Tuck Everlasting: a Kids Book for Adults

The musical based on Natalie Babbitt’s Tuck Everlasting had only a brief run on Broadway. Fortunately, we have the original cast recording of the delightful music from the show. My love for these songs inspired me to read the novel.

I admire the book because it treats young readers with respect, and because it’s so beautifully written. 

Although it’s intended as a story for kids, it considers the three biggest themes in literature: right and wrong, good and evil, life and death. 

The main characters are the Tuck family, Winnie Foster, and the mysterious man in the yellow suit. And there’s another character that isn’t human: the world of nature. 

Babbitt’s superbly written descriptions of nature are the highlight of the novel. Here’s the opening paragraph of the book.

     The first week of August hangs at the very top of summer, the 
     top of the live-long year, like the highest seat of a ferris 
     wheel when it pauses on its turning. The weeks that come before
     are only a climb from balmy spring, and those that follow a drop
     to the chill of autumn, but the first week of August is motion-
     less, and hot. It is curiously silent, too, with blank white 
     dawns and glaring noons, and sunsets smeared with too much 
     color. Often at night there is lightning, but it quivers all 
     alone. There is no thunder, no relieving rain. These are strange
     and breathless days, the dog days, when people are led to do 
     things they are sure to be sorry for after.

Tuck Everlasting may be intended as a novel for young people, but it got under my older-adult skin. “The question of what it might be like to live forever,” the author told an interviewer, “is something that everyone thinks about. And I think you think about it more when you find out that you can’t do it.” 

Copyright 2018 by Brian Dean Powers


Loafing One Evening with Walt Whitman

Moon + Stars

The old poet sat and looked out with me
on my quiet summer porch.
From wood-and-canvas chairs, we scanned

the world that begins at sunset—
a marvelous occupation that needs no training,
no management team.

“I open my scuttle at night,”
Walt said in the darkness,
“and see the far-sprinkled systems.”

Constellations, we watched, a planet
and a third-quarter moon. The beacon
in the east became a jumbo jet overhead,

its landing lights and its engines
blaring power and authority.
And is there a hierarchy in the night sky?

Is bright Venus superior
to the pock-spotted moon, or
those stars in the Dippers?

Do the stars, in turn, 
exceed the darkness between?
“I do not call one greater

and one smaller,” Walt said,
“that which fills its period and place
is equal to any.”

Not the one outshining the rest,
but the priceless and irreplaceable beats	
of a luminous heart.

Copyright 2018 by Brian Dean Powers

Remembering Gay Poet, James L. White

James White

James White’s book, The Salt Ecstasies, first appeared in 1982. A new edition was published by Graywolf Press in 2010, augmented with a superb fourteen-page introduction by Mark Doty.

Born in Indiana in 1936, White and his generation matured in a world before Stonewall and marriage equality. Doty describes the speaker in White’s poems as “overweight, desperately lonely, grateful for whatever scrap of joy and affection sex will bring him.”

While the poet’s unhappiness seeps into every poem, there are passages of love and connection. 

In The First Time,  he describes a memorable encounter.

          We’re bunglers when it’s really good:
          bow legs, pimply backs, scrawny chest hair,
          full of mistakes and good intentions.

His poems are filled with the details of working class life, as in Making Love to Myself.

          After work when you’d come in and
          turn the TV off and sit on the edge of the bed,
          filling the room with gasoline smell from your overalls,
          trying not to wake me which you always did.

He’s often suggestive, without being explicit. In Summer News, White describes a tender encounter.

          He undresses me, telling me how tired I am,
          that friends have brought me their truths all day.
          He seems as beautiful as I wish my life was
          in the boiling light of our slight sweating.

In my favorite of his poems, Skin Movers, he finds deep joy in the mere presence of another.

          How still we are in sleep
          as though morning holds its breath.
          Our bodies rinsed with light
          like soaked birch.

Skin Movers ends with a moment of transcendence.

          Good love is like this.
          Even the smell of baked bread won’t make it better,
          this being out of myself for a while.

The corrected galleys for The Salt Ecstasies were on White’s bedside table when he died of heart disease in 1981. In Mark Doty’s estimation, “his consideration of desire and loneliness reaches beyond any categories of identity.”

The Lantern Room

Night Forest

Under a star-stuccoed sky, we wander
in the cold among the pine furnishings, we

tramp a parquet of bark and brown
needles. We say truth is found

in the clear shine of day, but
lit by the room’s lunar lamp 

we might know something more
for seeing less. Distinctions

dim, until who we are
is second to the blending. Light

flakes off the moon
and fuses with the freezing air.

Copyright 2007 by Brian Dean Powers
Published in the 2009 Wisconsin Poets’ Calendar

Honoring Gay Olympian, Eric Radford

In every Olympics, I seem to gravitate toward one standout athlete. This year it’s Canadian pairs skater, Eric Radford.

In pairs skating, it’s common to describe the man as a stem and the woman as a flower. But Eric is more like a tall and solid redwood.

According to Outsports, before Radford “no elite figure skater on the world stage has ever come out publicly at the height of his competitive career.”

Radford is the first openly gay man to win a gold medal in a winter Olympics. He also goes home with a bronze medal as well. He won a silver medal in 2014.

Ursula Le Guin’s Challenge to Writers

Ursula K. Le Guin passed away January 22, 2018. She was one of my favorite authors, writing science fiction, speculative fiction, fantasy and poetry.

I devoured the Earthsea series. I admired her incredible story of gender-shifting people in The Left Hand of Darkness.

I’ve read The Lathe of Heaven half a dozen times at least. In that novel, a man has “effective dreams” that change reality retroactively. It’s a story about the limits of meddling with the world, built on the ideas of Taoism.

“I think hard times are coming,” she predicted, “when we will be wanting the voices of writers who can see alternatives to how we live now.”

Those times are here.

A Community Chorus

Snowy Pine

Each of the men
wore a white shirt
with a silver tie
and a black sport jacket.

Fresh wet snow mounded
the evergreens and stair-
railings outside the hall. 
Walking single file into

the auditorium, the chorus
—thirty novice volunteers,
assembled themselves 
on a three-tiered riser.

With almost flawless harmony
the singers began by wondering
whether old acquaintance
be forgot and never brought

to mind. A soloist
came forward from
the front row, and
—well, he had trouble

staying on the intended
pitch path. But
how could we be harsh
when he so cheerfully

suggested we drink
a cup of kindness?
When he stepped back
the group-voice

returned to smooth out
individual flaws.
Thus, for an hour or so
in the bleak midwinter

of snow on snow,
snow on snow,
the whole
outshone its parts.

Copyright 2016 by Brian Dean Powers