Poems:
Planet Earth by PK Page; Lullaby by Lena Khalaf Tuffaha; Manhattan is a Lenape Word by Nathalie Diaz; Body's Ken by Simon West; Solace by Kim Addonizio
sent with March 6-7 poems:
- two translations Neruda's Poem "In Praise of Ironing" which triggers the glosa by PK Page.
- link (and time) to the Nathalie Diaz poem. More notes about her in this week's selection.
- link to Japanese "crows and trees" (art and poems)
- the Breton Fisherman's Prayer by Winfred Garrison referred to in Lullaby
**
Nutshell:
Planet Earth: A glosa is a Spanish form from the 15th century where a borrowed excerpt of 4 lines from another writer is taken, called "the cabeza" or head is followed by usually 4 ten-line stanzas each with 10 syllables per line. In Page's poem, there are only 34 lines and no stanza breaks, however, she weaves in each of the 4 lines taken from Pablo Neruda's Ode,
"In Praise of Ironing" (translated by Alistair Reid.)
We remarked on the highly sensual quality of the poem, especially touch. Many many anecdotes and memories were shared about laundry drying outdoors. If you didn't know that "goffered" means to "crimp the lace edges of a garment" -- or also emboss a book with a repeated design, this is yet one more type of "ironing. Judith gave us a lesson about starch and it's clean odor.
Alla remarked on the metaphorical "warp and woof" which supports a highly intimate knowledge of the weaving that goes into muslin, which of course is underscored by the hands "caressing" or the "coaxing" of a lover.
Apologies. O was missing on the 9th line.
Polly added a humorous note about taking the poem literally, as moss does not stand cleansing!
Lullaby: The repeated opening line, although using the lulling of repetition, says the opposite. As poet XJ Kennedy remarks, "tone makes an attitude clear. The effect of poetry on us, lies in our emotional response." Certainly, there is an unsettling of "cradle-fallen", razor-edged waves; upturned fish, trenches of our silence. What brings us to shore, grounds us, is in the final stanza, devoid of this repeated phrase, "We cannot carry you" . It is our desire for things smaller than we know; a strong vessel to lift our children to tomorrow, a pair of small shows pressing into the sand. As the note about the poem by Naomi Shihab Nye says, "Remembrance, identification are timeless gifts of poetry." People remarked that the title allowed coherence and we appreciated how the poem carries and intimates much more than the words we read.
Manhattan is a Lenape Word: Lest we forget... The use of an actual car siren, the ancient Greek Siren song and the voice of a Siren in the poem combine to make us think about what was on land before it was colonized, before we began to construct the modern cities of steel and glass. "Where have all the natives gone" reminded us of Pete Seeger, "Where have all the flowers gone". Judith remarked on the mica that makes Manhattan's sidewalks glitter... and the very special light particular to it.
We spoke of injustice to Indigenous people. Paul remarked on the repetition of bees.
Body's Ken: The Scottish "Ken" or knowing. This poem appeared in the Slowdown and is from a contemporary volume, Prickly Moses: Poems by Simon West.
There is something old world-ish, magical in the sound, in the repeated "so", which can be both a narrative quality that allows a story to unfold, carry forward as it continues, but also, a sense of "so it is the nature...)
We saw a little laundry repeat from the first poem in the "crease of things" .
Solace: apologies again. Yes, there was a period after the final word. Interesting progression from "pine tree, crows" after a statement about art, "which sometimes can enter/through a sliver" to "split tree, crow's cry tore". Nice use of using the noun "trellis", something normally stationary, as a verb. The long O sounds resound, and indeed, if the coat thin, a torn pocket all that is left of love, there is something consolatory about the sound of a blue canto, the sight of a split tree when solo and the ear
"found an oar" and I rowed.
even hear thresholds, as when a jazz quartet plays a suspended moment of held notes before the soloist improvises away from the opening melody and into a freedom of sound.
This is where realms of existence are palpably felt, where physical and spiritual worlds meet. Recently, upon landing in Ireland, I took a spontaneous drive to Newgrange, a 5,000-year-old tomb of mysterious power. The Celts refer to such thresholds as “thin places.” The Bakongo people call it the Kalûnga line, a watery boundary between the spiritual and the living.
Thresholds are fundamentally lyrical. Important transitions in my life prove as much. Whenever I am faced with life-altering decisions, I hold the past alongside the uncertainty of the future. That tension powers both ambiguities and revelations. Poets thrive in that energy between knowing and not knowing. They attempt to convey a sense of awakening by marking language and their experiences and thoughts as memorable, as sacred, while honoring the conditions that urged them into song.
Today’s poem spotlights the rich space where language fuses and ushers in the prospect of a new relationship between objects and lived experiences. even hear thresholds, as when a jazz quartet plays a suspended moment of held notes before the soloist improvises away from the opening melody and into a freedom of sound.
This is where realms of existence are palpably felt, where physical and spiritual worlds meet. Recently, upon landing in Ireland, I took a spontaneous drive to Newgrange, a 5,000-year-old tomb of mysterious power. The Celts refer to such thresholds as “thin places.” The Bakongo people call it the Kalûnga line, a watery boundary between the spiritual and the living.
Thresholds are fundamentally lyrical. Important transitions in my life prove as much. Whenever I am faced with life-altering decisions, I hold the past alongside the uncertainty of the future. That tension powers both ambiguities and revelations. Poets thrive in that energy between knowing and not knowing. They attempt to convey a sense of awakening by marking language and their experiences and thoughts as memorable, as sacred, while honoring the conditions that urged them into song.
Today’s poem spotlights the rich space where language fuses and ushers in the prospect of a new relationship between objects and lived experiences.
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