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
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 18th 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"
[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
No comments:
Post a Comment