(we discussed the Kurt Luchs poem which gave this section such a title, “That was Already True” )
The third one introduced by Tracy K. Smith on her site this way: "It’s no accident most sci-fi is bleak. We know ourselves, we know what we’re up to, and deep down we know we ought to do better."
The Pandemic Halo by Jim Moore
The End of Science Fiction by Lisel Mueuller
Singularity by Marie Howe
The Time by Naomi Shihab Nye
White Chairs by Krystyna Dąbrowska (1906-1944) translated by Karen Kovacik
What Can I Spare? by M.J. Iuppa
references shared:
Marie Howe you tube on Maria Popova’s Universe in Verse: https://vimeo.com/271161318
She starts reading the poem at 3:56
I apologize about Krystyna Dabrowska— the one who wrote White Chairs — it does say originally appeared in The Southern Review, Winter 2019,
but I am further confused, because this article says it was published in 2012. https://muse.jhu.edu/article/723974/pdf
Krystyna Dąbrowska (26 November 1906 – 1 September 1944) was a Polish sculptor and painter, and a Warsaw Uprising insurgent.
Perhaps the grandmother of the Krystyna who was born in 1979?
The M.J. Iuppa came from http://www.subterraneanbluepoetry.com/SubterraneanBluePoetry.CurrentIssue.html
In a nutshell…
Small Talk: what is it and why do we make it… how is it different. Like “That was already true” — which we read a few weeks ago, how does “already true”
change in our perception of the ordinary?
Singularity: I love how many different “takes” we shared on this poem and how many more await.
How do you understand the title? The four questions guide us to contemplate all we have been exposed to, whether it be Native American visions of the spirit, Hawking’s physics, ideas from psychology, metaphysics, the idea of God as a process, the is, that goes beyond man-made ideas and concepts. Thank you Doug for bringing up John Lennon, Imagine John Lennon, Imagine.
Are studies to find out if a coral reef feels pain interested in the one-ness before the big bang, in possible interrelated connection, to address our existential
quests for meaning… Do we divise dilemmas, apply “true” based on solid, fixed parameters which contradict the variety and mystery of “we”.
The major question is framed by asking about wanting “wake up to the singularity we once were”. The poem wakes up the wanting to think about what this could mean and imply in multiple ways.
The Time : from Fuel, 1998. We enjoyed the human twists and puzzles. Not an easy poem, and perhaps a fun exercise to go from the Title to the last line,
to find the “it” that works for each. Knowing Naomi’s voice, I don’t hear any anxiety, more her usual childlike curiosity about how things work. What is it we “tell ourselves”? How do we know when it is “the” time. Discussion included unsettling details such as the upside down (dead) fish… and a sense of a dirge with the slow accordion… the “Sanitary Mattress Factory” which seems to prefer we sleep with perpetual 40 winks rather than try 40 different ways to spend an afternoon. “I was going to do something with it” could be another poem… how we could lament how we grow old too soon, are smarter too late, and really can’t account for anything done that could seem useful— whether our own adopted judgement or what we project onto someone else’s mind.
The End of Science Fiction written in 1996, feels as present now as then. Bernie saw the last two lines of the 2nd stanza as an apt description of Zoom.
(We dial our words like Muzak./We hear each other through water.) It is interesting that she uses the imperative (implying you, the reader) to recreate a “we”.
A wonderful reminder of old myths and Biblical references as pertinent now as then — but will we be able to change them — change ourselves — allow the tin man to be given a new heart? How do we live our lives as real? Again, wonderful sharing of thoughts, all pointing to our longing to be “real” in our empathy for each other with “hard love”, to help our humanness find a myth to live by that helps us to bring out the best of us.
White Chairs: Just as simple words can become poems, a simple chair becomes much more given context. Praise be to the power of perceiving the sacred in the ordinary, the power. Knowing the context and time of the poem would accentuate the underlying meaning, but it would seem that whatever might be “everyday ordinary” disappears if we make room for prayer, celebration.
What can I spare: A recent poem, and I have asked M.J. if she will help us understand it. For me the haunting question in the title seems key: How does she mean by spare?
what can I do without…? give…? what is in reserve? What traps us? Is that part of it?
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