At the Un-National Monument Along the Canadian Border by William Stafford ; Cuscatlán by Zoë Anglesey; Trust by Thomas R. Smith; Any Kind of Light by Beneth Goldschmidt-Sauer; Without Name by Pauli Murray; Yes by William Stafford; To The Stone-Cutters by Robinson Jeffers; The Virtue of Trusting One's Mind by Marcia Slatkin
Discussion:
Stafford: At the Un-National: We started by focussing on the unusual title and the negative impact of "un" which in fact reverses the negative implications of wars fought in "national interest" or the poignant but tragic implication of tombs for "unknown" soldiers. There is much "unspoken" about a field in which a battle did not happen, where a soldier did not die, and ground hallowed by neglect as opposed to the tributes to those who sacrificed their lives on "this hallowed ground". In the title, there is a sense of "cut the bullshit" as Graeme put it.
The quiet of birds, without sound, unfolding their wings is provides the background for peace, and that final paradoxical line of not needing to remember a place that is associated with battle. Many comments about battles of Saratoga, of 1812, of the Canadian border where a neighboring country sheltered many Americans who refused to be drafted in the Vietnam war.
I cannot do justice to the richness of discussion of this poem which reflects both Stafford's pacifism and his respect for nature, where harmony can breath. Here a small sampling : the unusual image of "grass joined hands" , the use of the adjective "hallowed". Earth and sky, and the final lines which rhyme "air so tame", and celebration of a different kind of burial, of war and all its un-named horrors. There was an anecdote of a grandfather speaking to a grandson about a battle... concluding, "I can't remember what the victory was about." Another anecdote ending with "you know how Americans are... " and the irony of nothing sacred only desecrated. Elaine picked up on the description of a peaceful place where one would want to be.
Cuscatlán: The title is the name of a place located in what is now El Salvador and if you look it up you find it means land of precious jewels. The poet, Zoë Anglesey traveled there, in 1968, understood the country, was a translator, poet and activist who died too young of cancer. see https://static1.squarespace.com/static/5a258a1e0abd04962c1cae34/t/5f84989c147e743111519c55/1602525342012/Zoe+Anglesey--E+edits--for+Ishmael+Reed.pdf
Taking the word in Spanish for chicken, the poet plays with associations, such as "smallfry country" and not "deep-fried chicken" but the way pollo and a peaceful country should be : unplucked and alive... The adjective "crated" applies to fresh eggs (which brought up a memory from Judith of watching uncrated eggs being carried on a bicycle in crazy traffic), but returns in the sound of crater and perhaps metaphorical implication of living on a "crater's edge", and delivery of a crate of bombs.
If you are going to throw eggs... put them into painter's tempera! The discussion noted the vibrant vitality of description from the crazy swerves of drivers through mud-washed, potholed streets, street vendors, and taste of tamales swaddled in banana leaves and secrets of the grandmothers who stew chicken.
I thank Jan for pointing out that to her the "flying truck" was one going way to fast, out of control, as opposed to my initial understanding of an airplane.
One person pointed out how beautifully the poem captured a sense of life going on, where one tiny snapshot of a moment shows the immensity of "everything".
Trust: I immediately enjoyed the reversal of "for a yes or a no" starting with the second line...and following Stafford's use of negative"Un-national", the "theft that could have happened but didn't..." and in the second stanza the description which would lead you to think nothing could possibly work out, and yet, everything indeed "shows up at the intended destination", like the wind "getting to where it was going" and the river, even when frozen. As Richard noted, whatever the "right place" is, "right" can change. The final couplet is a refreshing reminder of how "faithfully life is delivered". I can't think of a better thing to trust!
Any Kind of Light: This is not an easy poem to grasp. The title re-appears, re-arranged sliding off an enjambment from second to third stanza: into light, any kind. Whose voice is "your voice" in the opening? What implication of the words spoken, repeated at the end by the lamp? Three times, "you" implied, three times "dead", written in three different ways.
There is almost something cinematographic "Watch what happens now", but also surreal. This enhances the impact of the question in the third stanza: Why don't they stop? Stop. How to read that second "Stop."?
The layered use of repetition, and overriding metaphor given in the note about moths drawn to light perhaps does not need the note from the poet about "indictment of damage we have done to our planet, or relationships". Some picked up on violence, implied domestic abuse; Judith brought up the use of "Okay" as slang : does it interfere with the tone of the poem? Is it acceptance? Re-definition? Something is clearly not "Okay". And cannot stop. That "suck of incandescent night" even sounds like a monstrous swallowing up.
Without Name: Again, negatives well-used. Little pockets of inarticulate, wayward wandering. Although Frost considered poetry as a tool as a means to "momentary stays again confusion" the ending line of the first stanza summarizes a frightening unsettledness. The final three lines indeed reassure If language is muted, love not named but only shown in images, this amplifies it, as Major says in the note, "love and desire echo into a future without end."
Yes: It is special to hear that someone actually heard and saw Stafford reading this poem as it corroborates its "realness"! Yes is only 3 stanzas. The note below references his writing reflecting a similar thinking. Although I couldn't find when he wrote "Yes", it is very much the kind of thinking of Paul Celan, during the Holocaust in a concentration camp, writing about the beautiful. The "bonus" of possibilities if you just take one moment at a time of whatever is. It could be the absolute worst thing... and no, there are no guarantees, nor need for proof of anything. We were reminded of "Trust".
To the Stone Cutters: This poem reminded Polly of watching stone cutters in Italy working on the roads, cutting pieces so pavement fit perfectly. Carolyn brought up calligraphy, and how Roman Letters were originally only Majuscule. For the complete transcription of the comment from the "Slow Down" https://www.slowdownshow.org/episode/2024/01/23/1047-to-the-stonecutters. The Morgan in question is one of the listeners of this broadcast.
We had many takes on the poem, including the cutting of tombstones, carved words. There are two kinds of marble, words cut into the cheaper "soft" marble will not last and become indecipherable. Those carved into "hard" marble will remain. The "honey of peace" in old poems brings us full circle to how we remember, what is created in a monument. Polly brought up Virginia Elson. I did find this poem. https://cdn.theatlantic.com/media/archives/1983/10/252-4/132591815.pdf
Judith brought up the marble beauty of the Taj Mahal, and how one gazes at it in wonderment and discussion included also commentary from Mary McCarthy: from her 1959 "Stones of Florence" -- "Even the pictures in the Uffizi had grown ugly from looking at the people who looked at them." https://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2006/oct/07/art.art
The Virtue of trusting one's mind: I confess... I added on the last two stanzas~ I was intrigued by Slatkin's poem... not quite sure what the title had to do with the goats. We did have many comments about these animals... attempts to compare the quieter, more stubborn insistence goats might have to temper tantrums of children. What does this have to do with trusting your mind?
Polly brought up the idea of prayer. Before bed, like the goats, you fold your legs by your bedside and recite "Now I lay me down to sleep".
Judith brought up the Bicameral mind and Kipling's poem about two sides to his head!
The Two-sided Man
Much I owe to the Lands that grew - More to the Lives that fed - But most to Allah Who gave me two Separate sides to my head. Much I reflect on the Good and True In the Faiths beneath the sun, But most upon Allah who gave me two Sides to my head not one. Wesley’s following, Calvin’s flock, White or yellow or bronze, Shaman, Ju-ju or Angekok, Minister, Mukamuk, Bonze - Here is a health, my brothers, to you, However your prayers are said, And praised be Allah Who gave me two Separate sides to my head ! I would go without shirt or shoe, Friend, tobacco or bread, Sooner than lose for a minute the two Separate sides of my head
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