poems for March 25 and 27

 Spring Follows Winter Once More, by Tom Hennen; Jamestown, 2019 by Camille Dungy; The Garden, by Camille Dungy; Try to Make Her by Morrow Dowdle; Herb Lore by Mary E. Caragher; The Patience of Ordinary Things by Pat Schneider; Small Kindnesses  by Danusha Laméris; This Only by Czeslaw Milosz   

Nutshell

Spring Follows: the poem comes from a book Darkness Sticks to everything which title I countered with a link to Spring (Gerard Manley Hopkins version of  the "juice and joy" of Spring with his exuberant sprung rhythm: https://poemanalysis.com/gerard-manley-hopkins/spring/) We remarked the first 5 lines, with a downward look, the next two with an upward view.  The etymology of "Paradise" is "enclosed garden".  The capital P perhaps is to strive for something universal beyond any religious affiliation.  Notice it is not to knock on the gates, but rather, the gates opening "just enough" to let out an inkling of what lies within.  It is hard not associate this short poem with burial but it is not so much "death and resurection" as eternal cycles of life and the reminders of seasons.  The title sums it up, "once more" restoring both hope for sense of possible order and a reminder of how history repeats.  The release of a flock of geese provide a welcome unlocking of positive energy. 

Camille Dungy: The publisher's website includes a review of her book, America, A Love Story  and a sample poem.  I highly recommend you read this book.  A sample cannot suffice to show how gently she can pierce a heart, but at you will receive more than a hint at her skill.

Jamestown 2019:  What has changed in 400 years?  The poem paints a memorial not only to the first slaves, but as the title hints, 400 years later, to all black people. It reads like a ballad,  a lullaby without punctuation aside from two commas, slowly, slowly,  and breathing with multiple em-dashes.  The repetition of what rhymes with...  followed sometimes by single words (water/empty/crying) or a build-up of words is powerful.   Example: 2nd stanza, 2nd line —what rhymes with mothers/  enjambed to waiting, 3rd line repeated, mothers waiting  and then in the final stanza, what rhymes with snatch a life and name it /building—  this burden— which could be the musical term, or the burden of sorrow...  but the poem doesn't end there.  nor does the song or the sorrow: The final question, what rhymes with help the mothers love/these babies— the final two lines repeat help,  gathering speed in an increasing cresendo almost unbearably overwhelming.

help them help them help them /—help them rocks their stolen babies down.  

The Garden: As we know from her  book Soil: The Story of a Black Mother's Garden, selected last year as one of "All Rochester Reads" Camille is gardener working both earth and poetry to teach lessons.   The metaphors, such as "stakes", as risks, as well as how to plant these wooden supports so things grow, are skillfully handled, as are the enjambments which challenge assumptions:  "Some will assure you..." indeed, one would like to be assured that "there is a place on earth/for everyone.  I will prove/ them wrong, confirms the slippery nature of language and human behavior. We commented on the use of the word "dirt", wondered at "everything shot through/ with holes" which  sounds authentic and not particularly  positive.  One person wondered if it might not be the garden speaking at the beginning, with the poet reiterating the lessons at the end.  

Try to Make Her:  Some had read this article about a young woman in India faking snake transformation.The visual formatting is quite snake-like with high suspension.  Arriving at "Love exists,/"  more than half-way through the poem, it is followed by a lovely confirmation that this young woman found it.

Herb Lore:  a thank you to Rick, who introduced us to his Great Aunt, Mary E. Caragher (1890-1963  Bio : born in Lima. Genesee Wesleyan Seminary and Geneseo State Teachers' College, U of R, BS and MA in Engl.  moved to Rochester, as HS teacher, and member of Rochester Poetry Society. Poetry, nostalgic memories of childhood and great love of trees, infused with haunting Celtic mysticism.  "though 50 generations/willed me faith and reason,/I was a Druid child. Great tolerance and beautiful understanding of the beliefs of others... from Place of Apple Trees; nd Golden Year.  in Gleam (anthology of Roch. Poetry Society, 1964  

For those who know herbs and references to herbs in literature, here is a delightful poem calling on the "natural" lessons delivered by them and a wise and patient father.  Perhaps "lore" in the title pays tribute to acquired knowledge collected.  

For the last three poems:  I don't think it matters if we call them "a poem" or just the jotting down of thoughts that are worth reading.  Perhaps if a poem, the definition is "lines (13-18)  worth reading  that mirror back something that lifts your spirits, project a larger thought than the words provide.  

The Patience of Ordinary Things : a lovely tribute in 14 lines that reminded some of Van Gogh's art transforming honest objects such as a simple chair, or boots, to art.  Here, the ordinary becomes imbued with patience, merits the adjective lovely, and generous, and we believe the opening line:  it is a kind of love. We noted the title of the book and the press:  From The Weight of Love (Negative Capability Press, 2019)  Negative Capability, a term coined by Keats allows a thing to develop as it will, and asks us to be patient to see what what arises.  

The question of mood came up... how it colors how we see things.  If the soap is in a bad mood, it will stick, obviously, and if you are in a hurry, of course "the nylons will insist that you make a run".  If you are in the mood for such puns, this book was recommended.   https://www.amazon.com/Get-Through-Next-Five-Minutes/dp/1324091630

Small Kindnesses: Listening to Danusha read this poem is a very calming things to do.  I love her image, "brief moments of exchange... fleeting temples we make".  Mostly, indeed, we don't want to harm each other.  

This Only:  Whether Milosz wrote this in Polish, translated it himself, or when he wrote it, I do not know. I am just glad to have read it.  How do you understand the title?  He does not puncutate it, but one meaning might be to separate the words to emphasize, This.  What is this?  It is presence, physical, or a memory, a feeling, sound and rhythm, and a desire.  How to explain this as one precious thing?  Seeing as understanding perhaps, without need to peg down in language, expectation, fear, hope.  Seeing as letting the world in perhaps... How do you imagine that edge where there is no I or not-I?  Thank you Milosz for carrying us beyond whatever our "ordinary" life provides.  

   

 

March 18 + 20

 Origami  by Meg Yardley; For Air by Ed Robeson; Butchering by Rhina p. Espaillat; No Swan so Fine by Marianne Moore;  American History by Michael S. Harper; Night Bird  by Danusha Laméris; Lessons at the Legendary Institute for Yarn Spinning by Rigoberto González; The Lanyard  by Billy Collins

I fully subscribe to Ross Gay's statement about "Joy, as practice of survival."  I  

Nutshell of discussion of poems for March 18 + 20

 

I opened with this quote from Isabel Allende: We don't even know how strong we are until we are forced to bring that sudden strength forward.  In times of tragedy, of war, of necessity people do amazing things.  The human capacity for renewal is awesome.

 

Because the subject of War and Peace is on everyone's mind I shared few quotes from the Peace Postcard initiative[1].  Interesting that the first poem brought up the Japanese legend of thousand cranes and the story of the Japanese girl, Sadoku, one of the many who suffered from the effects of the Atom Bomb

 

  

Origami:  brought up many associations which included the Japanese legend of folding paper into origami cranes. The hyperlink will give you the story of the Japanese girl, Sadoku, one of the many who suffered from the effects of the Atom Bomb dropped on Hiroshima. She folds 1,000 cranes knowing the Japanese legend, that whoever does this will be granted a wish. Lest we forget about the bombing of two cities... 

 

How do we make sense of our world?  How can we repair the damage we see, unfolding a paper,

the creases of failures?  The uses of the word folding take us  from origami to the idea of wrinkles you wish you could smooth away, folds of empty spaces, cities, language, wind, valley, bill folds. The act of creating an origami bird is a meditative calming and methodical practice  that offsets the unpredictable.  I like that kami refers to origami paper but also to Japanese deities.  

 

The poem itself uses many enjambments as if each stanza is folding through space.  Indeed, the word "fold" is key, used in all but three stanzas (5th, 8th and final)   What is the bird base referred to in them?  This many-layered poem has the reader imitating folds of possibilities in the mind. 

 

Night Bird:    Who is saying the opening "Hear me"?  Is it the night bird, the poet? Should we believe or mock the prophetic tone?  The jump to the odd detail about the nephew and the therapist who dismisses that "he" (perhaps the therapist, perhaps the nephew) at play "sank a toy ship and tried to save the captain) is yet one more instance of not knowing more than the surface of the words. 

 

14 lines calls us to examine the poem as a modern sonnet.  Note the repetition in the six lines after the volta "Not, he said"echoes in the final line "Not, I'm sure".  The commas accentuate the contradictory hesitation.  What is what?  and how can we be sure?  The title is repeated at the end as a night bird, just one instance of something communicated. We noted the rhythm of one-beat words on the final line as if drumming echo that we do want to read meaning into what we hear.  

For Air : After a first read of this poem filled with gaps, unexpected spaces, as well as enjambments I re-read the first line:  There is a place in me for air.  I re-read it again and think of the breathing of rhythms and music but just like the scrambled syntax of "making sense like a cart/we are each other's horse before", I am also prompted to wonder if Robeson is implying  something comes before "____ for air" ?  Maybe a verb, like  gasping for air... or maybe an adjective like, "desperate", or a noun, "a craving for air".

Our minds play with empty spaces, try to fill in what's not said, or possibly erased.

This interview gives helpful insights into Roberson's experimental methods which refuse parsing.  He uses  "double-jointed syntax"  (Mackey) to explore and bend themes of race, history and culture.  "I'm not creating a new language.  I'm just trying to un-White-Out the one we've got" (2006 interview with Chicago Postmodern Poetry)

We discussed the last word in the first stanza, taking note there were other instances of ignoring rules of capitalization and punctuation.  What is given?  How it is to be understood?  It is the beginning of a math proof (corroborating the later mention in the 5th stanza, "geometries of air".  The repeat of "shod with a vibration of the unsaid"  feels fresh as the words line up  on the last line of the 4th stanza, and return at the end of the first line of the 5th stanza-- a new bounce of meaning preceded by "geometries of air".  

Many saw ressemblance to Jazz, which uses a different part of the brain than classical music.  The poem is visual in its choreography and all the senses are employed --with synaesthesia  (fragrance if sound wave and beat),  music, poetic beat, heart beat,  balletic leap.  However the possibilities of meaning, there is something delightfully refreshing confirmed with celebratory champagne.

It is fun to see how many different ways Robeson plays with "air": in stanza three, "the surface the air impresses upon..." the way things do that they be.  Other prepositions

No Swan so Fine:  Another sonnet where the oppressive opulence of Louis XV is compressed brilliantly with sound and image of a small detail of  a swan "lodged in a candelabrum..." which may indeed ressemble this: https://www.instagram.com/p/CsNxyBEoUU8/

The final sentence brings relief!  Apparently Marianne Moore would find inspiration from lines in magazines or elsewhere, hence the opening sentence in quotation marks.  It doesn't matter if she actually went to Versailles... 

Lessons at the Legendary Institute:  The word play in the title, teases us about what the double meaning of yarn as part of embroidery and as story. We loved the note about the Indigenous grandmother whispering, "If you're going to make things up, do it well."  Gonzáles does exactly that -- we don't have to know the tale, but we get the point-- and loved the idea of anger / demoted to delight...  The visual disposition of the poem resembles a weaving pattern, spinning out stanza by stanza.  

The Lanyard: The perfect blend of humor and compassion, where indeed, one could say "tears demoted to laughter" as we read the double viewpoint.  So many know about the "camp project" or the school project, but as one person commented, not all of us had mothers who made us feel our efforts were deserving of recognition.  

** A small aside:  Paul had brought in 4 years ago

a cudgel made from the limbs of blackthorn trees, common around the Wexford town of Shillelagh.  So called the same.   A hole was drilled near the end of the shaft to accommodate a lanyard to wrap around the wrist so as not to lose hold during the fray. These 

"Faction Fights" were no little gang dust-ups at the street corners. There might have been a 

thousand or more men involved to spit in the eyes of opponents while fracturing skulls. It 

was not uncommon to have four hundred killed over two or three days of fighting.

[1] This year, 5 Countries, 3 Canada Provinces, 35 States and 168 poets participates which adds up to about 4733 postcards circulating peace during February.  (World Peace Poets).  It's wonderful to receive a piece of mail with the Metta prayer on it,  or a recipe card for making Peace:  

Frost with/ample presence/active listening/building layers of trust.

March 11+13

 Dear March—Come In, Emily Dickinson;  Four Years Later  by Julia Kolchinsky; Anthem for Doomed Youth by Wilfred Owen; She says, being forbidden: -- by Leonora Speyer;  The Traveling Onion by Naomi Shihab Nye; Coffee in the Afternoon  by Alberto Rios; Birdbath by Henri Cole; 

A final Poem to enjoy as a PS by Seamus Heaney: https://poems.com/poem/postscript/ (Thank you Bart)

Preamble to  Nutshell for March 11-13, 2026

I believe Poetry is the handmaiden of serendipity because every week, a certain magic happens when a group of people come together and read aloud a bunch of poems.  Who would think that a breathless em-dashed  Dickinson poem about March written in 1874, 

a 2026 villanelle about the on-going war 4 years after the Russian invasion of Ukraine,  

a 1917 sonnet by Wilfred Owens, written in an Edinburgh hospital, where he was treated for shell shock, 

a 1926 sonnet referencing Canut the Great, 

a contemporary parable about an onion, a narrative about a visit over coffee, and a poem of 14 unrhymed lines filled with the emotional force referencing what is delivered by song, 

not only  could provide a memorable hour of animated discussion, but seemed to be matched as if to celebrate the way poetry can catch the heart off guard and blow it open (last line of the dividend poem, Postscript, by Seamus Heaney.You can see already from the hyperlinks, each piece is loaded with a treasury of references and contexts.  

Add to this, countless stories, associations, in the discussions, such as the wit of Ogden Nash, coffee with the meal  or the delight of the tongue twister lyrics from  Trout Fishing in America's  "All I want is a Proper Cup of Coffee"  and the opening quote by Ross Gay, " The heart's perhaps the most reliable clock we have.  This link will bring you to the October 2022 issue where you can read his words about Auden's poem "In Memory of W.B. Yeats" It's not that "Poetry makes nothing happen."  but rather, as Ross points out, what happens is that poetry spreads seeds which lie dormant, and then bloom out of control like wildflowers  in a summer meadow when given the fire of a common hearth around which we gather,  feasting on the act of communal sharing. 

 Nutshell of discussion of the poems: 

Dear March:  At first read, it would seem an enchanting celebration of this month known for its gusty nature and what some call "March Madness", with a little tongue-in-cheek humor as if the month were a special lover.  Who is speaking?  When the breathless litany of welcome, of questions, of accusation calms down in the last four lines, Emily provides us with an insight into our human paradox of love-hate relationships with seasons and weather.  Perhaps there is a bit of dismissal-- and she doesn't really allow March to answer her question 7th line, how are you, and the Rest.  Instead, she teases us with a play on double meaning of "rest" when things hibernate in Winter, and implies the larger "rest of nature" with which March is spending its time outside its designated season.

The trilling of t's -- triffles look for trivial turns the opening "Dear March" from a private letter, to what is dear, as in precious, or perhaps what comes at a price,  as we blame what we praise and vice-versa.  She capitalizes many of the nouns, but blame, mentioned twice,  only receives a capital letter when it concludes the poem, side by side with Praise, (twice-capitalized). The deft touch of the rhyming of dear/mere as interchangeable descriptions emphasizes the contradictory and inconstant attitudes we adopt with blame and praise.  Will you greet March differently now each year? Or even each time you read this poem!   There is no one analysis, no singular certainty here, but rather an echo to the many flavors and personalities of March with a small underlining of what it is the heart desires. 

 

Four Years Later:  The hyperlinks will lead you to Kolchinsky's bio and her other poems about the Russian invasion and on-going war.  The power of the villanelle lies in the repeating of the two lines: It's difficult to remember the war.//Everything returns as it was before. What do we choose to remember about the past?  Fail to recognize or even mention?

 

Anthem:  Wilfred Owens was friend with Siegfried Sassoon fellow anti-war poet, who suggested Anthem for the title,  and that the adjective doomed replace dead.  Written in October 1917 while recuperating from shell-shock in an Edinburgh hospital, this sonnet has a visceral effect with the rapid rattle of repeated consonants and grim images. As one participant whose husband is a war veteran commented,  one senses the anger of a soldier caught in the brutal absurdity of the first world war. The villanelle before, is from the viewpoint more of distant observer.  Both use poetry to make sense of being caught in the violence of wars which should never have been.

 

She says, being forbidden: Published in 1926, the title of this sonnet sounds like it could be a woman's lib poem.  As I quoted from Harriet Monroe in the footnote ," her prevailing mood is that of a conqueror; she hits back against whatever blows of fate, and faces even death unbowed.”  Be that as it may, the poem becomes even more powerful when you realize it is referencing  Canut the Great and lesson of waves.

 

The Traveling Onion:  The epigraph explains the history of the onion, however, the adjective, traveling gives a folk or fairytale flavor to the title.   It is soon clear this is more than an ode  extoling the onion for its physical qualities, honoring its commendable humility in its career!  Oh the stories, the recipes even a reference to Shrek and how Ogres are like onions (starts at minute  .47 on the hyperlink. Back to the poem, lesson, delivered like a moral in a fable,  points to  translucence, not needing to stay around to be given credit or recognition.  Here is another example an "onion" poem.   

 

Coffee in the Afternoon: Who is he?  Who is she?  We had as many conjectures as participants. Did they know each other? Did the poet just make the whole scene up?  I was delighted with the variety of responses.  Many anecdotes of unusual encounters over coffee were shared but also some were sensitive to the  possibility of a "grief visit", or an "end-of-life visit".  Whatever scenario, the poem by the lack of specificity about who, when, where, allows the reader to pick up on clues and expand on them.  For example, how do you make a pot of coffee from memory?  How the 5th stanza sounds like a repeated visit, not just a repeated gesture of helping oneself to "tea food".  Most everyone agreed the key was that the visit was liniment-- and after, tea or coffee, confusion plain and nice and a balm for the nerves of two people in the world.  

The last couplet packs an emotional punch to the simplicity of the power of such a simple moment.  Most agreed the final line no matter how enigmatic, confirms the importance of the visit, no matter the missing details about the people involved.

Joyce shared this story of visiting a coffee farm on top of a mountain in Nicaragua on a Pack, Paddle, Ski Adventure with Rick French.  First they bounced in the back of a truck and finished the journey on horseback!  At the farm they were treated to a small ritual that spelled  "welcome" in Costa Rica with coffee offered by natives to American tourists.  Knowing they like milk in coffee, they squeezed some fresh from a cow.  They all shared the richness of the flavor, sipping from paper cups with everyone in a circle, and then the natives all disappeared.  A memorable experience filled with the goodness of coffee and sharing.  

 

Birdbath. If you didn't look him up already, Henri Cole comes from an unusual background. 

We laughed heartily at line 4, and relished the anthropomorphism of birds and italicized words of what men say, which imitates sounds of a robin.  How is it when an Opera sings the story it is so different from silently reading the words?  Cole tosses us the challenge to live and sing the things we cannot say.  

 

A hearty thank you to everyone who attended.

 

  

 

 

PS to myself.  

Postscript -- I originally had all 4 lines.

You are neither here nor there,/ A hurry through which known and strange things pass/As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways/ And catch the heart off guard and blow it open. 
from Rattle:  This link will take you to her other poems about the invasion. This poem written in 2022 gives some of her biography and an example of erasure technique -- in this case Putin's February 21, 2022 speech that rewrites history as justification for war. 
I had cited these three lines: The heart's perhaps the most reliable clock we have -- Ross Gayhttps://www.bookey.app/book/inciting-joy/quote

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/articles/158591/out-of-time-time-the-fourth-incitement

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/ross-gay

All those hours spent trying to outstare the distance of what the days must come to.  Carl Philips

The poem as the champagne of what the body has bottled in its strain -- Ed Roberson  

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Poems for March 4 + 6

 [collage]by J.I. Kleinberg; The Peninsula by Seamus Heaney; The Red Wing Church by Ted Kooser; At the BBQ Spot by Tara Betts; Shelf Life  by Hemat Malak; When I do count the clock that tells the time[1] by William Shakespeare; Alive by Naomi Shihab Nye 

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[1] https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/articles/92652/the-music-of-poetry - music of the line of this sonnet discussed.

Nutshell: 3/4+6

 

The first "poem" was a collage of what looked to be as torn piece of paper.  There is no title. Click here For a good article about the history of concrete or visual poetry.  We didn't really get into a discussion of any "meaning", as one could chase one's tail at length to imagine the possibilities of what was on the paper and why we only see a few staggered lines.

For those who feel like taking time to decipher implications here are some questions.

1.  What is the emotional effect of what you see, without reading the words?

2.  How many different ways can you "piece" the actual words together so they make some sort of meaning?  Do you add punctuation?

3.  Does the amount of time spent trying to decode this piece feel worth your while?

 

The Peninsula: For some, this poem which at the end mentions "uncoding all landscapes", followed by the last two lines, also seemed somewhat baffling.  Even if a reader not felt to be in the shoes of the speaker,  Heaney offers good counsel.   Looking at the form where each stanza uses enjambment to spill down to the next stanza, you might sense a feel of traveling through space, which mimics the speaker's drive around the peninsula which may well be The Ards Peninsula in NE Ireland. (This site gives you a map and satellite view ).

 

The sound and rhythm carry us throughout the poem:

 -- lines filled with l's and r's such as

That rock where breakers shredded into rags,

The leggy birds stilted on their own legs,

 

--the pile-up of l's  in the end-words of the second stanza;

--  the rhyming patterning of AbcA, BddB, CefC (with a pile-up of g's in the endwords).

 

He breaks pattern in the final quatrain, but repeats much of the opening,

When you have nothing more to say, where the vowel rhyme of say[1] has been echoing all along--

And drive back home, still with nothing to say

 

I bolded still as many remarked how although indicating prolongation, Heaney takes a sharp turn, Except...  dropping end rhyme pattern.  However, he repeats the ex in the final word extremity  It is dark, and the poem ends but the work of the reader lies ahead.  You will uncode.  ponder "things founded clean on their own shapes. "  

 

What a wonderful discussion, where so many offered different angles of understanding of interior/exterior tension,  man-made/abstract,  man/nature, what is grounded/ungrounded -- and the unique boundaries of sky and sea "in their extremity" as if melting into a bigness.  It was helpful to be reminded of the definition of foreshore (3rd stanza): the part of a shore between high- and low-water marks, or between the water and cultivated or developed land. On the peninsula, one is aware of the rise and fall of tides, and the personification of "islands riding themselves out into the fog" giving a sense of shifting movement, like the rock shredding the breakers into rags. 

I added a link to another Heaney poem in the selection for 3/11+13.https://poems.com/poem/postscript/

The Red Wing Church:  One finds out soon enough that Red Wing refers to a town in Nebraska.

Everyone enjoyed the sense of community, and gentle humor.   Although at first glance, it might seem the poem points to a breakdown of "organized religion", there is something uplifting to see "religion" being recycled.  The pews are not destroyed and indeed, the church is not a place, but a gathering of people.  Interesting that the Quakers called traditional churches, "steeple houses"... The rebuilding of a church came up as well, as in Notre Dame in Paris, or the Frauenkirchein Dresden.

 

 At the BBQ Spot: Delightful description using sparkling language[2] one normally would not think of applying to flies.  We enjoyed the wonderful sounds and word play such as plastic bags as "ornaments or omens"; unexpected reversals Christened from maggots and scat... clustered like gathered stems of bouquets... and the hilarious twist of an ending -- where a trash heap, dead or alive, is indeed heaven for a fly.  It's always a joy to see something beautiful made of something ordinary, and in this case, irritating.  Adding to the pleasure is to learn something new in the process, as many had never seen or heard of such a fly-catching system. 

 

Shelf Life:  People were curious about the name of the poet, Hemat.  Apparently as Himmat in Urdu and  Hindi it means "courage, determination" and in Ancient Egypt Hemat translates to "woman" or "female servant".  One person looked her up and saw this line on her website: "I lie in a field; a poet drops a pebble; I ripple."

 

The note about the poem explains the prompt of "referencing small talk in a big way".  There were a few "small talk" instances, such as "nice dress" or

"everything will be OK honey" but from title to final line, the poem seemed more inspired by the poem by Bruce Weigl  the Tale of the Tortoise.  

 

Each scenario elicits sympathy, and then, suddenly is erased as if it never happened.

We wondered about what reality lies behind the couplet: Something happens when tomorrow rips/to its last few threads.  This is the only short stanza that is a couplet and seems to set up the idea of "take-backs".  

 

The title, Shelf Life, implies a potential "expiration date", but the poem leads us to a very different sense of "metaphoric" shelves, at present empty.  Or maybe it is life stored on a shelf that no one is aware of?

 

Some imagined a lonely person escaping loneliness through imagination; others imagined that everything did indeed happen, and this is a way to try to mend and heal.  We all felt the acute emptiness, the sense of being stripped naked emotionally.  I know I was totally engaged in the poem, and wanted to know more about the speaker.  

 

Sonnet 12: Is it fatherly advice to a younger man? I did give a reference to the sound lines 5-8 where the abundance of b's, echoes of repeated vowels, could arguably turn any sense into nonsense.  It is thought this is part of a series of "Fair Youth" poems, in particular, a "procreation" section, as remedy for inevitable aging.  I love the first line... and see it an invitation for us all to write as did Bruce Weigle, who inspired the last poem -- to tell a story "to fill a hole in your mind, or to try and mend something that's been torn by a violent wave that washed through you once." 

As an aside, Judith brought up this hilarious, but scientifically accurate book by her niece.

Alive: How do you explain the title?  What does it mean to be "alive" and who is to judge how to be?  We all enjoyed the leaps from mundane to significant, perhaps an implied proverb such as "don't cry over spilt milk".  Starting with "Dear Abby", one immediately is prepared for an answer of sound, compassionate advice, delivered with the straightforward style of a good friend.

The fun of the poem, is that the questions are not answered.  The reader can consider what is reasonable, when a joke goes to far, and whether telling a dog to stop barking is worth the effort. And what do you do about flat statements about what is remembered from school?  

 

Now that you are equipped knowing that "stories, poems, project, experiments and mischief" are how we learn about life... how do you answer the question about the man or the dog?

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[1] day, runway, gable, glazed, (perhaps legs, if you pronounce it laygs) landscapes, shapes

[2] Although it is not up to us to workshop a poem, I like the sound of the adjective myriad someone proposed to replace multiple on the first line of the second stanza.

poems for Feb. 25+27

 In honor of Black History month: 

I look at the world -- Langston Hughes

A Song for many movements -- Audrey Lorde

Behind Stowe by Elizabeth Bishop

Literary Theory by Ada Limon; Epitaph on a Tyrant by W. H. Auden 1907 - 1973; Hearing your words and not a word among them (Sonnet XXXVI)  by Edna St. Vincent Millay; Two Set Out on Their Journey by Galway Kinnell 1927 –2014;  “Tonight I Am In Love” by Dorianne Laux;  

The Gift to Sing  by James Weldon Johnson; Joy by Lisel Mueller   read by Nick Cave here: https://youtu.be/nzLp7Va4MOQ

'Tis the last session of this short month of February, with no extra "leap year" day (next one in 2028),

filled with hopes of Spring, of Love, preparations, remembrances... 

At the end of each month, this is what happens:

The Choosing Process

Oh dear 

ones

each week, before us, a random

group of poems, words

that share a look at the world

that sing in multiple movements

Oh dear,

I say, not out of dismay, "ones"

meaning you, the reader, the random

poems, the endless array of words,

the oh dear help me-- oh dear world

what helps us sing symphonic movements

O dear

belovèd ones

where one is a sum of many, and random

finds pattern in poems, words

to share together, to look at the world

the endless way to dance its movements.

Nutshell of poem 2/25 + 27

Literary Theory:  It seems that Limón is exploring the grey shades of language but with a hint of the larger context of humans vs. nature.  Thank you Jessica for sharing the anthology she edited and introduced, You are Here , which explores the human relationship to nature.  

 

What is "literary theory" and how does the title work in this poem?  It is interesting that she starts with the sound of words within words where allow starts with an open vowel, swallow indeed, forcing allow inside.  To swallow: verb is one thing, but the noun, could be a winged gnat hunter is entirely different, and would that be how you might describe the swallow?

 

We picked up on the adjective brutish, and the blinking like a morse code to confirm or refute definitions.  How do we define meanings?  I like that her poem ends on the undefined word,

swallow, a word that is read... but the meanings expand beyond it to all that could mean.  Are you a bit curious to know how "all her feathers show"-- and how might yours?

 

Epitaph:  Published in Auden’s book Another Time.    Scholars generally believe Auden was inspired to write it after spending time in Berlin, Germany, in the 1930's.  Regardless, a fine summary and definition of a tyrant.  The cadence sounds noble, the contrasts of end rhymes 

(what he's after/laughter; understand/his hand/ fleets/streets) embellishes the negative connotations.  

 

 Hearing your words:  This sonnet by Edna St. Vincent Millay, who would summer in Maine captures  the wild nature of the Maine Coast. Her moods often are revealed in description of weather and here the sense is one of repressed anger.  Who is the  "you" that speaks "words"-- without a word among them to her liking?  There is marvelous tension, whether the onslaught of waves, the sturdiness of the women and their gardens with dahlia tubers dripping from their hands, and the men out to sea.  Endurance is key.  To enjoy a taste of Millay, this site offers insights as well as samples.

 

Two Set Out on Their Journey:  Almost like a sermon or a parable, illustrated by a brother and sister, probably older in life, contemplated their lives.  Although we don't know the details, the emotion is strong.  What do you feel reading the words unfolding in five lines: If an ancestor has pressed/ a love-flower for us, it will like hidden/between pages of the slow going,/where only those who adore the story/ever read.  Re-read, and "slow going" feels like the slowing down towards the end of life, and the flower, the advice to be mindful as we go about life, the reading a sort of review of it.  Indeed, a gift of growing older is to find what seems so deadly serious, isn't.  

Sure, there will be sorrow... but that gift of time... indeed lightens the heart.

 

 

Tonight I am in Love:  the title is in quotes, but I couldn't find the reference.  For some, it might seem like an exercise in selecting lines from English poetry from the 13th century, (the anonymous sonne under wode) through Shakespeare, Sir Thomas Wyatt , William Blake and many others about love. It is a love poem to  poetry, and all it brings... we are indeed "wounded with tenderness for all who labored" (the wound introduced by reference the stanza before of

" Jesus’ wounds so wide." and references to Christianity which would have been more part of the time period that anything to do with the poem.)  It could be the line "For God Sake's hold your tongue and let me love" first line of John Donne's Canonization was the narrator's wish to write her own lines, bolstered as she is by old familiars.  

 

The Gift to Sing:  I think of the lot, this was a strong favorite because of the message so beautifully delivered as music. It feels authentic, and real. Only one end rhyme per stanza with the refrain, which subtly changes from tentative singing (blackening clouds about me cling)  to persistent singing (shadowed by Sorrow's somber wings   to an affirmation of singing itself (whatever time may bring). If you are not familiar with the poet, do enjoy this link.

 

Joy: The title becomes clear in the 12th line of the 3rd stanza.  The delay of addressing what joy is, filled with different voices discounting the power of music increases the resounding repeat,

joy joy, the sopranos sing,/reaching for the shimmering notes/while our eyes fill with tears.

What is the nameless opposite?  All that is not sung, expressed, not included, on that other seemingly parallel line of sorrow.  The poem reassures us, so often baffled by emotion, yes, 

joy to be joy, needs all the notes of our experience.

Poems for Feb. 18+20

            Cat in the Slipper by Wendy Van Camp; Song of the Mischievous Dog  by Dylan Thomas; Shall gods be said to thump the clouds, Dylan Thomas; Against Endings by Dorianne Laux;  Blood by Naomi Shihab Nye; Come Back! by Camille Guthrie Oread*  by H.D.;  Tombs and Wombs  by Alicia Cook

 

Nutshell:

Cat in the Slipper: A nonet is a shrinking syllabic form of nine lines.  The form suggests a slipper; each line acts rather independently as it paints a picture .  The sounds are warm and fuzzy,  and even if you might prefer the last word to be "slipper", the rule calls for a one-syllable word.  You might think of a homonym - shoo! and imagine someone wanting to reclaim the slipper!

Song of the Mischievous Dog:  Everyone felt the playful lilt of inner twice-rhymed lines alternating with end  rhyme.  Who has heard a unicorn described as a horse with a horn and two humps on its head (with a huff of 4 alliterative H's!!!) It's an unusual to have a dog be the speaker, describing a moment of bliss ... whether it's true a dog wants to chase "stones" as well as rabbits.   The rhyme seems to write the whimsy (doubtful of biscuit, I'm willing to risk it) and there's a blithe innocence that frees the reader from needing to delve into deep meaning!

Shall Gods Be Said to Thump the Clouds: I'm not sure how old Thomas was when he wrote this, but this is quite a contrast where, 3 tercets set up questions about Gods, with a definitive answer in the first lines of the 4th tercet regarding their existence.  God are stones.  One more question -- can they drum or chime? There's a sense of yearning that however stone may speak, it be able to be understood. The musical cadences  of the lines are powerful and illustrate our human propensity for anthropomorphizing gods in nature, in weather, which some might feel borders anti-religious. 

Paul recommended the 1986 book by Dylan's wife Caitlin :  https://www.kirkusreviews.com/book-reviews/a/caitlin-with-george-tremlett-thomas/caitlin-life-with-dylan-thomas/

Against Endings : The title holds the key to the poem.  We want a line to end, but often in poetry, the line carries on the meaning with an enjambment.   There are two curious ones:  line 8 : two// (line and stanza break)//dogs and line 15: up//(line break)//through.  Others do the work of double meanings and a pleasant surprise as in line 3: only the music/ of voices;  line 5: voices in darkness/below stars; line 12: obligatos afloat/on the humid air.   There are no periods, so some of the lines feel they hang in space, not needing any completion.  The poem asks us to read it slowly, allow it the time it is taking to consider what seems to be an urban scene.  We made many conjectures: a city block with kids playing up until dark; perhaps two teens in love, not wanting the night to end;  perhaps a European city.  The musical terms are lovely, contralto of questions; laughter's plucked strings; human duet; obligatos afloat... and different kind of thumping with a rap song.  For sure, we were wrapped up in the scene, could feel it strongly.

Blood: Without context, a daring title that immediately gets you wondering which of the many associations the poem will bring: the stuff in our veins we all share?  our bloodline as in family? as in shared blood of a country or culture? as in spilled blood from accident or murder?  The poet repeats the adjective "true" before "Arab" as if to emphasize the larger definition of a nationality, not sullied by misinterpretation.  One person wondered if in the second stanza, perhaps the skin peeled away was a sign of threatened identity.  Another brought up that the watermelon was symbolic  with the colors of the Palestinian flag.  There is an innocence in the third stanza about a girl wanting to see the Arab, perhaps, but also puzzlement.  "We don't have one", on second read could me, there isn't one singular, specific Arab. The question, "Once we die, do we give [our name, Shooting Star"] back?" as a good response of what a true Arab would say, also gives rise to consider how we call each other and what we keep about our names and meanings. 

The 4th stanza has intimations of terrible chaos.  How to tend one's home, the stone walls, gardens, under threat of destruction?  Of what good a table mat stitched blue,  waved as flag as if we all share sky and ocean?  Where can the crying heart graze?  The poem asks you to beg the question of how we can talk using the word  civilized????? Who calls anyone, any country  that?

Come Back! : Do look up the poet. She enjoys working with other texts and references, in this case, H.D.,  the famous Hilda Doolittle who with Ezra Pound established the imagist group in London in 1911.  The poem juxtaposes an idealization of this elegant, eloquent poet (1886-1961), the news of her time with the news of ours a century later.  There is a juxtaposition between HD's experience of the Blitz in London with our experience of 9/11.  One person thought of the Simon and Garfunkel tune, Mrs. Robinson . Who is standing there, at the top of the stair?  The poem pleads for help, for restoration -- to make good things, like imagination come back.  We would have appreciated commas in the 4th line  (bolded below) of the 5th stanza When bombs fell around your family/You seemed so sure in your poems/Walking down a London street/Thinking of Egypt, of Mary, of ruins/You stepped through a broken wall to see/A bomb-blackened apple tree flowering/It guided you through the Blitz/

Here when cherry blossoms appear after the winter/I think,  Pretty pink ladies/Dont catch a disease and die on us. 

Apologies for the scrambling there when the pdf and pasted text disagreed.  The rest of the poem after the quoted text is only two stanzas: one starting with I remember the Two Towers falling.  The final stanza starts: Where to now, H.D.?

Tombs and Wombs: Although the poem is an ekphrastic response to a stunning photograph, it certainly can stand on its own.  One senses the narrator is grieving a lost child.  The photo of these pre-columbian burial mounds, entitled "Deserted" is located near St. Louis, MO. See Chohokia   Each stanza is riven with a sense of aching, of desperate and visceral  waiting, -- but infused with what is not longer,  may never be.

I added a final poem for the Wednesday session to lighten the spirits.

OK Let’s Go Maureen N. McLane

 

Let’s go to Dawn School

and learn again to begin

 

oh something different

from repetition

 

Let’s go to the morning

and watch the sun smudge

 

every bankrupt idea

of nature “you can’t write about

 

anymore” said my friend

the photographer “except

 

as science”      

Let’s enroll ourselves

 

in the school of the sky

where knowing

 

how to know

and unknow is everything

 

we’ll come to know

under what they once thought