Vestibule by Chase Twichell
Self-Portrait as Alexa w/ Predictive Text — Alicia Hoffman
We grow accustomed to the Dark — Emily Dickinson
Voice by Kory Wells
Ginsberg by Julia Vinograd
For Calling the Spirit Back from Wandering the Earth in Its Human Feet Joy Harjo
Yesterday’s discussion of poems looked at racism, looked at war, looked at the inadequate way we face “reality”, whether in the 21st century or 19th Century w/ Emily Dickinson observing how our eyes adjust to the dark.
The comments from everyone were heartfelt… how do we, as Americans deal with a history of injustice, slavery…
Poetry allows an embrace of paradox… the “on the one hand” the hugeness of the scale of problems… “on the other hand” our small daily lives.
Poetry allows us to look at difficult stuff… one of the poems, called “Ginsburg” told of how the beat poet in the 70’s encouraged everyone to go yelling out in the streets,
“The war is over”… it would wake up the politicians and galvanize action to take steps to end the war. So, the poet does this. Walks into a coffeeshop, proclaims,
“the war is over”
“and a little old lady looked up
from her cottage cheese and fruit salad.
She was so ordinary, she would have been invisible
except for the terrible light
filling her face as she whispered,
my son. My son is coming home.”
I got myself out of there and was sick in some bushes.
That was the first time I believed there was a war.
**
That poem starts out with the zen words: “no blame”.
The parallel perhaps is just as poignant if you write about the joy of skiing, the beauty of snow… the belief that if you stop driving a car, eating meat, speak kindly, help strangers, build a community where everyone is treated with respect, like a panacea…
all lovely in the abstract, until you tell that to the people who left their burnt villages…
Does the panacea “fix” anything? No. Does it ask us as humans to revisit compassion as a way of life? I think so. That engagement helps us be better at being the best we can.
Although Joy Harjo's meditation is not what I would consider a "poem" -- more a meditation, it gives us courage to be the best we can be.
“Acknowledge this earth who has cared for us, continues in spite of the harm we have brought. Cut the ties you have to shame. Call on the help of those who love you—
on animals, elements, birds, angels, your very spirit which may be caught in dark corners.”
(taken from Joy Harjo’s meditation “For Calling the Spirit Back from Wandering the Earth in Human Feet”.)
Basically, she says don’t give up: welcome your spirit, let it rest, after you bathe it, give it clean clothes. Then invite everyone to a party… be generous… keep speeches short, and help
the next person find their way through the dark.
You’ll never guess how powerfully your passion
may light the way for someone stumbling.
**
Individual poems:
Who? who will be the messenger.. who will carry, help, remember? We... the singular "messenger" becomes plural by the 3rd stanza. This is not a job for one individual.
Jaki Shelton Green sets up a call and response... her poem encourages us to form a new narrative... celebrate all
the good, tell the stories, "harvest the truths"-- UNBURY all we have not planted... the language of our roots, our
diverse roots... the red hands... the blue breath in our veins...
Beautiful images...
The second poem, vestibule: that entry way... the preparatory chamber where we put on the trappings of ceremony, or leave our coats... :/we've killed the earth./ yet we speak of other things."
the two short sentences cut to the chase... ironically, the first name of Twichell. What are "Wounds to the truth."
lies, silence, pretending?
Alicia's poem plays with "Alexa" . My favorite sentence:
Now, it is the average day for some to get up
and talk with their family about how money
they are, how they are in this now for good.
A typo... how "many they are" -- but the personal has been transmogrified to cash value.
My other favorite line is the morphing of "maybe" to "may day" --
Emily Dickinson -- capitalized the adjective Uncertain along with the nouns: Dark, Light, Neighbor, Lamp, Goodbye, Moment, Vision, Road.
By the 3rd stanza, we have plurals : Darknesses; Evenings of the Brain;
and singular (inner) Moon, Star.
How does life step almost straight? Mike commented how Dickinson has us straddle the question:
do we adjust, or fight the dark, and in so doing, keep out the light?
Recommended book:
Learning to walk in the dark. by Barbara Brown Taylor https://www.amazon.com/Learning-Walk-Barbara-Brown-Taylor/dp/0062024353
We discussed at length the title, "Voice" -- which can be a noun or verb. A tribute to a wise mother, a story of how powerful metaphor is... what can you sing?
Ginsberg... and Kathy's story of being in a bar, singing, "War, what is it good for? Absolutely nothing" and everyone dancing and have a good time... And she asks a handsome man why he isn't
joining in. "I don't like war. I can't dance." He has no legs. What puts us in our place when we blithely parade our blind, unaware selves?
How easily other people are invisible to us... unaware of their reality, which is not ours.
Joy Harjo's poem was helpful... don't get caught up in judging it as a "poem". Native American wisdom. observations of spirit. like a mosaic.
meaning…
