Physics

Physics

February 2, 2004

Matter can be neither created nor destroyed,

But in an isolated system

Will be conserved in perfect balance,

Interplaying with its attendant energy,

According to the laws of nature and of nature’s God.

And in a universe of mysteries,

The greatest and rarest mystery of all,

That in a small quantity of collected atoms

From time to time

Matter and energy exist in equipoise,

The one supporting the other;

A hybrid

For a time, or a lifetime, or less

But at a great cost,

For there is no isolated system in this or any other universe.

The only matter that matters will

Inevitably

Be separated from its indwelling energy

And the energy departs

We do not know where

All that is left behind is matter,

And matter is the only thing that will mark the passing of energy --

A spark, a puff of wind, a moving shadow perhaps

The things we choose to mark its passing,

Bare matter themselves,

Wood, metal, stone,

A folded sweater, a dusty book,

Or random energy,

A dream, a memory,

Faulty firing of synapses

A sound, the soft click of a lid as it closes on a life

A flicker at the edge of thought

A strain of music—

All these things will last longer than the matter

That has been severed and cannot return to us,

Until we shall go to it.

_____________________

(I'm reblogging this poem today, 2 years after I wrote it. I had forgotten about it until I found a file titled "physics" in my creative writing folder and wondered what in the world my least favorite subject was doing there. After opening it I remembered. It's probably more metaphysics than physics, but it encapsulates some of the things I was pondering when my mother died, and on the anniversary of her death every year. Or whenever I wear her sweater or hold one of her books, things made of organic matter themselves but much more enduring than the human body. From what I can remember, writing this poem was painful, so I made it fast. Reading it again after two years brings back those hospice days vividly, but it is odd how the composition of the poem itself feels so distant to me, as if another person had written it.)

The Family Camp Song

We returned from a few days at Family Camp on Saturday. Once again, I felt stirred to follow the questionable lyric proddings of my poetic muse, and this song for the Talent Show is the result. There is a cell phone video which I will do my utmost to make sure never gets shared here.

The OP Family Campers
by Katherine Chapman

Tune: Battle Hymn of the Republic
Inspired by speaker's (Karl Thompson) description of being a "circuit-riding preacher" and the first two lines of the old gospel song.
Lyrics sung by yours truly; accompaniment by Steve on the syllable "doom" - like "batter the doom drums" from Agamemnon, but more light-hearted, like plucking a bass fiddle. Additional "dooms" and charming hand motions by Tertia. Intro and vamp between verses is eight beats on "doom" - as close to bass as a tenor can get: Do Sol Mi Sol Do Sol Mi Sol -- and then improvised throughout on bass-ish/tenor-ish lines and keeping the beat as much as you can when you've only practiced it twice. Daniel begged off from making it a family act (and nailing the bass) by being appointed the MC of the talent show, and Quarta bailed because singing "doom" in a trio was beneath the dignity of a rising 9th grader. Soprano was trying very hard not to giggle or forget the lines, and even with the scratch sheet of lyrics in front of her ended up switching a few unintentionally. Here is how it was supposed to be:

The OP family campers come from all across the land -
With their hammocks in their hatchback and their bugspray in their hand.
They paddle in the murky lake, play volleyball in the sand -
   In Wamic, OreGON!

(CHORUS)
Glory, glory hallelujah!
Come on, children, we'll canoe ya -
Lots of fun times will come to ya
   As Family Camp goes on.

This August we converged upon the tiny town of Wamic,
And we all hope the Morris' boat won't sink like the Titanic -
But the ice cream stand is open soon so no one needs to panic
   After the great BANANATHON!

(CHORUS)
Glory, glory hallelujah!
Come on, children, we'll canoe ya -
Lots of fun times will come to ya
   As Family Camp goes on.

In the heat of the afternoon we go down the waterslide -
We eat cookies, fruit and pancakes till we're 50 inches wide!
Board games, golf and carpetball -- we play them all with pride
   In Wamic, OreGON!

(CHORUS)
Glory, glory hallelujah!
Come on, children, we'll canoe ya -
Lots of fun times will come to ya
   As Family Camp goes on.

-----------------------

It came to my attention after the fact that some people pronounce Wamic as "WAHmic" and if that is the accurate pronunciation, I meant no disrespect. Certainly, this girl grew up in Akron and Canton, Ohio, and a bit of the nasal on the short A's is a good antidote to appearing too pretentious, which we would certainly never want to do, especially at Family Camp. The mockery of the pronunciation of Oregon was perhaps a little more intentional. I count it a success, as I heard the tune being whistled and hummed on the evening air as the crowd dispersed.

The Bananathon itself was an eventful one, as two of the three teams had their canoes sink right off the start, but alas! my lyrics were already written and the muse had departed by then. Perhaps next year's poem will be a mock epic styled after "The Charge of the Light Brigade." Or a spiritual, "Down by the Waterslide." But it doesn't pay to overthink these things. Who am I kidding, it doesn't pay, period!

I need to go put ointment on my mosquito bites.

I am the Very Model of a Modern Presbyterian (The Family Camp poem)

I am the very model of a modern Presbyterian.

In erudition, I surpass the average seminarian;

I know theology, both redemptive and historical--

My library is organized in order categorical.

I’m very well acquainted too with all the views millennial,

I understand the sequence of the councils ecumenical,

I have profound insights concerning hymnody and psalmody,

With many harsh invectives on that “modern worship” comedy.

I write extensively on apologetics VanTilian,

And would never stoop to sing in a venue vaudevillian,

In Hebrew, Greek, and Latin I’m an expert grammarian –

I am the very model of a modern Presbyterian.

I’m “semper reformanda” in all matters theological,

With a gentle fondness for the classical and pedagogical.

I reserve particular disdain for the dispensational ,

Because it promotes everything emotive and sensational.

In ecclesiology my views are credal and confessional,

Eschewing all those trendy terms like “emergent” and “missional”

I’m sure I never will be accused of being remotely relevant –

Or may I be stomped upon by a rampaging elephant!

I’ve got at least five strong arguments to counter the Arminians,

I can “posse” and “peccare” with the wisest Augustinians.

I know the ins and outs of all the spheres Kuyperian—

I am the very model of a modern Presbyterian!

My views on orthodoxy derive from deep antiquity;

I renounce and calumniate all workers of iniquity;

I spend my time reviewing the Westminster Shorter Catechism

And never would take a part in any sort of fanaticism.

And so I came to Wamic to participate in Family Camp

(A more convivial experience than my final Koine Greek exam!)

I cheered for all the youthful contestants in the Bananathon,

And, to wrap it all up, here I am, singing this silly song.

Our worship has simplicity and also authenticity,

I acknowledge, even so, our undeniable eccentricity,

In short, from all eternity, I am pre-destinarian –

I am the very model of a modern Presbyterian!

August, 2015

(first performance, graciously recited by Dan Dillard, 8-21-15 at the OPC Family Camp talent show, Camp Morrow, Wamic, OR)

Katherine Chapman

Physics

Physics:

February 2, 2004

Matter can be neither created nor destroyed,

But in an isolated system

Will be conserved in perfect balance,

Interplaying with its attendant energy,

According to the laws of nature and of nature’s God.

And in a universe of mysteries,

The greatest and rarest mystery of all,

That in a small quantity of collected atoms

From time to time

Matter and energy exist in equipoise,

The one supporting the other;

A hybrid

For a time, or a lifetime, or less

But at a great cost,

For there is no isolated system in this or any other universe.

The only matter that matters will

Inevitably

Be separated from its indwelling energy

And the energy departs

We do not know where

All that is left behind is matter,

And matter is the only thing that will mark the passing of energy --

A spark, a puff of wind, a moving shadow perhaps

The things we choose to mark its passing,

Bare matter themselves,

Wood, metal, stone,

A folded sweater, a dusty book,

Or random energy,

A dream, a memory,

Faulty firing of synapses

A sound, the soft click of a lid as it closes on a life

A flicker at the edge of thought

A strain of music—

All these things will last longer than the matter

That has been severed and cannot return to us,

Until we shall go to it.

- Katherine Chapman

(in memoriam: Rosalie Ruth Maffett Bogue)

A Burial

... or rather, a recycling.  The sad truth is that Immortal Poems of the English Language, edited by Oscar Williams, in a cheap paperback edition probably dating from the 1950's when my late mother bought her brother's old textbooks in a bulk lot, was never holding up very well when I knew and loved it back in the 1980's.  I was a romantic teenager then, and I picked it up out of the jumble of other anthologies and history books in the spare room.  "I like poetry... I can even write poetry!"  (I wrote very bad poetry).  So it sat beside my bed for about a year, and every night I would read a few pages.  It changed my life.

It started with the medieval songs and ballads, many of them anonymous, most of them gory and depressing, with the quintessentially British love of the macabre.  Just ask Lord Randal or Tom O'Bedlam.  It seemed to me, as I was working my way through the archaic words, that the medieval world was much more rich and satisfying, albeit dangerous, than the modern one.  Every so often there would be a poem where some even more archaic words were mixed with the medieval ones -- stepping stones from ancient times.  I think this must have been the first time I ever consciously wanted to study Latin, although I'd certainly read Myths of Greece and Rome and loved the stories: but I hadn't yet been captivated by the language itself.

Even the moderns, though I preferred the older writers and could never memorize poetry that had no meter or rhyme, had an inspiring way with words that told me they were kindred spirits.

It took a long time to work my way through the Shakespeare section, but I felt that I had a good handle on the English sonnet form after that.

 

"Could I revive within me

Her symphony and song

...

Weave a circle 'round him thrice

And close your eyes with holy dread:

For he on honeydew hath fed,

And drunk the milk of paradise!"

"The world is charged with the grandeur of God,

It will flame out, like shining from shook foil..."

"Earth, receive an honored guest;

William Yeats is laid to rest:

Let the Irish vessel lie

Emptied of its poetry."

Yes, I'll miss this little volume.  But the poems themselves are, indeed, immortal.



Poem in my Pocket

I've been keeping this post in my pocket for a busy day.  The folks over at Redeemed Reader did a National Poem in my Pocket Day post back in August.  So I wrote a poem and posted it in the comments.  But I figured, I should really post my own poem on my very own blog, shouldn't I?  So here it is.

The Pockets I Do Not Check

Too busy and already
turned inside-out myself,
I don’t check the pockets.
I might find loose change afterwards
and it will sit on the counter awhile;
then someone will put a penny
in the penny racer
to trip over another day.
Once a ceramic bunny figurine,
once my son’s I-Pod headphones,
once a pocketful of crayons
(WD-40 is very useful
to clean the dryer,
and red-orange is no longer
my favorite color).

Book review - Septimus Heap

In the crowded world of juvenile fantasy literature, Angie Sage has crafted a story worth looking at in the Septimus Heap series, beginning with Book 1: Magyk. 

This is a series for those looking for something to read after Harry Potter -- or perhaps better, for "tween" age kids whose parents are a bit reluctant to let them read the progressively darker books in the Potter series.  It's creative enough that it's not fair to label it a Harry rip-off, although some of the same elements are present: orphan (or apparent orphan) with phenomenal talent, evil Darke lord plotting a comeback, numerous supporting characters with endearing comic qualities.  The Darke characters are buffoonish and incompetent, the good ones are fully-developed and noble, even when they are eccentric.

Septimus Heap is the seventh son of Silas Heap, himself a seventh son.  But he is snatched away from his family as an infant by the midwife, who proclaims him dead.  At the same time, Silas finds an infant baby girl abandoned outside the castle, and is cautioned to raise her as his own and never tell how he found her by the new ExtraOrdinary Wizard, Marcia Overstrand.  We figure out fairly early on that the baby girl is a disinherited princess and that Septimus Heap will return... although when and how is the main subject of Book 1.

Archaic spellings and font usage give visual interest; clever word coinage and a deft, age-appropriate sense of humor tie it together.  I listened to this book as an audiobook read by Alan Corduner: his narration, as it has been in every other audiobook I've heard him in, is superb.

Book 2: Flyte, takes up the story a year later.  Princess Jenna has been restored as queen-in-waiting, Septimus is apprenticed to Marcia Overstrand, and the plot revolves around Septimus' oldest brother, Simon, who has apprenticed himself to the evil necromancer Dom Daniel, and various attempts to do away with Jenna and Marcia and bring back Dom Daniel.  More episodic than the first book, this one also includes a dragon hatchling and a lost spell for the ancient art of Flyte.  The mood stays light, even though there are skeletons trying to come back from the dead and ghosts (who don't make very good castle guards because an enemy can ride right through them).  I'm looking forward to reading further books in this series and reporting on them.

The Cedar Tree Spring program was yesterday evening.  The kindergarten class gets cuter every year.  You really must come and see them perform the Wiggle Worm song some year... sadly, no Youtube videos of that exist yet.  It's exciting to see the entire curriculum come together.  We have come a very long way in the 11 years I've been teaching there.  We have a young man in our Junior class, my son's good friend, who will be travelling to Washington D.C. to represent Washington State at the national finals of the Poetry Out Loud competition.  He recited Edgar Allen Poe's "Dream within a Dream."

A wide variety of book reviews

Book reviews for you today, starting with the serious and working down from there...

Into the Region of Awe: Mysticism in C.S. Lewis is by David C. Downing, who has a more recent work of fantasy that I'd like to read but our library doesn't carry yet, so I read this instead.  It is an approachable treatment of the concept of Christian mysticism, specifically as seen in the works of C.S. Lewis.  Lewis wasn't a mystic first and foremost, and some might think it's a bit of a stretch to classify him as a mystic at all -- how does one classify a mystic, anyway?  Where does mysticism fall in systematic theology?  Lewis certainly did not write extensively about mysticism as such.  The author makes a case for Lewis' elusive "Joy" experiences being mystical, and traces elements of mysticism from a Christian perspective in his works of fiction.  He is careful to distinguish Christian mysticism from generic, mystical spirituality which embraces a pantheistic approach to enlightenment.  The most helpful part of the book for me was the historical survey of Christian mysticism, listing figures such as St. Francis de Sales and Julian of Norwich.  I'm not sure if it's what the author intended, but my reaction by the end of the book was, "Of course Lewis was a bit of a mystic.  Isn't that true of most Christians?"  I wonder a bit if there was a bit of publish-or-perish about this book, and mysticism was chosen because it was the one aspect of Lewis that hadn't been explored yet.  Still, an interesting read.

The Double Comfort Safari Club by Alexander McCall Smith -- have I mentioned that I love these books about the #1 Ladies' Detective agency?  In this one we get to go on safari (actually, a business trip) with Mma Ramotswe.  Questions of mistaken identity are resolved in a uniquely African way, and Grace Makutsi shows grace and dignity in distressing circumstances.

Death of a Valentine by M.C. Beaton is the 25th in the series of Hamish Macbeth mysteries.  The author also writes the Agatha Raisin mysteries and got her start writing Regency romances.  I like her wry characterization and her comic style, but this isn't one of the best.  Only Hamish (an unlucky-in-love policeman in the highland village of Lochdubh) and a few recurring characters are fully complex; most characters are exaggerated and their motivation is one-dimensional.  We do get a glimpse into life in the Scottish highlands and the U.K. in general, and some of the social ills that go along with it... particularly alcoholism in this book.

Here's one I only skimmed: The Overton Window by Glenn Beck.  Yes, the Glenn Beck of right-wing radio fame wrote a thriller; I saw it in the fiction section of the library and was curious.  Now, I think it would be fascinating to have Glenn Beck as a dinner guest.  He's wildly hyperactive of mind and his heart's mostly in the right place, but his conspiracy theories are best treated as light entertainment only.  His prose style isn't terrible and he's doing his best to channel Robert Ludlum, but that's as far as it goes.  Maybe it's the fact that our government really is on the brink of financial collapse and sinister forces really are at work to paint patriotic Americans as evil terrorists, that makes Beck's fictional conspiracy tale seem to take on just the wrong tone for me.  I do owe him a debt of thanks; a centerpiece of his book is the wonderful poem by Rudyard Kipling, "The Gods of the Copybook Headings."  I had never encountered it before and it's a good reminder for an age that would like to take a holiday from history that we may be doomed to repeat that history we're forgetting.  An embittered Kipling wrote it after his son died in WWI.  From the Wikipedia entry I learned of the drama when the liberal blog Huffington Post attacked Beck for his "insane" "Seussian" poem, not knowing or not bothering to find out that it was actually Kipling's.  An amusing illustration of the very point of the poem.  If only I could set the Huffpo to copying "I will do my own research" 100,000 times.