Poems for Oct. 30

 

The Weighing by Jane Hirshfield; Fleas interest me so much by Pablo Neruda; Walking In An Old Forest With Our Young Son On My Back, I See The Fates Of My Friends In Every Tree by Kim Stafford; Before the Rains Had Come  by Kim Stafford; From “The Windy City”  by  Carl Sandburg; Thunderstorm in Dorset, Vermont by John Updike; Virginia, Autumn  by Molly McCully Brown; Calculations  by Brenda Cárdenas

The Hirschfield poem came from a long line-up of suggestions from Maria Popova's blog: https://www.themarginalian.org/2024/10/22/marginalian-18/

The American Academy posted several poems from the archives under this rubric:  "A place of quiet, and journey that is a kind of returning to love.  Isn't it wonderful that there are SO many poems to choose from!

The White-headed Woodpecker  by Sean Hill

The Flight of the Crows by Emily Pauline Johnson 

Drowning Creek by Ada Limon : (Ending lines: There is a solitude in this world/ I cannot pierce. I would die for it. 

I was tempted to choose Ada Limon's poem because of our discussion of White Towels, Solitude and Loneliness... but preferred Polly's share of Neruda's Fleas!.

 

Nutshell of discussion. 

 

The Weighing:  The title already is "weighted" with a freight of possibilities:  to weigh evidence or a decision in one's mind, or the actual physical use of weights and measures, whether noun or verb, even the sound of weighing with its silent letters seems to breath a sense of ambiguity which we discussed.  The opening line immediately triggered the line from French Philosopher/Mathematician, Blaise Pascal (1623-62) which addresses the intuitive, emotional side of understanding that needs to be balanced with reason:  "The heart has reasons which reason cannot know".  Curious that "Pascal" is also a unit of measure and other meanings in our 21st century world. We discussed the paradoxical 2nd stanza with the mention the forgiveness of the eland which brought up the question of when one meets death willingly, realizing it is time to let go. The last stanza evoked the stories of courageous people meeting difficult circumstances, but  could apply to fighting for civil rights and in spite of prison, or any cause against  impossible odds, still acting on an intuitive passion connected to something larger than sacrifice or one's fate.  Knowing that Hirshfield is "science-savvy" as well as Buddhist, made us suspect the poem aims to address what lies beyond the visible as neither good nor bad, but rather the nature of the larger cosmic mix.  She blends beautifully this sense of the larger scale with the personal.  The penultimate stanza is a powerful reminder that revives hope without resorting to wishful thinking.  The poem sets it up in measured truth. 

 

Fleas interest me: A wonderful demonstration of how to address something irritating with craft and humor, calling on actual observation.

We all enjoyed the line "someone should introduce them to me", which allows a step away from oneself and  which also made us think perhaps the fleas are a metaphor for human beings with the ironic implication that indeed, we might not know ourselves as well as we think!

 

Two Kim Stafford poems: The first with the "show-off title" that is longer than its lines provoked criticism, a common response to ambiguity and wanting a message delivered with more clarity.  However, it also provoked a good discussion about what it's like to be the son of a famous poet, perhaps passing on to his son what he has learned.  The second poem, Before the Rains has an intriguing title which could imply perhaps something as Biblical as Noah's flood, or metaphorical deluge, especially since it uses the past tense.  We had fun making fun of the "Design Committee" and how sea water with its salt is probably not going to be terribly helpful to the desert.  Who is the doorman?  Is the mystery of mist perhaps understanding that when sea water evaporates, the salt is left behind?  Why a dream?  Enjoyable alliterations in the second stanza.  The short i's and sibilance in whisper, mist,  contrast nicely with the rolling l's (hall/pull/child/all) and the long I in child,

with an answer the long-I'd desIgn committee with their pIpes would disregard. 

Does the doorman burst his daughter's bubble?  It's a lovely parable that hints at the wisdom that comes out of the mouths of babes.

 

Windy City : we all were seduced by the sounds, the rhythms, colors and  the rich layering of history, of climate, in this portrait of Chicago, but also the feel of the wind, in each season how it can pull at our coats and whip our hair.  For sure, we'll need to share more Sandburg.  (We don't need the Louis Rubin Jr.s of the world to tell us what a wonderful artist he is, but I couldn't resist including that note that the Academy attached to their excerpt of this poem!)

It inspired Neil to share two stories and Little Orphant Annie!

https://poets.org/poem/little-orphant-annie

 

Thunderstorm: I love that the first word of the poem is "It"... without requiring any idea of what "it" is... circumstances, the weather, general conditions.  It launches us into the personality of a thunderstorm, its power and effects.  We thought the "concussions" of the 2nd stanza could be "percussions".  The relief of the exit followed by the personnification of rain and leaves softly unfurling and leaves limply steeping themselves in green is masterful.  I return to the Hirschfield thinking... no matter the storm, the potential damage, "still the scales balance."

 

Virginia:  This multifaceted poem has a reference to the  season of Fall and all that falls: the effect of the poet's own cerebral palsy, birds, men fallen in the civil war . It finishes with turning to the sun and the rather enigmatic line, "What we love is rarely blameless."  Her play on the sun "catching" in the changing trees emphasizes a sense of hope brought by the light. 

Calculations: This bilingual poem allows the clever juxtaposition of the role of a teacher and a parent on a child who comes from a different linguistic and cultural community.  The Spanish calls on the Mayan culture and their intricate knowledge of mathematical calculations and use of zero.  The teacher inadvertently suggests reinforcing the fact that "story time" also is a way to hang on to truth even if the stories keep changing.  Jim brought up that Quetzal birds would rather die than be captured.  Although this is not brought up in the poem, it is interesting.  Teacher: she's stuck at "Ground Zero" .. Is it the mother's response that zero is a velvet swoop into dream? or is this the poet who is overhearing this parent-teacher conference?

Polly brought up Virginia Elson's comment that all zeros should be treated as numbers.  I found these articles interesting too. https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/what-is-the-origin-of-zer/

https://www.cbc.ca/radio/ideas/zero-number-series-ideas-cbc-1.6977700

Maura adds how hearing Eddie and Claudia talk about their experiences as immigrants made her grateful for  the gift of deeper understanding about all the nuances of the impacts on young children as they navigate between the circle of their families and a whole new culture. Our culture is enriched by them.

Extra: poem by Bob Hicok published by Rattle Magazine. sent out 10/27

 This just arrived in my inbox 30 minutes ago.   I am not sure if it will have the same impact in the line-up we will discuss on  November 6.

Try to be the best human being you can be in this remaining time before the elections.

I am thanking Bob Hicok in my heart and Timothy Green, (tim@rattle.com) editor of Rattle for sending this timely piece.

All good wishes,

Kitty

Paul's response:

 Lotta words well executed ( except for a few grammatical errors) but like so much blarney, no solutions offered. Actors spend their lives speaking words written by much greater minds. They live for limelight, perhaps jealous of politicians taking their glory. ( PERHAPS..K. Jospe)  And, I suppose, half the readers of a poet's works agree with the content, if it is meant to exhibit a point of view.

     For moi, a wide eyed cow vs. a bull in a china shop: what could go wrong?

Begin forwarded message:

From: Daily Rattle <tim@rattle.com>

Subject: “A Poet’s Response to an Actor’s Assessment …” by Bob Hicok

Date: October 27, 2024 at 6:30:23 AM EDT

To: kjospe@gmail.com

Reply-To: tim@rattle.com

October 27, 2024 Bob Hicok A POET’S RESPONSE TO AN ACTOR’S ASSESSMENT OF A POLITICIAN’S INTELLIGENCE, UNDERTAKEN IN THE SPIRIT OF THE BELIEF THAT WE’RE ALL BOZOS ON THIS BUS I’m dumber than a Phillips head screwdriver or on-ramp or speculum or rain and every diacritical you can think of, critically or not, can do something I can’t, I believe in the wisdom of matter, that every form it takes is a species of intelligence, an embodiment of knowledge, so to call a candidate for president as dumb as a fencepost or as dumb as a combover or as dumb as a three-legged stool on the side of the road looking as if it wants to cry, is like chiding the ocean because it does a shitty Watusi or making fun of a puppy who barks at its own hiccups, there’s a video of this, probably more than one, and yes it’s kind of stupid but that puppy could sniff out cancer or cocaine better than you, and wag more fulsomely and literally than you, and a fence post does an honest day’s work every day of its life if given the chance, so if you must try to insult someone running for president, it’s better to call them as dumb as someone who thinks calling someone dumb is still in style after third grade, and what if that person is rubber and you are glue, what then, dumbass, are we to make of democracy in 2024, if insults are the currency of debate, if love isn’t at the core of the endeavor, love of our shared stupidity, cupidity, humidity, our common state of befuddlement over where this is all headed and how best to get where we don’t know we’re going, we need a president who isn’t afraid to shrug, who gets that ten people putting ten heads together still leaves us with what experts refer to as half a brain, please, god, enough of the solo swagger, the hero pose, I want a president who puts the everyone in team, who believes that people are our best chance to be human, to maybe, possibly, one day figure out what that even means.   —from Poets Respond Bob Hicok: “This is a poet’s response to an actor’s assessment of a politician’s intelligence.”

October 23

 White Towels, by Richard Jones; To You, by Kenneth Koch;  (suggested by Graeme)*; A Violet Darkness  by Najwan Darwish; In Trackless Woods  by Richard Wilbur; Haiku by Almila Dükel as an ekphrastic response to a picture in Rattle magazine; Erasers  by Mary Jo Salter; From a Country Overlooked  by Tom Hennen; Joy  by Lisel Mueller* other wonderful picks he suggested: Through the Window of the All-Night Restaurant by Nicholas Christopher; The Old Liberators  by Robert Hedin; Sentimental Moment or Why Did the Baguette Cross the Road? by Robert Hershon;  I also had on my "maybe" list  Missing the Boat by Naomi Shihab Nye (discussed in October 2012!)  

What Joy indeed, to return to O Pen, and be there in person after 7 weeks of absence.  Choosing poems is never a quick decision, but rather a perusal of a collection of poems gathered daily, each month, where one poem suggests another.  This morning reading Maria Popova's blog, https://www.themarginalian.org/2024/10/22/marginalian-18/

I admired how in a way, I emulate her "Marginalian" but make it a living, weekly forum, where I am merely the facilitator of discussion, which enriches the depth and breadth of each poem chosen.  Nothing happens alone. 

 In White Towels,  the fact that the poet, Richard Jones shares that he has been studying the difference "between solitude and loneliness" allowed a host of commentary from those present:Solitude:  a choice, often made because one is comfortable with oneself,  whereas loneliness is involuntary, not something you seek, but rather try to avoid, as it often emphasizing a hurt within. 

How skillfully he links this "study" to the story of his life... and then on to telling it to the towels... which then become likened to his children asleep in his arms.

One person offered the reflection on the use of the subjunctive "as if they were" that this reflects a sense of aloneness, perhaps he had no children, or if he did, they have left. The fact of laundering white towels is in his control, sharing his story with them a solitary act not involving others. 

After half an hour, it was clear that much more was packed into the weave of these 7 lines and all 23 present could have continued with the discussion.

I am so grateful to Graeme for sharing this poem, which takes a simple idea of "telling the story of my life/to the clean white towels taken warm from the dryer.   The shortest line is the 3rd, "telling the story of my life" — followed by the longest line where the towels become the recipients who safeguard it.  They are  clean, and warm as well as white — able to handle (perhaps make peace with, or forgive?) any messiness involved, as white is not an easy given  for a towel given its function. 

For those who prefer to take in the entire gestalt of a poem, and respond to that emotionally, this is that kind of poem, with a tremendous flow of feelings which does not require such parsing to feel its truth and beauty.

 

To You  by Kenneth Koch:  another poem shared by Graeme.  Which "you" it is, seems to be a non-identified lover, but as pronoun, you is delightfully ambiguous, and as title, invites each "you" of a reader.  It could also be the understood you, the singular or plural you, or even the reflection of oneself.  The poem rolls with unlikely metaphors, circling around the you, rather like the feeling of falling in love when indeed one can feel "crazier than shirttails".  If you are not convinced of the truth of the fundamental importance of love, the 7th and 8th lines leave

the walnut, the vision of a head connected by a neck to shoulders and red roof of a heart and speak an indisputable truth: what solves the unsolved mysteries is love.  We live because we love.  And the poem rolls on... perhaps the Kid is a baby goat searching for its mother, or a child; it doesn't matter where the trustworthy sidewalk leads, which port of call one starts the voyage or finishes.  The penultimate line mentions the sun -- perhaps symbol of enlightenment, but also the source of life, always with us, even when we are asleep.  

Best of all the final enigmatic line   the sun/ "receives me in the questions which you (specific, or understood) always pose."  

A Violet Darkness:  to hear the poem in English and in Arabic: https://soundcloud.com/poets-org/najwan-darwish-translated-by-kareem-james-abu-zeid-a-violet-darkness-1?utm_source=poets.org&utm_campaign=wtshare&utm_medium=widget&utm_content=https%253A%252F%252Fsoundcloud.com%252Fpoets-org%252Fnajwan-darwish-translated-by-kareem-james-abu-zeid-a-violet-darkness-1

This is a poem where indeed, the poem shapes our breathing... allows us to enter seas of consciousness that become part of spontaneous energy of life.  We understand,  "Love was time" -- as a universal, which we think is beyond time, as if love could carry time to timelessness, but all splinters and cracks... myths, love, and all that are ghosts.

Violet is a special color, in between blood red on one end of the color spectrum, and the purple on the other, that leads to  darkness. Existence, as the translator says in the note, "within a liminal space between life and death."

In Trackless Woods:  Wilbur's use of rhyme, his playful extension of the 9th line of this sonnet, use of mathematical vocabulary, does not deter him from a good reading of the landscape, a sense of place.  He notes the tracks/traces of people, only to gently surprise us by "tramping on" beyond the "stiff geometries" to patterns of hornbeam  and the wondrous spirals pinecones.  We agreed on the enjoyable aspect of this poem,  in a way, reflecting the same contrast between "solitude" and "loneliness" of the opening poem.

Haiku by Almila Dükel: We asked... what makes it a Haiku without following the syllable count?  This has been asked for a long time.  The usual answer is that because English is a non-syllabic language,  one needs to respect the "spirit" of a haiku:  two images, not necessarily related, and then the spark that jumps between them when you read the poem.  Dükel does this beautifully.  She lives in Turkey and writes Haibun as well as haiku.

Erasers: Several present raised their hands about attending a religious-affiliated school, and many more raised their hands about remembering the clapping of erasers.  What is lovely about this poem, as one person put it, "it makes us laugh, but then it gets bigger".  Indeed, who and what is "erased"?  The enjambed stanzas with occasional end rhymes (chalk/talk... boys/noise), the personnification of chalk snow, powdering the eraser's noses and unrecorded word-clouds forgetting themselves, go along with good story telling of an older father up to the last line of the penultimate stanza: though all the lessons,/most of the names (he doesn't spell line and stanza break providing an empty white space this out) ... now are dust.

From a Country Overlooked:  Kathy brought in the book of collected verse this poem comes from:  Darkness sticks to Everything, published  thanks to Ted Kooser and a few other Minnesota poets, who insisted Tom Hennen be known.  Clearly he knows nature, and shares  sensitive observations.  Polly decided she would quarrel with the first line.  There are indeed some creatures you cannot love.  She picked on Fleas and provided two delightful poems:

one by Terry Hoffman,** the other by  Pablo Neruda entitled Fleas.  This brought up other beasts one might not love, such as ear ticks, cockroaches, and Maura's anecdote about the rescue of a mouse Richard wondered perhaps if it was the same one in his pantry.  All good to have laughs. ** https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/fleas_-_with_apologies_to_joyce_kilmer_818942

Back to Hennen, we were carried with him, as "the day is carried across its hours".  The "You are", repeated, unlike the Kenneth Koch poem seemed to be an understood "you".  

Fleas - With Apologies To Joyce Kilmer

I think that I shall never see a beast as loathsome as a flea. A flea whose hungry mouth consumes all the blood that it exhumes. A flea that gets into my hair and makes me scratch 'til I am bare. A flea that makes me itch all day and irritates in every way. Upon whose head curses we rain; whose biting we have scratched in vain. Poems are made by fools like me, but God should not have made the flea.

Joy: One of my favorite poems about this "nameless opposite of despair" referred to as "it" until sung twice.  Read the poem, you'll see the magic and feel it inside.  

.

October 16

 Graeme kindly offered to MC!  Poems: Otherwise by Jane Kenyon; Mending Wall  by Robert Frost;  Once the world was perfect  by Joy Harjo;  A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning  by John Donne; Did I Miss Anything  by Tom Wayman

I love Graeme's criteria for what he LIKES in a poem:

Clear

Precise

Strong

Brief, even terse

Tells a story

Accessible—most people can understand it

Substance over style

Unpretentious

Elegant

Emotionally arousing

Feelings not just facts

Powerful imagery

Defined or implied audience

Sense that the poet has a purpose

 

 

and also what he DOESN'T Like

Preachy

Taking an easy, popular position—sucking up

Birds, bees, clouds, and flowers

Ugly words or construction

Too long—a page is plenty

Foreign words or expressions that most people wouldn't know

Insensitivity to rhyme and rhythm

Pretentious formatting or construction

Snobbishness

Superiority or contempt

Needless vulgarity

Style over substance

October 9 -- a note on Poem a Day in October + Bernie's supplement for Oct. 9

 Bernie kindly offered to MC

Please Call Me by My True Names – Thich Nhat Hanh;*; Junk  by Richard Wilbur; Empty Words  by Taha Muhammad Ali; Refrigerator, 1957 by Thomas Lux; Acceptance by Robert Frost

   We had discussed earlier in the summer Interrelationship – poem by Thich Nhat Hanh

Just a note about "Poem a Day" -- I won't be selecting poems from them to share -- as I wanted to pre-select poems for my 7 week time away.  Perhaps Oct. 30, I can dedicate the 4 pages to poems presented.   The American Academy says this:

Each morning of this month of October, Poem-a-Day readers around the world will open their inboxes to poetry curated by Sarah Gambito, our Guest Editor for October. Gambito is a poet in her own right, known for including elements like recipes and menus in her work, particularly in her latest collection Loves You. This month she offers you, our readers, a delightful palette of autumnal readings from poets who may be new to you as well as some who are undoubtedly well-known.

Here at the Academy, we often talk about Poem-a-Day less as a literary magazine and more as a public poetry project: what does it look like to publish poetry in the town square? What does it mean to ask readers to give their attention to a single poem? Along those same lines of thought, in her interview about her curation and work, Gambito asks “How can we hold shelter for one another?,” a question, I think, the best poetry always asks us.

Bernie sent this information out as supplement:

This explanation of Tom Lux's poem Refrigerator: https://onbeing.org/programs/thomas-lux-refrigerator-1957/#transcript Also gives some background of this poet. I particularly like this interview because it starts with my Mentor, Ellen Bass, who during covid, would read poems aloud and memorize them with her wife, Janet -- and they picked this one.  

The gift of a poet to give panache to something most people consider ordinary is part of the goal of a good poem.  I love how Lux puts it:  That he "tries to make the reader laugh and then steal that laugh right out of the poem by the throat.  In Refrigerator, there are lessons and Padraig emphasises what this romp with a cherry provides:  :"you do not eat that which rips the heart with joy.  "  How many ways can you understand THAT? 

Another Tom Lux Poem: Tarantulas on the Life Buoy: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/48483/tarantulas-on-the-lifebuoy

https://onbeing.org/programs/thomas-lux-refrigerator-1957/#transcript

Another Taha Muhammad Ali poem, Exodus, also from his 2006 book So What, which I highly recommend. (see below).  In Exodus "the Palestinian poet Taha Muhammad Ali traces the hollow rhythms of a town being emptied of its people. The poem is a meditation on another painful chapter in the ongoing Nakba — the 1982 massacre of thousands of Palestinian refugees and Lebanese civilians by Israeli-backed militia in Beirut."

Bernie shares his talent and quotes Paul in Descartes’ Minor Error 

            (je pense, donc je suis - R. Descartes, 1637

            You shouldn’t believe everything you think - P. Brennan, 2016)

and a poetry quiz!

Who can guess who wrote : I Wanted to Share my Father’s World and The County Boss Explains How It Is

Exodus

The street is empty
as a monk’s memory,
and faces explode in the flames
like acorns—
and the dead crowd the horizon
and doorways.
No vein can bleed
more than it already has,
no scream will rise
higher than it’s already risen.
We will not leave!

Everyone outside is waiting
for the trucks and the cars
loaded with honey and hostages.
We will not leave!
The shields of light are breaking apart
before the rout and the siege;
outside, everyone wants us to leave.
But we will not leave!

Ivory white brides
behind their veils
slowly walk in captivity’s glare, waiting,
and everyone outside wants us to leave,
but we will not leave!

The big guns pound the jujube groves,
destroying the dreams of the violets,
extinguishing bread, killing the salt,
unleashing thirst
and parching lips and souls.
And everyone outside is saying:
“What are we waiting for?
Warmth we’re denied,
the air itself has been seized!
Why aren’t we leaving?”
Masks fill the pulpits and brothels,
the places of ablution.
Masks cross-eyed with utter amazement;
they do not believe what is now so clear,
and fall, astonished,
writhing like worms, or tongues.
We will not leave!

Are we in the inside only to leave?
Leaving is just for the masks,
for pulpits and conventions.
Leaving is just
for the siege-that-comes-from-within,
the siege that comes from the Bedouin’s loins,
the siege of the brethren
tarnished by the taste of the blade
and the stink of crows.
We will not leave!

Outside they’re blocking the exits
and offering their blessings to the impostor,
praying, petitioning
Almighty God for our deaths.

From: So What

**

Bernie also shares this: " I looked a bit more closely at a book recommendation Elaine Olson had passed me a few weeks ago titled An Immense World: How Animal Senses Reveal the Hidden Realms Around Us -Ed Yong. I wondered if it might shed some light for anyone interested in the question of Frost's (in "Acceptance") imagining birds' words or thoughts, versus anthropomorphizing them. Or at least leaven the discussion with a little scientific fact.

I haven't read it yet but I did read this segment of a book review: 

"One touchstone is of course Thomas Nagel’s famous 1974 essay but the lodestar of this book is a concept defined in 1909 by the Estonian-German zoologist Jakob von Uexküll: that of an animal’s “Umwelt” (literally translated its “environment”). Whereas the previously reviewed Sentient introduced this concept belatedly in its epilogue, Yong sensibly opens with it and offers a crisp definition: every animal “is enclosed within its own unique sensory bubble, perceiving but a tiny sliver of an immense world” (p. 5)."

I expect he goes into it a bit more deeply as the book goes on...