October 28

i woke up and the day caught me by Kara Jackson

The Undertaking by Louise Glück

Balance by Adam Zagajewski  (translated by Clare Cavanagh)  

Locked Doors by Anne Sexton

We Lived Happily during the War by Ilya Kaminsky

mountain language — Öykü Tekten

A Noun Sentence by Mahmoud Darwish  

The Night Migrations by Louise Glück - 1943-

Nutshell:

The Kara Jackson poem was not only "molested" in the first 2 stanzas, but incomplete, missing these lines at the end: but when the day calls i will answer to my name

but when the day calls i will answer to my name

 

claim it like a fire rushing toward living things

 

i will rise       because there is someone praying

 

for me to remain still.

full poem (with nice picture of the US Youth National Poet Laureate!) https://thespinoff.co.nz/books/28-02-2020/the-friday-poem-i-woke-up-and-the-day-caught-me-by-kara-jackson/

Linda thanked me for sending the original but with this comment:  I thought it was a deliberate way to present how our thoughts are so jumbled and disconnected in that waking up confused moment! In fact I shared it, saying that was my favorite thing about the poem; it caught me and gradually woke me up. Linda

Great discussion-- We appreciated the positive infusion and imagery; day, as both diurnal, but also the moment-- when the time "catches you"-- and "waking up" both the physical act after sleep, and coming to a realization; layers of history -- she asks for rest... as did her mother, and her mother's mother...   David S. brought up the strain of expectations on the young, which could explain in part desire for rest...  The tone is one of determination-- "I will be a fire... return to that burning chin... (we wondered what that was-- the moon?) and at the end, answer the call of the day (carpe diem!) "i will answer to my name/claim it like a fire rushing toward living things/////i will rise;  a bit of Maya Angelou... and the fire perhaps a slant reference to James Baldwin, The Fire Next time.  It may have been Marna who used the image of a cape around the world -- ?  

We did not discuss the very bit... "because there is someone praying/for me to remain still." The desire to  engage in action increases when we know someone is looking, is caring.  Still, as in "remain "even now"... or maybe, "nevertheless" or as noun, deep, meditative calm... 

Play between "I woke" in the past tense, and "keeping waking" in present... and whatever that persistent candle is (made me think of a vigil), ignites the future-- "who will the day catch if I am not the centre of its tongue"...

Louis Glück:a little more background:  https://indianexpress.com/article/explained/explained-louise-gluck-nobel-winner-for-poetry-that-celebrates-the-individual-6716517/

Who is you?  Or are the multiple possibilities part of the beauty.  There was a comma after the last word of the first stanza:  Love,

It could be an address to love, or an imperative to "you" or a directive.  An undertaking is normally something much effort, planning, but here, the peace of the poem flows as if no effort is involved.  Perhaps a personal meditation, as well as reaching out to the reader as fellow human to remind us of the power of imagination.  If an "undertaking" perhaps, also a nod to the work involved with imagining something positive out of negativity.    It is hard not to associate "undertaking" with "undertaker", a term coined in 1382 as the helper or assistant to the one who assists with preparing the body for burial.  

Emily was reminded of the Stanley Kunitz poem, The Long Boat.  The last word, “luck” is worthy of discussion.  It is neither good, nor bad… reflecting the usual tendency we have to ascribe and project a positive or negative quality to it.

Luck is merely how the cards are dealt… not in our control.

Adam Zagajewski:  Balance... hovering above the earth... balancing between space and "vulnerable" earth, white of clouds and of snow, as well as balancing the polarity of nothing and fullness... and the paradox such as "lovely nothing",  " sweet darkness".    The description of the view of the "comic gardens forgotten by their owners" / "pale grass plagued by winter and the wind" approaching landing, is as surprising as the image of the concrete, the adverb, "assiduously" for the circling through the airport's "labyrinth".  Wonderful sounds such as the repeated "d's" in the final stanza add to the pleasure of feeling the ever-changing emotional landscape... I love the final stanza -- "I once again knew nothing" followed by the resuming of wandering, and the juxtaposition of the self that counts and measures, and the one who remembers and forgets.   Who is the "you" here?  How does it play into the final stanza?

Anne Sexton:  Powerful and frightening poem, perhaps reminiscent of Grimm's Fairy Tales and illustrates the sad story of Anne Sexton, who committed suicide at age 46.  Angels are given cold potatoes and a bowl of milk on the windowsill?  The hell described captures the mental state of someone fighting depression.  No touch, no hope, "cracking like macadam; mute; they do not cry for help/except inside/where their hearts are covered with grubs".    It reminded Rose Marie of the book The Butterfly Lampshade. https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/211463/the-butterfly-lampshade-by-aimee-bender/

Here, the mother asks to be locked in, with the lock on the outside so she can't get out and potentially harm her child.  The idea of the devil locking the door from the inside (hence, with the prisoner); or the horror of an angel on the outside, snapping the lock... 

Ilya Kaminsky: 

This is a powerful poem filled with irony.  The title and last line book-end the question, how can anyone live "happily" during a war?  The we/they is immediately introduced with "And when..." the line breaks accentuate the reluctance first to protest... line break

but not enough.  Then protest but not/

enough.

The first five sentences contrast with the long sentence broken into two uneven couplets and the repeated 

title on its only line -- except the subject and the small aside "we (forgive us)" is on the line above,  and an extra space of a stanza break.

the nesting of words (invisible house)... and  money repeated 5 times -- the house transferred to the street of, the city of, the country of, our great country of money.

Perhaps not so much an indictment as a statement about our helplessness to change lack of awareness 

of what is done in our name.  The two first person singular pronouns... I was /in my bed, around my bed America//

was falling... The speaker's reaction?  to take a chair outside to watch the sun.

The American Academy paired it with this image https://learning.blogs.nytimes.com/2016/03/07/whats-going-on-in-this-picture-march-7-2016/

with a series of guided questions in "Teach This Poem".

Öykü Tekten:

A Turkish name... I couldn't find out what else she has written, her bio: https://poets.org/poet/oyku-tekten

I'm not sure this is a "poem" as much as an exercise in irony, pointing to the absurdity with which some people are stripped of trees, their language pronounced dead, and then the gesture of (ineffective) rescue sent is bombed, for the reason of no longer being allowed.  

Unsettling.  Deep sorrow in these non sequiturs which brought the next poem.

Mahmoud Darwish: Although we ended by reading "A Noun Sentence" we will discuss it  the Mahmoud Darwish next week.  I have added this information to help us.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vs9qBXq5_hI

This is the recording in Arabic.  To understand the title, “It’s a nominal sentence” you need to take Arabic 1. https://blogs.transparent.com/arabic/arabic-sentence-structure-nominal-and-verbal-sentences/

The translation below is by Fady Joudah and comes from the 2007 book, The Butterfly’s Burden.

This article will give you more background: https://aashiqepakistan.files.wordpress.com/2015/02/28.pdf

As ever, a rich and meaningful discussion.

I thank everyone present.

Poems for October 21

 1. Ode to the Head Nod by Elizabeth Acevedo

2. I Sit Outside in Low Late-Afternoon Light to Feel Earth Call to Me by Tracy K. Smith

3.  won’t you celebrate with me  by Lucille Clifton

4. Directive  by Robert Frost

5. be careful by Ed Roberson

6. one of the many Haikus about scarecrows by Richard Wright:  #543.

 This poem is too long for our short once-a-week session, but I highly recommend it : Runagate Runagate  by Robert Hayden. https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/52947/runagate-runagate

 (Hear Tracy K. Smith read it at minute 52

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q9aU_MUcVME&feature=youtu.be

#2,3,4  are also part of Tracy's  given on September 30,  at the  Philip Roth Lecture:  

# 5 and 6 : come from Black Nature,  poems edited by Camille Dungy  to illustrate "The Nature of African American Poetry”.   Camille gives us a thorough and varied lens both in her 15 page introduction and selections for the 10 sections.   Available in the library and for purchase at Writers and Books. If you wish to view the excellent seminar with guests Dante Micheaux and Allison Meyers, on Saturday 10/17,  let me know. 

Nutshell:

1. Acevedo is writing a series of odes on small gestures...She points out in her Dominican culture, they "point with their mouths".

Our discussion brought up other aspects of using heads... for instance in Greece and Turkey where an American vertical nod meaning yes, means no. How a nod can be a civilized sign of respect to a passing stranger.  

Her note about the poem:   "This poem is very much based in the literal situation: can a piece of text hold the friction of a writer writing specifically about such in-group gestures being edited by a well-meaning outsider who ‘corrects’ the language? I wanted to sit with what it means to not only have language lost in translation, but being told even our embraces, our greetings, often color outside the lines of the literary stylebook.”

We noted the 4th -5th lines -- how beautifully she captures the nature of respect -- the "gilded curtsy", and indeed, a beautiful definition of a human being, as "sunfill in another// (stanza break) in yourself". (big space)" tithe of respect"

Her use of white space both horizontally and between the couplets, breaking into an extra vertical space before the "you"

placed solo to the far right, another stanza break for the final two words, even further to the right "are here" has multiple possibilities of understanding, like the layers of what is often missing in translations. 

Some felt she could have developed more about the head nod-- as an ode to it, she paid "curt" attention to it before bringing in

the copy editors cut.  We all could relate to that censorship of meaning.   We didn't go into the play 5th stanza of "means" 

with the underlying "means" by which an editor corrects meaning-- accentuated by the enjambment, which in turn leads to

how the speaker of the poem understands the editor as being fluent in only one language of gesture.

We spent a good half hour discussing the visual effect, including how it mimics the use of positive and negative space in art,  and in calligraphy where the white spaces set up  the words inked in black with their own (unspoken, unmarked) expression of what words cannot say.  Her use (and lack of use) of punctuation is similar-- no capitals; one semi-colon, followed by a question mark which does not end the question; two ampersands (& maybe// (end of the line) and  starting the last (indented) couplet, & find the color.  

Is it a satisfying ending?  Perhaps she is asking us to call on our imagination, how our subconscious is working on what happens when you take out "the head" and only leave the nod.  A haunting poem... with many layers to ponder, with no "final copy."

The name of prize-winning Jhumpa Lahiri, (author of The Namesake and translator of Italian came up. She commented in 2018,

“One can read something so closely that it's only by translating it that you really do feel you've gone through the looking glass, that you are on the other side and you're in that other world,” she says. “I would wish that pleasure and education and marveling — that sense of amazement — for any writer.”

2. We listened to the link of Tracy K. Smith reading her poem https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2020/10/05/i-sit-outside-in-low-late-afternoon-light-to-feel-earth-call-to-me. It is in the Oct. 5 issue of The New Yorker and I showed the cover:  https://www.newyorker.com/culture/cover-story/cover-story-2020-10-05

To commemorate her, the artist Bob Staake said, he “needed to think of a graphic metaphor that embodied Ginsburg’s life and legacy.” He wanted something that was “honest and no-nonsense,” like Ginsburg, and he landed on her lace collar, a symbol not just of Ginsburg but, in Staake’s drawing, of women everywhere.

As discussion unfolded, many started to comment on her form -- an arc of  A-Z; (5 stanzas)  to  Z-A (5 stanzas) but with subtle changes.  The title suggests a meditation on perhaps a time of life (low-late-afternoon light) or sadness of the times.  Her questions are both universal and specific to being a black woman, part of a "we" of being black, being American, being woman.

Is the world intended for me?  Not just me but/the we that fills me? (4th couplet)

She turns the repeat "what if" which ends in question,  (following the statement about blood) to statement, (starting with the blood, leading to a new and different question repeating the one of the 4th couplet -- 

(Our blood swimmers, stirred back.  What if

the world has never had--will never have-- our backs?

The world has never had-- will never have -- our backs.

Our blood simmers, stirred back.  What if

he we that fills me, our shadows real and dark,

 is the world intended for me?

To use "recursive" as  Bernie put it... the effect of the repeats  leaves us with haunting ambiguity.  John thought of Fellini's film 8 1/2... The couplets slow us down... and as she reads, in a calm, steady voice, the tone is at odds with a sense of desperation.  Plenty of shadows (subconscious, unconscious, unpinnable) in this low late-afternoon light... and a wish to feel Earth, be grounded... 

3. Clifton: Tracy K. Smith had included this poem and the Frost in her Newark, NJ library reading. In her introduction, she speaks about how poems help readers build a reserve of perspective... strategies for living... Indeed, Lucille Clifton "brings us a dynamic, rich voice, invites us to view life as mysterious-- to let go of allegiance to an individual self."

 David brought up the reference to Babylon as a place of exile and summed up Jewish Holidays this way:  Here we are, they tried to kill us.  But failed.  Here we are, let's eat.  The tone of self-sufficiency is reminiscent of Maya Angelou's "still I rise" .

This poem is an invitation to the reader to "know yourself"-- but also to understand we all "make it up" as we try to figure our the missing pieces.  The "star shine" reminds of me fo "sunfill" in the Acevedo... Oh, yes!  I say each time I read this poem,

oh yes!  I celebrate with you, thank you for this invitation!

poems help build in readers a reserve of perspective even…  strategies for living 

help us think of life as dynamic, instead of static, mysterious and rich instead of not flat… life as

mysterious — instill in us a sense of our own private participation

long history of human joy, sorrow and hope… level of self, ego… 

this speaks to me… helps me… private engagement… what possibilities for insight —

let go of allegiance to individual self… 

narrative of race in America… incomplete and inaccurate… black not white in charge of the missing pieces… 

OK to let go… 

4. Frost:  We are grateful that David Sanders was present to help us navigate through the complexities of "Directive".

Tracy had picked it calling on the first line -- "Back out of all this now to much for us...." saying, the poem's subtext is that it is OK to let it go.   Where does Frost take us as we follow the road he presents-- suggesting a guide who "only has at heart your getting lost"?  We discussed a sense of comfort in all the confusion... starting with taking a step away from whatever "now" is.

For sure, everything has an end -- we know we all will die... we have plenty of stories with the moral, "nothing lasts forever"-- and Frost provides us with a catalogue of echoes of times past, of villages no longer, even the make-believe houses and worlds of children... echoes of Indians, the shrinking of field as nature takes over, the "firkins" (small casks) eying you from a cellar hole now filled with lilac.  We spoke of the Grail, of the innocence of children, and parable of the Seed https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Parable_of_the_Sower

As David summarized... it is a pitch for metaphor...  what stays are the words, that language is a source of sanctity.  

We all will die... but the "momentary stay against confusion" rests in what children instinctively understood, creating out of a broken goblet the very vessel by which to drink the essential water-- provided by imagination.

5.   Roberson

Ah the sounds... the warning of not being tooooooo wildly elated by nature -- "not to jar/ the fragile mountains against the paper far-// ness... A brilliant jewel of a poem... ending with the powerful metaphor both for living and writing --- "set the precarious words like rocks, without/one snowcapped mistake" in this gentle wilderness...   

6.  Richard Wright has written many haiku about scarecrows.: http://carolpeters2013.blogspot.com/2014/11/richard-wright.html

 

So simple!  Two sentences!  The "exuberant" wish -- and the consequences -- like those precarious words...

As usual... so much more to recount from the fine contributions.  Thank you all.  Elaborations and more responses to these poems are welcome!

Poems for October 14

 Small Kindnesses  by Danusha Lamaris

And We Love Life by Mahmoud Darwish— Translated from the Arabic by Fady Joudah:  

Basho & Mandela  by Basho & Mandela by Juan Felipe Herrera— 

Monarchs, Viceroys, Swallowtails  by Robert Hedin — September First Again  by Phillis Levin—  Daedal by A.E. Stallings

Jim moderated; 16 people.

Comments on the two poem replaced.

Reports of the Dream You're Not Likely to Recover From  by Jay Deshpande

This was Martin's favorite:  his comments:

 title -- Reover, something LOST, forgotten, not gain consciousnesses 

line 4 -- what is under  your chin --your body, a hint where your heat lies

line 5 -- not face up to, or give it an identity.

perhaps this is a series of nights, each dying out, or incomplete

line 23 --  "ready for awaking" ready to gain consciousness 

line 24 -- "disrobed" naked, revealed

line 25 -- 'A NEW LOVER" the appearance of an inner image, a female ally, who help you

line 28 -- "timescale of your own design" -- when you are ready to make some progress.

last line -- like a conducter who can lead the way

Cradle Song by Gabriela Mistral  translated by Langston Hughes (1957)

Ginny commented: loved the poem Cradle Song. The rhythm and rhyme allowed the poem to flow nicely. There is a certain prayer like quality with the image of "cradling." 

 

October 7

The Teller of Tales  by Gabriela Mistral,translated by Ursula Le Guin

Besides the Autumn poets sing (131) -- Emily Dickinson

Fall  by Edward Hirsch 

Sheltered in Place   by Richard Levine,

Cento Between the Ending and the End by Cameron Awkward-Rich

https://soundcloud.com/poets-org/cameron-awkward-rich-cento-between-the-ending-and-the-end?mc_cid=9959771dc2&mc_eid=248758c95e

 

La Contadora: Gabriela Mistral, aka Lucila Godoy Alcayaga  (1889-1957) did not fall far from the tree of her poet-father in the country of poets, as Chile is called. I encourage you to  look up her bio to appreciate her life and work… her numerous quotations… such as “Love beauty — it is the shadow of God on the Universal”.  Her adamant concern for children— that the worst crime is to abandon them… to say “we’ll tend to you tomorrow” for their name is today… 

 

Comments:  She does not write about herself as teller of tales until the end of the poem; rather, the tales inhabit her.  The only time you sense her story is when she is weary and hears the sea telling stories, and “the wearier I am the more it tells me” and at the end.  Her story remains mysterious — what is the blood gift? We were puzzled why she seeks someone who remembers it to tell her.  We feel the lure of story as fairy tale, and wrapped in the history of all living things.  Lori pointed out three times she refers to trees: first the stories that come down from them, “knit me up and wind me round /until the sea drives them away.” Then the people who cut trees — who want stories before they go to sleep… And the final stanza… her story, to be told leaf by leaf.  

 

Why do old folks want stories to be lies?  It might be to wish that life had been different… to undo regrets… And for the children who want them to be true?  the innocent hope that miracles and magic of the good stories will happen.  We admired how, as conduit of stories, she allowed us too to sit, imagine stories “purring in our laps… buzzing, boiling, humming…

 

Besides the Autumn Poets Sing : oh! enigmatic Emily—

although this poem was perhaps less so… but Bernie brought up the question:  what to make of the first word?  Besides, the Autumn poets sing… as if continuing a conversation, the way seasons continue their round.  Or… Besides the Autumn, poets sing… or perhaps a spelling error,  Beside the Autumn… In spite of that conundrum, we enjoyed the adjectives — the “incisive” mornings… although no one commented on the Ascetic Eyes… the Mesmeric fingers— or even the spicy valves, which may refer to buds that harden for winter, such as rhododendron, and other capsules and nuts that fall… The two poems referred to:

The Death of Flowers by William Bryant

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago,

And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;

But on the hills the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,

And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty stood,

Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,

And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen.

 

The Seasons by  James Thompson

 

Fair AUTUMN, yellow rob'd! I'll sing of thee,

Of thy last, temper'd, Days, and sunny Calms;

When all the golden Hours are on the Wing,

Attending thy Retreat, and round thy Wain,[1]

Slow-rolling, onward to the Southern Sky.  

 

Certainly they contain references to sun, to golden hours, the passing of summer, which bears on her supplication that God grant her a “sunny” mind and “Thy windy will to bear.”  In spite of being elegiac, the poem left most with a sense of soothing.

 

Fall: One stanza; Caps at each line; an odd enjambment on the 18^th line as the poem moves from description to return to the second line conceit of the “season/changes its tense”.  Beautiful return on the last line of that very idea.  His “congruences” reminded me of Baudelaire’s “Correspondances” which echo as perfumes, sounds, colors resonate with each other.  

As John noted, many poems neglect the olfactory aspects — which are particularly strong in Autumn.  Here at least, we have the odor of burning leaves… 

 

The form is dense… no pause… no room to note the imperceptible way a season sneaks in.

Martin shared the poignant comment about how this poem brought out reminders of his life, the experiences of all the 90 Autumns he has lived, which prepare him for his personal Fall.  

 

Sheltered in Place:  Selected by Ted Kooser for his weekly ALP column as a timely piece, our discussion confirmed how subjective we are as readers as we project our opinions onto a poem.  Was there a mention that the turtle was taken back to the pond?  (no); Was there mention that the father had set a table with flowers, expressly to bring up their reminder of the ephemeral state of living beings to his son?  (no.) Did the boy identify with the turtle?  (perhaps).

We all would love to see that… and love how the turtle carries its home on its back, and was given a home in a different home.  But none of that was developed.

 

It was interesting to see how the father spoke to himself… it’s his idea of what happened— but that last couplet gave an enigmatic punch with no confirmation.  

 

Cento: We listened to Cameron read his poem.  Although his voice sounds a little ratchety, it is good to to hear how he paced the lines which didn't always follow the breaks.  There is only one punctuation mark— the em dash three lines from the end.  His name, Awkward-Rich is a conversation starter in and of itself, in addition to his trans and black background.  Carolyn shared an understanding that went far beyond such labels — this is a poem that touches re-birth, the power of community…    I tried to find poems that inspired the 100+ words, and did stumble on Small Kindnesses by Danusha Lameris https://www.nytimes.com/2019/09/19/magazine/poem-small-kindnesses.html  We will start the next session with this. 

 

The American Academy of Poets paired it with Nina Simone singing “I wish I knew (how it would feel to be free) — a powerful performance and song.  We ended the session listening to it. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vq3sdF0YXkM&mc_cid=9959771dc2&mc_eid=248758c95

The Lyrics of this song:

I wish I knew how
It would feel to be free
I wish I could break
All the chains holding me
I wish I could say
All the things that I should say
Say 'em loud, say 'em clear
For the whole round world to hear

I wish I could share
All the love that's in my heart
Remove all the bars
That keep us apart
I wish you could know
What it means to be me
Then you'd see and agree
That every man should be free

I wish I could give
All I'm longin' to give
I wish I could live
Like I'm longin' to live
I wish I could do
All the things that I can do
And though I'm way over due
I'd be starting anew

Well I wish I could be 
Like a bird in the sky
How sweet it would be
If I found I could fly
Oh I'd soar to…

Finally, here is the link to  the poignant photo-essay  in the National Geographic called "Every Mother's Son" 

https://www.nationalgeographic.com/magazine/2020/10/jon-henrys-stranger-fruit-shows-black-mothers-constant-fear-of-loss-and-trauma/

 

 

---

[1] sheaving (collecting and bundling of grains or grasses) in Thomson's poem signaled by "round thy Wain" -- since a wain can be a four-wheeled wagon that farmers have used to collect heavy bundles of grain or grass. https://fleursdumal.org/poem/103

 

Sent with the email: information about the  Image City show  (University Av.) with some beautiful photographs illustrated with words  by John Retallack— the show is up until Oct. 4.   

September 30, 2020

We spoke about touch in the 9/23 discussion.  This reminded me of this beautiful poem by Stanley Kunitz: https://billmoyers.com/story/a-poet-a-day-touch-me-by-stanley-kunitz/

What keeps the engine going?  Sometimes the smallest thing reminds us of the desire-desire-desire Kunitz paints in this poem.

**

In Passing  by Lisel Mueller

Metamorphosis   by Frank C. Modica

Things I Didn't Know I Loved  by Nazim Hikmet - 1902-1963*

A Pile of Fish by Tomás Q. Morín https://artsandculture.google.com/asset/still-life-with-golden-bream-francisco-de-goya/_wF25zyWxL0HNg?hl=en

* from Emily

This poem moved me as I sometimes rediscover things I’ve forgotten or did not realize I loved.  In this unusual time, hovering before an unclear future, it’s easy to lose these things.  What would you remember?  

Written from a train after he was released from prison-

* from Paul: A suggestion from Paul: “I was reading Pope’s Dunciad , some would say for penance, but, no, there is in it the best iambic pentameter and heroic couplets to please.  In 1723, Alex, (I always called him thus because it got his dander up about so many things including criticism of his poetic endeavors) decided to set things straight by attacking various figures in his literary world and historic time.  As I ploughed on, it                                                                                                                                                             struck me that his satire could easily be shifted to apply to the shameless buffoonery of today's presidential campaign and those characters contained in that slow-witted stage show.  I suggest to our O  pen minded brothers and sisters  that you/they might be entertained and even educated. 

Nutshell summary:

I started by referencing an interview of the poet, Mar Ka, an indigenous right attorney and poet, Mary Kancewick. http://www.radiofrepalmer.org/2019/04/16/what-can-poetry-2019-4-15/.    When the subject is dark , when something is "rotted, wormed by greed" , poetry calls out the beauty of life experience, calls ou the profound in the unusual.  I agree with her  think there is a kind of desperate hope…to say everything there is to be said about the things we love while they are still there.  Poetry helps us to imagine -- to counteract what tempts us to “disbelieve, discount, deny”.

In Passing:  Rich Wilder sent in a comment by email admiring its classic shape, the "strained honey" and "shrugs off" ... and will memorize it so he can carry it with him. The second stanza "break into blossom" reminded me of James Wright's poem, The Blessing, https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/46481/a-blessing where indeed, blessing which rings in French, as  blesser which means to wound.  (La Benediction is the noun.) We are blessed when wounded... just as losing allows us the awareness of what is precious.  

John mentioned Damascus Gate by Robert Stone: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/196337.Damascus_Gate

The title reminded us that nothing is permanent... how beauty is fleeting. Barb illustrated the idea with her love of her poppies.  Dave was struck by the image of the closed bud--

I brought up the French view of enjambment, which has a name (le rejet) for the next line which receives the often surprising completion of the idea -- a landing so to speak of the stride from shrugs off to 

mystery which underlines the alliterative "break into blossom".

Joni Mitchell and the Big Yellow Taxi. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=94bdMSCdw20

You don't realize what you've got... 

Metamorphosis: published in this lovely online  magazine: https://theraconteurreview.wordpress.com/issue-2/

All so much fun heard in the apple's voice!  We had much  healing laughter that  especially peeled out at the end.   As Barb put it.. the poem started out in such a pedestrian fashion but  the last line delivers such a great punch.  I loved the pile-up of all that goes into "readying" the fruit, and all the poet intimates about  consumption or the parallel with human appearances and what prepares us to be consumed (reference to cartoon "Does God Eat Us" with the premise that we are a farm to develop a new complex DNA).  The Fall... the original tree... and all sorts of overtones and references to Malus domestica and  Genesis, (Elaine delivered Martin's comments about the Garden of Eden: "The last line tells me read the poem with a sexual overtone in every line in so she plucked me is dramatic, also creates me, carries me, hauls me, and distributer sends high voltage to spark plugs, displayed me in my polished perfection, examines my -- flawless skin. I'm bagged -- lost all resistance. And consuming a delicious piece of pie is like what human activity? "  Martin adds: ( First line "pluck", my "pick" as in she is a pick).  

John told us of his amazing apple tree with over 200 apples,  and his amazing grape vine and Dave H. told us of his!  

Things I didn't Know: 

This poem has been set to music -- this is a particularly lovely video with a stained glass window background: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lPxWOYRqWzE

Written the year before he died, I imagine indeed, on a train.  As Susan remarked, the setting as he is rolling on a train, looking out a window is a perfect match to his roll of memory.  It is a poem in translation, so it is hard to judge from the original.. but this idea of reviewing all that is so precious to us, to rediscover things forgotten, or that you don't realize you loved, is an invitation to celebrate the power we have to cherish, no matter if emprisoned (in the case of Nazaim, 28 years of prison, in our case, the restraints of COVID).  By the middle of the poem, "my heart was in my mouth, looking at them/they are our endless desire to grasp thing" the poem has whirled and whorled in this stream-of-consciousness life journey leading up to questioning the why of it all... is it because... ?

Very hard to summarize the poem, just as it is hard to summarize the discussion.  Pete Seeger and Joan Baez both were mentioned.  

Please help with comments.

A Pile of Fish

In our discussion, we started to better understand the poem, looking at the title, and how a painting of a pile of fish (which as title sounds so unpoetic) is transformed into a pyramid  of fish (with association of funeral pyre); the association with the poet's son, where the fins resemble his curly brown hair, the transformation of the poet into the golden fish watching... allowed us to

see how the memory of an intimate moment of two friends visiting a  painting resurrects the friend for whom the poem is dedicated.

Here is the painting: https://artsandculture.google.com/asset/still-life-with-golden-bream/_wF25zyWxL0HNg?hl=en

John a painter, explained that the Spanish use black, unlike most artists… it heightens the intensity and gives an intimacy, as our eye seems to draw us quite close. The fish look as if they still might have some life in them.  (Parenthesis: in the MAG, there is a wonderful Sorolla painting : http://mag.rochester.edu/hotspots/hotspot-100.html

Also you can visit the Sorolla museum in Madrid. http://www.culturaydeporte.gob.es/msorolla/inicio.html)

This site gives marvelous close-ups of the fish and I think a reasonable history and background of the period when Goya painted this: https://letsexploreart.wordpress.com/2014/06/12/raw-goyas-golden-bream/

The poem starts with counting how many fish are in this painting  uses this painting that Goya left untitled, like his other 11 still lifes.  The poem is dedicated to his friend, who loved this painting, and recalls  a special moment with him…  the  scurry to find it before the museum closes… the fact that he leaves out “golden” to describe “still life with bream” …the  comment of his friend that one fish stares at you no matter where you are in the room…  and a second metamorphosis, where the poet,  becomes the fish…  a new father — who sings to his son about Sun, sun Mr. Golden sun— please don’t hide from me in Spanish… 

The fact that his friend died, turns this poem into a tribute, a memorial… Just as Goya was starving**, and makes the fish seem alive, so the still life, (naturaliza muerta) the art form which has the message momento mori— remember you too one day will die, the shared moment of observing it, gives the poet the eyes of the fish to follow the setting sun… watching for his friend… his hunger for his friend…

It is complicated to explain all that clearly!  I knew I loved the poem right away, but am glad to have spent more time researching the painting see if I could  confirm what I was suspecting!

**Linda followed up a bit on Goya's bio, and saw no indication that he was hungry—though he certainly depicted scenes of starvation and death. What a painting!  As if to say, Maybe it’s too difficult for you to stare death in the face if the death is a human death, so let’s work up to it, starting with fish. 

A distinctive sign is the golden band between his eyes and a golden spot on the cheeks, features which bring thisfish its name of "golden bream".  costiana.ro

Un signo distintivo  es la banda dorada de por entre sus ojos y una mancha dorada en las mejillas, de estas características también viene su nombre de tales como 'pargo dorado’.