Poems for Jan. 21-2

 

Beat, Old Heart  by Carl Sandburg; Pima Canyon by Kim Addonizio; The Chance  by Arthur Sze 1950; Asphalt Bobbing Like Apples  by Charlotte Pence; Daddy Fell Into the Pond by Alfred Noyes; Another Second, Another 24 Million Pounds: A Cento* by Charlotte Pence; Bassoonist (for C.) by Robin S. Chapman

Many of the poems selected this week  are not creating a sense of enchantment-- but I am hoping by putting that reality on the table, we can pick out the hopeful threads with which to mend and restore our sense of enchantment.  I  quote below  Egon Schiele: 

"We are capable of transforming our mental universe and giving it a charm which makes life more valuable. More valuable since life becomes more joyful, thanks to the extraordinary effort needed to create this charm. 

Life is wasted when we make it more terrifying, precisely because it is so easy to do so. It is an easy task, because people who are intellectually lazy are convinced that this miserable terror is “the truth”, that this terror is knowledge of the “extra-mental” world. This is an easy way out, resulting in a banal explanation of the world as terrifying. 

Creating enchantment is an effective means of counteracting this depressing, banal habit."

Nutshell:

Beat Old Heart: There's a sense of camraderie in the word "old" mentioned 5 days in this poem; a sense of an older man giving himself a pep talk to keep on going.  Perhaps in the style of a Tennyson (Ring out wild bells!)  with the insistent repetitions,  

we noted the inclusiveness of a world full of things, all beating.  The bars might be of music, or the cage of the body, or sandbars of the sea.  Curious that stragglers looks much like strugglers which made some think  the bars might be akin to a poem and the obstacles it faces.  The final word "scars" has a sense of wearing a badge of honor.   A fine poem to remind us all to continue on with resilience. 

Pima Canyon:  We are fortunate to have people who know the Arizona canyons, where you can "walk, talk and gawk".  The beauty is indeed almost savage and the poem only has one mention of it, as 

the mountain glow every evening. "The world seeps in no matter what."  One idea for the title is that it offers a parallel between the harsh aspect of the desert as metaphor for navigating Parkingson's.  Elizabeth wonders if she looks "scrawny".  Perhaps like the saguaros, "spiny and upright, pocked with nest holes".  

"Ask the Canyon"... confirms the wondering about the disease -- is it the microplastics... the fact that you can't "go back" with the uncanny detail of "having a smaller shadow"... the "dirty contrails".  The tenderness of the ending.  The maybe's, but not yet darling, not yet.

The Chance: It's not ever fair to judge a poet's merit by one poem alone.  I am not sure when this poem by the current National Poet Laureate, Arthur Sze was penned.  Who is the intended audience?  What might be the poem's function, its significance?  Scanning the 22 lines for any clues given by form, rhythm, rhyme, imagery we all tried to find a way to navigate what seemed to be a confusing  medley of messages.  Why The chance in the title, and a chance on the final line?  It seems to be a meditation delivered in stream of consciousness about passion.  

comments:  The ending is powerful and has a sense of redemption:   even if the darkness precedes and follows/ us, we have a chance, briefly, to shine. 

Yes,  but is this ending "earned", hence credible and can the reader trust it?

There is a dark/light contrast, but what is the role of the example of the magician caught in his own chains?  The author may want passion that grows and grows (as opposed to ironwood that hardens and hardens), but there is no personal evidence of either.  Perhaps the "approach 30" refers to speed limit, perhaps to age, but either way, distances to where?

Asphalt Bobbing:  The title is catchy, as it is an unusual simile.  The opening line is provocative

with a suspenseful line break.  But... it feels more an exercise using the Golden Shovel technique referring to the Declaration of Independence than a poem.   Do we want another re-hash of the news?   It may indeed reiterate things we are facing in our country right now with the second round with Trump, but comments were more about books or articles people were reminded about.  

-- The Who:  "Meet the new boss... same as the old boss" (for King George/George Washington) https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/who/wontgetfooledagain.html

Brian Doyle: The Plover :  https://www.bookbrowse.com/bb_briefs/detail/index.cfm/ezine_preview_number/9393/the-plover

parallels the idea of bringing a new world about... islands are just tips of mountains, and it is the sea in charge.

Daddy Fell into the Pond!  We didn't really discuss this one, but it was a fun relief! 

Another Second, Another 24 Million Pounds: A cento:

Apparently some circles use the Italian pronunciation CHEN-to of this old form of borrowing lines from notable thinkers, and some use American pronunciation of SENT-o.  Be that as it may, without knowing the form, or that all the lines were from an Eco-Justice Poetry Anthology, Ghost-Fishing, edited by Melissa Tuckey with a forward by Camile T. Dungy, or without matching each line with a relatively well-known poet whose poem is in this anthology, does this work as a poem?

One person puts it this way -- "form provides the bricks and windows but it's nice to have a picture of the whole building first."  What message is given?  Is it another crazy quilt?  Do we have to know where each patch came from?  Here were some of the comments:

Like reading piles of books: Is it worth all the agony?

It's fine to experiment with form -- why not a 3-D poem -- but no poem should sound like a research paper... 

incoherent b/c it doesn't use a single voice of an individual and relies on gimmick.

If she is using other's work, did she think about  keeping the spirit of each author's poem in the eco-anthology?  

This led into a rousing discussion about poetry, alphabets, the future of literature and the role AI will play to determine it.  

This left no time for the final poem, Bassoonist (for C.) except to read it, and enjoy the sounds and rhythms.   I am hoping Graeme, who proposed it, will share what makes it worth one's while.

At Rundel, we only had a short time, and noted the sense of a backstory, but without any information.

Who is C?  Why was it written?  What does modern music have to do with this?

Poems for Jan. 14-5

 The Coming of Light  by Mark Strand by 1934 –2014; Proof ~ Cornelius Eady; (Poem for inauguration of Zohran Mamdani)  The Shop by Joyce Sutphen; Dementia Sonnet  by Justin Rigamonti;  Crepuscule with Muriel  by Marilyn Hacker ; December Morning by W.S. Merwin; Issa's Porch  by Steve Williams  

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[1] go to minute 34 on the youtube for Cornelius' remarks.  He reads the poem at minute 3:00.

Nutshell:

Coming of Light:  In seven lines,  laden with l's, one senses that "late" is that moment at the end of one's life. The opening poem of his volume, The Late Hour,   (2002),   Strand delivers  images such as candles "lit as if by themselves", and dreams that "pour into your pillows", and repeats "Even this late", as if to confirm that love is always ready to bloom.  One thinks of the parallel Festival of Lights and the tone is one of reassurance even in the dark. At Rundel, Cass shared her favorite poem by Strand Moontan

filled with the same sense of magic.

Proof:  Curiously, I had heard at first, the title as Truth, knowing the context of this poem delivered by Rochester native, Cornelius Eady on the occasion of Zohran Mamdani's Inauguration as mayor of NYC.

note: third stanza, 10th line: the first word is not will but where. 

One person felt it was a beautiful love poem to this city, the starting point of so many who have immigrated to this country.  The lines are humble, yet powerful, with the repeated "you have to imagine"

shifting to an almost imperative "you've got to imagine".  What reassurance wrapped in the repeated "who said" as he rolls out dismissive talk that tries to invisibilize  those who are not part of the powerful and privileged.  The inclusion of the James Baldwin quote, with visceral touches of details describing those who have risen up from slavery, "the taste of us, the spice of us, the hollers and rhythms of us" lead to the repeated "up from" -- to a new hope infused with joy "that wears down the rock of no."  

Like the first poem's mention of candles, there is a sense of the city lit by itself, an insistence hammering out the celebration many felt with the election of Obama, that yes, the election of a Black Man to an important public office is absolute proof that all "can make it". Listen to the  Poem, [1] 

 It's inspiring for all of us to imagine all the "lucky selves waiting for our arrival, with soil for our roots".

The Shop:  I mentioned the trick of photographers in a city landscape to "put in a person". Here, the poet has written a love poem to the person who occupies this shop.  We think, it might be if not her father, a special father-figure.   It starts with an unassuming title, and tercets stuffed with adjectives to describe all the old-fashioned (non-plastic) tools.  The soul of the person is hinted at -- first a finger, then a mask for a face, arriving at the tender metaphor of the "work-lathered leather" of the old harnesses,

soft as the reins of memory/guiding him through the tangle/of one year into another.

We discussed the mood created by the mention of the dusty light, the vise that could crush , the mouthless face of the welding mask, the sense of honest work.  There's a sense of wistfulness, but not sorrow. 

A small aside about spelling of vise:  In Britain, there are two acceptable versions of the spelling: vice and vise.  It is clearly not the abstraction of vice, but the physical presence of a piece of equipment that holds things in place.  

Crepuscule with Muriel:  Do click on the hyperlinks for Muriel Rukeyser (1913-1980)  and Marilyn Hacker (1942) if you do not know these poets. The poem reads as an elegy for Muriel Rukeyser, a passionate political activist with a keen interest in the shared disciplines of poetry and science (symbolic language and use of the imagination.)  Hacker, another poet with a peppery biography is known for her skillful formalism and feminism.  For a firey reading of the crackling consonants in this poem click 

here : https://poetryarchive.org/poem/crepuscule-muriel/

Note how each end word has a /k/, or /x-cks/ sound.  One can imagine Hacker on the NYC subway, reminiscing about her older mentor who indeed suffered from several strokes.  Her deft description brings alive what it is like to be locked inside a body after a stroke-- in this case Muriel's mind and her "dream-life logic" -- how she encodes it "in nervous tics/translated to a syntax with connects/intense and unfashionable politics/with morning coffee, Hudson sunsets, sex"

This poem is from the collection Desesperanto, a combination word of despair and esperanto, the artificial language intended to be universally understood.  It describes Hacker's life as a lesbian, the illness of loved ones, anger over world events.

For an image of the penultimate line animal warmth of bricks, I share what the French would call "crepuscule du matin". The word refers to the kind of luminosity the sun brings both at sunrise and sunset. 

photos by Gabriel Saphar

Shortly after sunrise, 1/8/2026

 

Dementia Sonnet:  The opening sentence with its flat statement about relief, with an enjambment after doesn't/ falling on remember is unnerving. My initial thought without ending the sentence, is the contradiction that there's relief in loving someone who doesn't -- but doesn't what?  Love?  Who can't love back?  (There's relief in loving someone who doesn't/remember you.)  

  Fortunately, twelve lines later, one arrives at relieves, and the verb expands the meaning to imply "responsibility has shifted in the relationship".  A provocative poem on a delicate subject, it provided a very thoughtful discussion. Bernie, as Geriatrician, offered helpful comments about dementia and how the most difficult stage for families is when the loved one no longer remembers your name.  On the 6th line, the adjective "warped" is a curious choice, followed by rose:  perhaps to imply an association of the hardness of a rose-granite tabletop, with entering a "time warp".

The note furnished by the poet in Rattle magazine reads: “I write poetry as a way of moving through life, plumbing its shadows—poetry as a torch held aloft, poetry as a stone dropped down a well to see how far it goes. As Robert Irwin said, ‘Art is the placing of your attention on the periphery of knowing,’ and that’s what poetry is for me. All of these poems are also loose or near sonnets, because I’m partial to the simple mechanism of the volta as a realization, as a deepening, as an epiphany—one that arrives for ‘a momentary stay against confusion,’ but then goes its merry way, taking all clarity with it.”

We didn't have time to go into this, as the session was finished abruptly at 1:15.

If one counts to the 8th line, every time you leave, your name slips off, to...

indeed the poem shifts to a different direction of wondering about where one stands in a relationship without name.  I do love Robert Frost's explanation of poetry as a "momentary stay against confusion",

and am glad to read the poet's note.  Clarity is not a given in poetry which provides us with more questions than answers.  We are given instead, a meditative reminder, of the importance of touch, of breath.

  

At Rundel we discussed December Morning by Merwin and Issa's Porch.

Merwin:  There's the sense of a rush of a thought in this unpunctuated poem.  Happiness appears as end word on the first, fifth lines and moves to the beginning of the 19th line, (3rd from the end).  Does it matter who Paula is?  We enjoyed the 6th line "the Fates so near that I can hear them".  There is something painfully poignant imagining the old poet by his books.  It is not that he is the one faithful to them, as they are to him as "someone they used to know", but rather, the intimation that he has moved on. 

This is "late happiness" as in the first poem.  Never owned by anyone-- it comes when it will --

rather like those candles that seem to light themselves, the coming of love, of light.

Pittsford O Pen added these reflections: Happiness is mentioned 3 times, but not in as a typical cliché or piece of advice.  Merwin is on the brink of blindness, needing to dictate his poems to his wife, Paula,

and gently embraces old age, with gentle hints about darkness of old regrets with their rancor from which he feels released.   The late arrival of such happiness is often unplanned, unexpected, and if there is a moral, it is that one need to be open and willing to accept the fullness of a moment.

Issa's Porch.  I believe the poet is referring to the haiku master, and of course a haiku would not have a title.  Like a haiku, the three lines tease us, as if moving "ice" and "thin" along with "hole" and "argument" so we can skate on thin ice, fall in, and that's the end of the argument.  I pass the poem back to you, dear reader, to puzzle with.  Porch is intermediary space -- between outside and indoors.

Pittsford O Pen: Issa, as haiku master, is known for dealing with feelings.  He suffered severe losses, 

and able to let go of perhaps the discomfort of knowing death will have the final word.  A porch is a place to relax... out of the elements of hot sun or rain. 

  

January 7-8

i am running into a new year,  by Lucille Clifton;  Wolf Moon by Susan Mitchell; While the World Falls Apart, I watch the Great British Bakeoff in Bed  by Jillian Stacia;  A Fabulous Night. by Bruce Weigl; After Our Daughter's Wedding by Ellen Bass

I started the session with this Chinese Proverb.

 

If there is light in the soul,

there is beauty in the person;

if there is beauty in the person,

there will be harmony in the house;

if there is harmony in the house,

there will be order in the nation; 

if there is order in the nation,

there will be peace in the world.

 

Then, these ending lines from Counting, New Years Morning, what powers yet remain:

(full poem hyperlinked here  Hirshberg:

Stone did not become apple. War did not become peace. 

Yet joy still stays joy. Sequins stay sequins. Words still bespangle, bewilder. 

Today, I woke without answer.

The day answers, unpockets a thought from a friend  

don’t despair of this falling world, not yet

didn’t it give you the asking

 

Nutshell of discussion

i am running... :  we immediately noted the lack of capitalization and punctuation.  It heightens the sense of motion, that defies being pinned down by time.  The simile of the old years akin to a wind, and the power of the poet who seizes them, with the additional simile describing her strong fingers akin to her promises in the first 6 short lines  create a whirlwind. The reader will not know anything about the past, but senses something difficult may have happened when she was 36 since that number is repeated -- and the unpunctuated sentence continues with a "but"

into the repeat of the first line.  The last two lines have an odd syntax, but shows the power of poetry to compress:

it could be understood this way:  "I beg what I love and I beg what I leave" (as dual subject) to forgive her.

AI gives this interpretation:  "This request for forgiveness underscores the poem's themes of reconciliation with the past and the hope for understanding and compassion from both oneself and others".  What AI leaves out is the layered meanings of the verbs, "beg" and "leave", perhaps implying her leaving is also an implied permission she gives herself.

 

Poetry is NOT about answers, but invites us to reflect on our own contradictions.

Clifton's choice to avoid capitalization and punctuation applies to her work in general.  It could be argued that she is rebelling against traditional rules, but it could also possibly imply that she is not putting herself above anyone else.

 

The poem has great power and overall a spirit of uplift.   

 

Wolf Moon: This year, Jan. 3, we had a full moon, called the Wolf Moon according to classification of Indigenous North American tribes.  The implications of winter cold, where wolves would howl in hunger and to protect territory come to mind. In this 14-line poem, the title appears in the penultimate line.  Looking at the 8th line to see if there is some sonnet technique of a turn, the words "not afraid" appear only to reappear two lines later to deliver what seems to be yet another clue with the line "not afraid to let bliss devour me whole".  Or grief... Is bliss a way of thinking about death where "my forever in orbit" is some afterlife, in some stratosphere for the soul?  

 

The opening line, "hold on" perhaps is advice, or warning.  Who is "they", and who is "she"?   The kite's will, as wind, is compared to love in its ability to carry surrender and forgiveness. Is that "but" an acceptance of something greater than hanging on?   Some thought the poem about  a mother about to lose her child.  Who is "I" wanting this kite to swoop her up and "rub her nose in the sky" with the wolf moon?  Is this an ecological poem, where we who are losing our mother earth, howl at the loss of wilderness?  Is  this a parallel to the idea of hope, a speck, and gone?   

 

Regardless, there is something gripping about the poem, inviting us to find ways to question within ourselves all it evokes. 

 

While the World Falls Apart:  who can resist alliterative fun and metaphorical puns!  For fun, and comparison, I give a link to the 18th century poem:  To Mrs K____, On Her Sending Me an English Christmas Plum-Cake at Paris  18th c.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/51877/to-mrs-k-on-her-sending-me-an-english-christmas-plum-cake-at-paris

 

A Fabulous Night... the incomplete title makes me want to sing the rest of the Moondance—"A fantabulous night for romance..." except the poet takes a quick turn from even "a gift from the cosmos" to a memory of war.  His conversational tone establishes a sense of trust to follow his balancing act  of things the reader might relate to such as the size and shape of the moon, misleading words, with his implied "private juxtapositions".   This might invite the reader to further delve into how we all hold our contradictions.  At the end, the highflown last lines seem to be straight from Shakespeare.  The  pathetic fallacy of heartbeats allowing the wind to stir the branches matches the incomplete title.  

 

After Our Daughter's Wedding:  This poem from 2002, Mules of Love brings up the strength of maternal instinct in unusual ways.  The title clues us in to place and occasion.  Remnants, half-empty glasses like lingering sunbathers.... only half-prepare the sense of loss, on line 7, where in her "flowered dress" the poet cries.  This is not a poem that will provide stanza breaks, but delivers a fell swoop of a meditation about the biologic imperative of being a mother. 

The unidentified "you" asking "do you feel like you've given her away", since  it is "our" daughter in the title , one assumes is the poet's partner.  What a contrast one participant said,

with the "Father of the Bride" !   The reference to "the" pills, could imply the possibility of an overdose and perhaps a legitimate worry along with an exaggerated list  of possibilities which also sneaks in the fact the poet got the time wrong on the rehearsal dinner.  

There's no break in the poem driving in the confirmation that we are not the ones in charge.    

 

West Wind in Winter:  Not every poem is for every reader.  Some might admire this poem,

the form and sound, the information about the poet born in 1847.  Some thought of Shelley's Ode written in a fit of romantic passion in 1819 in Florence towards the end of his short life. 

 

West Wind in Winter:  Not every poem is for every reader.  Some might admire this poem,

the form and sound, the information about the poet born in 1847.  Some thought of Shelley's Ode written in a fit of romantic passion in 1819 in Florence towards the end of his short life. 

The West Wind is a soft wind -- and appealingly drawn as comparison to "my poet" -- perhaps implying the poet inside of Alice Meynell, woman-suffragist. Judith kindly referred to this  [1]

Westron Wynde when wyll thow blow

The small rayne down can Rayne

Cryst yf my love were in my Armys

And I yn my bed Agayne

Judith continues: "The smoothed out version I know has “the small rain now doth rain,” and Christ that my love were in my arms”  which is not too far off.  It may have been in the very old Oxford anthology I used to have..." 

 

I stumbled on this lullaby by Tennyson -- with words and visual of moon which might either charm or repel.  As ever, should anyone find a treasure, please do share! 

 

 

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[1] Judith's note: It's been around since 1530, according to Wikipedia, which notes that it is quoted by Hemingway and Orwell, among others.  I recognized it in Hemingway when I encountered it in A Farewell to Arms, but do not remember it from Orwell’s Burmese Days. 

December 17

 Could That Be Me?  by Charles Simic[1]; McClures Beach by Sidney Hall Jr.,; Something about the Wind by Sidney Hall Jr.;  Genius of Stars and Love  by Richard Blanco https://richard-blanco.com/2013/11/tech-awards-gala/ -- Excerpts -- My Father's Diary by Sharon Olds; A Loud Death  by Richard Jackson;  How to Read Billy Collins  by Jeff Worley

Nutshell:

Although the first poem had been prompted by last week's discussion, this week, the title Could it be me?  was given space to come into its own.  4 lines, no information other than detail of what, lack of what and where.  It elicited a  funny story from Judith about a cat toy (mouse with a squeaking beep) found under her washing machine which needed fixing.  It continued to beep for 3 days in the trash.  I am sure we all could use these lines for Simic to elaborate on the Human Conditions!

2 poems by Sidney Hall:  They arrived as a pair in Writers Almanac and seem to be a good duo from Hall's book, Fumbling in the Light.  Whether or not you know McClure's Beach, the images deliver a cinematic effect — even if you have not seen the ocean, you can sense from the second stanza, not just a sense of "the end of the world", but the precious "sea silver" and all that comes to it -- either washed up on the shore, or wildflowers tumbling down to it. Those who have been there, provided beautiful descriptions and memories  https://www.nps.gov/places/point-reyes-mcclures-beach.htm

Mary read the second one, pausing after the second line, second stanza (and pointing it out to us). Although we did not discuss the title, indeed, reading about annoyance... about how human beings behave... "forgetful and unconcerned",  the  notion of wind bringing fresh air, how it works with waves washing the rocks brings a curative effect.   Axel brought up how a "sea cure" was like "prescription drug" in the 19th century.    Neil brought up his sleeping secret of 10 hours of  playing ocean waves. 

Richard Blanco: I gave excerpts, which have been used independently of each other, bolded to stand out from the entire very long poem.  Written in 2013, some detected perhaps a sense of civic duty as Blanco  National Poet Laureate unrolls the poem.  Is this poem an effective  tool for enlightenment, engagement?  Graeme pointed out the rather laborious use of metaphor.  Rick mentioned that his brother, an astronomer absolutely adored the entire poem.  Marna brought up the lovely kernel before the bolded last section with its emphasis on love as an action.  We noted the oxymoron, "shy wealth".  However each one absorbed it, hopefully each of us can reflect on the larger picture.  Polly offered a very humorous version of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star, where "star" is totally disguised by latinate-sounding words.  On research I found quite a few variations of lyrics which instruct how to understand "the twinkling" and what a star is, perhaps unbeknownst to the 18th century originator of the lyrics! 

Sharon Olds: We enjoyed the capital printing, representing the  voice of the father which contrasted with  the non-capped, more lyrical  voice of the daughter.  When "Lois" appears, over and over, there was not only much occasion for comment, laughter, but also, the fact that Lois could be the compagnon of Superman!  The language supports in a subtle way the "blocks" of the father.  We can suppose many possibilities of the story behind both characters;  the emotional power increases with the last line with the universal wish to "be known", not only inviting empathy for the father, but also a heightened awareness of how important (and difficult)  this is for us all.   

A Loud Death  by Richard Jackson  -- Although we did not read or discuss the poem,  I wanted to bring the title and epigram.  Perhaps reading about this journalist, others might want to write an elegy for her.  Perhaps others might wish to examine whether  Jackson succeeds in his goal expressed below.  for full poem: https://poets.org/poem/loud-death

If I die, I want a loud death. I don’t want to be just 

breaking news, or a number in a group, I want a death

that the world will hear, an impact that will remain

through time, and a timeless image that cannot be

buried by time or place.

             —Fatima Hassouna, Gaza photo journalist on April 15, before her death on April 16, 2025 

The poet's comment: "My poem tries to be an echo for her warning, sounding from the far reaches of the cosmos to the smallest insect.” 

How to read Billy Collins:  This poem opened wide the doors of poetry and our expectations.  Is it impertinent?

Does it pay tribute to Billy, or trivialize him?  Certainly we recognize any poet's disposition to want to steal... but is that not a form of flattery to the one from whom one is stealing?  Or is one simply cloning oneself to an original and contributing to the boredom of a repeated trope?  The poem opened up the discussion about what expectations we have of poetry and how it changes with the times -- as well as our individual, subjective moods and circumstances.  

I read aloud Billy Collins, The Trouble with Poetry:  

https://allpoetry.com/poem/11281495-The-Trouble-with-Poetry-by-Billy-Collins

Bernie brought up Bukowski, So you want to be a writer: 

https://www.poetry.com/poem/58707/so-you-want-to-be-a-writer

Where is poetry headed?

No matter... if we read a poem, love it and want to share it, some sparkle of wit, pleasure, surprise is at work and this is to be celebrated.

We passed around Judith's delicious madeleines... and she recited King John's Christmas:

King John's Christmas Below one of Ernest Shepherd's inimitable drawings.  The you-tube is well-cadenced. 

 

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K1SO4hLmeDQ

She also brought up Nemerov's biting poem about Santa Claus: https://sacompassion.net/poem-santa-claus-by-howard-nemerov/

I ended by reading Alberto Rios : https://poets.org/poem/christmas-border-1929

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[1] from a wonderful collection of "Brief Poems" by Simic.  Thank you Kathy for reciting this one 12/10/2025. 

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.