daniel – Page 10 – Kathleen Bryce Niles

Angels Will Tread Anywhere

Angels Will Tread Anywhere (pdf of text below)

ANGELS WILL TREAD ANYWHERE (I am living proof)
Kathleen Bryce Niles

In the past few weeks, we have spent more time in hospitals than anywhere else. We have logged hours at Crouse Irving Memorial in Syracuse, at Millard Fillmore Suburban in Amherst, at Erie County Medical Center in Buffalo and at Strong Memorial in Rochester. We have learned of so many of our friends from church who are battling, sometimes against the odds, myriad ailments that we begin to see our own human frailty more than is comfortable. However, we have also witnessed true miracles of medicine and will. And, we have scattered our own angels all over Central and Western New York in the hope they will be of service to our loved ones … willing, if necessary, to leave ourselves more vulnerable to whatever life has in store.

A lot of clergy have been in attendance at these visitations. These opportunities always allow me to illustrate both my ignorance and my desire to get it right in terms of being a nouveau Anglican. With some trepidation, I asked “do we believe in angels” knowing full well that I most certainly do. Well, blessedly, and for the sake of my budding albeit slightly warped Episcopalian persona, we most certainly do. At the least, we are allowed to have faith in them. I am rather delighted as they have been speaking to me for quite some time now. Without a diagnosis of schizophrenia, I am relatively confident that this is true. In fact, they tell me quite clearly that they speak to all of us … all of the time!!! Those of you who know me, and most of you do, also know that my halo is never too tight. In fact, it is virtually non-existent. I am not the Christian anyone should aspire to emulate. I seldom ever turn the other cheek. I believe whole-heartedly in making certain others pay for their sins against mankind. I probably, in another life, would have been a successful assassin. I truly loathe bad guys. I rage against the machine. I have screamed “that isn’t fair” many more times than “thank you, God” … and will, without a doubt, continue to do so in perpetuity. I am just not a particular great practitioner of the holy arts. And, I am sorry for that.

So, you see, while I am far from the cloistered nun and the faithful ascetic, that the angels still speak to me. How much easier it will be for most of you to hear them if you will listen than it is for me. The one thing I do know is how to do that. Please try this. When you hear that voice telling you to do something noble or something out of character that is not criminal, malevolent nor lascivious, do it. Just simply do it. Don’t be embarrassed by reaching out to someone, by smiling at a stranger, by touching a hand … don’t be frightened of your own words when you speak thoughts that are given to you to help heal a sorrowful heart, a saddened spirit or a frightened soul. The only way the angels can speak aloud is through us. Let their joyful voices shout. Don’t waste any more time.

Preface to the Comstock Review

Preface to the Comstock Review (pdf of the text below)

Over a quarter of a century ago, a small group of poets gathered at Jenny MacPherson’s home on Comstock Avenue across the street from Syracuse University. We met weekly to workshop our poems and to enjoy camaraderie with other writers. We quickly realized that there was a real need for a poetry journal that reflected our beliefs about the nature of poetry and poets. There was a core group and a steady stream of new people, most of whom could be delicately described as individuals reluctant to work toward our similar goals. We sent scores of them on their way. The core group stayed together and were, for the most part, high functioning individuals capable of working in some semblance of unity. In fact, we have considered ourselves family and lived our lives in being the kind of friends for each other that most people dream of having in their lives.

The journal that we envisioned was not under the imprimatur of a university press or governed by grants … a journal that we could control and make accessible to myriad writers. We determined that the poem and not the poet would govern our selection for publication. We elected to seek poetry that is understandable, coherent and cohesive. We agreed that the journal would reflect our vision of poetry as accessible, eloquent and enjoyable. We chose Karen Fausnaugh to be the editor and called it Poetpourri. Within a couple of years, we went from being a Central New York 40-page journal to a 100+page national journal. Karen and husband Rusty moved west and I took the reins for many years. When I moved to Buffalo, Peg Flanders took over as Managing Editor followed by John Bellinger and our current Editor, Georgia Popoff. Each of those individuals added to the quality of our journal without losing its purpose.

We did our first issues with money earned selling cupcakes and holding turkey raffles. We were independent. We were committed. And, we had the prescription for a journal that would reflect what each of us believed was what poets both wanted and needed. Right from the jump, we did blind readings. We did not care if the poem was the first one composed by a fourteen year old or one created by the poet laureate. We knew that other journals survived by getting well-known poets and by a kind of crosspollination of poets. Editors traded poems from popular writers to fill the pages, to appear elite. The Comstock Writers Group took what came and relied on the quality of the poem and not the name of the poet. It has been a great formula for success. We are both trusted and respected for having the guts to fly against the prevailing winds. It is not until a poem is selected for or a chapbook has been chosen that we know the name of the poet.

It took a few years for us to realize that our cutesy Poetpourri no longer reflected the true nature of the journal. The Comstock Review was born without fanfare. It just made sense. Our goal has always been to serve the poet as we would like to be served. We have never wavered from total honesty and fairness in our dealings with our poets. We love them and seek nothing in return … although subscriptions and gifts are most welcome. We are definitely out of the cupcake and turkey business! Some years ago, I created a gift for you. It is the Handbook for Poets. It can be downloaded for use in classrooms and workshops or simply read online at http://www.comstockreview.org. Our core group is getting a bit long in the tooth these days but we continue to seek and find those rare individuals willing to give up time and energy to perpetuate a unique and poet-centered life … to work for poets they will never meet but whose beauty and wisdom with words are worth every minute of selflessness. As we begin the march toward fifty years we salute our poets, our friends, and thank you for the joy you have brought to us and the family that is the Comstock Writers Group.

Kathleen Bryce Niles, Editor Emerita

My peoples …

Once, in Philadelphia, we were leaving a restaurant after dinner and a gentleman was waiting by the car. (Keep in mind that one of our license plates is TRINIDAD … you can probably guess the other.) He was a bit homesick and wanted to talk about home. We spent half an hour with him. Now and again, in Buffalo, someone will stop if we are parked or cruise up if we are on the move to say what city … we say Couva and they say POS (Port of Spain) or San Fernando or elsewhere. It is kind of cool. I do insist, in the summer, when both cars are in the drive, that they be parked in proper order.

Driving from Trinidad …

One of our license plates is TRINIDAD … you can probably guess the other. Once, in Syracuse, I stopped at the only West Indian place to pick up some Jamaican patties to take home. When I was leaving, a guy stopped me to ask if I had driven my car from Trinidad to Syracuse. I assured him that it was quite the trip but I enjoyed the scenery on the way.

High hopes for a holier priest

Our parish priest was a very arrogant and aloof man … he was interested in only those with deep pockets and ignored those families who had been there since the church was founded in 1955 … the date is emblazoned in my memory because my grandmother was the first to be buried from there. We had had some very kind and loving priests at St. Ann’s but this guy was not among them. When my father, who had given much more in proportion to his income than he ever should have, died, Father fought me at every turn regarding his funeral. Dad was a fine tenor who sang on Armed Forces radio. He loathed the horrendous choir at the church … as did any who had ears. I told Fr. that we would not be using the choir. Rather, the Music Director at neighbouring St. Lucy’s would be playing the organ and singing. He was my best friend and had been in my father’s house every day for over thirty years. Fr. carried on to the point where I asked if he thought Michael would be playing “Rock Around the Clock.” I told Fr. that Michael would also be doing the eulogy. He continued to sputter and stumble stating that he would be doing it. I suggested that since he had never once spoken to anyone in my family in all the years that he was Rector that he was hardly up to the task and that if he persisted in blocking OUR funeral that we would take it to St. Lucy’s and afterward I would come back to finish what he was starting. At that, he acquiesed and we held as fine a funeral as one would want. The following Sunday, my mother wanted to go to church as she had for the 67 years before. As we sat in the pew that she and my father had occupied for thirty years, she was certain that, at long last, Fr. would check to see how she was doing. I was not so optimistic. Sadly, she was mistaken. That was the last Sunday my Mother went to church and she lived another seventeen years. But I have gotten ahead of this tale. A few years after my dad died, Mom & I were driving past the church. We had just heard that Fr. was having a by-pass. I said that we should send a card to him. Shocked, Mom said, “What would it say?” I said, “It would say, ‘Hope to see you soon.’ — Bryce” She nearly fell out of the car laughing. Then, she lectured me on its inappropriateness. She was a much better woman than I will ever be.

Embarrassing idiom

In Trinidad, there is an expression meaning that one is simply going to a place and quickly returning … it is “I was just going to come.” Let me leave it to your imagination to figure out how often I have embarrassed myself with that one!

Mezuzahs

When we moved into this home, we met our wonderful neighbours across the fence. As soon as I heard that NYC accent, I said, “Are you Jewish?” When they both took a step backwards and looked stunned, I realized that it didn’t sound as if I was as excited as I was by the possibility. As soon as I said that we had just finished putting the mezuzahs in the doorways, it lightened up dramatically. Some of my best in-laws were of the Jewish persuasion and I was delighted to have neighbours with whom to swap stories. Twelve years later, we count them as dear friends.

An aide for Addie

Sometimes when we speak, our intent is quite different from what comes across. As noted, Miss Addie has been on my mind a lot. When we moved from Syracuse to Buffalo, mom was into her seventh year of Alzheimers. When the VNA called to say they had an aide who could come twice weekly for two hours to provide time to do errands, I asked, “Is she Black?” There was a prolonged silence and a quiet voice said, “Yes, is that a problem?” … “Oh, no,” says Kathleen. “She may think it is my grandmother.” You can imagine what the clerk initially thought.

Chanukah gifts

Many years ago, my M-in-L moved into an apartment complex in a basically Christian community. At holiday time, she carried on like the proverbial banshee about the decorations on every door and every window. It was such an uproar that for Chanukah all four children gave her the exact same present. Can you guess? Yep, an electric menorah for the front window … one of the very few times that she was speechless!

Puppy Promises

I was enjoying painting some pottery with an artist friend. It is usually a peaceful experience. However, on this day, a couple came in with their six year old. They met some friends and the child was left to wreck havoc. He threw paints and small objects on the floor and ran around at top speed yelling. The parental units were oblivious and were very much enjoying their freedom from Baby Monster Boy. After an hour, they stood to leave … still ignoring El Destructo, they head for the door. My friend leaned into the aisle long enough to whisper to the Whirlwind these immortal words: “Mommy & Daddy said they were getting you a puppy.” The kid was ecstatic and I was convulsed upon the floor. Pls. file this under … Mom & Dad, have a nice rest of the day!!!

daniel, Page 10 Author