It Is Enough by Anne Alexander Bingham; things people like to share: by Nuar Alsadir[1]; Cleaning House by Scott Owens; If by Imtiaz Dharker** (This site will give you a good background of this poet and the scope of her work); A Downward Look by James Merrill; Day of the Dead by Peter Balakian
Wednesday was super special with Chinese New Year (thank you Eddie for filling us in) and those present were treated to Judith's exquisitely delicious "birthday" cookies.
You might enjoy this essay which examines some of the considerations of poetry. Here's an excerpt: "According to George Orwell, "Good bad poetry" is verse competently—even memorably—written. But his distinction leaves unaddressed the nature of the poetry itself. "Verse, as Orwell says, tells us something we already know—as often as not something we know we already know. Verse is not an instrument of exploration, but rather a tool of affirmation. Its rewards lie not in the excitements of discovery, but in the pleasures of encountering the familiar. "Verse does not seek to know the unknown or to express the unexpected, nor does it undertake the risk of failure that both entail. “Serious” poetry, on the other hand, is written in pursuit of an open-ended goal. It seeks to use language, in its full potential, to encompass reality, both external and internal, in the fullness of its complexity."
In the list poem by Nuar Alsadir, some might equate her choices as arbitrary as the lady who stirred her coffee with her big toe, (or toothbrush) but as always, the point of poetry is conversing with what is provided in that poem. The sharing of it, followed by an open dialogue enhances our understanding not just of the words, but of what it is that makes us human.
Comments from the group continued the conversation, sharing snippets about insights such as crafting of words to compress meaning.
At Rundel, we discussed the Second Coming noting the value of symbolism lies in the power of suggestion of the infinite not the fixed meaning. For sure, the power of this poem is not about "setting a statesman right" (one of Yeats' arguments for avoiding war poetry). George mentioned the book Stone Cottage by James Longenbach which paints the relationship between Yeats and Ezra Pound, and the "war years". He also quoted Gertrude Stein on Ezra Pound. As she said, he is a village explainer; excellent if you are the village, but if not, not. (The fascination is with explaining! )
Pursuing the conversation about poetry, one should also mention Auden whose famous line is that "poetry makes nothing happen". See "In Memory of W.B. Yeats" elegy .What is the role of poetry in the modern world? What is it for?
from Part I
In Memory of W. B. Yeats by W. H. Auden 1907 –1973
But in the importance and noise of to-morrow
When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor of the bourse,
And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly accustomed
And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom
A few thousand will think of this day
As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual.
**
from Part II
For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives
In the valley of its making where executives
Would never want to tamper, flows on south
From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs,
Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives,
A way of happening, a mouth.
from Part III
Follow, poet, follow right
To the bottom of the night,
With your unconstraining voice
Still persuade us to rejoice;
With the farming of a verse
Make a vineyard of the curse,
Sing of human unsuccess
In a rapture of distress;
In the deserts of the heart
Let the healing fountain start,
In the prison of his days
Teach the free man how to praise.
All of this is a terribly long preamble, but, suffice it to say, we were fueled by Judith's special cookies, she made (on the occasion of her 90th birthday), and I did promise to share this poem published in Amethyst by Jonathan.
The Road by Jonathan Thorndike
Life is nothing but a road--
a farmer’s dirt path
through the winter wheat
where he can drive a tractor
or walk cows home to
the barn’s warmth or
stroll to a distant church spire
piercing clouds gathered above trees.
The footpath leads down to a river
where children in summer catch frogs
and release them in the tall grass.
Bluegills in the river wait for flies.
The dirt trail, a byway open to all,
made by unknown explorers,
stamped with boot tracks of autumn deer hunters
looking for a place of rest, an open fire.
As you walk by abandoned railroad tracks,
the sun breaks through clouds.
Crows call to each other in the pines,
speaking about where to find food,
their past lives, and the ghosts of friends.
You overhear two people talking,
a gentle discussion about the rain and wind.
An old wooden bridge crosses the river.
Carrying a bag of rusty gardening tools,
your hands and feet are tired at day’s end.
You yearn for a pint of ale, the hearth,
a bowl of cabbage and corned beef stew.
You feel a hand reaching to touch your hand.
We crave knowing who awaits in the next village,
over the next hill, who lives down the road
in the faded white clapboard farmhouse.
What happened to old friendships
that you savored at night like spiced wine?
The quiet of the forest,
spring snow turning into rain--
the thought of heaven.
Back to the Nutshell:
It is Enough: The poet, Anne Alexander Bingham (1931-2012) may well have known Omar Khayyam. Judith thought her poem a rather sentimental contemporary variation on it. The 12th century masterpiece by poet/mathematician Omar Khayyam is a refreshing read, and one is reminded of echoes of poetry through out the ages in conversation with it. For a sampling, herewith a few translated lines from the Rubiayat.
XVI
The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
Turns Ashes--or it prospers; and anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face,
Lighting a little hour or two--is gone.
XVII
Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp
Abode his destined Hour, and went his way.
XXXVII
For I remember stopping by the way
To watch a Potter thumping his wet Clay:
And with its all-obliterated Tongue
It murmur'd--"Gently, Brother, gently, pray!"
XXXVIII
And has not such a Story from of Old
Down Man's successive generations roll'd
Of such a clod of saturated Earth
Cast by the Maker into Human mould?
In the Rundel discussion the question of the inconsistency of punctuation came up. If a poem is well-crafted, one would hope using the dictum "Best word, best order", the use of space, indication of pauses, surprises of line breaks, etc. collaborate with word choices to corroborate the underlying possibilities of meaning.
Things people like to share: This poem reminded Jonathan of the poem Things I didn't know I loved by Nâzim Hikmet (1902-1963). Nuar Alsadir, a contemporary poet born in Connecticut of Iraqi parents is a psychotherapist with several poetry titles and awards to her credit. Curious that two people have ordered her latest book Animal Joy!
A list poem is an interesting way to play with organization of nouns. Alsadir's poem had a lot of white space (negative space in Art plays a similarly important role) where two lists are juxtaposed. Some thought of Yin and Yang, or a way of dividing up the way we go about determining preferences and judge "good" and "not good".
Some immediately wanted to set up their own list, or find out what others share. Another was reminded of the fun birthday puzzle made from little tidbits of information published on the day you are born. The associations with what is listed was as varied as the people in the room, and
Eddie, as one of the younger participants, commented that the form used no capital letters or punctuation, much like texting.
There is more to the poem than a mere list: there is the surprise of "things I don't like to share" in a poem with a title announcing things one likes to share; there is also a fun "tongue-in-cheek" aspect, and unexpected provocation of quite animated conversation! The poem might not be like "a lump of ice, riding on its own melting" (Robert Frost) , nor is it an antidote really for the punishment of English romantic poets as another put it, but by the end, there was a sense of celebration of our shared humanity!
Cleaning House: Mary announced the poem needed a new title, as this is no way to go about cleaning a house! Whether you take the poem literally or figuratively, this poem also invited quite a bit of conjecture. Is it one person looking back on a relationship with another person, their start in life? Is it about the relationship of the poet to the house? Is the "we" talking about an entire nation and pulling down the existing government and rebuilding? (last to lines). One comment was that in America a house is no longer something handed down generation after generation. Is there any racial implication in the first stanza?
In terms of the poem itself as five stanzas of unrhymed free verse, there are delicious moments of sound, small twists to clichés such as "courting with hammer and nails". Work is indeed a bonding experience, especially if laboring for unity.
If: "Born in Pakistan and brought up in Scotland, Imtiaz Dharker is a poet, artist and documentary film-maker who divides her time between London and India. This mixed heritage and itinerant lifestyle is at the heart of her writing: questioning, imagistic and richly textured poems that span geographical and cultural displacement, conflict and gender politics, while also interrogating received ideas about home, freedom and faith. Yet for all the seriousness of her themes, Dharker is a truly global poet, whose work speaks plainly and with great emotional intelligence to anyone who has ever felt adrift in the increasingly complex, multicultural and shrinking world we inhabit. For a number of years now, her poems have been taught on the UK national curriculum." from her website:
Everyone "caught" the importance of the spacing between an unusual "stanza break" and the triple space before the final verb, kneel.
More detail about the structure.
There are "If" is repeated three times, with the first line starting and ending with the word. The start, If we could is repeated five lines before the end, as well as on the final if we could. Isolating the three instances: 1) If we could pray if 2) to gratitude, if we could lose 3) ground. If we could [with the idea of praying appearing in the imperative-sounding kneel.]
This is quite fragmented syntax. The suspension if we knew/we could turn leads to another enjambment and turning/feel that things could be different.
The conditional could, would, should set the tone of the poem with five instances of "could". The overlaying of images into the 6th line, "how small the sound is" creates a dream-like surrealism or mysticism of blue hands, reflection of the moon, the break after 14 lines, only to continue another 5 lines to arrive at a question mark.
Is ground, as rejet (word after the enjambed "look for peace on the iron") being used to describe iron that has been ground to dust? What urgency is carried from iron to ground?
A Downward Look: At Rundel, as soon as we saw the name of the poet, there was mention of Merrill’s long Ouija-inspired epic poem The Changing Light at Sandover (1982) which won the National Book Critics Circle Award. Here is a perspective of looking down, probably at a bathtub filled with soap bubbles, possibly a mother and her child. (Delta thicket implied pubic hair.) The Pittsford group felt more a travel in a weird time warp and two Nevil Shute books, Trustee from the Toolroom and Round the Bend came up. Also a little Nemerov,
and sang the towers/ of the city into the astonished sky...(The Makers)
Day of the Dead: The title could be literal, or personal, not necessarily the Mexican Diá de los Muertos. Everyone enjoyed the sensual, visual details. I was glad for the note about the poem which placed it in Hanoi, along with the Vietnamese soup, pho. Eddie told us more about the importance of Ancestor worship -- and it just so happened that Wednesday 1/29 was the celebration of the Chinese New Year! We thought the explanation of the final stanza, "return your wood" as a way for the cab driver to refuse money, go back to the roots of the family, honor the ancestors.
[1] posted on the Slowdown: 1/22/2025: "Today’s whimsical poem, a minimalist list poem, meditates on the line between what we might be willing to let go and what we choose to keep for ourselves. — Major" I "sqwunched" the white spaces between the lines : see https://yalereview.org/article/nuar-alsadir-poem-share
