Still Life by Ellen Bass; Miracles by Walt Whitman; Abecedarian for Alabama Libraries by Pamela Manasco; Poem in which Barbie Qualifies for Medicare by Denise Duhamel; Drifters by Bruce Dawe; Becoming a Redwood by Dana Gioia
With a theme of "finding miracles in daily life" the associations, stories, connections were quite abundant, ranging from the Japanese movie, "Perfect Days" to the Dipsea Trail to Muir woods (population 3 stellar jays and a ground hog?)
https://www.alltrails.com/trail/us/california/dipsea-trail--2 and at the end
I post Samuel Barber's "Summer of 1915 in Knoxville."
Nutshell:
Still Life: Brilliant gem of a poem which appeared in a nature review (3/24/24) examining "Plant-Human Connection". The title puns on the artistic term, "Momento Mori" where a still life contains a reminder that nothing living lasts for ever, and yet, life still goes on. We laughed at the opening line..."It won't last" with a perfect line break, which invites the reader to imagine all that doesn't last, including the sunshine we had the day before the eclipse, and the clouds that obscured the event. The verbs, spinning away, ride the air, billow, plume, life, tremble... set a view of tulips into motion... their open mouths as if ready to sing. We loved the pick of louche, the French word for an awkward weirdness to describe "cups of emptiness" followed by an abundant sensuousness of satin, sails, slack bells, and "parrot-colored curtains" billowing. You won't look at tulips, painted or real, the same way after reading that. A skillful inclusion of "the planet's stream" carries us with them, to leave like the "shallow pond of light". -- except...
that tip of one petal, "still catching the sun" as if to confirm that life indeed goes on.
Miracles. Whitman's unique and courageous voice feels timeless. Some picked up on the fact he was gay, with the details of "naked" feet, "sleep in the bed at night with any one I love". The singular with "the rest" repeated twice, "with the whole referring". The long anaphor "or", with "or" inserted twice in the longer lines to demonstrate the vastness beyond Manhattan streets. The last sentence, after repeating "every" to calculate measure, filled with miracle, starts with the sea, includes fishes, ships, men, but some found it odd to continue on as if that were the miracle. What is different about that to be strange when describing miracle? Or is he inviting us to join him in listing yet more miracles?
Abcedarian: For some, an introduction to a new form. Many "ABC" poems and variations are available, and for a poem about a library, an appropriate form to adopt. We had a great discussion about libraries, the importance of books, the negative takes like "never fix the broken-down bridge", the sarcastic spins in questions like "why must we feed starving children?" We are not sure what is ranked as "50th" but it is clear that "zero" starting the last line of the poem is the mark of the end of the alphabet.
For a variation on an "acrostic" style ABC, this one by Robert Pinsky follows the alphabet word by word.
Any body can die, evidently. Few
Go happily, irradiating joy,
Knowledge, love. Many
Need oblivion, painkillers,
Quickest respite.
Sweet time unafflicted,
Various world:
X=your zenith.
Poem in which Barbie... We appreciated the humor criticizing all Barbie represents about our American society, the totally relatable examples of getting older, commentary on attitudes of the young of today. Why not write a poem about Ken qualifying for Medicare as well? Or how about such iconic myths as Frankenstein, or other stereotypes?
Drifters: A thank you to Graeme for sharing this gem by Australian poet, Bruce Dawe who came to speak at his school when he was in the Upper 6th form. Lovely directness, and great empathy for others. We see the "oldest girl" is mature beyond her age, too early, able to keep back her tears. Ute, pronounced like a shortened "Utility vehicle" is like a pick up truck. The shivers come, as it drives past the blackberries and their shriveled fruit... how the wife once had held out the dream and hope when first arriving there, her hands bright with berries, saying, make a wish Tom, make a wish. No need to say more even if you could, feeling her resignation, unspoken despair.
Becoming a Redwood: A thank you to Marna who shared the Women in Music program, where she heard a composition based on the Dana Gioia poem. https://www.whec.com/top-news/nazareth-university-hosts-annual-women-in-music-festival/ featuring Lori Laitman, composer in residence: http://artsongs.com/
We read the poem, then listened to it as set to music here: https://songofamerica.net/song/becoming-a-redwood/
The poem has rhythm and sound through out... beautiful line break, second line: invisible/
(up to the reader to imagine what else besides crickets... all manner of life some might think "too small to name") but landing on toad, not the usual suspect to announce "change is possible". The personification of a stone, the "pain" imagined of grass breaking through earth's crust, the rich alliterations, the images that call on the senses with "snort" and "smell... the layering of time as "living wood... thickened with a hundred thousand days of light..."
The music for some acted like a clock, and I liked how there was a brief interlude from the voice after the 4th tercet, and two key changes after that.
What is it like to be a tree? Is it easier to bear everything? Gioia makes us feel we are surrounded in company of fellow redwoods, if not actual trees. A beautifully crafted poem, testifying to the intricate and miraculous interconnections of life.
On Wednesday, Elmer, an arborist shared details and could have elaborated on story after story about seeds of Redwoods. for a start:
https://www.reddit.com/r/Rochester/comments/1rpqib/california_redwood_trees_in_rochester/
https://kellyrfineman.livejournal.com/894086.html
Links about Redwood trees:
https://www.savetheredwoods.org/redwoods/dawn-redwoods/
about "Dawn Redwoods" : To the Chinese people, the dawn redwood is second only to the panda as a conservation icon. Thought to have been extinct for millions of years, a Save the Redwoods League group discovered that this unusual member of the redwood family still exists in China, shedding its leaves in the fall
I am waiting for Jan to tell me which poem (perhaps several) made her think of
Samuel Barber: Summer in Knoxville 1915
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GHFsq3u9les
It has become that time of evening
When people sit on their porches
Rocking gently and talking gently
And watching the street
And the standing up into their sphere
Of possession of the trees,
Of birds' hung havens, hangars.
People go by; things go by.
A horse, drawing a buggy,
Breaking his hollow iron music on the asphalt:
A loud auto: a quiet auto:
People in pairs, not in a hurry,
Scuffling, switching their weight of aestival body,
Talking casually,
The taste hovering over them of vanilla,
Strawberry, pasteboard, and starched milk,
The image upon them of lovers and horsement,
Squared with clowns in hueless amber.
A streetcar raising into iron moan;
Stopping;
Belling and starting; stertorous;
Rousing and raising again
Its iron increasing moan
And swimming its gold windows and straw seats
On past and past and past
The bleak spark crackling and cursing above it
Like a small malignant spirit
Set to dog its tracks;
The iron whine rises on rising speed;
Still risen, faints; halts;
The faint stinging bell;
Rises again, still fainter;
Fainting, lifting lifts,
Faints foregone;
Forgotten.
Now is the night one blue dew;
My father has drained,
He has coiled the hose.
Low on the length of lawns,
A frailing of fire who breathes.
Parents on porches:
Rock and rock.
From damp strings morning glories hang their ancient faces.
The dry and exalted noise of the locusts from all the air
At once enchants my eardrums.
On the rough wet grass
Of the backyard
My father and mother have spread quilts
We all lie there, my mother, my father, my uncle, m
Y aunt,
And I too am lying there.
They are not talking much, and the talk is quiet,
Of nothing in particular,
Of nothing at all.
The stars are wide and alive,
They all seem like a smile
Of great sweetness,
And they seem very near.
All my people are larger bodies than mine,
With voices gentle and meaningless
Like the voices of sleeping birds.
One is an artist, he is living at home.
One is a musician, she is living at home.
One is my mother who is good to me.
One is my father who is good to me.
By some chance, here they are,
All on this earth;
And who shall ever tell the sorrow
Of being on this earth, lying, on quilts,
On the grass,
In a summer evening,
Among the sounds of the night.
May God bless my people,
My uncle, my aunt, my mother, my good father,
Oh, remember them kindly in their time of trouble;
And in the hour of their taking away.
After a little
I am taken in
And put to bed.
Sleep, soft smiling,
Draws me unto her;
And those receive me,
Who quietly treat me,
As one familiar and well-beloved in that home:
But will not, oh, will not,
Not now, not ever;
But will not ever tell me who I am.
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