of the niches that big companies pick up and put out there. Artists now have a free venue with which to promote themselves. It is a wonderful thing.

On the other hand, it has also given some a false sense of "art." The number of works being pushed out into public view without being ready is alarming. I receive many, many friend requests from indie bands on Myspace. I don't mind getting them, and I always go give them a listen. Many I add because they do have talent and I like their sound. Most now, I refuse, either because it isn't my style or because I flat-out can't fathom why someone told them they were ready to publish their music.

The same applies to writing. I can go to a writer's site or read their emails on a writing list and know they can't possibly be someone I want to read. Yet, they are promoting books they've published, likely without professional editing. Some writers can get away without professional editing, as long as they have someone else reading their work to find things a writer cannot see in her own work. Some are attuned to grammar and only need an extra eye and suggestions about the plot or characters. Some have incredible stories and a nice way with words and only need grammar assistance. Some have neither, and yet, because they "wrote a book," they decide it needs to be published.

Poetry books are being published without the "poet" realizing it takes more than rhyme and a certain number of lines to be actual poetry. There's an artistry missing that cannot be faked.

There is artistry missing in much of the arts.

In this TV generation, we are full of the glitz and glamour of things without bothering with quality. Our actors don't have to know how to act. They only have to know how to put on a show and flash their smiles. Our politicians don't have to be well-trained in how to command or lead. They have to be charming and look good on our screens. Our singers don't have to know about the intricacies of music. They have to be actors who can make those clueless about music vote for them. Our writers don't have to train themselves on the techniques of plot, characterization, climax, endings, sentence structure, or poetic use of words. They have to know how to create book trailers to catch attention with "book videos."

Of course there are exceptions. There are many indies doing glorious jobs and I love that they have the means to let their work be known. I only wish the artistry would come before the promotion instead of our arts becoming so abridged.