Poems for January 25

The Lifeline   by Pádraig Ó Tuama (pronounced Porig O Toomey); 

What's in My Journal by William Stafford; 

Ah Poverties, Wincings, and Sulky Retreats  by Walt Whitman; 

Nothing is Lost,  by Noel Coward; 

The Power of Clothes  by Grace L. Park; 

Arabic by Danusha Laméris; 

Tying the Knot by Kathleen Dale

Nutshell of discussion: 

The Lifeline:  We all appreciated this take on what keeps us keeping on as we age, and many shared personal stories, like Polly's unpitted cherry pie made with very-rolled dough, and uncooked in the woodstove and how her brother still  ate it all... We enjoyed singing There once was a man named Michael Finnigan, he grew whiskers on his chin-igan, the wind came up and blew them in-again, poor old Michael Finnigan, begin again... which of course, one repeats, going faster and faster each successive time! Again appears at the the beginning... (when that bell tolls again) and waits until the last two lines, to repeat again  4 more times after he pulls out all his organs once/again.  Begin.  Again.  

We went on at length of examples of doing something... citing that something worth doing, is worth doing badly than not at all... to figure out as in Tarkington story The Conquest of Canaan:  the heroine (very poor at the beginning) has an elderly father who is trying to be a painter.  They come into money and go off to France where he learns "how they did it." (I believe he uses the same device in the Magnificent Ambersons.)   Blood eagle sacrifices... habits... the double meaning of terrible with an underpinning of "awe"in awful.   Many liked Marna's suggestion to start the poem with the last stanza first... but however the discussion went, it was clear everyone had experience figuring out a lifeline... and how easy it is to forget what you have learnst before... or compare your echoes with other people's happiness.  Who knows if what you think you see mirrors their reality?  As for the "self-operation" of pulling out the organs, stuffing them in again,  we enjoyed the loaded (implied)  metaphor of "pull out all the stops", or the Octo or Nonagenarian "organ recital".  

What's in My Journal:  a perfect follow-up of the odds and ends at our disposal that provide raw material to write again.  Maura showed her journal with the skillful drawings of an Eagle, a duck, a flower, and an Ass and her associations with each one.  Interesting that Stafford uses the adverb, terribly next to  inevitable life story... His writing practice, indeed,  his lifeline. 

Ah Poverties, Wincings, and Sulky Retreats :  What a title!!!!  To personnify them and then, use the parentheses to carry on a little internal dialogue, is a brilliant treatment of how to cope with degredations, meannesses, broken resolutions...   It reminded Judith of Cyrano's final speech and last dying word, "mon panache"  the daring brilliance he insisted on that no one could take away from him.  For those not familiar with Rostand's play: https://www.litcharts.com/lit/cyrano-de-bergerac/themes/panache

Nothing is lost: Judith remarked this was not the typical Noel Coward we know, but shares the horrible loneliness of being a gay man, which could not be addressed.  The layering of meaning in "lie", repeated twice in the second line gallops into an enumeration of what is in our guts and deep subconscious in 11 lines.  There they all are, the legendary lies and he continues another enumeration of 11 lines.  The rhyme scheme is very present, but irregular and the sound palette rich indeed.  You need to read the whole poem before understanding what tone to adopt to read the title.  

The power of clothes: I provided the footnote given by this 15 year old poet about the Korean form Sijo.  People quite enjoyed the clever and fresh glimpses she shares of her life which lead to the larger universals of the power of appearances, choices of clothes dictated by circumstances.  We change our identities on the outside.  The last line puns on "skipping" -- both the playful child in us, but also the part of us that wants to "skip out" of the obligations those suits require.

Arabic:  Although she is not Arabian, she knows the culture and quotes the Arab saying, "Sad are only those who understand."  Lovely images of childhood in the first 13 lines.  An echo of "Those Winter Sundays", (Robert Hayden) "what did I know of love's austere and lonely offices."   Later, we hear a memory -- we don't know who the man is... perhaps one of those she lost... and the beautiful crux of the poem: how the bones of the language hold the beloved in our bodies.  Like clothes, we are different people with different languages.  

Tying the Knot:  Graeme summarizes: "Pure love poem" .  Beautifully laced metaphor of a cowboy rope and wedding vows.  Elaine was reminded of her own story of spelunking...

Indeed, this set of poems brought up so many personal memories. 

A good poem makes you glad to read it, because you want to thank the person for setting down the words... for letting you know you are not alone, because you too have had a similar feeling, no matter the details. 

  

"If up's the word..." ! + group picture from 1/25/2024

Names missing:  Jan (next to Ken, back row) and Elmer (between Dave and Judith, back row)

You will see our merry assemblage from 1/25/2024 here!  It is a large group and  yet the picture does not show EVERYBODY.  I was joking with Marna, that if everybody came at the same time we might have to arrange seating for 50 people!  Even if you are not in the picture, everyone to whom this message is sent has been a valuable "attendee" and welcome friend, whether just one time or on a regular basis.  As Richard put it, we need to thank the group!  I certainly do.  

In that spirit, I enclose the last poem (if up's the word;and a world grows greener)  in Cummings "95 poems" (1958, dedicated to his 3rd wife, Marion Morehouse). The Swinging rhythms and exhuberant "you & me and everyone-ness" seems appropriate for the group!

if up's the word;and a world grows greener

 minute by second and most by more—

 if death is the loser and life is the winner

(and beggars are rich but misers are poor)

—let's touch the sky:

                                    with a to and a fro 

(and a here there where) and away we go 

 

in even the laziest creature among us

a wisdom no knowledge can kill is astir—

 now dull eyes are keen and now keen eyes are keener

(for young is the year, for young is the year)

—let's touch the sky:

                                    with a great (and a gay

and a steep)deep rush through amazing day

 

it's brains without hearts have set saint against sinner;

put gain over gladness and joy under care--

let's do as an earth which can never do wrong does

(minute by second and most by more)

—let's touch the sky:

                                with a strange(and a true)

and a climbing fall into far near blue

 

if beggars are rich(and a robin will sing his

robin a song)but misers are poor--

let's love until noone could quite be(and young is

the year,dear)as living as i'm and as you're

—let's touch the sky:

                                    with a you and a me

and an every(who's any who's some)one who's we.

 

poems for Jan. 17-18

 A Prayer Of Thanksgiving  by Max Coots (1927-2009); Basilico by Sue Ann Gleason, They Ask If I’ve Seen the News by Rawi Farawi; They Arrive  by Richard Krawiec; The Soldier by David Ferry; Benediction  by Stanley Kunitz

As one person put it: Great poems! Friends compared to a growing garden, Soldier contemplating his mission in life, Horrifying news that gives us waves of uncertainty, dealing with a loved one with memory loss,  Benediction of the reality of life now and hereafter...

Paul shared at the end, the surprising coincidence of repetition of things in threes in many poems --

like  3 basilicos  in the Gleason, 3 "pens" in the Krawiec;   at least 3 mirrors... using both the Ferry and Kunitz and more.  

So... we opened with Reverend Coots, and closed with Kunitz' beautiful Benediction, which as Elmer pointed out ressembled the "Go Forth" of the ending charge of a church service.    

It would be fun to share with what vegetable quality you identify next session.  Judith mentioned Okra, not at all to be overrated with a delicious Indian recipe; Graeme picked the unpretentious cabbage, Elmer picked the Oyster and Maura brought up the advantages of the "garbage plate" approach in cleaning out the fridge and then sharing a feast with friends.  Vicki (Rundel) identified as a "cornucopia of brussel

Sprouts, sunflowers, and parsnips , with a sprinkle of generosity and love".      It would be wonderful to have such an uplifting pastoral message each week!  Elmer pointed out that parsnips can also be started in the root cellar, 3 weeks before planting in the Spring...  

Basilico: 

whether an elegy, or an experience with a loved one with Alzheimer's, an exquisit poem set in couplets, where space is give with enjambments between them, and a long space between the "permanent furrow// (line break)  of brow                                searching.  The navigating of empty space, the search for words (and memories) that won't  return, and then-- the scent of basil grounds the man and you feel the final word... his only tether.   We loved the "p's" of the only experience of pasta of the neighbors (perhaps they are Polish!) :  pillow-shaped pierogi .  We remarked how a poem like this, taking a small, ordinary detail, like basil in the garden becomes a pillar much larger to support not only memory, but perhaps hints of the immigrant experience, and Basilica as "a nave flanked by aisles and an apse", an architecture which Romans would have used for secular administrative functions, but which later is used for cathedrals.  Basil is also known as the most aristocratic of herbs, and associated with holy in India.

They Ask...  This poem's form, like a tower constructed playing jenga, cleverly addresses how we respond to the news, and the kinds of "stories" they are repeated.  The metaphorical "tower" reminds us of the famous tower of Babel... and stories, not just architectural layers, but published news towering ... 

breaking news.. Lots of repetition and noun-verb switches along with spaces -- even ne//ws is broken

by a line-break with no hyphen.  We had a sense the "wow", somewhat isolated after "top story" 

had sarcastic overtones.  "The view" is "below" the "would you look at".  Indeed, the "shape of news" is an interesting concept... we "mine" the news, report what is happening... but when we "watch the news" the poet says, "we watch like we have no idea what is."  We spoke about how we care less and less,

our attention is careless.  Bernie brought up semi-conductors -- the most complicated and fragile piece on which our modern world depends-- but so complex, only is made in Taiwan... One person felt the effect of the poem as a rudderless boat... the "never short//on materials// just breath" a creative way to describe the exhaustion factor of reading news.   Is the ending a serious plea-- would you look at the actual view

of our world?  Certainly there's a level of sadness even if the form is somewhat playful.  Those who play jenga know it is better to "push, not pull".   What is real... and can we regain perspective?

They arrive: this "poem", presented in a block prose form upset a few people as a disservice to what is happening in Gaza.  It got a discussion going about the insanity of wars. Judith brought up Samuel Butler (this gives a summary of his life: https://www.jstor.org/stable/25108902?seq=4)  Curious, if you google only Butler + insanity you will see a quote by Smedley Butler, about war being a racket, and this marvelous quote from Octavia Butler's novel: https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/9024746-the-war-was-an-insanity-he-had-never-understood-and  

Certainly we feel the powerlessness in the rather "not very subtle" repeated banging.  The p's of paper, open, pressure,  pen...pressed, powerless, etc.  the "almost choice" of escaping instead of flowing of ink. 

The Soldier:  brilliant poem.  A very different spider than the one in the haiku which ends the poem above. We weren't sure if the Swift's spider in question referred to the orange-legged Swift spider (corinnidae) who might use the web as a snare, but does not depend on it, or Jonathan Swift's spider... https://digitalcommons.colby.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=2556&context=cq regardless, soldier and spider both seem to hang by the thread of their guts.  The story told from the point of view of a different soldier writing a letter as if seeing himself mirrored by soldier, spider, adding metaphorical diving bell, where one lowers out of one's depth, and "unseeing guts" the only hold on the world outside.  

All of us were touched by the description of the young soldier readying himself to go out on pass, shining his boots, observing his own submissiveness in their mirror.  

I'm not sure it was about this poem above, or the one after that I wrote down, "What a terrible era in which idiots govern the blind" (Tragedy of Julius Caesar, Act. 2, Sc. 1) which Paul  shared at the end of the session.  

Benediction:  

We noted three kinds of fear:  shy, soft, tigrish... and the idea in many cultures of covering mirrors when someone dies... or only unveiling them when used.  The mirror in Greek myths... and how we need  psychic mirrors to help us examine what we might not otherwise see.  Without saying so, Kunitz implies much about how to live quietly, without imposing on others in this prayer for protection, for instance, "If you must weep// may God give you tears, but leave// you secrecy to grieve".  

"and islands for your pride" and the beautiful plume of the ending,  of the most vital part of being human, Love. 

 

discussion of poems Jan 10-11

 The New Year Makes a Request, by Abby Murray;  To the New Year, W.S. Merwin; Singularity by Marie Howe (https://vimeo.com/411239105 : This explains some of the background of the poem.  Sun-messenger by Lynn Xu.  The Buck in the Snow by Edna St. Vincent Millay.  Thus Spake the Mockingbird by Barbara Hamby; a few of the 10 Sloppy Haiku of Ordinary Life  by Bruce Cohen. (all 10 here : https://www.rattle.com/ten-sloppy-haiku-of-ordinary-life-by-bruce-cohen/  See other post about the "Only" response and two Norwegian poems. 

 Nutshell of discussion  

What do you think of with "New Year"?  The first two poems allow us to review possibilities. In Abby Murray's poem, she imagines the New Year as a person speaking back to us about all our greetings and wishes for peace which indeed, sound glib especially if attached to welcoming yet another stroke of time as our planet orbits around the sun. Comments:  Brave and surprising stance.  Her stanza breaks give us pause... ex:  like the act// of not killing each other really is// 

something we could have had// years ago if we needed it enough

Or, the new year's face withered as the leather of believing//

Perhaps we live in an era where there are so many festivals, celebrating "New Year" doesn't feel so special.  New starts are great, but resolutions?  And yet, the idea is that we are in charge of finding the peace within reach, inside of each of us... and it's up to us to put it into action.

This is quite different than Merwin's epistolary address. The beautiful opening line with the inverted syntax stresses stillness, a lovely "light stealing across the sky" feel.  Merwin's break before the second stanza, is not a new thought introduced, but rather stresses the "this is" as sound, and time/place.  Hope is given tribute as the invisible framework, both untouched and still (which resonates with stillness) possible.

Singularity: Please do listen to Marie Howe deliver her poem.  Rose-Marie spoke about hearing her in person in Maria Popova's Universe in Verse and how you could not hear a pin drop.  There are two versions to hear: https://vimeo.com/411239105   AND https://www.themarginalian.org/the-universe-in-verse/

In the discussion, we wondered if she was not adopting a manner of Stephen Hawking, and yet, she clearly expresses the limits of science-- it's not tests that tell us about grief.  She quotes Whitman (Song of Myself) For every atom belonging to me as good/belongs to you.  No... "them", no "I", "we", no was, no verb, no noun "before anything happened".  Only a tiny (tiny, tiny, tiny) dot brimming with  is, is, is, is...  As Mike put it, a really well done way of showing what is.  Poetry celebrates the realm of subliminal, pre-verbal, intuitive, ambiguous and paradoxical through language.  Her spacing and pauses allow us time to take in the message.

Sun Messenger: We were not sure what to make of this poem.  Who is the Sun-messenger?  Who is the speaker?  Is he/she depressed?  Is this a glimpse of a bad day?  If the only thing she could say about this poem, "I wrote it because someone told me to write a poem", what does that guide us towards understanding. If you have ever heard a snail eating... it is quite loud!  This book came up: https://www.amazon.com/Sound-Wild-Snail-Eating/dp/161620642X  And yet, there was something about the snail: its moving shroud, the thousand roadways as silver trees... life as criss-crossed golden light... just like a dream... but why does she want it to hurry past?

The Buck in the Snow:  Beautiful form to embrace beauty, the low O's of  snow, doe, go, slow.  The stark and dramatic solo line introducing the death of the buck with inverted syntax, its blood scalding the snow.   Death, of a buck in the snow... the hemlocks heavy with snow, shift, letting fall a feather of snow... life.  A sad poem, but so beautifully crafted. 

Thus  Spake.. Almost like a rap song, where one sound invites another, alliterations accumulate, and images galore.  As one person said, "that's an awful lot of pressure on one little bird!" Is it a political portrait of a former president?  Duodecimo sounds like  Generalissimo.  She embraces positive, negative, floods us with visual information and then the multiple "I am" repeated, biblical references, perhaps a slant reference "Thus Spake Zarathustra"...  (from wiki: it addresses the nature of values and how traditional religions lead to nihilsm.  Nietzsche proposes a morality that is creative and life-affirming.

Sloppy Haiku:  Calls English 3-liners imitating in our non-syllabic language the Japanese form properly!  Fun glimpses of the everyday. 

 

Happy 12th Night... + Poems for Jan. 10+11

 TS Eliot's marvelous poem https://poets.org/poem/journey-magi which begings: 

‘A cold coming we had of it,   
Just the worst time of the year 
For a journey, and such a long journey: 
The ways deep and the weather sharp, 
The very dead of winter.

For the "Only" challenge:  see Dec. 20: ( I added  Polly and  Paul's  suggestions,.)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D6Aw3ZnqQrY 

I added two poems from a collection of poems by 20 Norwegian Poets (Editor: T. Johanessen): '12' by Jan Erik Vold (NB: last line: you/know me?  Come on in." )and "Make Yourself no less" by Arnljot Eggen.

Poems:  The New Year Makes a Request, by Abby Murray;  To the New Year, W.S. Merwin; Singularity by Marie Howe (https://vimeo.com/411239105 : This explains some of the background of the poem.  Sun-messenger by Lynn Xu.  The Buck in the Snow by Edna St. Vincent Millay.  Thus Spake the Mockingbird by Barbara Hamby; a few of the 10 Sloppy Haiku of Ordinary Life  by Bruce Cohen. (all 10 here : https://www.rattle.com/ten-sloppy-haiku-of-ordinary-life-by-bruce-cohen/  his favorite quote is from a Wislawa Zymborska poem that reads, ‘I prefer the absurdity of writing poems to the absurdity of not writing poems.’

 I must thank many people for the selection of poems this week.  My MFA friend Abby Murray and Rattle Magazine; another friend who selected the WS Merwin Poem as a timely one for the beginning of a new year; Maria Popova for her blog and interview with Marie Howe.  Coincidentally, Rose-Marie sent the vimeo in preparation for the sharing in person of Jan. 10.  As for the Barbara Hamby poem, I was working with a poem prompt which led me to quote a line from Harper Lee's unforgettable novel  published in 1960 of a childhood in a sleepy Southern town and the crisis of conscience that rocked it. "'Remember it's a sin to kill a mockingbird.' That was the only time I ever heard Atticus say it was a sin to do something, and I asked Miss Maudie about it.  https://www.facinghistory.org/ideas-week/what-does-it-mean-kill-mockingbird

The prompt was to write a poem about your life using extended metaphor and some kind of rhyme scheme.  I include my attempt, as it addresses that theme of "singularity" and "is-ness" of life. 

Mockingbirds

 

If I asked you what is the one

song you admire the best,

I'd tell you it's the calls

of the mockingbirds.

 

They don't mock so much as take what's sung:

If I asked you which is the one

you remember best, you might be hard-pressed

to answer. Miss Maudie* said Their only job            *character in To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee

 is to sing out their hearts.  I say if you didn't

get close to see their feathers quiver as they sing,

if I asked you what is the one 

singing as it runs through a collection of trills,

 

chirps, cheeps, t'whits, really-really, hey-ho,

chidings and rachets, you might say the woods

are full of dozens of birds, not just one.  But,

if I asked you what is their one 

 

unique song? Why that's the marvel, 

they've taken them all. Isn't that how we are 

absorbing what we're given?  Trying out the parts,

 seeing how the world responds as we play them.

Unique song? Why, that's the marvel, 

this bird mimes for us the endless roles.  Each

unique song rolled into one, marvel done. 

---

[1] character in To Kill a Mockingbird. "'Remember it's a sin to kill a mockingbird.' That was the only time I ever heard Atticus say it was a sin to do something, and I asked Miss Maudie about it. 'Your father's right,' she said. 'Mockingbirds don't do one thing but make music for us to enjoy…but sing their hearts out for us. That's why it's a sin to kill a mockingbird."