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Saturday, December 18, 2021

2 pictures from Ken of 12/15 and Paul's Poem about Hyenas

(The poet at work)

Missing Ken in the picture.


The poem below by Paul Brennan, sent with the picture from 2018 of the library group on 12/15.

                                Hyenas don't laugh
                                       because they're
                                          having fun.
                                    I know that for sure
                                       because I'm a 
                                          friend of one.

                                    No, no, no! It's often  
                                              a whoop              
                                              you hear,
                                           And if you do,
                                        You'd better hope        
                                             It isn't near.

                                            Listen to me
                                         My hearty friend,
                                       That cackling sound
                                            Should fill you
                                                With fear.
                                 
                                           Don't ever forget.
                                           A Hyena's laugh
                                           Is a Crocodile's
                                                    Tear.

Picture of "O Pen" in Dec. 2018


on 12/15, Bernie, Jan, Elaine were on Zoom;  Missing from  picture in other link but present here.
Carmin (promises to be there in the New Year;) John sends his best;
Kathy B., Elaine O, Judy M. we miss you.


 




 

Wednesday, December 15, 2021

Poems for December 15

 

Meditation in the Open-Air Garage by Carol Moldaw

Dust of Snow by Robert Frost

My People by Langston Hughes

My Heart like a Nation  by Philip Metres

Travel by Edna St. Vincent Millay

When your son abandons the lawnmower for the second time in as many days  by Peter Grandbois

 

Group 1: Judith read aloud Nemerov,  Santa Claus  http://sacompassion.net/poem-santa-claus-by-howard-nemerov/


Group 1 did have a little extra drama with the arrival of a nutcase harassing us for not wearing masks when it is clearly marked to do so in the library. It added a few new twists to the Metres poem...

Apologies for the noisy transition... but, indeed, those in the library were reluctant to go... our hearts "warm with the friends -- and better friends we'll not be knowing"... and hard to take the train...

Neither group read With the Face  by Laura Riding...  

Thank you to Maura for bringing "French Touffe" -- tufts of chocolate, nuts and apricot! and I believe Ken slipped in some white chocolate pretzels.


My thanks to each and every one of you for attending, sharing, reading, staying connected whether long-distance or in person!


Nutshell:


Meditation:  The title reminded me of this year of pandemic... hearing concerts performed in driveways... the need for open air spaces when meeting masked in person... Open air Garage takes on a different tack in the poem... what is a garage?  and how does opening it up change anything (or not)?    Leaves... and the first group went to Autumn, memories and nostalgia of jumping in them, raking them, the smell of burning  them... Perhaps a hint of leave-taking... Group 2 went beyond the appreciation of the charming sounds.  David remarked that wind only makes noise because of what it confronts... so the willow, cottonwood, aspen might well be holding on to their leaves.  It is not about season but something deeper.

Wind, associated with spirit, is at work here.  Elaine brought up the paradox of  "cushioned against/ 

concrete"  and the sound as lack of mind,  lack of heart as ecstasy--  how can that be?

Putting on a zen hat, emptiness allows breath to enter.  As Susan put it, "let the breath breathe you".

Breath as spirit nesting inwards.  The first group was eager to find a different last line... "empty sack of me" didn't seem to match the spirit of the rest of the poem.  


Dust of Snow:  2nd group had the pleasure of hearing David read it -- twice, the way a haiku is honored.

Susan could see the blue-black of the crow, the white of snow, the green of the hemlock... Each word creates a step in an event... yet has (to quote Susan) a "haiku pithiness".  No matter what is said, everyone concurs, this is a poem that uplifts... the kind of poem you pin on your refrigerator to remind you... ah...

yes... life... and remind you about savoring moments... 

Jim shared a prosaic rewrite about an experience in his canoe about geese.. and a sudden burst of "cream"... One could ask "why me" -- but Frost's poem directs us to a larger thought.

The poem prompted Paul to share several wonderful stories about crows, who can imitate a dog -- or laughter... Which brings us to the next poem.


My people:  Joyous incantation (thank you Jan)  F.U. quality (thank you Marcie).  The craft is indeed stunning.  We read it in two parts. Dream-singers to the repeat of Dream-singers. He goes on with the list... not just Dancers, but God ! What dancers!  He takes dream away from singers, and repeats,

God ! what singers.  We didn't bring that up, but indeed noticed how "Loud Laughers" turned to "Loud-mouthed laughers.  And that question mark.  Laughers?  Look at the change:  loud laughers in the hand of...(lands in fate)  vs.  "laughers in the/ hands of fate."

It's a quiet manifesto... the list of lower class jobs.. and the more you look, the more the ache of the dream.

David suggested a comparison with Hughes homage to essential workers: 

Necessity

Work?

I don't have to work

I don't have to do nothing

but eat, drink, stay black, and die.

This little old furnished room's

so small I can't whip a cat

without getting fur in my mouth

and my landlady's so old

her features is all run together

and God knows she sure can overcharge-

Which is why I reckon I does

have to work after all.



My Heart :  What is a nation?  A Heart?  I was so glad that people wanted to read more Amichai and thank you Rose Marie for sharing this about the poet:  

https://kenyonreview.org/kr-online-issue/2018-marapr/selections/philip-metres-656342/

Bernie filled us in on the Hebrew translation of Amichai's name.  

How absolutely uncanny that in the first group at this point, a man came in and aggressively assaulted

us for not wearing masks!!!!!!!!

How do we treat people unlike ourselves?  How do we respond to crazy people?


The poem is complex, moving.  The discussions looked at the problem of homeland (the kindness wanted) at war with state (cruel and built on the blood of another.). What is promise vs. reality?  What does a heart want but the sh-sh-sh of any agony?


When your son... 

 The note about the poem explains the wasp's nest -- but we stumbled in understanding "that cousin of the eyelessness of space..." and guessed that referred to a neutrality towards bad things that come at you. 


The stranger who so rudely interrupted the first group seemed also to be  "barking at the thing we can't see"... this anger at covid... at things we can't control... Indeed, human nature seems to be quite good at "stumbling through white fog searching for the doctrine of our own breath", or as someone put it, "attempt to stamp meaning and understanding on the world."


And wouldn't the son also be angry that his father promised this would never happen again (mowing, and hitting a wasps' nest) only to hit another nest?  The note also says the poem, "posits another more hopeful answer than anger, withdrawal..."  Perhaps the truth that "no one walks through their story un-unstung"

and acknowledge it.  


**

Thank you Paul for sharing Is minic a bhris béal dune a shrón.  (It's often a man's mouth broke his nose).

to hear the Gaelic: https://daltai.com/proverbs/relationships-dealing-with-others/advice/is-minic-a-bhris-beal-duine-a-shron/


Thank you Mary that you mentioned that the weekly poems and discussion provide "hope".   I heard "o pen" as in our weekly gathering to discuss poems and share and see different ways to see. 



Gang #1
Martin, Ken, Barbara, Judith, Marna, Jim, Marcie, Maura, Mary, Paul, Joyce!

Gang #2, but missing Bernie and David, Rosemarie
On screen: Emily, me (with Judith, Paul, Martin behind), Carolyn, Susan, Jan, Valerie, Elaine
Note: Behind, Ken and Jim...






Thursday, December 9, 2021

Dec. 8

Island by Langston Hughes - 1902-1967

If You Knew  by Ellen Bass

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pmXqnSc41Dg

How to Apologize  by Ellen Bass

https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2021/03/15/how-to-apologize

Without by Joy Harjo – 1951

These Aren’t Just Words by Abby Murray

Our Land by Langston Hughes


A big thank you to the American Academy of Poets for organizing this reading of chancellors, who picked a poem by another, followed by their own in a program called "Gather In" on December 9. https://www.crowdcast.io/e/gather-in-poems/1


Paul brought in a volume of Langston Hughes with a portrait of him as a young man on the cover.  Carolyn mentioned the new book by Joy Harjo, Poet Warrior and highly recommends.  


We will meet next week, then take a small break for Christmas, resuming on January 5, 2022

with in-person sessions at 11:15, followed by zoom sessions at 12:30.  It has been special to hear two very different discussions of the same poems.  I try to share the very rich flavor of the two conversations below  

which reflect the power of a smaller group.  Thank you to all who attend!


Nutshell summary: 


Island: David pointed out that indeed, Hughes instills a sense of hope, but also, is not quiet about what is wrong. Paul reflected on how to read a poem by a black poet of a different time, as a white reader.  He tried a flavor of southern dialect-- but however one might read these words, whatever background, race, religion, Hughes words bring forth a strong universal message of hope in the future.  David also mentioned how the African slaves drew from the Jewish part of the Bible-- Moses, Exodus, and this idea of "crossing over".  Rose Marie emphasized the power of the word, somehow in the second couplet.

In today's world,  refugees, rides waves of extreme sorrow in their passage from known to unknown to survive.  The subtle repetitions of the poem call attention to our yearning for connection.

The title echoes on the first line of the 2nd and 3rd couplet.  The repeat of the opening line in the end couplet, the shift of rhyme of sorrow/now/somehow to fair/there. Several remarked on how it is riding the difficult allows the experience to raises the spirits in hope.


If you knew: The title is not a reminder, but a  call on the deep knowledge we all share of the fear of dying alone, without touch of another.  The discussions started with observing the particulars that pop out:

the tearing of the tickets... the ragged stubs, the gay man, powdered  cheek, the crack//in heaven and the mysterious closing image that applies to all: soaked in honey, stung and swollen,//reckless, pinned against time.

How do we make exchanges-- and a deeper metaphor of the act of handing over a ticket... and receiving back a torn stub?  Powdered, as sign of an older person, or perhaps a corpse prepared by undertaker; the young gay, with perhaps a 6th sense, an intuition of the holder woman's death, and the permission, as gay,

to kiss her cheek, not available to a "straight" man especially as a waiter, a stranger.


Regarding the metaphorical end posed in the two questions: the enjambed "crack" is split to fall on "in  heaven"-- just as the "spume" distanced from "have to come".  Marna defended dragons, where "spume" should not mean an implied, frothy poison, or danger, but perhaps a positive sign of the dragon as water spirit, protector as in the Asian cultures.  


We discussed at length the ending lines... who are we "as we are" -- and what actions, circumstances, "soak us", "sting"?  The use of "pinned" evoked for some the image of butterflies and insects pinned in a exhibit... David recalled this passage from Prufrock: 


And I have known the eyes already, known them all— The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?


Reckless is a perfect adjective that counters both "knowing" and "understanding/seeing".


The reader is gently propelled to review everything about life again... our judgements, pleasure, and price we pay, how we touch each other... with an echo of  what if... to re-examine.     


How to Apologize:  I shared this thought to address our human response to "commission of sins"...  "Why do we apologize at all? Because human behavior is interdependent, people apologize when they have breached someone's trust, or wronged them in any manner, with the objective of restoring their relationship. ... Moreover, by validating the feelings of the person one wronged, an apology also shows care. Aug 30, 2020"


repair yourself... accept yourself... forgive yourself... 


As psychologist, Ellen provides some helpful advice... reassurance... "it is permitted/to receive solace" and adds a note of compassion to traditional prayer of confession, ("forgive us for what we have done, and left undone") -- pitiful, beautiful humans... 

Judith was reminded of the dreamlike quality in  Finnegan's Wake.  There is no breath in this poem-- it starts with the advice of cooking a fish... backs up on with two alternatives of how to get to the lake where you will catch it, followed by what sounds like a dispensation from the Pope,  slides into an anecdote about the mother, slips into the need for a boat... how to make it in the spirit of repairing the world, an extra sprinkle of reassurance about how each night we can dream back what we've lost...


Yes, one could read this as a way to apologize for plundering our planet, as Rose Mary so aptly put it.

Yes, one could see this as a call to look inside yourself, see that you have already what is needed for self care and repair as Martin kindly explained.  Emily reminded us of the impact of small actions in the book, How to Move a Piano-- give the 3 movers a glass of ice water-- how even the smallest gesture will have an important impact.

Some saw a metaphor for Christ... others a metaphor for our interdependence... how we need to repair when there is a breach of trust... and the good news... we are not alone .... 

Jim supplied us with an understanding of the 5 million bones of a Northern Pike --

but how to understand the need to choose a "fish with many bones", requiring "skill to expose" the skeleton?


All of it, all... with the ifs, the perhaps, the "someones" -- all ways to know -- indeed, "you are alive".

Not with an exclamation point, but said with Ellen's gentle voice... pointing things out on our journey--

understanding that apology is part of it... So cook a large fish; build a boat; grill it-- carry it to the one you hurt.  The problem is... we don't easily "unharness ourselves from our weary stories". 


Without:  Rose Marie was reminded of the movie Alfie (What's it all about?);Many provided information about Hyenas -- how smart they are... how they are a necessary part of the clean-up crew, and that we could learn from their laughter... not taking ourselves quite so seriously.  Carolyn cited p. 85 of Harjo's new book, "poetry is like a dance"... Marna reminded us of the Haudenosaunee myth of Sky Woman who births twins... one good, one evil... 

The poem,  without punctuation aside from one m-dash and final period, allows each line to enrich the one after:  "when we lift from the story contest..." is connected to the truth that the world trudges through time without us ... but also connects to a vision of an  afterlife -- watching those who have not yet lifted up... who in turn watch us as falling stars.

The repeated, maybe then... that starts the 2nd and 3rd stanzas, introduces possibility: we will see the design (through the metaphorical smoke of illusion... our distractions as well as cooking fires;)

 maybe then, we will find ...

(I don't mean to copy the words of the poem and perhaps you will re-read them...)


I love that we are all involved as "beloved rascal"--and are reminded of "timeless weave of breathing".  Perhaps it is only the hyenas who laugh-- or perhaps we will join them.  



These Aren't Just Words: In the second group, we did not discuss this poem... but rather Carolyn shared the sorrow of losing so many who have died recently.  How do we learn to answer to tragedy?

And yet... because of the words we read and shared in this session, and that others who were not able to be there in person, are reviewing and sharing, we have words for what has no words.

How do you start discussing such a poem?

Judith started with a story of the wife of oboe player Chief Musician Walter M. Penland, killed in Pearl Harbor who did not attend her husband's funeral because she was pregnant, and bleeding in the hospital. 

Who needs words from a President in such circumstances?  Who dares to pass judgement on her?


All the expressions we have using "words" -- to have words, last word, use words wisely, or eat them; struck dumb,  burning through words... "just words" in the double meaning of justice served and "mere"

lip service.  Where tragedy leaves us with no words at all.


Our Land:  the second group also did not have time to discuss this poem, filled with "should"...

The powerful contrast of what should be with the coldness, the grayness, of a land where joy is wrong,

does not avoid the problem, and yet... the should provides hope-- an invitation of some moral imperative to ensure we celebrate sun, protect fragrant water, trees, brilliant colors of birds... and fill each possible moment with  singing --  love and joy. 


I thank everyone for participating in this powerful and moving discussion.  Please feel free to add.






Wednesday, December 1, 2021

Dec. 1

Tangerine Peel by Mary Ruefle

Oatmeal by Galway Kinnell 

https://poets.org/poem/oatmeal-audio-only

Two snippets from "Poems to Lift you up" : Kevin Arnold, "One True Song"

Michael Estabrook, "Laughter"

If you Knew by Ruth Muskrat Bronson

When Giving Is All We Have by Alberto Ríos

Murmuration by Barbara Crooker

(you might enjoy this article about them in National Geographic https://www.nationalgeographic.com/animals/article/graphic-starling-murmurations-dazzling-ubiquitous-puzzling

not to be confused with Paul's memory of Latin, con murmur monte (Virgil)!


from Ken Nash: 

https://www.theguardian.com/music/2020/oct/22/don-mclean-american-pie-its-meaning-family-deaths-tragedy-60s


from Judith: thanks to her research for poems on potatoes, she shared "Oatmeal"!  She also recited for us this one, The  Parsnip by Ogden Nash:

The parsnip, children, I repeat,

Is simply an anemic beet.

Some people call the parsnip edible;

Myself, I find this claim incredible.


link to hear Helen O'Connell sing Tangerine: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IBMbQ1VHbOc

(go to minute 3:03... the word Tangerine comes at 3:46!  Quite a different sense from the poem below.


Nutshell:

Tangerine Peel: The poem poses many questions: What happens with the act of  peeling?  A Tangerine, the more easily peeled mandarine from Tangiers is a symbol of loyalty... but perhaps more fragile, easily prepared for its "death"... I like that peel can be both noun and a verb.


But, the puzzling "I am a scalp of myself, skinned/by my own thoughts" falls between the thought of peeling a tangerine, and its undeserved end, and an appeal poetry, quickly followed by "god of molting turkeys".  After the series of pleas to save family and friends from horrible circumstances, then this idea of   implications of the dictionary --which point to the fact the tangerine does not deserve to die.

No mention of the type of death... although clear there is a  difference between dying, which we all must do... and being put to death... or is the fact of our eating anything, an unjust death?


Martin's take is that the first two sentences are a clever preparation the scene to discuss greater losses.  

Arlene underlined the causes: accidents, fire, dust (possibly ashes of a home destroyed ), drowning... 

Barbara and Susan saw an address to poetry to do the saving... which invites the idea of poetry as a "god of molting turkeys" -- as shedding old feathers, as act of transformation to a new set.  Arlene thought of

"God of Molting turkeys" as one of those homemade expletives of frustration (we see in the final poem the "minced oath" of "Holy Moly".  


What starts out as a possible tonge-in-cheek poem asks us to spend more time with it. Perhaps we need to say to each thing we eat, the final two words of the poem:  Forgive me.


Oatmeal:  although the reading didn't match exactly the copy I gave, Paul suggests that Kinnell had been having a good time at the pub... and filled us in on the fact the Kavanagh was well known for his frequentation of saloons, and although quite the fine bard, also of a highly cranky nature.  He also pointed out Keats would definitely not have a cockney accent!  

It is a delight to choose a subject that might well be passed by in poetry as a mundane subject... and watch the crafting to turn it into something intriguing...  David helped us out with Keats... invited to share this

breakfast repast... known for his sensuosity (not to mention a certain drunken transport in the imbibed song in Ode to a Nightingale) and "To Autumn" Keats last poem, possibly completed on his deathbed.


We all enjoyed the idea of who one might invite -- whether to dinner, cocktails -- or a shared dish of oatmeal... How might that change the experience of whatever is being consumed... 


Now... is this a "poem"?  For sure, we agreed, the delivery was anything but poetic, slamming the lines down without a breath... But if it had been an essay on the good of having imaginary friends... even with Bernie's suggestion of adding skim milk, it would be terribly dry.  We have so much fun watching Kinnell galavant about postulating about his porridge, how much better it might be with a friend, or not, and his love of Keats. Making fun of the poet's craft... how to arrange stanzas... along with delightful sounds of

adjectives for oatmeal and leftover baked potato (glutinous, gluey, lumpish, hint of slime.../damp, slippery, gummy/crumbly) how there is no sublime (aside from the rhyme with slime) indeed is a source of delight.


I expect to hear many stories from all about what you served and to whom!!


One True song: perhaps the rhyme and moralizing tone might not be for all, but we agreed, effective.

David pointed out the use of the French belles lettres and plein air emphasizes the dressing up we do with our pretensions.  Judith cited Thurber both the story of the politician who so adored chicken gizzards, he served himself non-stop at a gathering where they were served -- which only to have this provide a caricature of him in the paper which lost him election...  (I might have the details wrong here... but hopefully the point is made...). How do we remember people?  What is our daily hard work?  On the 7th day, what kind of rest?  

Bernie shared the 5 remembrances of Buddhism offered by Thich Nhat Hanh in The Plum Village Chanting Book (Parallax Press, 1991):

I am of the nature to grow old. There is no way to escape growing old.

I am of the nature to have ill health. There is no way to escape ill health.

I am of the nature to die. There is no way to escape death.

All that is dear to me and everyone I love are of the nature to change. There is no way to escape being separated from them.

My actions are my only true belongings. I cannot escape the consequences of my actions. My actions are the ground upon which I stand.

See Dec. 1: Bernie's Guided Meditation. 

Laughter: This "poem" is great material for skits to imagine the relationship between the mother and son... her worries about death, whether he is trustworthy, what makes her laugh?  We had fun sharing stories on both of these poem.

If you Knew:  The poet born in 1897 would have learned poetry craft.  We discussed the repeated "sometimes" -- which could be ironic... or, as Bernie suggested, a realistic view of how the world is, which makes us trust it more.  Yes, sometimes we smile, a little kindlier, extend a hand in friendliness.  What was remarkable was the wonderful stories shared of the importance of connection with friends!

Thanksgiving in the Anthropocene:  a hard poem and not one we discussed.  May we forgive each other and be forgiven.  Indeed.

When Giving:  Rios addresses the complexity in this meditation on the word "giving".  We have discussed it before, but it is always a welcome poem to read in this season.

Murmuration:  I add a few more videos to see this amazing phenomenon: https://www.facebook.com/watch/?v=10158249375183951

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V4f_1_r80RY

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bnpyWjkuB1U  

That word "unleave".  You can imagine all the starlings taking off...  a perfect ekphrastic poem for what I hope you too will see. 






Bernie's guided meditation

 Looking Deeply, Healing - for 8/12/21 sitting 

- after Thich Nhat Hanh in Blooming of a Lotus

 

1.     Knowing I will grow old - knowing I am growing old - I breathe in.          

     Knowing and accepting that I cannot escape old age, I breathe out.

 

2.   Knowing I will get sick, that I cannot know when or how sickness will affect me, 

            I breathe in.

      Knowing and accepting that I cannot escape getting sick, I breathe out.

 

3.   Knowing I will die, truly believing I* will actually die, I breathe in.

      Knowing and accepting that I* cannot escape dying, I breathe out.

 

4.   Knowing that one day, and more likely on many days, I will have to abandon the 

      things that I cherish today, and that there is no way to know when these days will 

      come, I breathe in.

      Knowing and accepting that I cannot escape having to abandon all that I cherish, I

      breathe out.

 

5.   Knowing that my choices and actions are my only belongings, all and every one of 

      them, I breathe in. 

      Knowing that I cannot escape the consequences of my choices and actions, I 

      breathe out.

 

6.   Determined to live my days deeply, fully in mindfulness, I breathe in. 

      Seeing the joy and gifts of living mindfully, I breathe out.

 

7.   Vowing to offer joy each day to my beloved and to all beings, I breathe in. 

      Vowing to ease the pain of my beloved and all beings each day, I breathe out.

 

 

(* I didn't use this in the meditation but during the reading I thought about substituting "this body-mind” for “I”) 

 

 

                                                - Bernie Shore