December 28

As 2022 draws to a close, it is common practice to "write out" a balance sheet of worries, surprises, things learned that might guide you towards different directions.  The first poem speaks to flavor of much shared at this time of year.  I closed with You reading this, be ready, by William Stafford.  And in between?  A fun romp of a pantoum and a heart-felt reading by Graeme of the Man of Snowy Mountain,   followed by Judith reciting from "Now We are Six" https://www.poetrynook.com/poem/king-johns-christmas

Videos below.   I will post Graeme's comments about the Man of Snowy Mountain separately.

Clearing  by Martha Postlewaite:  

Gentle advice delivered in 8 lines, three sentences.  Bernie brought up that he had seen two versions of the last line, and we believe, given the rhythm, probably it is worthy not worth.  We did not discuss the message, but rather were struck that it felt as if  Postlewaite, a Methodist pastor (The Recovery Church, in Minnesota) involved with addiction and recovery work, was writing this to herself.  She wrote this book, Addiction and Recovery: A Spiritual Pilgrimage about her journey Does it matter if it is a poem or not?  How do we give ourselves to the world...? and do you agree it (both the world and ourselves)is worthy of rescue?  

Charles Baudelaire and I Meet in the Oval Garden by John Yau

Without the poet's note about exploring the possibilities of a pantoum, transformed from the usual 4-line stanza to couplets where he could establish different relationships between the first and second lines. With so much stress on repetition and rhyme, there is risk that any delight of the sound might become sing-song tedium, but not here.  Indeed, the sounds entrance albeit with odd rather old-fashioned references such as "shire" and 19th century Combray (Proust's fictional town in "Search for Lost Time").  As John put it, it's like being at a cocktail party where you don't know anybody where it is hard to enter into the conversation or make sense of what is overheard.  The Oval Garden, as contemporary reference to politics, and Baudelaire's rather suspect position as poete maudit mid-19th century create an interesting meeting of time and place.  Yes, references to border, social groups, mobility and exclusion, to quote the poet's note.   

For a more satisfying ending, the pantoum could have finished with the opening line instead of the first line of the 2nd couplet.  It's an excellent metaphorical question:  Which windowpane are you beating your wings against today? 

The Man from Snowy River by Banjo Paterson.   Many Americans might know the popular ballad, Waltzing Mathilda also written by Andrew Barton Paterson, poet and journalist from New South Wales, Australia.  However, for many of us in the group, many didn't know this wonderful story or his nickname came from the name of his favorite horse, Banjo.  It was a real treat to have our representative Aussie, Graeme Roberts read this swashbuckling tale in which the horse is hero!  Below, remarks about how Graeme prepared the reading (a separate post follows) and his reading of the poem! 

As he put it, he loves "to get myself into the characters and to reflect the emotional pitch and meaning of the "scenes".  

Such ballads are such a delight, but seem to be from a different era, before radio, and well before tv, film, and now rapid and immediate availability of you tubes.  Rhyme, rhythme are crucial for story telling to be passed on, but also lines like "he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye, the proud and lofty carriage of his head"... and the contrast of those who doubted such a "slight and weedy" horse...

We too were racing, passing "stringybarks and saplings" the stones flying flint on the steep descent where a single slip meant instant death.  

We were reminded of Robert Service, (Cremation of Sam McGee)  poems by Longfellow (Paul Revere's Midnight Ride), Poe, (The Raven)  or Walter de la Mare (The Listeners) and others we learned as children.  

preliminary remarks by Graeme:

The reading of the poem:

followed by Judith reading King John's Christmas. This was an extra treat !  It confirms the importance of reciting and how we form special emotional attachment to a well-told story! 

poems for Dec. 21-2

In the email with the poems, I wanted to include this:  

Burn Ovid with the rest. Lovers will find/ A hedge-school for themselves and learn by heart/ All that the clergy banish from the mind,/ When hands are joined and head bows in the dark. - 'Penal Law' by Austin Clarke   Irish Poet mentioned by Paul 12/14/22.   I should have copied the site https://poetryarchive.org/poet/austin-clarke/

but continued on this site https://poetryarchive.org/explore/?type=poets  where I hurried along, picking a poem by Alfred Austin  for discussion confusing sir name, Austin with Christian name of Mr. Clarke.

To follow up on our discussion on what poetry is, just in case you don't have enough material, I discovered this  marvelous site where each of the 561  poets (included "Anonymous" ) gives a window of a sentence onto his/her view of poetry. 

https://poetryarchive.org/explore/?type=poets

more "Favorite poems": Louise Glück's "The Wild Iris, https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-wild-iris/Jane Hirshfield's "Da Capo,"https://gladdestthing.com/poems/da-capo Galway Kinnell's "Wait" (below)  and, Naomi Shihab Nye's "Gate A-4 https://poets.org/poem/gate-4 (and contrast with this one https://www.slowdownshow.org/episode/2022/03/02/622-selfportrait-with-woman-on-the-subway

Discussion 12/21/22

The Lonely Sleep Through Winter by Kemi Alabi:

We had difficulty navigating the four couplets, each suspended with a stanza break which seemed to accentuate the mix of metaphor, which one confessed made "the teeth vibrate" and another brought up the expression of "cows clothed only in horse shoes".  Another started a comment this way:  Full disclosure: I do not like this poem. Another provided a passage from Mark Twain writing to Mr. William D. Howell to whom he referred as, "Howells"  and how he carried his vowels in his head...

except, of course, the  corrected spelling of vowels would be to replace the V with a B. 

Is it the Lonely, and sleep is the verb, or is it a noun qualified by lonely?  The repeat of the opening line  still mystifies at the end.  Indeed, we learn "boneseed" is a woody shrub, but it's hard not to think "bitten to the bone" with an accumulation of aliterative B's...  There are as many suggestions for

"a mouth" as people reading perhaps... is it a grave?  is it promise of land to till that will provide food?  is it just a physical mouth?  a lover?  

"I say hunger and mean... (without saying hunger) heaves.  I'd like to believe there's no such thing/as nothing."  

What is more hello than amen?  The poem seems to reach for connection  everywhere.  Perhaps 

it is someone suffering depression, psychological hunger, and the advice to get out into the world,

get out of your bare room and "self-vacancies."  

The repeat of "really" is confusing.  What is really happening here in the tongue-twisted night-spun-savage-spaces where hipthick spirits moonwalk?

Perhaps the message is "don't 'give up."  But who is you? For whom is this poem intended?  And how does the title help us tie it all together?  We are left with so many questions.

The Old Land by Aleksandar Hemon:

It is sometimes helpful to know something of the poet... This American-Bosnian poet in his 50's knew Serbian snipers as a child.  The visual images are strikingly powerful and quite original.  Have you seen a sky "shallow and piebald" in the fall, striped and shiny when it rained or snowed...  ?  It's hard to know if there are not missiles involved here, especially with the unsettling image of cars running on blood, melted pennies, bones.  

Several thoughts about "no need for explanation, let alone hope".   We might want an explanation, but we will have a hard time finding it.  We think "this is because that is" and a chain of cause and effect. 

Suddenly we had opened up the philosophers' anonymous chapter, citing Eckert Tolle, David Whyte, Buddhist thought, and much more.  How does a person interact with circumstance?  How can one escape the insanity of group thinking?  The theory of original sin might help some out of the morass, to quote Judith.  Sarajevo, the assassination of the Archduke followed by the First World War is evoked. Indeed,  destruction of "all the wrong distant lands" cannot be the answer, until we understand one person's wrong, zig-zag after zig-zag like those streets, like startled antelopes... is another in the eye of a beholder who perceives it that way.  Sure... love. Nice word for strangers, dogs. 

How can you be "just as you are", while the "scared elsewheres" bang on your door?

An Autumn Homily by Alfred Austin 

So, my mislabeling might lead you to look up Mr. Austin, Poet Laureate in 1896, but of rather uneven reception both for his poetry and support of the position. We enjoyed this pleasant, rhymed sonnet, which is not overly preachy as friendly homily, (where "edification", not doctrine is delivered in religious discourse).  Although not sentimental, some found it sappy.  When you realize it was written during World War I, it becomes clear that indeed, it is a memorial for someone's life.  The sounds and metaphors corroborate nicely.  About those acorns "fitfully falling", indeed, they clunk one on the head in quite unpredictable fashion... and should you survive, can provide a hazardous slippery condition.  If the heart is understood metaphorically as well, this is what allows us to keep alive the "soul's clear lamp".

Shoveling Snow  by Kirsten Dierking

This was perhaps the top hit of the offerings: striking imagery, unusual associations, where the rhythmic shoveling, whether imagined or real, creates a sculpture of loved ones.  At first it may seem the title does not correspond with the couplets... but there is a feel of immediate meaning, although not entirely clear at first. The opening word, If exposes a mood one is pulled into,  and observations accumulated, introduced by "how".  Beautiful and powerful juxtaposition of what might be a routine chore implied by the title, with all that could possibly not be noticed, but which thankfully, is, sculpted into that "marble of drifts."

The Good Son by Jason Shinder

Another poem starting with if.  One person described the poem as a "wake up call for the reader", and we enjoyed exploring the many different, rather ambiguous, possibilities. Guilt comes to mind immediately...And should we sanction or excuse attention to one's own suffering?

 Interesting that we live in a time period where popular advice advises that "we take care of ourselves", and yet, indeed, if not taking care of others, we neglect the benefit reaped by doing so.  (One feels energy returned when sharing kindness and compassion.)  In the poem, God is at the wheel in the forgiveness department.  Perhaps a child can never do enough for a parent.  Another thought at the end might be, "sure, she thought I was wonderful... but she didn't know the all of it".

Apparently the poet died young, ran a program for underprivileged kids.

I had written this to my children: How close “forget yourself” and “forgive yourself” are… It’s strange  how easy it is to misread what is “unforgiveable”.  I find there is something very honest in the way this poet is speaking -- admitting we want others to pay attention to our suffering!  I'm not sure most people  could say, “sure, I can forget myself”.  

 No matter what a parent feels, I think it's a biological truth that we consider our children are wonderful… and what a bonus, we also believe they would do anything for us… No reason needed. 

 ...  The grown-up children know they are loved, and the parents know that they would do anything for them.  I find this a beautiful thought.

Three for the Mona Lisa  by John Stone

If you want a good example of an ekphrastic exercise, this is an excellent one!  Delightful humor, and why not imagine all the possible mysteries in the thrice-repeated "not exactly".  And however that motion was stated.

The Faint Shadow of the Morning Moon  by Yone Noguchi (this is the father of Isamu Noguchi, 1904-1988.  We have one of his sculptures at the MAG. )

Interesting to have what seems to be an overheard conversation.  Unusual for a poem to have an answer to a question.  And yet, whatever it is, shadow of moon, snow, mist of blossoms, we feel a gentle smile of poetry at work.  

Places (III). Winter Sun  by Sara Teasdale.

Lovely imagery -- but who is "you"?  The overlay of bush with berries, hemlocks heaped with snow, sound of surf all work to "take the wind and let it go."

The poetry is at work in this first stanza.  Not sure the second stanza lives up to it. 

 

discussion of poems for Dec. 14-15

Holy Ghost by June Robertson Beisch: 

 It is good not to take oneself too seriously in navigating the complexities of life and a sense of humor is always a good tool for helping the process.  How to understand the title with two loaded words that could refer to the Christian concept of spirit, or perhaps a ghost of something that was or is holy, or... ?

So, we started out with blithely reading the straightforward sentences in stanza 1 of this poem all starting with the definite article.  We are clearly in a church and things that usually are not stated, such as the off-key singing, rambling priest and peeling paint, are not just setting a tone, but clearly familiar bits of reality.  

Stanza 2 is introduced with the indefinite article for the wayward pigeon, and perhaps the glass is stained by something that is not creating a biblical illustration.  The end rhyme of Key, Sacristy, and the solo line of stanza three, reality work nicely to contrast what is, and what shouldn't be.  The eye-rhyme of cry, concludes stanza 4 with its humorous look at ushers and bills drifting lazily out of the collection baskets and the sound of a child who really would be best elsewhere.  

The switch to a pithy message about the human wiring that wants so badly to believe in signs, and survives on the hope someone is looking out for us, reminded some of us of the Ukraine war, and surviving odds.  This time, the stained glass feels different.

All seems a fine observation, aside from the enigmatic title which doesn't quite bridge the wayward pigeon's swooping as sign.  And then we arrive at the but which starts the final couplet.

"You can survive anything if you know/that someone is looking out for you,//  (stanza break)

but the sky... doesn't it look like home?  I took out the stained-glass windows.  Some thought of the astronauts looking down at earth in the inky black of the universe... some thought of sky as heaven, some tried to imagine sky as "framed" like a belief we want so badly to be true, but, what is happening here that undoes this scene (which doesn't look like reality)?  Who is the speaker of the poem?  And who are the intended readers?  

Someone brought up the title of the book from which this poem appeared.  God the father for fatherless? or abandoned daughters or girls who lost their fathers.    What is meant by "it" and how does it look like home?

Such problematic, such frightful poems by Julia Musakovska, translated by Timothy Snyder

https://open.substack.com/pub/snyder/p/such-problematic-such-frightful-poems?r=lfje&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=email

The lines are short, triple spaced so they hang in space, call for attention.  Many could be grouped together, but no punctuation is given, every fragment equal whether is "belongs" with another line or not.

What is metaphor and what happens when they too fall to pieces?  Who is "they" -- the dead children, those who were living just a day ago preparing meals but no longer, or the metaphors?  You do not die of dehydration under rubble, shot in a car, so for what is dehydration a metaphor?  Someone cited the news of Putin knocking out infrastructure so civilians have no water, food, heat, etc.  Again was it the metaphors with colorful backpacks over their shoulders or others who tried to survive?  Impactful, and calling those of us who are not involved, respectfully, spectators of this horrible spectacle.  Powerful, impactful, heartbreaking... but you cannot finish such a poem and not soul-search how to respond.

New Town by Alexandar Hemon

This Bosnian-American poet captures the problem of "fitting in" -- whether an immigrant or whatever society that demands we be subservient to it.  "Welcome... " yet shut out, it is an interesting spin on "Home Town" from last week -- those "nosy, incredible, delicious neighbors" will perhaps not want you around.  The irony is offset with a play of pronouns.  Who is "you", "they"?  Can you read "disremembered" without thinking "dismembered"?  The repeated opening lines as final say,  have two slight additions and a change of pronoun:  praise the good  people, our kindness, and the last word, endless.  One could say, this poem repeats what we know, but then again, some would say, we need to keep hearing it.  Human nature will not change, but we do not need to defend and/or accept the indefensible.  

We wondered why in the 5th stanza the poet added this idea:  "If a man is liked by his fellow men, he is/ liked by God, he is rewarded in heaven.  /His before-life shall matter to none of us. 

It seems out of context with the rest.  Is it merely another instance of the voice of the people of the new town?  Those who will ask you to groom their peacocks (does this mean, kowtow to their vanity? or merely metaphorical peacocks as luxury items requiring a servant? 

What collectivity includes "we", when this "us" is not treated as an  equal?

[Again and again, even though we know love's landscape]-- Rainer Maria Rilke

Paul kindly read us the German.  The sound of Immer wieder repeated feels different than repeating again and again... but for sure, this human propensity for repeating such things as war, for trying to avoid the unavoidable of death, and the not always perfect landscape of love... the "even though" (obwohl, or in the case of Rilke, ob wir), lovers do lie down together again and again, look up at the sky, which in German, Himmel, can mean heaven.  Beautiful love poem... as well as thoughts of World War I, where "others" (anderen) end (enden -- so close in shared sound).  It prompted a few references:  "Joyce: caught an amorous couple under a weeping beech." If you google "Use of Sound in Shakespeare" you will find this citation:   “All sounds, all colours, all forms, either because of their pre-ordained energies or because of long association, evoke indefinable and yet precise emotions, or, as I prefer to think, call down among us certain disembodied powers, whose footsteps over our hearts we call emotions; and when sound, and colour, and form are in a musical relation, a beautiful relation to one another, they become as it were one sound, one colour, one form and evoke an emotion that is made out of their distinct evocations and yet is one emotion. The same relation exists between all portions of every work of art, whether it be an epic or a song…” (Masson, 1953:219; Yeats, 1900)

It sounds very much like what Paul quoted.  I teased about "Billy" with reference to "Robby" who coined the term "sound of sense".  With all deference to Shakespeare and Frost!  Paul also referred us to Austin Clark, an Irish Poet.   

Fiction by Howard Nemerov

Given the discussion, one might conclude, what fun to consider the elevator, the circumstances and people!  Certainly this poem provided ample invitations for people to share stories, whether taking an elevator in a crowded elevator in Asia.  We also admired "the rapt and stupid look of saints/in painting" to describe the looking up at numbers.  Much as the language play is obvious, it takes a strong poet to display such wit.   One could ask, "does this poem have significance"?  Indeed, not one to tuck into your pocket to read before a final breath... however, the title, "Fiction" will get you thinking about this metaphorical treatment of an elevator, and why novels are written.  This had us embark on a discussion of prose vs. poetry... the former an ocean, the later, a cup of tea... however much filled to the brim with feeling.  Why is some writing considered a "poem", but can easily be read as prose.  We agreed, humor helps us break the ice... and the implications of elevator behavior where one's true character is temporarily suspended, was worth the time.   

Our Valley  by Philip Levine

Ada Limon posted this poem on The Slow Down mentioning that Philip Levine was her first very cherished poetry professors in graduate school.   I'm glad I wasn't the only one to question her summary of "what this poem is about" .  After discussion, we did indeed see how the poem could remind the reader of the "importance of awe".  However, the question arises: does a poem need to have a point? a purpose? What arose in our discussion:  noting the juxtaposition of "We" and "you", the first words in each stanza, where "you" in the third stanza could be an understood you.  I love that the mountains are closer than we are in having a word for the "massive, irrational, powerful" feeling of ocean, and this admission that some might call the poet nuts for imagining mountains know everything. 

We had a sense the poem could end at the end of the second stanza.  That idea of a "huge silence we think of as divine" is embroidered and ends with almost losing breath because "you're thrilled and terrified".

The final stanza feels a distraction.  We were glad to see the "worker poet" in action, calling on the men working their small boats, carving a living from the waves, themselves carved down to nothing. But this seems a different poem.    How does it follow this description of a valley filled with hints of ocean?

Well... the title is "Our Valley".  The final word, "our life".   

Where we grow up, someone concluded, owns us.  This poem captures that. 

Paul provided us with a fabulous quote  from Austin Clarke: Describing his technique to Robert Frost, Clarke said "I load myself down with chains and try to wriggle free."

Our fun is to examine the wriggles, and how they work with the chains!

discussion of poems Dec. 9 and 10

 Kindness by Naomi Shihab Nye

We have discussed this poem before, but I wanted to share it this week, having heard Naomi's comment after the loss of her son in October that she could hear this poem replaying line by line in her head, as if to say, "see?  I really mean it." Knowing the recent events in her life, it was hard not to read the poem feeling her pain.

The first comment was a question.  "How does she manage to deliver such an important message and yet not sound preachy?"    There is something about details and sincerity... and her delivery feels "folksy".  Which comment got us thinking about Peter Paul and Mary and Joan Baez, (There but for fortune... joan baez there but for fortune lyrics).  

In this poem, the opposite of sorrow is not joy... but kindness.  Even the way the stanzas develop, allow kindness to gather weight -- first with an adjective, tender, in the second stanza, then given place "as the deepest thing inside".  Then,  kindness is personified, able to tie shoes, speaking to you as if you matter, and never leaves, sticking "like a shadow or friend".   

The poem is not called "Ode to Kindness", but explores it by starting with complete loss,  to better understand the "size of the cloth".  The commandment to "love your neighbor as yourself" seems often inconceivable to put into practice. However, if we substituted kindness as in "be kind to your neighbor, (and to yourself)" there is perhaps half a chance.

Coupled with her poem So Much Happiness, there is a reminder that such abstractions have a life of their own, and open the door to possibilities.  I shared these thoughts with Naomi: 

One participant  said her greatest happiness was just THINKING about her new grandson, and how tears would come.  Indeed… I have never understood tears of joy well.  You show the path… 

Before you can understand what tears, joy, really are, you must indeed imagine "the desolate landscape between those regions of kindness” as you so beautifully put it.

I like that paradox of tears that understand both despair as well as hope.  How odd it is that joy and sorrow, usually coupled together bring them.  We discussed today how big abstractions like “love” (or joy) are not accessible the way “Kindness is.”  We might not be able to love our neighbor, but we can hope at least to be kind. 

I love the idea of offering kindness, not joy,  as the shadow of sorrow.

I asked everyone to say the title "So Much Happiness" and note how they said it and what came to mind. Perhaps for some, a small pause after "so", or others suspecting some sarcasm... for how can there be an overabundance of happiness?  Or is the "so much" going to become a burden to take care of. 

Judith thought of Pappyshivili saying "he felt happy and full of prance"... and we discussed how in the poem, there is not parroting of clichés.

Richard thought all the lines could be scratched out but this:  "Happiness Floats."

We decided that perhaps a committee to examine "poem reduction to one-liners" might be a good idea, or maybe a general practice for any poem.  But then we would be missing some of the wisdom tucked in... for instance, "you are not responsible" (for the life of happiness... how long or short, where it shows up, how big it is, etc.).

In Be Kind, the kind of delight we felt in the first two poems disappeared in the rather awkward use of pompous words, and a run-on sentence with absolutely no respite provided with a comma, a much-needed semi-colon.  And what's with Henry James and his 4 rules of life (be kind X 3 more times), we wondered? (Whose name provoked Judith to perform a pantomime expressing distaste.) Was it Bernie or perhaps was Jim about to quote the same line from Sherlock Holmes, "It has its interesting points, dear Watson"

We concurred the awkward telling was rather off-putting and the style rife with preachy overtones.  Elaine shared the fact that Blumenthal is known to be quite humorous, and shared this poem: https://poets.org/poem/fish-fucking That provided at least 15 more minutes about this most versatile f-word which Jim confessed looking up as a teenager only to find it could slip into nominative, verbal, adjectival not to mention adverbial clothing! Paul had an idea that if a one-liner could not be found, at least most of the poem could be scratched out. 

 OK...the poem provides a definition of kindness hinted at as defense measure, act of forgiveness, and yes, "of course, in the end so much comes down to privilege and its various penumbras" and maybe some might find it humorous to "take whatever kindness you can find and be profligate in its expenditure..." As for the hedgehog, Graeme provided some background with Isaiah Berlin's short story, where the hedgehog knows only  self-defense whereas the fox knows multiple  tricks.  And who wins out?  We did find the re-occurance of the hedgehog at the end with "sweet little claws and wet nose, eyes to the ground, little feet" an odd finale to the fact that kindness will not leave you vulnerable and unfurled.

But kindly note... I hope you can tell from this cursory summary... all 18 of us were having quite the jocular time discussing the poem! 

Home Town  by William Stafford.  This short poem also uses clichés and large words with juxtapositions such as "impersonal immensity"; the "bombshell of a library" bathed in the gentle haze of benevolence, like the courthouse and the "continuous, hidden, efficient sewer system".  There is a gentle bite in the "haunting invasion" of the train whistle, the overblown and copious collection of adjectives... 

We felt a tone of humility, a nuance of kindness, a quiet exposure of good and bad.  Tell me about your Home Town.  And how lovely to wish it peace.  This one tiny speck to which we are connected-- under this incredible "world-champion" of a sky.

The Forest for the Trees  by Rene Priest  

I included the notes from "teach this poem" https://poets.org/lesson-plan/teach-poem-forest-trees-rena-priest. Notes from the Poet: How trees communicate:  hub trees, roots underground and fungal networks...Like parents, who have a bigger picture than children, families and their networks.  We are not meant to be living alone.

“Land is both resistance and reflection, and we understand land as landscape, nature, wilderness in the American consciousness. However, land takes shape and form in many different ways."

We remarked the rhyme scheme -- ABCA in the first two stanzas... then, willow/now... (2nd stanza, 2nd line and last work of 3rd stanza, no other rhyme) after the clear-cut of trees.  Melting pot... last word of 4th stanza with "not" last word of 5th stanza.  Everyone appreciated the repeat of "new"-- to say something differently... to breathe, listen differently new chances to be heard. 

Judith was reminded of Martha's Graham's dances where movement is emotion.  The body does not lie.  Can we see the forest for the trees?  The poem has political overtones, but that aside, this idea of forest, connected and growing, each tree breathing, each person using breath of  new words gives a hopeful message.

excerpt from Musical Tables  by Billy Collins.

In his wry tone, what seems to be almost a cryptic commentary, Collins takes one detail, pushes it deeper so it pulls at the heart.  Elegy breaks the heart, imagining a widow or widower, playing solitaire... wanting to believe his or her beloved there.  Perhaps an innocent mockery to cover up the hurt, but never sarcastic.

 

When someone isn't there... we miss them.

 

O pen family -- such a wonderful group!   Unconditional acceptance is our key!!!! When someone is down and out, we like to know so we can  send all good wishes for a speedy recovery!  It is always wonderful to hear back!  These spirited replies are an example of how immediately we feel the person missing, and the words bring them close to all of us.

From Mary: 

Hello Kitty, NO I am not better at this time.  I have the Covid Virus and feel miserable!  Chills, aches, light headed etc! Really having a chat with the Powers that be and asking for an explanation.  Take care of you.

on Dec. 15 the update: Had to wait 48 hours between Covid tests!  Then wait 5 days..who makes up the rules?? And who gave all the viruses my address?  Theses are some important questions to be answered!  I should see you on the 21st.  All will be Well and All will be Well! 

*** 

Paul very kindly conveyed to the group the unwelcome arrival of a “lollapaloosa” of a really bad cold  
My note to Judith:
We understand “wishes” aren’t very effective remedies, but perhaps they provide a decorate shawl to wrap around yourself with an uplifting effect.  
Paul’s eyes are brand new, and although he forgot to bring reading glasses, Elaine kindly lent hers; we all sang happy birthday on the phone to Marcie;  John W came back, true to form he says, pipes up contrarian opinions… 

from Judith:

I am taking weird pills that soothe the coughing at night, but skull is still cradling a mucous machine.  Astonishing--good thing I just happened to get in several boxes of tissues...but it is getting mo-not-ih-niss.. 

And Maura missed because not only did Jerry fall and break his hip (on his good side) but she, trying to keep him from falling, ended up with a fracture in her lumbar spine.  (He will be in rehab at the Jewish home tomorrow.)

 

poems for Nov. 30/Dec. 1

I love, love, love the amazing sense of family that discussions of these weekly poems provide.   Paul not only wrote me a funny email about "shaking the poems so all the punctuation fell out", but gave us updates on Judith, her Lollapalooza of a cold and Mary who is improving.  We all left a singing chorus of Happy Birthday on the phone to Marcie who says, "That was the best birthday serenade! Please give all the O pen folks my very very best and a virtual hug next week."  

But, onwards... a small summary of the discussion of these favorites-- both from local people who attended my workshop on 11/19 and from the American Academy who hosted favorites read by fairly famous poets.   THAT list is here: Gather in Poems poems read as part of our annual celebration of poetry & community: 

“Perhaps the World Ends Here” by Joy Harjo, read by Jennifer Benka
“from The Black Maria” by Aracelis Girmay, read by Tracy K. Smith
“Dusting” by Marilyn Nelson, read by David St. John
“Sampling” by Ralph Angel, also read by David St. John
“Spilled Sugar” by Thylias Moss, read by Hanif Abdurraqib
“Amphibious” by Aimee Suzara, read by Sasha Pimentel
“Aubade at the City of Change” by Aldo Amparán, also read by Sasha Pimentel
“Cento Between the Ending and the End” by Cameron Awkward-Rich, read by TC Tolbert
“Lift Every Voice and Sing” by James Weldon Johnson, read by Dorianne Laux
“Briefly It Enters, and Briefly Speaks” by Jane Kenyon, read by Marie Howe
“The Day Lady Died” by Frank O’Hara, read by Lloyd Schwartz
“In the Company of Women” by January Gill O’Neil, read by Marilyn Nelson
“The Idea of Ancestry” by Etheridge Knight, read by Juan Felipe Herrera
“Thanks” by Yusef Komunyakaa, read by Natasha Trethewey
“Offering” by Donika Kelly, read by Sumita Chakraborty
“Map” by Linda Hogan, read by Mai Der Vang
“The Chance” by Arthur Sze, read by Tina Chang

Young Man Picking Flowers by W.S. Merwin

How much can be said in 14 lines.  Martin read it, and commented that he suspects it was written by an old man.  Indeed... the circle of life is beautifully unpunctuated mirrored in a handful of flowers.  We remarked the sensuous details: fragrance, singing; the way "he is no longer" sounds like a funeral oratory, as does "dew runs from them..." and "at this hour".  But the lines does run on... and although no longer young, the question, as he is holding them, "is it the hand of the young man who found them only this morning" reflects back to the title, this sense of connection of our older selves remembering who we once were.  As Marna remarked, this poem is healing, and gets you "out of your head".  We did embark on a discussion of ambiguity, John W introducing the term "coy" for the unpunctuated enjambements.  We all wished Kathy, who admires Merwin,  were with us to lend her voice.  We imagined her elaborating on the mystery created, and supporting Elaine who said Merwin was indeed "giving from his heart." 

Friday Night at the Royal Station Hotel by Philip Larkin

Graeme read aloud his pick with his gentle Australian inflection.  What a strong poem evoking loneliness, desolation.  Graeme explained it resonated with him.  He could smell the  ashtrays, feel the loneliness of commercial traveler... Sounded like it might be the town of Hull where Larkin worked as librarian... salespeople called "travelers" in Australia. Elaine: sense of Larkin as introverted, quiet person.

Apparently Larkin  had all his diaries burned on his death.  The poem has a mysterious, almost dreamy  poignancy.  One senses the poet has been there, seen it, felt it.  We admired how a poem can communicate mood, in this case as strong as if one had just lost lifetime partner.

Richard commented on the characteristics of light, contrasting with the first poem.  

Mike (Poetry Oasis) noted the uneven rhyme scheme : chairs/declares;  glass/pass;  How/Now.  The adjectives empty, shoeless, unsold emphasize an unanchored life.

 

Beeches by David St. John : listen to him read it here.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fHHY6Znkg5E

We wondered if perhaps there might not be two poems here:  the one celebrating the wonders of the woods.  The other, introduced by the word, nostalgia (perfumed with misery!) carries him to the past, unlike the line following the stanza break, which says it  Carries me beyond the past.  Don't you think a period might come in handy there?  Now the forest, sanctuary of ghosts leads him to play with "giving" as both adjective and verb.  The way he reads the poem, one can imagine he means, "letting go".  He repeats this procedure with "the old giving thanks".  A thoughtful reminiscence, but not easy to follow.

John W recounted the sense of remorse as he faced the quadruple by-pass surgery.  The sense of "I'm not done yet" which he associated with a feeling the poem evoked of possibly ceding battle, yet not giving up. 

Memorizing "The Sun Rising" by John Donne by Billy Collins

We didn't have time to share this one.  Light, tongue-in-cheek, but the Donne is indeed worth memorizing!

Pegasus Autopsy by Julio Pazos Barrera

Unusual... it works as a unit... One thinks of Icarus... and the novel Horse perhaps.  The carnage of war.  Pegasus, the "thunderbolt bearer of Zeus" on an autopsy table?  John cited lines from a poem he wrote: In vain we scratch the skies trying to analyze the myth...  (will need to obtain the entire poem...)  The poem questions how we use images, myths perhaps.   The stitching whose "motive, comparable to mercy" begs the question:   is it the carnage of war or the carcass of Pegasus, the warrior horse who should have been immortal?  The ending feels like a dismal conclusion.  Volunteers? body, wings, (confirming Pegasus) to the landfill.

High Flight by John Gillespie Magee

Graeme remembered his grandmother cutting this sonnet out of the paper.  Her son was a pilot in WW2. Richard remembered the speech of Ronald Regan after the explosion of the Challenger, and admiring the speech writer-- and delighted to find the source.  Apparently used as a TV sign off.   Powerful language indeed with a pleasing, but not too evident end-rhyme.  How sad that the poet himself died in a crash of 1941.

Winter Scene by A.R. Ammons

Haiku-like and unusual to have the jay become leaf, with the final ambiguous word that could be noun with  verbal quality to describe the quivering and breaking out of the branch into blue leaves.

Briefly It Enters, and Briefly Speaks by Jane Kenyon

This poem could be a continuation of the poem above.  What is the "it" in the title?  Who is the "I" repeated except for one stanza?  Does the girl who starve, keep on starving?  This is no brief entrance or brief amount of speaking.  To whom does the longest hair belong, and compared to which other? The poem offers more questions than answers as it presents puzzles of life resembling zen koans.

We concluded... "it" is the recurrent thought... the recorded life... finally apparent as life itself.

The Garden by Dorianne Laux

Why the title?  For sure we need to imagine... and four times we are asked to do so... The metaphor of the doorknob is pushed to a new dimension, that only of preparing, to open the door. )  Eerie.

The Forge by Seamus Heaney

He provides us with a door into the dark... Who is "I"?  The blacksmith is referred to as "he" and yet,

we are at the forge.  It is unmistakeably described with an "unpredictable fantail of sparks" amid anvil,

horned as a unicorn, compared to an altar... and then we are brought back to reality with the slam and flick

of real iron, and work of bellows.  Every word milks metaphor about what it is to live and work on this earth.

Update on Oct. 19th poem, "Before I was a Gazan" by Naomi Shihab Nye

 I wrote to Naomi Oct. 20:

Her reply about the poem:

Your thoughts on this poem (which is a very precious poem to me) are so astute, I don't think you need my help in any way, but I would surely give you my applause for such a close, caring reading. 

Why I used a boy instead of a girl - I don't know. I raised one boy, and we now have one grandson. I feel very close to boys and girls both, but I'd been Zooming with some kids in Gaza and the little boys, so often the victims of the violence,

really caught my heartstrings. 

**  My initial email asked about Before I was a Gazan

I don’t know if you remember me, but I thoroughly enjoyed attending one of your workshops, and am an ardent supporter

of your poetry!  Thank you, thank you for sharing your insights and craft in such an eloquent, unpretentious and heartfelt way in your poetry!

Today, in a poetry appreciation discussion group I lead, we discussed Before I was a Gazan… 

We admired the “economical” understatement set up by the title and first line, the juxtaposition of something ordinary missing, like homework,

with the brutal subtraction caused by war… how the measures used for  math homework, the pride of additions made, multiplied…  become 

unsolvable problems.

We related so much to this boy, this “I” which brought up this question.  Why did you pick a boy, and not a  “child” or “a girl" as the speaker of the poem?

We were curious, and don’t want to make assumptions! 

Was it easier to write imagining a boy?  Is a boy’s perspective to be taken more seriously perhaps?  

We all concur, that the poem is so stunningly executed, the surprises deftly dealt… that small enjambed addition about the baby sister / “who couldn’t talk yet”.

One of the readers was reminded of the passage in Job, “And I only have escaped to tell you.”  Indeed, this poem is given to the world… like the one remaining voice,

and we all become the “I” who must resolve to find something, that can find answer to the situation, not just in Palestine, but every place  where a child is at risk, school is not a safe place, and everyone suffers from the heartbreak of genocide, of murder.

 

I hope all is well with you.

May you continue your work which so gently and compassionately reminds people of the importance of caring for fellow human beings and working to ensure

ways to bring out the best in all.

With heartfelt good wishes,

gratefully,

** What was uncanny was finding this out in her Nov. 26 reply:

On Nov 26, 2022, at 4:56 PM, nshihab@aol.com wrote:

Hi Kitty, Please forgive me for taking so long to reply. We were stunned by the shock of our own son's sudden death on Oct. 5 (he'd had Covid 5 times, it was brutal to him) and I barely glanced at my emails till now.

We've been in a nightmare. I'm so sorry.

+reply (above) + I just really appreciate you. Gratefully, Naomi 

My reply 11/26: Dear Naomi,

Please know how shocking this news is to hear.  Thank you, that in the midst of grief you could answer such a small question.

I know I am not alone but all the people this poetry group join me with heartfelt condolences.

We so appreciate you.  I am glad you have a grandson and can share your precious spirit with him.  I  cannot imagine the brutal shock of losing your son.

Grateful to you and wishing you all the courage it takes to continue,

sending gentle, healing thoughts,

Kitty  

11/27

Deepest love for your consoling, tender reply. I am grateful to you.  Courage is needed down here! 

It's been very strange, since we were speaking of poems, how the Kindness poem keeps replaying line by line in my own head,

as if to say, see? I really meant it.

love, naomi

Elaine Richane also wrote her a heartfelt condolence on 11/30 

May I convey my deepest sympathy to you, your husband and loved ones.  My heart cries and aches for you and yours.

Your poetry has blessed and enriched me and our poetry group, O Pen, for years.  As an Lebanese-American, I identify closely with the essence of what it means to be of Arabic heritage and have found  so much comfort and familiarity when I read your work.   May you and your family find comfort knowing you are on our hearts and thoughts.

Warmly,
Elaine Richane

to which she replied.

Elaine, I appreciate your remark about being Arab American too. A close Mexican friend, whose own son died at the age of 3, told me he prayed to

his ancestors who surely survived worse things in harder times, to help him get through the pain. This has helped me. Love and good health to all of you, naomi

 

Poems for Nov. 16-17-- NO MEETING NOV. 23/24 BECAUSE OF THANKSGIVING.

Happy Thanksgiving all.  This week's poem help us reflect on larger ideas and ways of giving thanks.  As ever, I am grateful to all for the wonderful weekly discussions and sharing.  Feel free to comment, should you wish to add to the commentary below.  

We Used Our Words We Used What Words We Had  by Franny Choi

Many were intrigued by the poem and looked up more information about the poet, a Korean-American, gay, slam-poet.  Bernie provides this u-tube: https://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=We+Used+Our+Words+We+Used+What+Words+We+Had++by+Franny+Choi

(Note:  in the American Poets Journal, the lines are triple-spaced.  https://www.frannychoi.com/the-world-keeps-ending .  It makes it harder to see right away there are only 14 lines, so technically a sonnet form, and yet, one would not read it necessarily to draw attention to the form.  As one participant put it, there is a disconnect between the visual disposition on the page and traditional expectations of a sonnet form, as the reading doesn't line up with the lines which has an effect of disconnect.  It was good to read one line at a time, one per person to allow space.

The 8th line end word, "yawp",  conjures up Whitman's "barbaric yawp" in "Song of Myself", but there is no "volta", only another ampersand, a repeat of "tried" and a fizzling flow of f's.  Note the f's continue line 10, adding a past tense "ed" at the end of each verb, arriving at a repeat of the verb "felt" with an enjambed reference to Wordsworth (felt/the words' worth stagnate", which beautifully illustrates with sonic finesse the fatigue of the failure to fix, affix any point of the brilliant word play to either feel or understand.  Indeed, what is the message of the poem?  One person thought there was a bit of yearning in the tone; certainly the verbs are hard at work, and the poem seems to be a demonstration of urgent effort to use words -- perhaps line 4 explains... to use words "to want ourselves"... line 5, "to want (enjambed to 6) the earth we mouthed".  What is the "it"?

The difficulty in English of needing to know whether a word like "wound" is a noun (with an oooh sound) or a verb (with an ow sound) compounds the intricacy of the word play.  The "ow's" of wound, mounted, roused would indeed ward off any sleep. The uncapitalized "meanwhile" in the penultimate line starts a fragment stopped by a colon.  Does a tide still a tide?  Is the tide still a tide?  What is "still washed" for sounds to mark.  Graehm suggested that the use of ampersands de-emphasizes the role of "and" which perhaps supports the idea of the tide coming in to mark, going out, both the tide and sand marked.   The tide as "time" bides in place perhaps, repeatedly rolling. This supports the title of the poem collection The World Keeps Ending, and the World Goes on from which the poem comes.  The overtones of old anglo-saxon roots give a sense of history along with all the past tense endings.  Judith thought of the weaving in the song, "The Foggy, foggy dew".  This is a lovely rendition of this old folk song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=toWv2u10U7Q 

  Reactions to the poem: readers found it clever, intriguing, captivating layers and sounds.  Some found the poem irritating, annoying, others, fascinating.

A Poem of Thanks by Wendell Berry

Who is I, and who is You?  This engaging, yet enigmatic poem allows the reader to imagine different guises of reciprocity, whether the poet or another, and his/her mate or an abstract relationship with body/soul; physical presence/love.  Perhaps we cannot put the understanding into words, but there does seem to be a religious overtone, almost like intoning a psalm.  Interesting that the repeated first two lines have a more informal iteration from "I have been spared" to "I've been spared".  We spoke also of the unusual invitation to "come into this night" with a mutual casting aside in order to rise into a temporary joy.

Our Prayer of Thanks by Carl Sandburg

Written and published in 1916, it is a curious poem, where title is repeated as closing line of each stanza, except in the case of the final line where it is a separate and final fragment.  The first four stanzas seem like typical subjects of prayer.  The two stanzas that begin with "God" are fragments.  There is no sequel to "if you are deaf and blind, or the various dead", only an implied "we offer" before "our prayer of thanks.  It is jarring and hard to imagine such lines uttered without sarcasm.  It could be that we will never "get the game" and however it is played, so be it, and yet still.. even then, this "prayer of thanks" goes on.  Judith brought up the Hassidic story of the uneducated man who only knew the alphabet, who said to the Rabbi, it would be enough for God to create the words of the prayer. This Mark Twain poem came to mind: https://www.americanyawp.com/reader/19-american-empire/mark-twain-the-war-prayer-ca-1904-5/

Friends  by William Stafford

Much as we might not like to admit the truth, friends who live far away do forget you.  "They have to", is not a matter of argument but solid fact of truth and circumstance.   The double meaning of "hand" as the handwriting, as well as what holds the pen, touches things as last word is effective.  How many of us take the time to write, especially "handwrite".  On Wednesday there were a few chuckles at the line about it being "the phone/itself is what loves you, although it isn't the fact of the line that is funny.  Touch confirms us however as do objects.  Such a short poem, poignantly touching.  Comments brought up other aspects of Stafford as "quiet of the land",  his poem, Travelling through the dark, and his quiet wisdom.  Indeed, the process of writing feels good, and in many ways brings us beyond ourselves.  Martin brought up ESP and  other ways we use to draw near to those far away.  

Although we ran out of time to read the next two poems, at Rundel we did read Give-Away Song by Gwen Westerman, a contemporary Native American writer which is a perfect sequel to the Stafford.  When we sing in a group, it is like a prayer of thanks, for living, for the fact that we can touch what is good in each other and around us, and have a sense of connection.  Wopida ye, means "Thank You".

The other Native American poem, " Let There Be  by Manny Loley for his nephew calls on the power of poetry, which like story telling, lives and breathes, reminding us of who we are, where we come from, where we are going.  Hooghan, the space of a home, can also be the space of a page, a dwelling space we can fill up with song singing in all directions.  No matter if it is raining, or sunny in summer, the voice we use is not ours alone.

This is the spirit of the final poem by Jane Hirschberg, The Weighing.  You can hear her read it here: https://youtu.be/XyqXGL7ArKM  Elaine brought up the importance of listening to others, as she spoke of her work of Pastoral Care.  Others were reminded of the message in different guises:  "Keep Calm and carry on" (Winston Churchill) or as Judith said her daughter put it to her, "Suck it up and deal!".  Joyce at Rundel mentioned the importance of forgiveness.  How it is not just that we need to forgive others, but, we all face the possibility of needing to be forgiven.  Nature teaches us lessons, for instance, in times of drought, if the starved lion did not eat the eland, that is not necessarily good for the eland.  How is it that the scales balance?  The importance is not the answer to the question, but the proof, over and over again, that they do and we are asked only one thing: to give all of our strength to the world and each other.  

I included in the weekly send-out a lecture by Robin Kimmerer  (author of Braiding Sweetgrass) at the Institute of American Indian Arts in California.  https://iaia.edu/event/talk-with-author-dr-robin-wall-kimmerer/ Thank you Maura who shared it, and reminded us of this concept of "ki" that active energy that binds the universe.  She says the first 5-8 minutes are just about seeing people come on and sit down etc. but worth the wait and thinks it can be close captioned.

  

poems for Nov. 9-10

 There is No Word  by Tony Hoagland.

Last week, we discussed Hoagland's poem, published in 2012, The Word. It is interesting to compare the above poem, published a year later.  Certainly, the same signature style is operative, the same skillful enjambments, the seemingly innocent threading in this case, of the function of a plastic sack, and a word, only to move on to larger considerations of how we treat friendship and language.

Judith provided us with this:  Hottentotenpotentatentantentintenattentat  or the aunt of a Hottentot potentate ink attack  She explains she was brought up on Saki and this story of a stationery store proprietor and Prioress involving the hurling of an ink bottle and just this one word.  She also included in her note to me, "the inimitable Clovis who remarked on the death of the fellow who taught Tobermory the cat— he was slain by irate elephant at the Dresden Zoological Gardens-- "if he was trying German irregular verbs on the poor beast, he deserved what he got."

How do we hold the weight of painful situations?  Well... humor is one way.  Hoagland goes beyond a certain wry irony as he describes in 3 tercets the stretching of a single plastic bag, replete with enjambed suspension  between them.  That comprises the first of only two sentences.  The remaining 8 tercets and final couplet of the second sentence demonstrate a different "elastic capacity", first with the rhyme between the single "plastic" sack, and the fact there is no "single, unimpeachable word" in the next 2 tercets; 3 tercets about the friend, the awareness he has become an acquaintance,  and a sense of relief they have reached "the end of pretense", and "to tell the truth" what he is really thinking about is gratitude for language.

What does language allow us to "hold"?  When we say of a feeling "there are no words for it", indeed, there cannot be just one word.  No word by itself can be part of a bigger connection, and can only plod the circumference of its island.  Two bags would have held that milk.  As for "it", how language moves, gives back hours, days, love, faith, misunderstandings, secrets... and that brilliant touch, all poured into it.

How to Hold the Heavy Weight of Now by Dana Levin:  We don't know who "she" is, and perhaps the specifics don't matter, but without "the other" the transformation would not have happened. Poems that require a second reading, because something intrigues us, make us want to spend time with them to go beyond surface meaning.  Indeed, the carrying leads us to let go, which contradicts the  title's promise to show how to "hold the heavy weight of now".  Some imagined the theatrical gestures, perhaps like yoga poses.  The four em-dashes (first three stanzas and final line) resemble both lift-off platforms and landing places.

Final Soliloquy of the Interior Paramour  by Wallace Stevens:  The title sounds pompous, and indeed, the poem has a dense and ponderous way of making pronouncement.  What is it really about?  Who might an "Interior Paramour" be?  How do we blend interior and exterior, body/soul,  become one whether individually or collectively?  What brings light?  Indeed Light opens the poem, repeats as a power, miraculous influence.  Judith pinned down the nouns: room, shawl, candle, dwelling.  Alone (single thing, single shawl) we are poor.  If knowledge arranged the rendez-vous with light, there is still the fact that the highest candle is so high, as it lights the dark. 

For me, I am intrigued, as I am sometimes with a modernist painting, where the pondering, questing, wondering is indeed a sense of a powerful imagination at work.  I love the complexity of the title… and in this crazy world we live in, indeed…  the idea of “inamorata” (being in love…) with goodness, with light,

with what makes us feel alive) as part of our interior, doubts, buoys my spirit so as to better deal with other interior darker voices of fears and doubts.

Park Benches with Teeth by Mohammed El-Kurd:  We sensed a carefully worked form for discordant and troubling times and brutalizing circumstances in Palestine.  What transforms an anguished howl, into a powerful polished, honed poem ?  The anaphors "I live by"... the repeated "not a... ";  the imagery, the hiss underneath "tessellated under bridges and into performative priorities/ with hooded identities; the slice, scar, leash of wrists; 

The poem seems to be making a plea for those so cruelly treated, for people in pain.  Hopefully we feel like the daughter who heard this poem and said to her mother, "I feel sorry for their families".  We agreed, whether abuser or abused, when there is abusive behavior everyone suffers.

At Rundel, Mike shared his poem, "Orb", just published in Rundelania.  It fits perfectly-- how things come together because of gravity to make spheres. 

Orbs

by Michael Yaworsky

Is it because there are three dimensions
and gravity
that there are spheres….

or is it because there are spheres
we say that
there are three dimensions
and there must be gravity?

Link is here: www.rundelania.com If you go to Verse, you will see Mike Yaworski’s poem “Orb” (it does not repeat, only 2 stanzas as printed above) and five of mine.  I invite writers to consider submitting for the next issue! https://rundelania.com/about/