December 30

That is solemn we have ended,— (87) by Emily Dickinson

Elegy in Joy [excerpt] by Muriel Rukeyser - 1913-1980

The Old Year by John Clare - 1793-1864

Never Ever by Brenda Shaughnessy - 1970-

Caught  by Mary Hood

The Debate by Alison Luterman

excerpt from The Sun Magazine.

 What a delightful problem... so many wonderful poems!  Here are two we may not get to:

https://poets.org/poem/cento-between-ending-and-end?mc_cid=02c84caae4&mc_eid=248758c95e poem by Cameron Awkward Rich

 

https://poets.org/poem/burning-old-year?mc_cid=02c84caae4&mc_eid=248758c95e  an old favorite from Naomi Shihab Nye

**

Nutshell summary:

Dickinson:  For such a small nugget of 8 lines, there is so much Emily offers: the odd syntax of the title emphasizes the word "solemn", and in colloquial terms we might read, "That which we have ended is solemn".   Solemn is not ended, but rather, the solemnity of the end is reviewed.  The word "play" as in "all the world is a stage and we are but actors in it", the chortle in the g's of glee in the garrets, the first of four possibilities, the other three, a holiday,  "a leaving home" (Jan reminded us how hard it was for Emily to leave home, and did not stay at Mt. Holyoke, because she missed it so) and "later" parting with a world we have understood... June shared her associations with the final word of the poem, "unfurled" -- the sense of sailing the world, the great unknown of the voyage, direction of the wind.  How to understand

this one sentence?  Is the final option "parting with a world" and the understanding, separate?  Have we understood, for better, that this world still waits to be "unfurled".  Is parting for better?  Is better to be unfurled, just not quite yet?  Is it all of that?  Endings are indeed solemn.  However,  if everything ended

would it doesn't matter?   Is what will happen next something we, or a next generation will witness? 

I'm not sure we reached any consensus of conclusion... but it certainly poses good questions on which to meditate.

Rukeyser: This is an excerpt: the poem, in its entirety, is from Birds, Beasts, and Seas: Nature Poems; also in Elegies of Peace; First published by New Directions in 1949. to view (with a critique) : 

I can't find the site where I found lines before this-- these help though and are in the couplet above the excerpted passage.

Though you die, your war lives: the years fought it,

fusing a deal world straight.

How do we tell beginnings?  How does joy insert itself in an elegy?  War is a deadly enterprise.  June

spoke of the difficulty her husband faces as a Vietnam vet, and how he survives by living in the moment.  This poem definitely repudiates war... celebrates nourishment, and "this instant of love" much like taking one minute at a time as a way to heal wounds.  How do we heal wounds?  perhaps start with a modest expression of gratitude that we exist.  We discussed at length the "faring stars", those final words.

Is it one as  alternative to them (like the Dickenson "or") a choice? One things of wayfaring... wandering, alone, or seafaring... where weather can make what familiar feel uncharted.  The constant is the seed, the beginning... the love (that gives us ourselves).

John Clare: How do you understand the new year as "all nothing everywhere"? the old year erased, "no footstep, mark, place".  Like the fire ceremony of "burning the old year", one can write down (identify), like burning the old papers, garments, leaves no trace, ( time, torn away).  At first blush, it seemed to be a rather depressing idea, but quickly the discussion turned to how to embrace the contradictions of "reality" vs. our perception of it.  Indeed, the new year is filled with unknown, time is fleeting... the form with the alternating rhymes gives us a solid grounding with which to ponder these things.

Shaughnessy:  We felt this poem must have been written in this year of pandemic... Delightfully enigmatic... full of great sounds as the couplets clatter through evers and wherevers and nothing is forever.  The idea of embracing opposites, whether Platonic unity separated into male/female; yin/yang; Rumi-esque joy/sorrow, in order to understand something, we need to conceive of its opposite.  To understand equality, we need to examine inequality. We spoke of cleave, its double sense of split, and to draw close; The word play is delightful as is the Capital C and O, (possibly a zero? as well as oh!, followed by 40 /minutes, 40 years, without going into Noah's flood).  "Ever... a double-edged word" for sure as sharp as a sword.  Never-ever... as in Peter pan, as in can't get there, can't get out of this, and how is  "late a synonym for dead, a euphemism for ever. "  As David remarked, if you want to understand this poem, memorize it!

Mary Hood: Do enjoy her poems and pictures!  We discussed her poem "Flowers" 12/16.

https://maryahood.org/2020/09/16/wind-from-the-sea-by-andrew-wyeth/

Note how beautifully she uses the repeated “caught” like a prism…in the past tense… and all the ways we can use the term. (The group also noted what she left out —  how she doesn’t mention the road… doesn’t mention the tattered edge of the curtains or those birds etched in their lace…)  The first part sets up a frame, just as Wyeth does… Then, poet, like the painter, shares with the reader/viewer, "catches our eye"… shares the mood— and with Mary’s deft and sensitive treatment, we see differently, this sense of loneliness… and an amazing shift of the “non referential” sky allowed to go free!  

Thank you Jim for sharing your visit to this home in Maine that Wyeth painted: 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Olson_House_(Cushing,_Maine)

 You can go up route 1, get off at Thomaston.

Although it is 11 lines, it made me think of Gerard Manley Hopkins and the Curtal Sonnets he invented. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Curtal_sonnet

Luterman: Those with sibs, growing up in Brooklyn, or the Bronx really related to this scene, but the teasing, the insults, are so recognizable to all of us.  It brought up discussion about families -- how odd it is that the same parents produce such different kids -- and back to the theme of perception and how differently, even twins will see an experience.  Perhaps the best line in the poem was not from the father or brother, (who becomes more familiar -- first identified as brother, then uncle, then Uncle Barry) but the narrator, recognizing his father's stubbornness "Don't even try Uncle Barry" I almost say... 

Oh!  half lament, half celebration... may it all continue!

I ended with 6 lines of a 15 year old, Seth...  If you only read those lines, you could judge them however you want... but what makes them poignant is the context.  Seth, in the Juvenile Delinquent home... and his counselor responds to his "found" poem with "Dude, that is good!"  and Seth says, "It is?" and his counselor affirms, "yes! insanely good!"

Just like our group... we each bring our perspectives, fanning these words in poems alive by our sharing-- and end the session with the feeling -- "that was SO good".  Thank you all for a terrific 2020 -- zooming along since March... I hope to see you all in person in 2021!

December 23

 LIFE WHILE-YOU-WAIT  by Wislawa Szymborska

Letter Spoken in Wind by Rachel Galvin

Astronomers May Have Reason for Milky Way’s ‘Lumpiness’ by Marvin Bell

In Lies Lie Beliefs by Bruce Robinson : to hear the poet read: https://www.rattle.com/in-lies-lie-beliefs-by-bruce-robinson/

Creatures  by Marvin Bell

Moving a Baby Grand by Sarah Strong to listen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yyvQENVSOkI&feature=youtu.be. 6:14

T'was 3 weeks before Christmas. 

 

email included links to 

Alberto Rios: When Giving is all We Have; https://poets.org/poem/when-giving-all-we-have

Toi Derricotte Christmas Eve: My Mother Dressing –https://poets.org/poem/christmas-eve-my-mother-dressing

NUTSHELL SUMMARY

Life While You Wait:  Szymborska is one of the most endearing and witty philosopher-poets in my mind. This poem is a fine example, which immediately brought to mind Shakespeare and his haunting permanence (all the world is a stage and we are but actors in it-- "As You Like It"... ).  It is also a magnificent snapshot of the universals that plague all humans: our doubts, insecurities, vanity, arrogance, but also humility.  No matter what it is we do,  life is a drama and as such... we have no choice but to take part of the play. As a poet,  whatever is written, published becomes  an unretractible record  of what we have done.

The discussion, per usual, was rich and varied and we all agreed how this poem is a perfect one to read

when needing a reminder that  knowing oneself is neither easy, nor a given.   Her humor is reassuringly delightful...  By the end, having acknowledged how "ill-prepared for the privilege of living" we are... it feels a comfort to know "the machine rotating the stage has been around even longer" and "the farthest galaxies have been turned on."

 

The poem Jan wanted to share after the Szymborska is an echo of sorts.  

 

The Boat Itself by Ursula LeGuin

 

 The boat itself

 the boat myself

 alone

 my crew my life

 that I have never known

Letter Spoken in Wind

The title is intriguing... both the idea of "writing in wind" (breath?) instead of ink, and words spoken to the wind, which carries them off... perhaps to the person to whom one is writing, or thinking about, but wind, like spirit, is part of the mysterious, and if a keeper of such letters, invisible.   Written in tercets which

descend like a small set of stairs, the reader might feel included in the "we" walking in Southern Denmark in Winter.  We discussed who the "you" is in "your voice on the phone" saying in Yiddish "a blessing on your head"... and Susan wondered if the woven dove was not a reference to davening and the Tallit, the prayer shawl, decorated with this bird of peace.   "Words shed overcoats, come//to me undressed... have no letters yet" inspired the idea of holiday cards, wishing for reunion... the poignancy of feeling the absence of a loved one... 

The metaphoric lighthouses, like the 8 candles of the Menorah with the 9th one (the Shamash or helper) lighting them, provide a strong image of the power of faith, making light when there are no candles,

akin to the Hanukkah celebration.  I love this affirmation of our human ability to create what we need emotionally to keep going, in our imagination.

I did write down "Ptolemaic them vs. church" -- someone's idea... but I can't remember the context or see it now in the poem.  

Astronomers May have Reason for Milky Way's Lumpiness

(forgive the typo -- it is Milky, not Milk).  This poem was referred to by Tim Green in his Rattle broadcast as tribute to Marvin Bell who passed away December 14. 

I loved that after 10 minutes of discussion, admiring the details, such as parallel lumps, and oppositions of reason with faith, science with the muse, David remarked, "let it not go unnoticed that this IS a sonnet"--

not just for the 14 lines, but the important volta, or turn.  Indeed, at the end of line 8, "Let me"... repeated line 10 "Let the desk" -- poet and poet's workplace, contrasts with the Astronomers' position announced in the title and first line.

Followed by Bernie's parsing of  the admirable set up of  three images:  faith and ritual (Brother.. where the knowledge will produce a new ritual with which to blister sinners); the moveable lump of the muse (implied breast cancer vs. metaphorical speechlessness) and the almost celebratory imperative to rejoice in that paradox of  "unattainable" we can embrace with our imagination.  

We touched briefly on what makes us speechless -- perhaps anticipating something great... perhaps an overpowering emotion... and the fierceness of the description of our planet-- "reeling in space", and our fixed sun actually a "swinging lamp" in a "warped galaxy"...  "blistering" and "bellowing" carry equally savage weight.

Thought is the great adventurer!  David suggested we read Robert Frost, Bond and Free:https://poets.org/poem/bond-and-free -- first stanza below.

Love has earth to which she clings  

With hills and circling arms about—  

Wall within wall to shut fear out.  

But Thought has need of no such things,  

For Thought has a pair of dauntless wings.

In Lies Lie Beliefs:  We listened to the poet read this three-part poem.  

Although I did not mention it, I was reminded of the splendid book by Dorianne Laux, Facts about the Moon where she addresses the same argument between labeling, hoping it suffices as truth, and an emotional honesty.  Perhaps more accessible and incredibly rich with a lyric loveliness -- "familiar things become flinch-worthy".  (Dorianne Laux, "Walk in the Park" - one of the poems in Facts about the Moon.)

Bruce Robinson's poem is a complex meditation.  I was pleased that people were patient to give it time to coax it come alive with all the various reflections.  Thank you Jim for reminding us about the difference between luminescence and brightness. Luminance is the luminous intensity, projected on a given area and direction. Brightness is a subjective attribute of light. 

The ideas of darkness... seeking light... the stumbling on stars... are part of the "onset" -- and at first the relationship to the title seems obscure.  "The Muddle"  clarifies this search... not  just for one star... but a search for meaning on life... and ends with fact that the moon, and ourselves, are only illuminated by something other than ourselves.  The "lie" of what we want to believe, the way we want to see the world,

is indeed hard to admit.  However, it is only in examining that we find what beliefs "lie in the lie". The "Mend" has only two short sentences.  Our contradictory stubbornness, 

moving from the opening "he'd seen the moon" and after reflection, ending with a commentary on human nature... we all fall for lies we tell ourselves.   It helps me feel less negative in judging 

"fake news" or "alternative facts".  

Creatures: This poem, read in two parts to reflect the careful set up: the first part of 11 lines poses the moral dilemma of killing an unwanted spider, ant, mouse in the house, garden pest, i.e. invader of our self-proclaimed territory (with the ironic underpinning that this question is so important that our attention to it  "precludes the moral disquisitions of a study group".  The second part, like a turn in a sonnet, focusses on the honeybee.  Bernie jokingly called his comments an "essay on imagery" in this poem.  Discussion included  thought about sea legs, the role of beekeepers, and service, and what Cindy said about what it's like to be in the Navy for 12 years... 

What the poet saves is the beekeeper -- a saver who saves a saver who serves us... 

Moving a Baby Grand:  pardon typo in stanza 2:  humiliation... 

Piano, as elephant... the weight of making a living... Again a turn, in the beginning of the 4th stanza... transfer to the ivories, as sawed-off tusks and then metaphor of suffering... which turns out to be the suffering itself... A little Archimedes -- Give me a place to stand and I will move the world... contrasted  with the expression "not to lift a finger"-- and suddenly, 3 glasses of water become the fulcrum -- even if only to play a single note... and an homage... the piano deserves Beethoven, the moving men champagne... and the elephant, the world.  She does not say what kind of world... but certainly implied is a world that would respect an elephant to be safe from humans!  It was good to find out that piano keys no longer are made out of ivory!  Brilliant poem. Having started with a comparison Elephant and piano, the poem adds specifics, reality of the here and now, and then opens into an even larger consideration.  

Twas 3 weeks... 

Just silly and a fun take on Christmas in Covid times.

I close with a quote from Marvin Bell.

Marvin Bell: “It’s true that, no matter what, the literary world is full of insult. When you put yourself out to the public, you’re going to get some negative stuff. But writing just feels wonderful. I mean, I love the discovery aspect of writing. I love that. I love saying what I didn’t know I knew, not knowing where I’m headed, abandoning myself to the materials to figure out where I’m going. Of course your personality is going to come out of it, of course your obsessions are going to make themselves known, of course if you have a philosophic mind a matrix of philosophy will be behind things; everyone has a stance, an attitude, a vision, a viewpoint. All that will come out. But in the meantime, you’re just dog-paddling like mad. And that’s fun. That’s what I always liked about every art.”

 

Poems for December 16

1. A Poem by Naomi Long Madgett

2. The Dipper   by Kathleen Jamie

3. Mercy Beach  by Kamilah Aisha Moon 

4. Red Brocade by Naomi Shihab Nye 

5. Translation  by Susanna Brougham

6. For Tom Shaw S.S.J.E. (1945-2014) by Mary Oliver

7. Their Lonely Betters by W.H. Auden 

8. To be of use by Marge Piercy

9.  Flowers  by Mary Hood

Nutshell:

It was fun to see how the poems connected to each other... The first, with the idea that we need to learn to let things speak and be for themselves, uses the verb "coax", first line, repeated in the second poem in the final stanza.  How is it that we think we need to be involved, applying our "eager tenderness"?  The echo in the first poem's last line has a bit of the last line of Robert Frost, Hyla Brook ("We love the things we love for what they are.") But it's more.  As in the second poem, watching this amazing bird, hearing its song, "It isn't mine to give."  Indeed, we have to learn to leave alone the things we love.  This need to assume we are in charge repeats in the creative process perhaps referred to in the Auden poem, that as humans, given language, we "assume responsibility for time".   Is it because we are compelled to "be of use", as Marge Piercy explains?

Or perhaps, it is that we need to feel our prayers and supplications will help those "babes in hewn rock cradles"?  The 3rd poem states as a matter of fact that they "learn to bear the hardness coming".  And yet, it is hard to refrain from prayers that start with "may this serve & bless them well.

Two poems deal with grief, and the final poem an affirmation of understanding how flowers are designed for themselves, not us.  They do not need to know they draw us in as they do their pollinators!

Notes on individual poems:

A Poem:  I love the title!  Those of us with children could immediately relate the over-prodding of plants to our over-concern seen as "over-fathering" and "over-mothering".  Give them a chance to seek what they need, by and for themselves.  It could also be what happens in the artistic process-- when is 

a painting, poem, choreography, finished?  Why keep rehearsing the play, the symphony, even after performance.  June gave the example of her husband's painting.  How it looked "finished" to her, but not to him.  Dave brought up Joseph Campbell and the perennial story in myths about children growing into heroes.  David brought up William Faulkner and an alternate self available through his novels, very different from his actual one. https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2020/11/30/william-faulkners-demons.  (As an aside, interesting that Campbell, idealized for his writing, was an anti-semite; and Faulkner who wrote quotable and convincing lines such as  “every man is the arbiter of his own virtues but let no man prescribe for another mans well-being." (Quentin, in the Saddest of Words).

was blatantly racist. 

The Dipper: Do admire this bird and its song here: https://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/American_Dipper/overview#

Jim shared this exact experience of the bird materializing out of nowhere. That verb "issue" for the sudden exit (like a birth) out of a waterfall is uncannily perfect for the tone.  We discussed "stupidly"... and the "yet" without any conclusion.  Undammable song makes a contrast to "swept stupidly"--

the one, mindless water, the other a bird programmed to fish and sing as it does-- caught in a moment.

The yet feels out of place, as does the assumption that the song sings of the depths of the river the bird plumbs.  We remarked a psychic feel to the idea of depth...   but that too could be human transposition.

I brought up the German word, "unerfüllte Sehnsucht" -- unfulfilled longing... The poet understands the experience of this bird "is not hers to give".

Mercy Beach:  We marveled that a 13 year old would pick such a poem, which then was shared with Emily's 10 year old grandson for their home-schooling of poetry.  Emily mentioned it could be just a lucky pick--  the first one he stumbled on in Poem a Day.   The "about this poem" says: “This poem was inspired by the shoreline in Madison, Connecticut. In Annie Finch’s workshop with other poets at the Poetry By The Sea conference, we explored meter's relationships to nature. As I entered this meditation, I couldn’t help but relate the physical landscape to the ongoing struggles of human nature embroiling our country and world. The poem is a call to transform adversity into greatness; a wish for relief, also known as mercy.

Our discussion  included an association with "Old Man River" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eh9WayN7R-s

and Kintsugi (金継ぎ, "golden joinery"), also known as kintsukuroi (金繕い, "golden repair"),[1] is the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery by mending the areas of breakage with lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum, a method similar to the maki-e technique.[2][3][4] As a philosophy, it treats breakage and repair as part of the history of an object, rather than something to disguise.  The beauty of broken

adds to the sense that whatever happens, as in the first poem, "the leaf's inclined to find its own direction...) We tried out ideas of the ocean being a mother, the beach a line of gold... the water being the unconscious, the land conscious... we all appreciated the images and sounds.**

Red Brocade:  an old favorite.  Elaine noticed the past tense in the opening line... and there is also past tense in the 3rd stanza.  All proverbs come out of a simpler time,  may explain in part.  The poem certainly evokes a time when such cultural traditions in Palestine were intact.  It also asks us, no matter what nationality, religion, culture, to examine in the here and now, how we are behaving towards each other -- if we can be true to honorable legacy, and not be claimed by pretending we have a purpose in the world, especially if alien to who we are and represent. 

I want to be sure to have fresh mint for you, to snip in your tea-- it confirms that I will make no excuses, but offer the sacred rules of hospitality.

Translation: As Ted Kooser says, this is a fine poem about "the staff of life" -- and yes, perhaps there is a pun in the Finnish in the last line.  David shared his son's love of baking bread, and how bread is indeed translation -- transforming one medium to another.  The tradition of making and sharing food as symbolic sharing love is also here, but here, in a eulogy.  The mono-line and rounded vowels of "slow" and "hours" suspended between the discovery of a last word (one loaf of dark rye) and the idea that it was left to be consumed.  The thaw of bread and heart... the healing of the firm, fragrant, forgiving bread... all those f's which work the teeth against the lips, the knife, and that Finnish and final silence.

For Tom Shaw: He was a Bishop and indeed, Mary Oliver must have had many conversations with him.  Whether she actually had this conversation with him, or imagined or dreamed asking him, and his reply is in quotes doesn't matter.  It is the perfect poem to honor a friend and console the one who has lost one.  It is Rumi-esque -- the idea of joy and sorrow in the same cave, and the more sorrow carves it out, the more room is made for joy.  This poem confirms Mary's humble reverence, reverent humility towards life.

The Lonely Betters:  We do have a better understanding of Nature now than when this poem was written... we understand that animals and plants have a language of their own... and perhaps we also are able to redefine ourselves, not as superior at all.  As Maura said, we could be called "lowly betters" with emphasis on the lowly.  And lonely we are.  Auden pays tribute to Frost, a poet of ordinary language in the last line -- and winds a complex skein of thought about language and how humans use it.  He is not without irony addressing the struggle we have, burdened as we are by being able to lie,

our complexity in facing death, our audacity to think we are in charge of time, and cursed by being aware we are caught in it. 

Indeed, when humans laugh and weep unrestrainedly, we resemble animals.

Yes, words... to remind us of promises... I love the loaded ironic undertone in "words for those with promises to keep" --  no guarantee they will be kept.  And of those incapable of making them... 

shall we call what is said "noises"?

To be of Use:  Good discussion about how hard it is to feel of use... and what is meant by being "productive".  It is hard to be an ancient Greek Amphora, once active pouring oil, shut in a case in a museum, or worse, in storage.   Dave shared a great observation: "I've been productive all my life.  It's not all it's cracked up to be."  Bernie mentioned this is a favorite poem to share, as it is a bracing thought to feel of use.  The sentence, "the work of the world is common as mud" redeems the poem from the Protestant work ethic.

Carolyn suggested this film:  

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Secret_of_Santa_Vittoria

We discussed common rhythms,.. how we submerge ourselves in larger packs... how society pays attention to those we judge as important... how to honor the "invisible" essential workers... farmers producing food we eat, and those who get it to us, meat-packers... 

Bernie reminded us of the LeGuin poem (discussed July 19, 2019) The Small Indian Pestle at the Applegate House - UKLG

 

Dense, heavy, fine-grained, dark basalt

worn river-smooth all round, a cylinder

with blunt round ends, a tool: you know it when

you feel the subtle central turn or curve 

that shapes it to the hand, was shaped by hands,

year after year after year, by women’s hands

that held it here, just where it must be held 

to fall of its own weight into the shallow bowl

and crush the seeds and rise and fall again

setting the rhythm of the soft, dull song 

that worked itself at length into the stone,

so when I picked it up it told me how

to hold and heft it, put my fingers where

those fingers were that softly wore it down

to this fine shape that fits and fills my hand,

this weight that wants to fall and, falling, sing.

Flowers:  We ended on this lovely poem by Mary Hood.  A delicate sketch that takes a look at how we use flowers... (do we coax them too?  Are they ours to give? May they brandish wounds of gold! Perhaps put them on the red brocade pillow as you slice the rye bread as last word.

Where has this cold come from?  The flowers know, words are for those with promises to keep, and that the work of the world is common as mud.)

**

** More links: Thank you Bernie

 https://mymodernmet.com/kintsugi-kintsukuroi/

AND KINSTUGI IN THE STREETS:  https://www.thisiscolossal.com/2017/02/street-kintsugi-rachel-sussman/

 Also associated is the Japanese aestheic called wabi-sabi:  "In traditional Japanese aesthetics, wabi-sabi (侘寂) is a world view centered on the acceptance of transience and imperfection.^[2] The aesthetic is sometimes described as one of appreciating beauty that is "imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete" in nature.^[3] It is a concept derived from the Buddhist teaching of the three marks of existence (三印, sanbōin), specifically impermanence (常, mujō), suffering (苦, ku) and emptiness or absence of self-nature (空, kū)."

                           https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wabi-sabi

Poems for December 9

Winter Morning by James Crews

Gwendolyn Brooks: America in the Wintertime by Haki R. Madhubuti 

Dawn  by Ella Wheeler Wilcox – 

When I Am Among The Trees by Mary Oliver

Grendel by Roger Reeves

Runaway by Jorie Graham

Thank you to all who braved the zoom challenge this morning... I was thinking of Wallace Stevens' poem The Snow Man.  Indeed... I started penning a pastiche...

One must have a mind of winter

to regard zoom refusals as long and crusty

snow, shagged with ice... imagining no connection

for our weekly poetry infusion, indeed, as far off

as the idea of a distant glitter of January sun...

Thank you Elaine for keeping us connected.

Nutshell summary:

Crews:  Sometimes it's just refreshing to read a poem where you don't have to work hard to have the truth stare at you in plain, simple, ordinary terms (embellished with images, sounds, scents!) And yet, perhaps not as plain and simple as all that.   Emily connected the orange of the space heater's glow with the scent of the tangerine after it's gone... Elaine brought up how what could have been negative about steaming coffee kissing chapped lips, the icy air, turns into a positive.  

 Furthermore, what saves us from feeling Crews is mounting a preacher's pedestal was the early (7th line) admission that he is selfish, unruly (and so tactfully referring to himself in the 3rd person as one of possibly many others inside him who believe they deserve "only safety and comfort").  This allows us to receive his advice to be grateful for whatever it is.

Madhubuti: Chosen by Tracy K. Smith, we concur with her the importance of the work of justice, healing, staying awake and telling the truth... and want very much the voices that do so.  Who is offering up compassion?  The title mentions Wintertime, and Elaine mentioned that Gwendolyn Brooks died in December... so there could be resonance about endings, silence, and need for a warrior like her... Jan brought up the word "kind" which appears both to describe language, a green nourishment, as opposed to enemies of kindness. Please note the spacing: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/141965/gwendolyn-brooks-america-in-the-wintertime

Both those sentences are on a line by themselves separated with stanza breaks on either side.

 June shared an anecdote about driving with Gwendolyn and discussing funerals-- how at first Gwendolyn said Italians couldn't match the drama of an Afro-American funeral... and they got into an argument...  until they each realized the drama in different forms-- yes, an Italian aunt grabbing a corpse out of the coffin in the middle of last rites can be dramatic too.  

I had asked if anyone felt implicated in the "you" -- compelled to be like the "you" honoring Gwendolyn... if the lack of caps was necessary, overdone... 

I found it interesting that several times people quoted "bloodlust enemies" as bloodiest enemies... perhaps it was my ears -- but all to lead to the importance of the poem: America -- if you see me as your enemy, you have no

friends.

Lori was reminded of 1,000 Beautiful Things, by Annie Lennox. https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/annielennox/a1000beautifulthings.html

Wheeler Wilcox: Stunning love poem!  (Jan).  Dave was reminded of the classic "rosy fingers of dawn" of Homer... and how welcome to see beautiful crafting and those repeated l's.  Susan shared her mother's favorite saying when the chips are down:  "Laugh and the world laughs with you; weep, and you weep alone", the opening lines of Solitude: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45937/solitude-56d225aad9924

Oliver:  We all agreed, a lovely, uplifting poem, but would have wanted more from the honest and authentic line "I am so distant from the hope of myself.".  Not quite developed enough  to carry the facile reassurance of the trees saying, "it's simple..." As opposed to the Crews, where he includes shades of ambiguity, here, the message feels reduced to trees as source if you want hints of gladness...  and yet... many of us concur, "Her poems are prayerful and plenty of them reveal her humility so I take great comfort in her reflections and perspective.”

Reeves: David gave a fine background of  Grendel from Beowulf, and a Christianized anglo-saxon culture which turned the monster into an  offspring of  Cain... Listening to Reeves read the poem, there is a piercing and wrenching sadness...  Jan suggested that everyone listen to the gospel song, Precious Lord. 

Indeed, the story of the song, written by Thomas Dorsey in 1932, comes out in a letter he wrote to a friend 45 years later about going to sing in a revival meeting, and she gave birth to his son... and died... and on his return to Chicago, his baby son also died.  He buried them in the same casket.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d3so01g_0-E

Words of the song are in the Reeves.  So are Notes of a Native Son by James Baldwin... David brought up the debate in 1955 between William Buckley and James Baldwin -- how Baldwin won hands down!

This is an amazing poem, worthy of listening to as well as reading.  The grief of being excluded, ignored like Grendel, results in a ferocity ... we all want to be someone's child... but when treating others as the monster, the enemy... the irony is that when the beast is brought... with the desire for mercy.. that bringing humans to the best vision of themselves... and that enigmatic last line... "which of course must be slaughtered"... 

Graham:  Jan had the feeling she was reading about the despair of a migrant refugee... where the "they" might be the ICE people... Marna had a visceral, bodily response... the visual set up in tercets, with unusual and unexpected line breaks makes a big impact.  We wondered how Jorie would read it... 

The truncated "your", where the "ou" of you is sliced out (yr)  comes up five times;  then, even "you" becomes "u"  several times, as does "they".  We discussed the repeated "it's" -- what is the "it"?  The "licking flare"-- pretend it's laughter, a refrain... pay-up... or specifically, the recent past, "it's got too much history/a mind can set th match to..."we feed it... keep it... unpayable.  Any answer feels very layered, but not clear.  How to you rebuild, imitate, believe, wait, b/c IT will come again, -- not over the rainbow... but over the ridge. 

I ended with reading the text I penned for our card this year.

December 2020

 

We wish you well as the days slip into yet another year—

and yes, this fairy-tale like card carries metaphor as history repeats…

there have been pandemics, potentates, but also times of peace.

 

We are fortunate in so many ways, and wish such cheer

were available to all— that possibility

transform to positive reality

 

as we deal with impacts of inequity, injustice, and sheer

disregard for our climate.  Once, an oriental palace pressed 

against mountains, sky, its traces still inspire, declare blessed

 

be those who create the beautiful, and blessed, the true seer

not pretending real smoke curls out of his painted pipe,

or fragments made of broken mirrors left to wipe—

 

but asking us to make this the year to reflect, look ahead beyond mere

empty talk to apply heart in multiple meanings— bring solace

like the guilloches[1] and calligraphy hidden in this Moorish palace—

---

[1] architectural ornamentation resembling braided or interlaced ribbons.

 

 

December 2

 

The line up for the coming week includes poems by Richard   and Dorianne Laux read at the Dodge Festival opening session on October 22… https://vimeo.com/469337858/09f9eb057e at minute 53:32 Richard Blanco reads his poem below at minute 6: 28 at the same session. at another session I heard Naomi Shihab Nye read her poem…  Enjoy!

America, I Sing You Back by Allison Adelle Hedge Coke**

Streets  by Naomi Shihab Nye

Snowdrops  by Louise Glück

Revolutionary Letter #1 by Diane di Prima

Carlos  by Alberto Rios****

Refugio's Hair  by Alberto Rios

Joy  by Dorianne Laux

My Father, In English  by Richard Blanco 

**** 

Nutshell:  I started the session mentioning what Ed Hirsch said in his session in the Dodge Festival about "How to read a poem"... that a poem's purpose is really to inspire the reader... and that the meaning is about the relationship of poem and reader... that when you read the poem aloud, the poem goes through you... He quoted Borges, something on the lines of "it is only by accident that I wrote this, and you are reading it, as it could be the other way around." https://www.poetryfoundation.org/articles/68427/it-is-something-of-an-accident-that-you-are-the-reader-and-i-the-writer

The topic came up of how much one needs to know about the poet to truly understand the poem... Can the poem stand alone, by itself?  In the case of the first poem, it enhances our understanding to know it is

written by a poet of mixed indigenous and European roots.  She is known for addressing issues of culture, prejudice, Indigenous rights, the environment, peace, violence, abuse, and labor in her poetry and other creative works. The dedication to her father, to Whitman and to Hughes pays tribute to voices of America that are not considered mainstream, such as Native American, gay, black.  She paints in rhythmic lines with beautiful images the insinuated heartbreak of the abuse of the natural beauty of America.  A powerful singing of a Motherland-child relationship... We spoke about the "yes... and" vs. the disillusionment of "yes...but"... An example her power: "as I cried this country, my song grew roses in each tear's fall"; and "I remain high on each and every peak, carefully rumbling her great underbelly, prepared to pour forth singing"... 

The implication of "they" as greedy politicians, violators of the earth for personal profit runs deep.

The more you read the poem, the more the placement and repeated words make an incantatory and memorable impact.

**She calls on Whitman, I hear America Singing, and Hughes, I too…

https://www.pbs.org/newshour/arts/poetry/america-sing-back?mc_cid=3cb4e03adc&mc_eid=248758c95e

https://poets.org/poem/i-hear-america-singing

https://poets.org/poem/i-too

It brings up associations with Elizabeth Alexander’s Praise Song: https://poets.org/poem/praise-song-day    

 

In a 2019 interview, U.S. Poet Laureate Joy Harjo says, “I always tell my students about poetry ancestors. Every poem has so many poetry ancestors. How can we construct a poetry ancestor map of America that would include and start off with poetry of indigenous nations?” Read more.

**

Streets: We discussed at length the idea of streets as metaphor for life, for what leads us to come together. We were taken by the image of the fig tree continuing even after the death of the man who will no longer harvest and enjoy them, but the birds will.  We are all interconnected... and short as our "street" may be... it is peopled by memories of all we have experienced.  We discussed as well how grief will find its right place, as Naomi says, "Each thing in its time, in its place."

Bernie offered the idea of a triptych in the third stanza... the crowd... the grackles, the sky, 

and we all appreciated the personification of the sky, which sews, sews, tirelessly sewing... a sense of endless continuation even with the daily drop of a purple hem.

Snowdrops: The opening admonishment, the choice of snowdrop as speaker, make the words "yes risk joy" even stronger.  Indeed, a message of "hope springs eternal" but we could feel it is a hard-won statement.  

Revolutionary Letter #1. Without any background on poet or poem, we sensed a sadness, a sense of isolation perhaps borderline desperation.  The "(we hope)" in parentheses perhaps will be realized in a future letter... Why revolutionary?  Perhaps her authenticity in speaking her voice... this is no rehearsal for life but a game played in earnest.

Carlos:  I had found this tucked into an article where Rios speaks about Refugio's hair.  It is referenced

in Whispering to Fool the Wind — published in 1982.

 https://poets.org/national-poetry-month/dear-alberto-rios-carlos

Yes, perhaps a real man, the same uncle "whose soul had the edge of a knife"... but also the embodiment of what touches us all: loneliness, pain inside...  boat... the fisherman, anchor...by any other name... and our desire... really, just to grow old, be happy...  We didn't quite understand all the pieces, however, felt how Rios could invert what should be familiar to something far more complex.

Refugio's Hair: Story telling at its vivid best with a hint of magical realism.  What shouldn't be a bad thing... learning how to ride a horse... turns into a horror story... and the "unspeakable deed" is indeed exposed.  Powerful.

Joy:  A wonderful reminder...the "Joy" in the title  "even when... even...//when... when... as you would... (fragment)... as you accepted... (and the quiet unfolding repeated as the final sentence threads through the last two stanzas... to that final word, "amazed".

Why is it we feel guilty if we can feel joy when bad things happen... Thank goodness for it!

My Father, in English:  Beautifully read... in fact, the question came up, why the poem appears as a long block... Blanco does not read it that way, but puts meaningful pauses in.  It is the kind of poem that immediately grabs the heart.

 

Nov. 25

 

Signs of the Times by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Thanksgiving Time  by Langston Hughes

Dignity  by Too-qua-stee

Dreams by Mark Strand

WHEREAS ["WHEREAS when offered..."] by Layli Long Soldier

Neighbors  by James Crews

In these times, what signs of Thanksgiving?  Dignity?  What dreams?  What "whereas" marks us and all our neighbors?

It is curious to me that the titles of the poems this week make a sort of poem in and of itself. 

My letter to all sending out the poems: 

This is a season labeled Thanksgiving—  where perhaps you are thinking of the contradictions of this “National Holiday”.  However we behave as human beings in the culture in which we land, the idea of gratitude for being alive remains at the root of providing nourishment for our minds, hearts, spirits. We will meet at noon on Wednesday to celebrate words that celebrate a spirit of such thanksgiving.

The best gift to me over these months of shutdown, is the knowledge of all of you who not only treasure poems as gateways to understanding,

but treasure the art of listening to others and sharing observations as we explore the myriad possibilities  of what it is to be alive.

I am grateful to each.  May you be safe, healthy, find joy in the simple and unexpected.

**

Below links to Barb's monologue; the TED talk about the Danger of a Single Story.

Nutshell: 

Signs of the Times:  This dialect poem comes from Dunbar’s collection published in 1895  called “Majors and Minors” which shows his dexterity to write in both standard English and and dialect. Hurray for Jan, David H., John, Ginny, Barb for giving dialect a whirl!  

The dialect reminded some of us of Uncle Remus, and how Joel Chandler Harris captured these tales told by Slaves. http://www.uncleremusmuseum.org    “Although Harris disavowed regionalism in art ("My idea is that truth is more important than sectionalism, and that         literature that can be labeled Northern, Southern, Western, or Eastern, is not worth labeling at all"),      his writings are unsurpassed in reflecting the southern environment. His short stories are born of the           Georgia soil, his novels echo the strains of the Civil War South, his editorials for the Constitution deal with       southern social and political issues, and, of course, his famed Uncle Remus tales capture the diction and           dialect of the plantation blacks while presenting genuine folk legends. Enlivened with gentle humor and     irony, Harris's portraits of the Georgia Negro and his faithful handling of the folk tales constitute his major      contributions to southern and American literature. His was a southern voice with a national range.”

            https://docsouth.unc.edu/southlit/harrisj/bio.html

            Thanksgiving Time: We appreciated the form and sounds which evokes the kind of weather we associate   with end of                                     November here in the North.  The  repeated “ow”sound of the opening and closing stanzas contrasts with the sparkling frost, sharp, cheery air, and all that those “ingenious cooks” will bake.

            

Dignity: Much as rhyming and form can be calming, it also depends on the skill of the poet to make it work well.  Too-qua-stee, also known as DeWitt Clinton Duncan, (1829-1909) born in the Cherokee Nation in Georgia was indeed, such a skillful wordsmith.  He worked as an attorney for the Cherokee Nation, as well as a teacher of Latin, English, and Greek. He unwraps all that dignity ensures for great character: tolerance, humility, encouragement of others, fair— the key to “the soul’s repose.”  Definitely a good poem to memorize!  We all enjoyed the mountain comparison.  Much more to admire, such as the play on “base” as noun,(fundamental to the framing of character) and “base” applied as adjective to emotion.

Perfect Thanksgiving reminder that man without dignity , is indeed like an apple pie, with the fruit left out.

 

Dreams:  a real tour de force which not only captures the complexity of dreams, the subconconscious at work, but as Jan remarked, had a “Shakespearean” overtone and beautiful sounds.  The lines are short,

each one complete in itself.  What is the truth?  In this time, perhaps the pandemic makes everyday living also seem like dream… nothing certain… nothing clear, as if life we live perhaps doesn’t belong to us.

Another poem to memorize!

 

Whereas: this is an excerpt from a book-long poem written in response to the U.S. government’s official apology to Native peoples in 2009, which was done so quietly, with no ceremony, that it was practically a secret. Layli Long Soldier offers entry points for us all — to events that are not merely about the past, and to the freedom real apologies might bring.  The passage we read pays attention to many aspects of how it feels to receive such an apology… 

Marne brought up the way nominalization can label and curtail any interest in pursuing understanding. It conveys an objective, impersonal tone. The reader is invited to imagine the feel of “crouched in footnote”…feel apology as a failing “noun-thing”… We use the verb “dash” for crushed expectations—

but here, it is more personal and physical:  Expection is “a terse arm-fold”. Metaphor is turned into verb.

 

Pages are indeed “cavernous places”.  Powerful and gripping.

 

https://swarthmorephoenix.com/2020/10/24/layli-long-soldier-reflects-on-americas-unapologetic-apology-to-native-americans/

 

Neighbors: delightful reminder of small kindnesses… connections.  We discussed rural life, Vermont,

how during the pandemic when out, we wave more.  Jim told of his experiment counting waves he received on his bicycle following the canal — 100% of the boaters waved first; about 70% of others… 

https://www.ted.com/talks/chimamanda_ngozi_adichie_the_danger_of_a_single_story?language=en

 

The fictionalized monologue that Barb shared is a part of an entire show called "Voices in Isolation: Pandemic and Protest." The director is Beth Johnson. Here is the link to the whole production:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7sVr87Gykus&list=PLyRPgXovFmrb5ijva7vkFPQkk6cZoAMBR&index=2

Her contribution is called "Ballerina in the Bird Bath," and it is definitely about appreciating small things.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uYxoiwkM3-g&list=PLyRPgXovFmrb5ijva7vkFPQkk6cZoAMBR&index=16

For those who may want to hear the 16 poets selected by the American Academy, in last night’s reading, a list of poems, some of the quotes and a link to the recording here: 

https://poets.org/anthology/gather-poems?mc_cid=31319dd5d2&mc_eid=248758c95e