Poems for Dec. 3

 The Problem with Gratitude by Abby Murray; Flying Over West Texas by Billy Collins; Speaking Tree  by Joy Harjo; Spirit Horse Voyagers by J. Paul Brennan;  Prodigy by Charles Simic

To quote the Slow-Down,  the "we" in question is the group of of people who come together over almost 18 years where, once a week,  "we take a breath together and look closely at this world – its beauty, its aches, its small, shining moments, even in uncertain times"  as we read aloud mostly contemporary poems and discuss how they touch us.

No, trees cannot "walk" in the conventional sense, but the walking palm (Socratea exorrhiza) is a species whose unique stilt-like roots give the appearance of movement

The Problem with Gratitude.  I received this poem  the day after Thanksgiving this year.  Then, two days later it was published by Rattle Magazine where Poet Abby Murray explains: “I wanted to write about the weirdness of Thanksgiving: the debunked myth of mutual care between European colonizers and Indians, juxtaposed with the practice of setting aside one Thursday in November to be grateful (rather than making radical gratitude a year-long perspective). I wanted to wrestle with the conflict between violent history and nonviolent morals, hollow performance and genuine feeling. What I ended up creating is this portrait of thankfulness as an individual I may love and want to keep close, even if I am constantly failing it, then finding it again, like the imperfect self-parent that I am.”

In these times, I feel poetry can help us focus on the power of meanings behind the use of our words, slow down the fast-paced news headlines, the spewing of words attached to contradictory facts and actions.  We find problems especially when we have expectations perhaps.  The word gratitude has a special place in the over-use department where so many would be hard-pressed to be grateful for the struggles they face.  How, I wonder, can I feel grateful when I see the consequences of irrational, cruel and destructive behavior of world leaders?  

In our discussion, we admired how one word, Gratitude, took us into the world, holding both heart and mind.  We agreed that gratitude is best when it arrives unbidden, and feels like an unexpected blessing.  In 25 short lines, the poem provides  a sketch of Gratitude as a young child,  perhaps stubborn, with a touch of rebellion, a power to transform, as we notice things as fundamental as a heartbeat, a glass of water, seasons.  We picked up on the vulnerability of Gratitude as well as  its insistence on being independent of someone else's expectations.  The two adjectives inconspicuous (as a heartbeat) /insistent (as a sob), underline how we often miss what we could be grateful for, and upon realizing it, feel a sense of regret.  Some thought of attitudes of the Indigenous people facing European colonizers -- not knowing when being lied to, or knowing how to be refused.  

 I'm not sure if one person recommended this book in the context of Gratitude, or the next poem: https://www.amazon.com/Year-Live-This-Were-Your/dp/0609801945

 Flying Over West Texas... We wonder at Billy Collins' ability to cast a spell on us -- his wry humor that is so tender, able to delivers a gentle poke at people without putting them down.  Neil cited an Ed Hirsch article that calls Collins the "metaphysical poet with a funny bone".  He reveals the same sort of vulnerability as Gratitude in the poem above.   The poem does not ever directly reference the name Jesus, but only skirts religion with a neutral mention of "Christmas" which could be Christmas day or season.   The question came up whether appreciation of the poem might be limited to only Christian audiences.   Well, Buddhist, Jewish, Agnostic people present said absolutely not, even if you don't understand each of the contextual clues, it is clear what Collins is doing.  Perhaps Evangelical Christians might even take offense.  The parallel between the parched Little Town of Bethlehem and the desolate details of W. Texas plumped up with "waffle-iron grid of streets", a ruler-line running through the anonymous cluster of houses and barns, is the birth of hope and desire for "small miracles".  The mundane with the sacred continues with the incongruous shake out of a cigarette from the pack for a stranger, for a contemporary version of a miracle.  From there, a turn to a subtle message of anti-idolatry.  The final stanza returns us to the everyday gesture of flowers propped up by a grave.

This brought up the story of the flowers one can see by the train tracks of a tragic accident over 20 years ago.  "Better to fly over .. with nothing/but the hope that someone visit the grave.  His is never capitalized, nor Her.  Billy delivers a universal message that flies beyond a single religion.

I like Graeme's summary: his inimitable brilliance in turning evocative and compelling observations into beautiful philosophy, recognizing the common woman and even man.

We skipped III by James Joyce, as Paul brought in a poem that related to the next one, Speaking Tree.

Indeed, we could have spent the rest of the afternoon discussing trees, the ones that "walk", the tree savers, the importance of trees, the sense of physical hurt when one is cut down... literature about trees, such as Cherry Wilder's Trilogy,  and the Talking Tree, or Tolkein literature, and seed stoing.  We also could have  discussed at length Indigenous customs and respect for Trees, animals as spirit guides.  I had given a reference to another short poem by an anonymous Sioux/Chippewa translated by Frances Densmore in 1917 of the Dream of Buffalo announcing its appearance.  

Joy Harjo insinuates her native culture, and surrounds the reader with all five senses, and whether male or female, my guess is that she touches something primal in each reader receptive to a deep heartache at the thought of our endangered  land which supports life.  Without needing to spell out facts, or point fingers of blame, she moves to italics, which accentuates the dreamlike form of the spirit.  Last word, first line, unspeakable, then a geneology of the broken... followed by two images of aloneness:  A shy wind threading leaves after a massacre,//the smell of coffee and no one there.  The  final word undrinkable   is preceded by the imagination of these speaking trees all together, drinking it deep. Perhaps this is the counterbalance.  The trees show us the way.

To understand more,  consider reading her 2015 volume "Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings" which explores transitions, transformations, and the power of ceremonies in times of change.

Paul's Poem:

Spirit   Horse   Voyagers

 

            Fish dance at sunrise

            In the sacred waters

            Of the buffalo moon,

                          A solemn vision

                          Of spirit horses,

   Dancing feathers of the wind.

               Young and slow,

         The maiden of the lake

         A texture of the virgin,

                  Wakan Tanka[1]'s gift

          To the vision seekers.

 

                        —J. Paul Brennan

 

Paul suggested that the title be considered as three separate entities...

 

The Poet, Paul, with his poem read to us this 12/3/2025

Prodigy:  A perfect metaphor for what happens to us as pieces of a greater game.

Astronomy... math that provides elegant explanations, pure and useful.

Paint chipped off black pieces:  Victor Emmanuel in the 2nd WW.

Men hung from telephone poles.  Mussolini, his girlfriend, collaborators....

Blindfold... whether those in power, or the Masters of Chess... those without regard for humanity, and those who understand the complex beauty of the game.  Only a prodigy with his/her surprising brilliance can understand how to play blindfold, several boards at a time.   

Graeme sums up the poem succinctly: meticulous observation meets touching anecdote.

---

[1] Wakan Tanka:  It is a central concept in Lakota spirituality, meaning the Great Spirit or Great Mystery, representing the sacred power that encompasses all creation. It is the universal life force and the interconnectedness of all things, which is both a single entity and a council of spiritual powers

 

 

  

    

Poems for Nov. 19

 In the spirit of Thanksgiving:  The Sun's November issue  has a poignant  interview between Daniel McDermon and John Washington about open borders and photo essay  by Laurie Smith  about migrants seeking entry to the US from Mexico.  The poem below is a heartfelt companion to these. 

Los Vecinos  by Alison Luterman (the poem arrived too late to be part of the November issue, but will be included in a future issue.  The Sun sent it as a special supplement this week.)

Separate Quarters by Mary Pecaut

After the East Wing Renovation, 2025 (Italicized quotes from Donald Trump)

Tough Zinnias by Alice Fulton

Never-ending Birds by David Baker

Nutshell:

Many arrived early, and in the spirit of good-natured comraderie which characterizes "O Pen", we shared ideas about the poem, Whethering by A.E. Stallings. (We had not had enough time to discuss it last week.) Thank you to Kathy, Eddy, Polly for sharing more insights.  I am always curious to know how spending more time delving into a poem enhances the experience.  For sure, just the title introduces the idea of "alternatives" with the  homonym of weather, and what it is to "weather a storm", face the constant changes that are part and parcel of the nature of weather.  Whether or not, as choice, whether A or B as one ruminates on angles of understanding, the poem presents interlaced possibilities as sound patterns join double-meanings, overplays of poet "tapping" out as if the rain, which enhances a feel of merging the physical presence of rain with a subconscious emergence-- that "white noise" in her mind.

Los Vecinos (lohs-veh-SEE-nohs) :

There are a few Spanish terms in the poem, as it starts with a Mexican neighbor... but, as poems do, branches into the larger universals about being a human being, such as sharing music, food, wisdom handed down from generation to generation.  The Tias are the aunts, and by the 7th line, we feel the "golden circle of familia".  For those who need a visual for Nopales: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nopal;

 Paul gave us a description of the cowboy in a movie taking place in the American Western desert, dying of thirst, and saved by breaking open this cactus.  The poet goes on using the voice of Teresa, about how to prepare them, their medicinal value.  By line 27, there has been the mention of ICE, and the current practice of tearing families apart, akin to the mycelian nature of kinship.  This is a perfect term to describe underground, often invisible connections -- indeed, of mushrooms, transmission of their spores, but also our interconnectedness as humans and life on this planet.  

Graeme wondered if the poem would work presented as an essay.  Many thought because of the line breaks, the reader is forced to slow down, stop at every line, and really pay attention... If you look at the action of the enjambments below, would the effect be as powerful?

                                    They're tearing apart families like clumps

                                    of seedlings, uprooting whole delicate

                                    ecosystems, but what they don't

                                    understand is the mycelian nature

                                    of kinship, how love is a weed

                                    that travels across borders in a bird's belly

                                    and pops up waving its arms, no matter the law.

Clumps ... loses any derogatory association with the break, falling on seedlings;

delicate: -- and for a moment the reader is suspended to imagine what noun would follow.

Surprise... when would you see a coupling with ecosystems...  

what they don't ... allows a long list of actions: do, say, acknowledge, etc. 

but landing on understand stresses the key importance of striving for understanding.

We all enjoyed the image of love as a seed -- which rhymes with weed, and like a weed, will not stay in any confines, but emerge wherever it can.  We also enjoyed the reference to Pete Seeger's "This land is your land" and the "spangled" applied to mariachi, not the American "star-spangled banner".

The ending echoed some of the Inauguration of JFK and Robert Frost's poem, The Gift Outright. 

I paste it below, as it addresses the complexity of America, and who's land is who's land.

Separate Quarters by Mary Pecaut  I couldn't find much about the poet, but believe she is a multi-genre writer once living in Panama City, Panama but now in Brasilia. She addresses the current outrage of the destruction of the East Wing of the White House, traditionally the quarters of the First Lady.  The highlight for many of this clever comparison of marriage and architecture, avoiding "friction in proximity" was the couplet:  

Her sun-filled space—razed.   

Concrete dust, twisted rebar.                          

Although Melania is not mentioned directly, one does wonder how she feels as the current First Lady.  The dust, perhaps her husband... the space...  her marriage... the support,  twisted.   Interspersing the poem with italicized quotes from Donald Trump accentuates, forgive me if I offend, his odious narcissism which one can imagine permeates their relationship.

Tough Zinnias:  We all agreed, a new noun to replace beans, potatoes or whatever you substitute for luck. 

Zinnias are indeed tough, and thank you Elmer, Barb and other gardeners nodding at the virtues of these flowers able to "tough it out" into winter.  We enjoyed the ambiguity of  the pronoun "you":  is it the reader, or someone specific the poet is addressing?  One senses a story told by a mate whose mate has wandered off.  The following couplet could apply to a commentary of our relationship to our planet, to others, to ourselves.  What promises do we make?  have we made, but have broken?  

What will become of us? I think  

our attributes will be  engraved inside a promise //

ring in a script too small to read"

Judith was reminded of Edna St. Vincent Millay No. XI of the Fatal Interview sequence—it begins “Not in a silver casket cool with pearls…” and Eddy brought up Louise Glück (her poems such as Wild Iris  and “Snowdrops”:  https://www.reddit.com/r/Poetry/s/kgeBsKolNF 

We remarked the repeated " come" followed three times by an adverb, except at the end.

In the author's note, she says she is influenced by " Willa Cather, whose words about nature and emotion can be very moving. Under the spell of Cather’s quiet lyricism".  We were hard-pressed to find it in the poem. Perhaps the theme of  a woman's place in the world.  Some of the comments:

Poem points as the relationship of the change of season/change in her life-- - does she want it?

If you want ice water on marriage, this poem will do it. 

Never Ending Birds:  Interesting that we have words for flocks of birds... assemblies of animals, but “never-ending birds”—is a phrase coined not by the speaker of this poem, but by the speaker’s child.   We enjoyed this tender expression of a father for his daughter, this special moment shared with her and his wife.  

The Gift Outright

BY ROBERT FROST

The land was ours before we were the land’s.

She was our land more than a hundred years

Before we were her people. She was ours

In Massachusetts, in Virginia,

But we were England’s, still colonials,

Possessing what we still were unpossessed by,

Possessed by what we now no more possessed.

Something we were withholding made us weak

Until we found out that it was ourselves

We were withholding from our land of living,

And forthwith found salvation in surrender.

Such as we were we gave ourselves outright

(The deed of gift was many deeds of war)

To the land vaguely realizing westward,

But still unstoried, artless, unenhanced,

Such as she was, such as she would become.

Whethering by A.E. Stalling + a few thoughts on Poetry.

 Whethering by A.E. Stalling + a few thoughts on Poetry.

Ted Kooser believes that poetry is communication.  "Poetry’s purpose is to reach other people and to touch their hearts. If a poem doesn’t make sense to anybody but its author, nobody but its author will care a whit about it. That doesn’t mean that your poems can’t be cryptic, or elusive, or ambiguous if that’s how you want to write, as long as you keep in mind that there’s somebody on the other end of the communication. I favor poems that keep the obstacles between you and that person to a minimum."

That said, when an intriguing but puzzling poem comes up, I find it special when readers take the time to think deeply about it.  I should have asked, Why did you take the extra time to delve into this poem?

For me, it started with a colleague curious about finding out a rhyme scheme, because he sensed a structure, but it didn't follow a pattern. my reply : For sure, there are repeating words, repeating sounds, and playing with placement is the beauty of crafting... what turns a haphazard "make it up as you go along" into next versionrevised. I find her creation of "belates" as verb which rhymes with precipitates, both verbs isolated as soloists on a line, underscores the depth of her other neologism, "whethering". 

Sure, rain as preciptation... but can also mean "rush into" -- and what a beautiful contradiction, of "belatedly" i.e., not right away, considering the possibilities of former voices now ghosts, the "late so and so" no longer alive... but whose voice can still be here.

The poem is filled with "haunting" meditatation on the sounds of rain, and, I'm only hazarding a guess here... the rhyme here, tucked in on the same line as in "softer, clearer", or as echoes but in unexpected places, such as end rhyme, Haunted, on the first line, repeated as first word, 2nd line of the final stanza, and the delay of shed gently underscores a letting go of thinking we understand anything. The final two lines elaborate on the "haunting" of all we don't know. That her kids are sound/asleep, is an extra pun on sound. (as in safe and sound...)

Perhaps the conceit of the poem is to take rain, and after considering all the choices we could make to describe the sounds, and go back full circle to the title. She is "whethering" with weather providing rain.

Eddy's  response: 

One of my first impressions of the poem is that the first two lines are neat and rhythmical - which only seem to be matched by the last two lines - then the next lines of the stanza seem to be different both in syllables and rhythm; to me, this contributes to the overall feeling of the poem as quite complicated. The jarring line for me is “The kids lie buried under duvets, sound / asleep.” That line break felt significant, and I wonder if even the verb “buried” is not so innocuous as she later ruminates about the dead. Later, is there another double meaning with “reflection / holds up a glass of spirits” - reflection as in a mirror and also self-reflection - and “white noise” - the sound of rain could sound like white noise but also it seems like there’s white noise going on in her mind, this process of recollecting with the rain all the “shed[ding] / Hissing indignantly into the ground.”

 

 I am a bit stumped by her last stanza beginning with “It is the listening / belates” - is she listening to her mind, or listening to that voice she writes about at the beginning of the poem? It seems like the final turn in the poem. 

Kathy:

Kathy's view of Stallings:

Ay thoughts about the poem "Whethering": I think Stallings is incredible with each word carefully chosen to contribute to the whole of the poem. You could do such a close reading that would include almost every word. But then you'd become like a centipede who, if you told him how to move each of his 100 legs he would stumble, unable to walk, maybe

fall over dead. So I don't want to kill the poem. :) Also, I have built my understanding of what the poem "means" to me around the concept of "doubt" so I'm probably guilty of the saying, "When you have a hammer, everything looks like a nail!"

Thanks, Kathy

Whethering by A.E. Stallings verb expressing doubt or indecision about choices

 

The rain is haunted;   dark tone, rain stirs "something" from subconscious

I had forgotten. My children are two hours abed

And yet rise

Hearing behind the typing of the rain,

 

Its abacus and digits,

A voice calling me again,

Softer, clearer. 

The kids lie buried under duvets, sound

Asleep. It isn't them I hear, it's

 

Something formless that fidgets that "something " that becomes clearer: is a questioning of past decisions

Beyond the window's benighted mirror,         overtaken by darkness                         

Where a negative develops, where reflection

Holds up a glass of spirits. i.e. the dead people and past decisions containing many frequencies with equal 

White noise                                                                             intensities.

 

Precipitates. a solid forms and settles out of a murky liquid this is where the whethering happens

Rain is a kind of recollection.

Much has been shed, 

Hissing indignantly into the ground. anger or annoyance at what is perceived as unfair, she feels judged

It is the listening that causes, enables, this late questioning of the past decisions, (Regrets??)

 

Belates, causes something to be late

Haunted by these finger taps and sighs E.A. Poe While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping

Behind the beaded-curtain glistening, 

As though by choices that we didn't make and never wanted,

As though by the dead and misbegotten. badly conceived, planned., can be a person, the speaker                                                 the poem) whose life is based on some poor choices !!!!!!!!!

- from her book Like (2018)

 

 

Kathy

knowing Stallings work and another poem, "Lost and Found" from her book Like she often probes issues of children and family

which she then widens to larger concepts. In Whethering, I love that as the rain falls, the slow percolating of her doubts rise from her subconscious (just as she literally, physically rises to check on her

children 

Polly: whethering: considering alternatives.  

but one can also "weather" a storm... one is not in control of voices, consciousness... 

White noise... the noise in her head... 

White noise... noise that cannot be identified... Judith gave the example of a dance choreography of the tide coming in. 

Hearing the poem, it resembles a nocturnal poem... perhaps a ritual... the kids are elsewhere, and she merges with the rain.

Poems for Nov. 12

 Landscape, Dense with Trees by Ellen Bryant Voigt; Autumn Grasses by Margaret Gibson; Sehnsucht by Michael Dumanis; A Woman, a Man  by Judith Dowd.

**

It is tempting to fill 4 pages each week with poems that seem worthy of spending time with them, noting craft, philosophical and psychological aspects attached to a subject, and sharing assessments of the degree of delight in reading them outloud. I get a kick when people start with, "I really like this poem" -- as I am eager  they will explain why.  

Given that the participation in the group is often 25 people, there is never enough time for all to share.  I'm not sure if there is a solution, and appreciate that in general, we listen thoughtfully and patiently to those who respond.  I invite people to respond to the nutshell, reformulating or commenting on the bones of the discussion.  A poem is never finished!!!

Nutshell: Landscape, dense with Trees: In tribute to Ellen Bryant Voigt (1943-2025) [1] , this poem draws on two of her themes,  the rural south and family, "played" out with a beautiful sounds, rhythms.

We imagined this poem with a gentle Southern accent, which gives quite a range of possibility given the rich offerings of regional accents anywhere.  The question of "how a poem sounds" is perhaps is best left to each reader seeing the written words and imagining the sonic patterns and options of  how to deliver the aural flavors of the words. 

If you look at the visual presentation, the poem is indeed "dense" with no stanza breaks, but a small height of a half-line  between each of the 33 lines.  

 

Graeme mentioned he sent it to a friend in Louisiana who indeed felt it resonated with the South.

He enjoyed, as did many the rhythmic phrasing such as the image of the lazy track of the snake in the dusty road. Others enjoyed the personification of the heat, at the end: hand at his throat,/fist to his weak heart.  How his industry, planting so many trees, was a triumph as was his heart.   Density is everywhere in the poem, with the specific naming of trees, even up to the maple used for his bedstead, and the inference of his planting perhaps camouflaging a deeper purpose.  Elmer brought up the saying that one plants a tree for the next generation and gave us the term aesthetic pruning, the art of shaping trees and shrubs to enhance their natural beauty and form through selective pruning. (It is often inspired by Japanese garden styles, focusing on the tree's essence and long-term health.)

 

The poem is a respectful ode to a Father, poignantly expressed in a soundscape, where memories are like the scrim of foliage, thickened around (the house).  

 

Autumn Grasses:  Bernie provided a beautiful metaphor, describing this poem like a necklace of Zen koans.  Kathy provided the Shibata Zeshin reference in the title with his Meiji period two panel screen. https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/45080 

 

You will see to the right, a full moon, to the left, a silvered emptiness.  You can imagine the sounds of the first stanza, meditate on the six questions this poem weaves in, as you look at this lovely painting.  With many names of grasses in Japanese, this link  brings you the "Seven Grasses of Autumn for inspiration of an Ikebana, a beautiful indoor arrangement connected to the view of the moon outside the window.  The final stanza gives a personal connection to the sense of harmony, felt universally.

 

Sehnsucht: In German, literally, two verbs:  to see and to search.  Dumanis defines it as "the desire for something missing".  It is often translated as wistful longing or yearning.  I drew the parallel with the Welsh term Hiraeth: a yearning for something but you can't quite put your finger on it.  

This poem struck a chord in everyone with many associations with the magical age of six -- a milestone number when typically a child starts school and is inducted into society, but is still filled with innocence.

References: Now we are 6,  A.A. Milne; the first day of school (for child and parent) by Howard Nemerov and the tradition of giving a spoonful of honey to equate learning with sweetness; Goldengrove as 2nd line in Gerard Manley Hopkins' poem Spring and Fall (and other things such as the Game of Thrones universe).  

Add to this, Michelangelo's fresco in the Sistine Chapel and the curious adjective bedraggled applied to a llama, a symbolic animal replete with a set of complex emotions that link between physical and spiritual realms, and many offered comments about relationships with parents, or as parents watching one's beloved child growing up.   The Unbearable Lightness of Being also came to mind.  The penultimate phrase, from ferry boats (hopefully not preparing her to cross the river Styx !) to Ferris wheels, is the father's participation in the world... perhaps missing in himself, the joy he sees in his daughter, recalled, tasted again as he shares turns licking the strawberry ice cream.

A Woman, A Man:  We enjoyed the comment the poet provided about herself and how she started writing late and is now 82.  We definitely had the sense of a participating in creating choices for a narrative with the first stanza choosing characters and possibilities for them.  By the third stanza, you wonder if perhaps you are overhearing the created characters, perhaps talking to each other.  Or is this a scene about new neighbors?  Or is it the poet talking directly to us as readers?  Does it matter how many versions of "they" are possible?  Who is "us", and what kind of happiness are you willing to share? Regardless, how we each saw the poem, we all enjoyed its wry and delightful manner!

 

We saved Whethering for another time.

A friend had shared it, puzzling over the rhyme scheme saying 'Poems are musical, meaningful, intricate.  Here's one that has rhymes in it, but I haven't figured out the scheme.  Let's say the first three lines are a,b,a.  Then I do not see another a,b until the last two lines, which is quite a scheme to enclose the whole poem within a,b and a,b.  The third line, a, does not have another rhyme until "shed" in the fourth stanza.  There's a lot of, let's call it the e rhyme: digits, it's, fidgets, spirits.  But I see no pattern."  

 My reply: For sure, there are repeating words, repeating sounds, and playing with placement is the beauty of crafting... what turns a haphazard "make it up as you go along" into next version revised. I find her creation of "belates" as verb which rhymes with precipitates, both verbs isolated as soloists on a line, underscores the depth of her other neologism, "whethering".  Sure, rain as preciptation... but can also mean "rush into" -- and what a beautiful contradiction, of "belatedly" i.e., not right away, considering the possibilities of former voices now ghosts, the "late so and so" no longer alive... but whose voice can still be here. 

The poem is filled with "haunting"  meditatation on the sounds of rain, and, I'm only hazarding a guess here... the rhyme here, tucked in on the same line as in "softer, clearer", or as echoes but in unexpected places, such as end rhyme, Haunted, on the first line, repeated as first word, 2nd line of the final stanza, and the delay of shed gently underscores a letting go of thinking we understand anything.  The final two lines elaborate on the "haunting" of all we don't know. That her kids are sound/asleep, is an extra pun on sound.

Perhaps the conceit of the poem is to take rain, and after considering all the choices we could make to describe the sounds, and go back full circle to the title.  She is "whethering" with weather providing rain.  

---

[1] A fine tribute to her: https://yalereview.org/article/tribute-ellen-bryant-voigt

I love her comment, "It's a new song when someone listens"--  See also https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/ellen-bryant-voigt  for more of her poems: 
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/ellen-bryant-voigt#tab-poems

Nov. 5

Pumpkin by Theresa Muñoz; The Silence Afterlight by Patrick G. Roland; The Dead by Rupert Brooke;

Fear and Evening; by Charles Simic; To be in love by Gwendolyn Brooks; At the Gate (excerpt) by Lucille Clifton  At the Gate: Uncollected Poems 1987-2010 – BOA Editions, Ltd. https://share.google/Tux9N9XpQijeYYxC4

I shared also these thoughts:  No two people see the external world in exactly the same way:  We see a thing as what we think.  It is such joy the share poetry and share our thinks!

Elmer and Neil, last week-- I showed the fun to the gang.

I also shared this "give a poem" by Bart White:

Our Town

Nestled in green

rooftops    treetops    about even

slender church spire our town's tallest feature

Except for signs 3X as high

EXXON             SUNOCO        The Golden Arches

glossy bold in daylight    neon glow by night

Siren call to travelers     northbound   southbound    24/7

our essential commerce

gasoline & burgers

Towers over all

Nutshell:  

Pumpkin: There are so many different avenues in our minds to associate this noun with visual, olfactory, psychological experiences, not to mention the taste in pies, and as Judith brought up, an infiltration of pumpkin into beer of all things.  Of course Halloween came up, and how the Americanization of giant pumpkins has spread worldwide, with people sharing examples from Japan, Romania.  Ken brought up that All Hallow's Eve, the night before All Soul's Day (Nov. 1) is still practiced in Germany and Hungary. Judith brought up her experience in Japan in 1989 where the Day of the Dead ( (Obon)) is celebrated in August:  little boats with candles were set to travel in a river.  When the candle went out, or the boat tipped over, it was though the ancestor had returned from whence he came.

 

I brought up the adjectives : innocent, rippled, punctured, sunken, carved, green... The verb choices also enhance the variations of what seems overall to be a playful tone.  pushed, huddle, (while frost glistens)...  can you carry? hug.  Graeme piped up about the solo adverb:  doubtfully and that  one could entitle the poem Humanity.   Indeed!

 

The Silence Afterlight: an ekphrastic response to Lyrical Abstraction” by Rupam Baoni https://rattle.com/the-silence-afterlight-by-patrick-g-roland/

Many wanted to know more about the artist as well as the poet.  Apparently the poet is an educator who has systic fibrosis and a story teller. That aside, a very dark poem.  For Mary, the poem brought up the memory of burning leaves in Autumn, the smell, sounds, visuals.  Rose Marie shared the story of the Refugee Family, who had spent 10 years in different camps, finally in America, and then watching the house in which they lived go up in flames with all their belongings and hard-earned papers.  

Some Ekphrastic poems can stand on their own.  This one, with the double noun in the title is difficult.  We noted in the 4th stanza about the flame and the shadows it casts, how clearly the enjambed reach (of shadows) stretches into space, resolving on the next line never touch.

In the 5th stanza, a surprising conclusion about darkness, "as proof that nothing waits."

As the note from the editor says, there is a sense of possibility as a faith that is never satisfied.

Unanswered prayers, and no answer as ash falls.  Ken brought up the poet's choice, that the ash falls like a reply, and Axel underscored that "like"  means it is not a reply.

 

The Dead:  from a series of War Sonnets.  In the 5th line, "These"  curiously could be the hearts of those sent to war, but also the years.  Similarly in the 12th line, "He" could refer to Frost, but perhaps an undertone of one of the hearts.  Elaine remarked how "all the colors of life"  are in the first stanza, but replaced/erased by white in the second.  ,Many offered a fuller biography of Rupert Brooks: Yes, handsome and glorified by Henry James and such, but there were other  poets in WW1 who are even stronger like Wilfred Owen and Robert Graves[1] " He died of sepsis on a ship in the Aegean as a naval officer;  his brother died on the battlefield.  This is another of his famous poems: 

**

The Soldier

 

If I should die, think only this of me:

      That there’s some corner of a foreign field

That is for ever England. There shall be

      In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;

A dust whom England bore, shaped, made a War was return of earth to ugly earth, / War was foundering of sublimities, / Extinction of each happy art and faith / By which the world had still kept head in air’ware,

      Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam;

A body of England’s, breathing English air,

      Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

 

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,

      A pulse in the eternal mind, no less

            Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;

Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;

      And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,

            In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

 

 The reference to The Stranger's Child inspired by a line by Tenneyson also came up. 

I had picked it because it was mentioned as the poem tucked in the pocket of Gareth, the husband of the main character in Dictionary of Lost Words.  by Pip Williams.  

 

 

Simic:  the first, Fear: In six lines, Simic shows the powerful and scary contagion of fear.  Alex brought up the sociological experiment with monkeys where transmission of fear happens, even if a monkey had not experienced the situation provoking it.  Judith reminded us the Ash Tree or Quaking Aspen, was used for the crucifixion of Christ.  

 

In Evening,  Simic deals with contradiction of the familiar and challenges us with such thinking about how "that which brings you into the world /take you away at death"  is one and the same.

How to understand grass.  What word or two might it repeat?  Is it the same?    Perhaps the green of Spring grass, is akin to the grass over a coffin.  Judith brought up the tale of King Midas, and the whispering by the reeds telling his secret.  

 

 

To be in love:   As Graeme put it, "I don't think there is a more perfect description".  Everything about the experience of love, whether good or bad, stems from the title.  The varied length of lines echoes  the unpredictable trajectory!  The end with the description of losing a loved one, 

indeed is both "ghastly" and one is also the other half of a "golden hurt"... She says it all and beautifully.  The poem appears in the new section of her "Selected Poems" published in 1963.

 

Lucille Clifton: The Final poem was taken from a BOA announcement of a 2026 collection of Clifton's work called, "At the Gate."  Apparently it is in her digital archive.  We wondered when it was written.    The epigram by Walter Benjamin is in  "Theses on the Philosophy of History," where he describes the "angel of history" [2]who is propelled into the future by a storm that has caught in its wings. This storm is Benjamin's metaphor for "progress," which he sees as a catastrophe that piles ruin upon ruin, despite the angel's wish to "awaken the dead and make whole what has been smashed".  Clifton gives us her view-- how there is nothing—no father, mother, no poetry that can save us...  but this storm, is... from Paradise. 

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[1] War was return of earth to ugly earth, / War was foundering of sublimities, / Extinction of each happy art and faith / By which the world had still kept head in air’

[2] (The imagery in Benjamin's book is  inspired by Paul Klee's painting Angelus Novus.)