Poems for Aug. 21

Many Winters, 1974  by Nancy Wood (1936 –2013)  https://nancywood.com a special poem Polly wanted to share;  poems by MJ Iuppa . Howden Pond, 2021; Fighting Death; Strandhill Beach in May (Sligo); 

  Poems from Sometimes Simply (small chapbook): Sometimes; Chrysalis; The Gift; Simply; You might want to explore http://mjiuppa.blogspot.com/

We didn't get to all the poems from As the Crow Flies: (Over)look; (Over)heard;  Triolet on the Adage 'As the Crow Flies'; “Things Are Not Always What They Seem”;  but did end on Pablo Neruda's Sonnet 17 (from One Hundred Love Sonnets: XVII)

Paul started us off with a bit of witty humor from Yeats, teasing his friend wishing some praise: 

You say, as I have often given tongue
In praise of what another's said or sung,
'Twere politic to do the like by these;
But was there ever dog that praised his fleas?

Nutshell:

Nancy Wood:  Polly explained this poet had other poems that intrigued her, but the one selected was the one that showed up on line.  Richard was curious about how poems work with line breaks -- a quite valid question for "free verse" which generated a long discussion about the relation between visual impact, how to read a poem to deliver outloud.  Many people shared the intuitive process they follow by writing, vs. following any rules. Many related to Paul's mention that  he could feel so pleased with something he'd written, then two weeks later wonder that he could have found merit in it. 

There exist implied rules about a small (intuitive) pause after a line break vs. reading a poem without any pause to deliver an entire thought.  Judith called on the oral tradition of poetry, in days when it was not written down, but memorized and handed down by word of mouth.  She also mentioned a book by Dame Judy Dench, Shakespeare: The Man Who Pays the Rent  where the actress explains English is such that serious messages are best delivered in iambic pentameter, and end stops are "theatrical instructions on delivery" as to how to recite them.  (The book is new and several copies are in the library system.) 

Some participants referred directly to the poem, the pleasure of the repetitions which are emphasized by the visual set up and the subtle change of the final "Hold on to" where "what" is replaced by "life" and followed on the same line by "even when" (instead of dropping to the next line to deliver 4 words, "even if it is") and the speaker of the poem enters.  For some, it felt like a conversation with a child, giving parting words of advice, for others, the voice of someone dying speaking to a loved one.  

It confirmed the fact that each individual will find rules and meanings that confirm individual likes and dislikes.  Poetry, Art, Music go beyond a "right" or "wrong" interpretation.  Examining the "how", noticing the "what" and how it leads to a greater sense of "wondering" often can change a dismissal of a poem to a glad acceptance. 

Howden Pond:  The discussion about line break continued with the unusual choices in this poem.  All agreed that the poem's visual set up allowed us the gift of slowing down, to enter a meditative space which was resilient in its sense of suspension.  The sound of the long O in alone, closely, close, over, opening, closing, the exquisite image created by "wings of/moths, opening & closing in emerald shadows" which continues only to "dissolve into darkness & sounds of even/breath..." added to the power of the unexpected line breaks.  The "three little dots" in French are called "points of suspension" very different from the em-dash that follows "I am left here—" which is followed by "wanting" and then the fall of a double space like a stanza break, allows the reader to feel the emphasis on the tenderness of "holding this moment".  People noticed the indentation pattern, also like breathing, and how the poem started with "looking closely" at visual details, but shifted to sounds.  How "even breath" allows because of the line break can be understood as "even"  meaning both  "regular" and "also".  

Had the line breaks been more "conventional" we might not have sensed the intense mindfulness paid to the penultimate word of the poem: this -- the italics holding the weight of everything in this one moment without spelling out a name for it.  It echoes the traditional trope of poetry's ability to create a sense of the ineffable which cannot be named, described.  

Fighting Death: This poem appeared in the review Amethyst and indeed, much as one person thought "stranglers" might be a misprint for "stragglers" a chorus of people disagreed!  The review also printed "stranglers" and those who are gardeners attested to those late-blooming vines and one person described the two small blooms above her ripe heirloom tomato.  Knowing that MJ was fighting cancer increases the power of this  poem about survival.  We wondered about the break in the second couplet of in-/fancy-- a play on infancy, and fanciful as if part of a magical tale?  Or simply, a mimicry of a cruel cut.   Unlike the peaceful, meditative calm of "Howden Pond" this poem ends on a very relatable will to live in spite of feeling "miserable".   She does not use the verb "fight", in the final couplet but rather the verb "settle".  The conversational tone of the poem, describing the speaker in the garden at the end of growing season,  ends with a tiny tuck in of her own "compulsion" to live, (like me)  "to the bitter end".   We remarked the clash in feeling of those final words.  Re-reading that final couplet,  I go back to the "wishing I were a witch" -- don't we all wish for the power to make things last, have time to do all we want to do?  I love how she confesses her desire to save the late bloomers, and deftly, without any sentimentality, involves the feel of the late-morning sun,  "creep over my shoulder/ and settle upon this garden's compulsion to live, like me, to the bitter end.  A beautiful marriage of concrete with abstraction to add heft to the title.   

Strandhill Beach: Paul, our resident Irishman described this beach for us, and how "if you turn 180 degrees from the cold blustery Atlantic, you'll face the 3,000 year old burial cairn of Queen Maeve.  Paul also brought up Ben Bulben, the backdrop for Yeats' tomb which has the inscription of his line about the Horsemen passing by. (This link will tell you more about it : https://www.freedomandflourishing.com/2013/10/do-i-understand-meaning-of-w-b-yeats.html

The poem's language reminded Bernie of the time he and he wife went up to Lake Ontario after a serious storm, where the waves were indeed "muscular and taut, rising like an infantry".  Everyone was swept away by the power of the description--and the depth of her experience:  black stones "God's tears", the stanza break after the mystery of losing them without know how they fell back, and the final metaphysical embrace of lack of  knowledge "of who God is and the impossibility of/keeping what no one else sees".  It felt to Jan like a powerful environmental poem as well.  

Sometimes:  This poem felt like it was meant to be set to music.  MJ's husband Peter Tonery said MJ wasn't a musician herself, but for sure, this poem conveys the important element of musicality in poetry.  The "duo" of two syllables soft, in lonesome, syllables, sinking, scattered, falling (falling, repeated) set in couplets paints a duet of lovers! 

Chrysalis: published in Poetry in 1993, is beautifully timeless.   At first, you might not think it is told from the perspective of a chrysalis, but rather a description of "a lie for beauty" -- with the double meaning of a place where beauty lies, as well as a clever "trick".   In this first stanza, the language is as "careful" as the intricate unfolding that is predicted.  "My secret" increases the mystery, prepares the reader for the Merwin-esque final stanza, "perhaps the world is empty/as I am brief", but with MJ's inimitable grasp of the spiritual we can only imagine.  You will want to read this poem at least 10 times, to feel the gravity.  

I told the group about MJ's final book The Weight of Air  https://www.amazon.com/Weight-Air-M-J-Iuppa/dp/1639801863  published the year before her death.   Highly recommend.

Maura offers these magical pictures of a chrysalis:  If they do not appear on the blog,

here is a description of the three: the making of it: the subtle presence where you might not guess a caterpillar is preparing a new stage; the wing-like residue left after the transformation complete.

The Gift:  We admired the liquid l's, the way "the words that took" (took root) with the comma after took, 

allowed pause before "took, forever" the same way in the previous poem one could read in the final stanza, "Perhaps the world is empty as I am" as well as "as I am brief".  Paul helped those who are not familiar with  Thursday and Bells of Ascension, Maundy Friday, this is an Easter poem.

Simply: the final poem in this small chapbook Sometimes Simply  which begins with the poem "Sometimes".  We loved the visual format which mimics the "rain rain go away, come again, another day".

This poem is on Poets Walk, with the poem tile, hiss of tires".  Again, MJ combines sound and sight! 

 As stated in the beginning, we ran out of time to discuss the selections from this 2008 chapbook, As the Crow Flies - but did read the first one, and the Neruda outloud, happily satiated by the  full hour and a half of discussion. 

I knew we wouldn't have time for two more by MJ  published in Wild Word, 2022: Waking, without knowing; Waiting for Nothing and paste them below: 

Waking, without knowing

 

where I am, I seek summer’s

open window to see what exists

in the dark that pools before me

 

I trace the outline of sumac, rising

up against the barn, gleaming

in moonlight

 

as if it were memory— this hour

seemingly divine in its solitude

becomes a gateway

 

I can slip through, without

notice, which makes me

nostalgic

 

for those humid nights

where I could come and go

as I pleased

 

Waiting for Nothing

 

In the stillness of summer heat, a bird’s

plaintive whistle sounds like a slow strand

of wind rustling beneath the garden’s ivy.

 

I glance, catching a glimpse of what is there—

a luminous carapace leaving its silver

signature, leaf to leaf, returning to its place

 

before it’s swept away by sudden rain . . .

Who am I to say that it’s over?

 

 

Poems for Aug. 21-- MJ Iuppa Poetry Prize

MJ Iuppa: for MJ Iuppa Poetry Prize

MJ's husband, Pete Tonery told me the MJ Iuppa Poetry Prize is very close to getting endowment stage at SUNY Brockport! This means that the fund will be invested with the returns being used to fund the award. That prize will now be self-sustaining and run in perpetu; ity!  That is an inspiring achievement.

There is one downside- they still need to fund the prize for the 2024-2025 school year. All the funds raised so far are being invested- so we need to have an initial $1000 for the coming year's award. The upside is that we have to raise another few hundred dollars.  If you feel moved to help, details are in this link.

https://fundraise.givesmart.com/form/WKr__g?vid=16xeod

What is the M.J. Iuppa Poetry Prize?

It is a $1000 cash prize awarded annually to a student that

wins the poetry competition.

To win the author must do several things:

Read the supplied biography of MJ

Read one of MJ’s full length poetry books or two chapbooks.

Comment of an aspect of MJ’s life, work or teaching.

Submit three poems for judging:

A free verse

A Cinquain*

A Haiku

This package of submissions will be reviewed and judged by

members of the SUNY Brockport College English Department and

a winner will be selected.

Shortly thereafter, an event will be held with the College, English

Department and a relative of MJ’s to present the check to the

winning author.

For each $1000 we collect the prize will continue for one

additional year. If we raise $25,000, over five years, the money

will become an endowment and continue in perpetuity!

Please give generously.

poems for August 14

 Untitled  by James Baldwin; Siesta by Robin Robertson; At the Reception  by Bob Hicok; Here’s a Little Mouse  by E. E. Cummings; Next Time by Joyce Sutphen;   Refusing Rilke's “You must change your life” by Remica Bingham-Risher

belated happy birthday to James Baldwin who would have turned 100  this August 2. The New Yorker republished this from 1962: https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/1962/11/17/letter-from-a-region-in-my-mind  Baldwin died so young.  I always loved that he lived in France -- I relate to that a lot.

Nutshell:  I am reminded by this advice by Rumi: "Listen to the presences inside poems:  Let them take you where they will."  For sure, the first two poems provide good reason to do so!

 

Untitled:  I am not sure if Baldwin picked the title of this poem which reads like a prayer. It came up that the overtone of plea perhaps is due to his background as preacher for 3 years.  For sure, he knows how to craft a cadence in the cascading lines, the pause before the repeated

"falling water":"Do not get carried away/ by that sound of falling water,/ the marvelous light/ / on the falling water."  I underline "sound" and "marvelous" which are not repeated with the words that water; the light in the next stanza... and the final word, light.  Simple (which does not mean easy) as in pure, and clear, supported by the sound which contrasts between the round, deep O's and the long "I/light/Blinds/light" with implication to ignore the "phony concerns" (sound of water) and concentrate on the Light, not easy to see.

 

Many present were familiar with the 2 volume set The Fire Next  Time which title refers to the spiritual, "Mary Don't You Weep" and this couplet: God gave Noah the rainbow sign

No more water, the fire next time. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Fire_Next_Time.  This provides a deeper context for the mention of "falling water" and being "beneath that water".

Paul suggested that the words, "Lord", "Do", "I" could be read down "Lord Do I?" and back up as answer, "I do, Lord". Judith mentioned how James Baldwin is without exception one of the best prose stylists of the 20th century and added this consideration as well:  There is a Jungian belief that people who are "too balanced" live shorter lives as there is "no more work to be done".  Such is the case of Baldwin.  

 

Siesta: We all felt a "sensory wham" in the sound play and rich vocabulary which grounds the reader, connects us to a world filled with vibrant aliveness, in contrast to the title "Siesta".   We picked up on the sounds "churned" by the cicadas, described as "chiding" and "fricative", which by definition,  is a "consonant made by the friction of breath in a narrow opening, producing a turbulent air flow". ( f,v,z, th)  filled Who is resting?  What is his or her story to come up with choice of adjective "bitter" with "understanding" and the poignant but enigmatic "heart-sick wonder" coupled with "all this life"?  Some felt the poem might take place near the Mexican border.   Elaine O pointed out that in the SW most houses are enclosed by walls ridged with shards of broken glass.  

 

At the Reception:  I read the note first, which sounds humorous, cheerful.  The contrast of the title, and first dance, where you think you will witness and wedding reception shifts dramatically in the 4th line where it is clear, the main character is a holocaust survivor.  As readers, we too want to "listen to the locomotive of his heart" and understand the deep intimacy of getting close to him.  Hicok throws in some humor with the mention "or at least pulled a rose out of my ear to show him the magic///" only to quickly return to the horrors this man endured.  The question, "what is normal", is haunting, especially horrifying used in the context of a "factory of death?  

The deft use of "ashes", the simple closure of how "most people look in photos", leaves me thinking about what it is to be alive, how we come across "preserved" in a photograph, what it is we want to be preserved.

 

Hicok has created a different almost mystic atmosphere and you realize his note echoes Rumi's idea that a poet knows "we're in the middle of some enormous energy" and doesn't plan how it will be said but is open to the poem channeling through him.

 

Here's a Little Mouse:  Carolyn captured the spirit of this cat and mouse game on paper with her expressive dramatic reading.  Judith reminded us that Cummings is also a superb classical sonnet maker, and to be able to be so successfully playful takes the skill of an artist.  It is also delightfully visual with 3 suprises of capital letters (SED, Latin for "but"whether it is intended  as that or even as a homonym for what is not SAID).  The parenthetical double o's, like little eyes, "groove" the room and return in the unmodified spelling (look) which has nothing parenthetical about it.  The more you work with it, indeed, the more you'll see.  

                                                     

Next Time: Joyce Sutphen provides A delightful exploration of the very human characteristic of hindsight, but not layered with regret, or self-chiding.  Her honest authenticity is refreshing.  The offering of a quick kiss, or a poem matched exactly to a friend reinforces a sense of being connected to the world where indeed, there is no place to "waste the heart on anger".  In a way, the poem delivers a sermon, but without sermonizing.  I love the feeling of believing her last line, embracing the conviction of her imagination!

Refusing Rilke's "You must change your life".  It helps to know this is the last line of his famous sonnet https://poets.org/poem/archaic-torso-apollo. Kathy shared her delight in saying indeed, when it comes to "Swedish Death Cleaning" and hearing the next generation urge us to "toss out" something we still enjoy or cherish, she will not "change" to suit them.  We create a museum of ourselves -- and there is indeed a pleasure in visiting it!

Poems for Aug. 7

 Abecedarian for the Horses in a Trailer on Route 66 ; Ode to Kool-Aid  by Marcus Jackson; Summer Morn in New Hampshire by Claude McKay 1889 –1948; From “A Rain of Stars” (Plidetwal)  by Évelyne Trouillot; Marvel by Alicia Hoffman; Diwān over the Prince of Emgión translated by Gunnar Ekelöf 

his week's selection is quite an assemblage ranging from a form poem (following the English alphabet), a Haitian poem translated from Creole, to a tiny taste and minuscule introduction to  sufic mysticism translated by Swedish Poet  Gunnar Ekelöf in turn translated into English.   https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gunnar_Ekel%C3%B6f

As ever, I appreciate the variety in our lively discussions which affirm an intricate and complex beauty in the variety of lenses provided in the poems, and in each participant.

Nutshell:

Abecedarian :  for many this is a new form.  The structure of "following" the alphabet could lead to "alphabet soup" -- and on first read, some felt it was like "following a pre-Alzheimer state of mind".  The note confirms that it is written by a 15-year old, but who seems quite precocious, already thinking of how she might look at her work 10 or even 50 years hence.  The idea of a poem as a time capsule is intriguing.  

As always, the more the poem was discussed, the better sense it made as people noticed how she made use of sights, sounds, and this idea of conversing with horses in a trailer pulled by the VW she is driving down Route 66.  We felt part of this journey, and admired her questions about life... where does it lead us?  where are we going?  If we grieve, do we understand what for if we don't know how to begin to think about how life began?  

By the time we get to W,  you might see that sometimes a letter is used twice in the line-up:  there are 2 lines starting with E... 2 starting with G, H, W and Y.  the X is almost cheating with "exit" and of course the last line is "outside" the constraint of the alphabet!  Indeed... an exploration of restriction and freedom mimicked in the form!   There is something courageous in leading up to the ending... the heat, the idea of there is "no too late", no numbers, and realizing there is only "now"... a "yell that is pounding hooves and hot zenith of living" -- and those last 4 words:  "so free it hurts."

Ode: at first, you might not notice it is a persona poem.  "You" is the Kool Aid.  There were many, many associations with this packet of synthetically flavored and colored, the Kool Aid stands set up in summer, the fun of being able to make it yourself as a small child... and conversely, for many a memory of how disgusting it tasted and how it earned the name "bug juice" on camping trips.  Tom Wolfe's book came up as well: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Electric_Kool-Aid_Acid_Test

We enjoyed the easy-going, but pithy manner of the poet.  Example: calling water "metallic stream" from the tap... the verb "whirlpooling" for the extra sugar added -- and the simile of those funny names to "tiles on the elemental table" and how the stuff dyes a mustache above the top lip as if a toddler had kissed paint.  

The last 8 lines compose a different tone of one sentence.  It bites with sarcasm, ending with the enigmatic detail of Granddad taking out his teeth "to make more mouth to admit you."  Do we need "factory-crafted packets, unpronounceable ingredients, cuteness, unnatural sweetness????" Jackson cleverly underscores class difference that trendy folk don't deal with.

Summer Morn: The first line, so cleverly enjambed, emphasizes the pouring rain and one comment was how the "movement" in nature mirrors the emotional movement in the poet.  We were taken by the sumptuous sibilance of the second 4-line sentence filled with sensuous detail.  We did discuss the form, popular at the time, with each line beginning with a capital, and every other line slightly indented and of course rhyme.   As Judith commented, quoting the sarcastic commentary, "What a pity Shakespeare is so old fashioned" about "Moderns" changing the "rules", getting sidetracked on such things focusses on nit-picking instead of the poem.  As Abe Lincoln is quoted to say, "how many legs does a dog have if you call the tail a leg?  4.  Calling a tail a leg doesn't make it a leg."  

Yes, McKay was part of the Harlem Renaissance, and yes, brought up in Jamaica on 18th c. classical British poetry, but this poem delivers an emotional punch, no matter the difficult syntax in the line "the sun a sheet of gold bequeathed the lawn". You can see a sheet of gold spread out.  The contrast with the unexpected reason why he couldn't be moved by such radiant beauty he describes doubles in effect.  "I was blind with hunger for your love."

The subject of the title  came up-- and of course, our favorite thing to do as readers, have a conversation with the poem, create our version of it.  One person suggested "Summer Mourn"... which because poetry is a spoken musical art could be understood by the ear, even if not changing the spelling on paper.  Another suggestion "Summer born" as there is the sense of a birthing after the rain.  It came up as well that the poem looks like a sonnet, especially with a volta  (turn) on the 8th line  but is 16 lines. 

Excerpt from a Rain of Stars:  The note is important.  The translation from the Creole conjures up the pain, where words feel of no avail... what prayer, in what language can reach a God, kneeling in such famine and poverty, even "Love has lost its name".

Marvel:  We admired how the title, which could be a noun, is used as unspoken verb in each question.  Alicia had used this technique as well with the word "miracle" -- which leads to the conclusion, is there not anything that is not?   We loved how the questions invite the reader in.  There is time to ponder the power of "marvel" and if we are capable of marveling.

Diwan: Kindly note, no period after the first line;  for more about the source of this translation by Gunnar Ekelöf  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tarjum%C4%81n_al-Ashw%C4%81q Only this first poem was a translation of Tarjumann el-Ashwdq.  The rest is Ekelöf.

Diwān over the Prince of Emgión 

 

This poem of mine is without rhyme: I intend by it 

only Her.

The word 'Her' is my aim for Her sake I am

not fond of bartering except with 'Give' and "Take'. 

Richard read more, translating from the Swedish, explaining how each piece Ekelöf translated from the 12th century mystic can stand by itself.  He also shared an illustrated  book of these verses which helps one to fathom better the power of this Divinity, and longing for relationship with her.  How do you understand "give and take"?  

It was helpful to hear the slight pause after the 3rd line:  "for Her sake I am".

the powerful implication "for Her sake I am not fond of bartering" carried forth -- perhaps as Marna put it, 

both a selfish way as well as humane way of being. 

Richard explained the "Her" as embodiment of  love, forgiveness, compassion.

 There is also the Sufi mysticism which embraces emptiness... can't know this female... 

About the illustrator: Lena Crownquist. 

Richard translated from Swedish what she said about the process of creating the illustrations:

I didn't get the whole thing but this gives an idea.

no glass wall between me and the world.

be careful not to be drawn into reality...

tolerate the world in small doses.  

Gunnar holds me by the hand singing lullabies calmly. 

the poems become pictures 

he rings in the pauses between the word.  

**

The flowers are sleeping in the window

 and the window stares without thinking of the dark outside.

the paintings show without soul what they are supposed to.

"And the flies are motionless on the wall, thinking"

the flowers lean out 

the lamp is purring light

in the corner the cat is purring pulling a woolen to sleep with

coffee pot snoring now and then... feeling good about it.

children playing quietly with words on the floor.

the white laid out table waiting

for someone never coming up the stairs

 

A train which is drilling through the silence in the distance

does not reveal things' secret

but destiny counts the striking of the clock with decimal marks.  

*** from Selected  Poems of Gunnar Ekelöf (1907-1968)  translated by  W.H.Auden and Lief Sjöberg

Poems for July 31

  It takes a community of curious, thoughtful people to have the treasury of our discussions we experience each week.  I thank each and every one of you.

This poem by Thich Nhat Hanh. (BTW Bernie says his group usually refers to Thay - the affectionate Vietnamese for "teacher", as "Tick" Nhat Hanh rather than "Titch") seems to sum it up:

Interrelationship – 

You are me, and I am you.

Isn’t it obvious that we “inter-are”?

You cultivate the flower in yourself,

so that I will be beautiful.

I transform the garbage in myself,

so that you will not have to suffer.

 

I support you;

you support me.

I am in this world to offer you peace;

you are in this world to bring me joy.

Poems: The temple bell stops…”  Haiku by Matsuo Bashō (trans. Robert Bly); In a Station of the Metro by Ezra Pound;   Aubade with Calf BY MEGAN J. ARLETT; GHAZAL AT THE END by Melisa Cahnmann-Taylor; Let the Last Thing Be Song by Hannah Fries; Little Summer Poem Touching The Subject Of Faith by Mary Oliver;  Loom by Bradley Trumpfheller.

Nutshell: 

Haiku: Richard questioned the translation of the Bashō.  Haiku's spirit is to evoke a mood and certainly much can be read between the words... 

The temple bell stops—

but the sound keeps coming

out of the flowers.

Another translation that comes up is this:

temple bells die out.

the fragrant blossoms remain

a perfect evening

For either, the confusion of bell shapes, metal and flower, a sense of time resonating comes across.

Likewise in the case of Ezra Pound, the title gives the setting: not the romantic version of Paris, but the very busy metro, equating blank faces in a crowd to petals "on a wet, black bough".  

As Judith sums up the Zen story: Quingyuan Weixin had a saying...   The beginning monk enters the monastery and mountains are mountains; rivers are rivers;  As he continues to practice, he sees that mountains are not mountains, rivers not rivers.  At the third level, approaching Satori, he sees again,

mountains are mountains; rivers are rivers.

The more we examine, the more we see more than the thing in itself.

Poetry is a wonderful place to examine contradiction and paradox!

Aubade: We listened to the poet read the poem, and then Graeme also read it.

 So many cow memories!  Maura reminded us of Paul in 2020 who imitated a belllow and I did ask Paul if he would do a repeat! (see below) It  had us all laughing, and seemed to release a flood of "cow"-related  memories.  We agreed that the poem provided a meditative exercise, a bit like the haiku.  "I have found the one" could be the interrelationship-- where the essence of the cow and poet intermingle.  The sensory details are strong (shin-deep).  Some remarked there was no question mark after the two phrases in the penultimate stanza.  Listening to the audio, you hear it in the voice, however it is written as a statement.  Perhaps an observation that is curious, questioning in its nature of pondering.  The calf sees nothing of his future perhaps.  But what is purpose, and does it matter?  

After class, Mario shared a cow poem which totally has haunted him since 2009: 

She dreamed of cows.   https://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php?date=2009%2F10%2F30.html

Ghazal:  the form of couplets ending with the same repeated end word does not require related leaps to link meanings, which allows a multi-faceted examination of possible applications of a word.   How do you spend your day?  What conclusion do you draw at the end of it?  It all depends. Bedtime stories, lessons, history seized and written, seasons, day by day.  The rich rhyme at the end: decay, dismay, buffet, Bombay are not any more nonsensical together as trends as the other uses of "day".  The poet indeed uses the form to twist and turn the cliché "at the end of the day".  

Let the last thing:  Similar to the above ghazal, this 4-part poem examines memory and connection.  How do we "arrange" our piece of time in which we exist?  How does the universe, "with its loosening warp/and weft, still /unspool its symphony?  Musical language examines different metaphors for what it is to be alive, how it is we want to be remembered.  The cumulatives sounds of m's, alliterations creates tones reminiscent of music of the spheres.  Many remembered the power of music to bring back memories, and stories of alzheimers patients who "came to" on hearing a song.     about how to "harmonize with the black hole's fathomless b-flat.  A few people were intrigued by this concept and looked it up:  fathomless b-flat black hole

Little Summer Poem:  We discussed what Mary Oliver does so well: her careful crafting of observations of nature, and how perhaps the Biblical overtones in the 7th stanza could be interpreted as a crescendo of "Faith" as announced in the title.  Wonderful stories and memories about cornfields, about perfect rows of corn where you will never find an uneven number, mindfulness and religious retreats.  How does she mean "she fails as a witness", and yet seems to capture a sacredness in summer.   Is this "obligatory humility"?  The title excuses that as well.  Although I brought up the topic of pulpit thumping

with the repeated "let the... " there is a naive reassurance that there is nothing to fear in the final stanza.

Loom:  Seen both as noun and verb, the title announces how the weave of 3 generations and overtones of edges overlapping, seamed looms over this moment between a mother and adult child and a photograph of her mothers, a Lesbian couple. Beautiful use of the old fashioned noun "a verge", used without "being on the verge of + something", but on the edge... like the trees who "started themselves" against the yard.  The imminence of death that palpable ending of feeling the "edge of her thumb", running her index finger over it, is amplified with a sense of touching an entire lifetime. 

Poems for July 24

This week's selection, starts with three poems used in a workshop I attended 7/13 called "How to Sing in the Dark" led by the inimitable Abby Murray.  I referred at the end of the 7/17 session to a quote she used from Louise Glück:  "We live in a culture almost fascistic in its enforcement of optimism". from American Originality. 

The workshop material encouraged participants to find hope and joy in poems that seem to be "writing to the dark".  She also shared this quote:  "... What happens if joy is not separate from pain?  What if joy and pain are fundamentally tangled up with one another? Or even more to the point, what if joy is not only entangled with pain, or suffering, or sorrow, but is also what emerges from how we care for each other through those things?"-- Ross Gay, Inciting Joy

I want to thank Polly for sharing the other  three poems she considers her favorites.   She was introduced to the Lowell and  highly original E.E. Cummings  in High School by her beloved teacher Virginia Elson.

 Poems: 

 Affirmation  by Donald Hall; Without by Donald Hall; For Warmth by Thich Nhat Hanh; Patterns by Amy Lowell; The Peace of Wild Things by Wendell Berry Stinging  by e.e. cummings

I opened with a quote from one of my poet friends who is facing an incurable disease.   "Poetry is what helps you take the straight jacket off the heart.".  Reading poems by Donald Hall, hearing him speak them aloud, you sense his heart has taken in both joy and pain and has considered carefully the paradoxical title of his autobiography  "Carnival of losses " like the last lines of his poem Affirmation ( to affirm that "it is fitting/and delicious to lose everything").   Kathy brought up the fact that this poem from 2001, written 6 years after the death of his beloved wife, Jane Kenyon,  is from his book White Apples and Taste of Stone, which contains poems from 1946-2006.  They are organized thematically, not chronologically.  This is the title poem of the volume about his father.  https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/155942/white-apples-609ab9389476c

We discussed at length Affirmation which both drew us in, and repelled us. It indeed contains a summary of Donald Hall's life, not just mention of his undying love for his wife Jane.  At one point, for fun, Mario asked those who would prefer to remain "young, ignorant and content" to raise their hand.  Neil felt Donald was egotistical in the lines about "our wife will die", and Paul went on about the pleasures of love, albeit temporary which indeed should be experienced as "delicious."

 Initially, in the context of the workshop, I saw the poem as an affirmation of acceptance of life as a roll of yin/yang, but still struggled to understand the word "delicious" at the end.  It is one thing to accept an understanding of  the danger of simply focussing on optimism or by ignoring sorrow, knowing this reduces the nature of joy.  It is quite another to say with conviction (like Graeme) the sum total of living is "delicious".  What other word could be used?  Bernie came up with "outlandish".  How does each reader convince him/herself that "fitting and delicious" indeed belong together and are "earned in the poem"?  This is a not an "answer once" kind of question.

Bernie shared his Buddhist perspective, that when loss is accepted as no longer having what one is used to, it involves fully embracing life without what is gone, hammering in the truth of it.  Then it is possible to bring out a new aliveness.  Instead of using energy to fight loss, whether physical or emotional, fully accepting it, learning to live with it allows a new world to open, while at the same time closes the old world.

Without:  In Abby's workshop, we had started with this poem, Without  first, followed by Affirmation.  I wanted to challenge the group with the later poem first, before the comma-less, relentless repeat of without and no. 

First, I read aloud a series of nouns without the negations:  seagulls, palm trees, barnacles, moss, snowdrop, crocus, peony, woodthrush, (even mice), maple leaves, parrots.  As Abby had stressed in the workshop, these things exist in the world.  Hall can only write about the reality of the chemotherapy, the battle against leukemia, how it effaces everything, and even silence has no color, sound.  Bernie provided the definition of the medical  term "petechiae" -- the bruises.  

And then...in the penultimate stanza, there is one moment... the one moment in the poem when it might be possible to pick up a pencil, and unwritten stanzas and take up and touch "beautiful, terrible sentences unuttered."  The group spoke about such "good days" in the midst of bleak despair.  We imagined the moment both for Jane, as well as for Donald.  I think every one of the 20 souls in the room felt the courage of Donald Hall describing what he was facing.  Mario brought up "the book he almost read" — everyone immediately understood from the title, the feeling of wanting to read something but not ready to face it: The Inheritance of Loss: by Kiran Desai, published in 2006.  He offers this quote:"... he retreated into a solitude that grew in weight day by day.  The solitude became a habit, the habit became the man, and it crushed him into a shadow." That is where he put the book down, hoping to pick it up again someday.  He retained the message that any loss small or huge contains gifts, lessons, "inheritances" that we carry, our unique possessions.

For Warmth: Thich, Bernie corrects me, is more accurately pronounced "Tick". Bernie generously shared  some time describing this impressive monk, his peace activism, his teachings and background as he is familiar with him in his Buddhist practice.  He and his group refer to him as "Thay" or "Teacher".  Bernie brought up one of his teachings about the concept of "enemy": A person is not the enemy, it's the delusion of one.   In this simple poem, that starts with a universal gesture, he leads us to consider all that hands can do in a positive way includes the surprising and poignant idea of "keeping the loneliness warm", and then how to meet grief.  This is a poem to memorize, ponder. 

Graeme read a sharing from "The School of Life", The Loveliest people in the world. "They are the ones who long ago shed their pride, who can tell you frankly how lonely and sad they are, who can face their self-hatred and accept their regrets..."

I can't remember who quoted this from Donald Hall's Distressed Haiku (published in the Atlantic in 2000)

You think that their
dying is the worst
thing that could happen.

Then they stay dead. 

Patterns: Polly remembers this poem her teacher, Virginia, presented to her class during World War II. 

In the discussion, we marveled at the rhymes, repetitions, the patterns woven and broken, the metaphorical weight and stiffness of the brocade, the could-have-beens, but will never be rendered even more powerful by the stiffling effects of not only the dress, but of war itself.   Indeed, what are patterns for????  We discussed pattern as societal conditioning, how we respond to patterns,  whether defined as traditions, structures, strictures, or habits.  How do we become aware of them, get rid of them, live with them, avoid them, change them?  We discussed Amy Lowell's feminism, replete with a portrait by Judith of a large buxom lesbian, smoking a cigar.  Judith doubts she had the cigar coming to speak to an audience in Milwaukee some time in the late 'teens or so mentioning how cold it was backstage waiting to appear after the short play "The Ice Maiden". 

The peace of wild things: We were grateful for this offering which reminds us of the importance to be connected to nature.  The line "I come into the presence of still water" reminded Jan and many of the comforting rhythm of the 23rd psalm.   

Stinging: Polly thought her teacher, Virginia Elson had put this up on the board, to grab the attention of some of the boys in the class, who had no interest in poetry.  For her, the "tall wind is dragging the sea with dream S" is the echo of the bell, with the final S the final whisper.  This brought up Arizona Arcosanti bells  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arcosanti , a haiku, “The temple bell stops…”  

 by Basho, (to be shared next week) and Bernie shared that a "Guided Meditation" by  Adrienne Marie Brown* led him to this "On Being" podcast:  https://onbeing.org/programs/adrienne-maree-brown-on-radical-imagination-and-moving-towards-life/

**adrienne maree brown, is an American author, doula, women's rights activist and black feminist based in Detroit, Michigan. From 2006 to 2010, she was the executive director of the Ruckus Society.

Much of her work as a writer is based around the writings of Octavia E. Butler Brown has worked extensively with numerous organizations on social justice. Following college, Brown worked with the Harm Reduction Coalition in Brooklyn, and started working as a social justice facilitator. She would go on to facilitate the Social Forum and work with social justice organizations in Detroit.[4][5] Of her work in Detroit, brown wrote, "Our actions have to be towards the world we want. We need to be guerilla gardening and turning people's heat and water on. We need to be the guerillas putting up solar panels in the hood. That's what Detroit has taught me."[7]

 

Between 2006 and 2010, Brown served as the executive director of the Ruckus Society.[5] She described the Society's work as prioritizing "directly impacted communities - folks who are impacted by economic and environmental injustice and are angry about their situation. We help them determine how to strategically take action, so they can reorient them- selves to the long-term vision of self- determination and sustainability."[7] She was cofounder and director of the League of Young/Pissed Off Voters and has worked with the Arctic Indigenous Youth Alliance

A Guided Meditation* by adrienne maree brown** - 

            -  (modified for BLS use - Bernie Shore)

 

1.    breathing in my contradictions

         breathing out compassion for the contradictions in others

         BREATHING IN - my contradictions

         BREATHING OUT-compassion for contradictions in others, and in myself

 

2.  breathing in complexity

         breathing out space for complexity in others

         BREATHING IN - complexity

         BREATHING OUT -  space for the complexity in others, and in myself

 

3.  breathing in all the reality I can handle

         breathing out my own truth/fears/love

         BREATHING IN - all the reality I can handle

         BREATHING OUT - my own truth (fears, love)

 

4.  breathing in humility at my humanity

          breathing out I recommit to humanity and kindness

         BREATHING IN - humility at my humanity

         BREATHING OUT - I recommit to humanity and kindness

 

5.  turning my awareness to gratitude, 

          turning my attention to life, relationship and learning

         BREATHING IN - turning awareness to gratitude

         BREATHING OUT - turning awareness to life, relationship  and learning

 

6.  turning my awareness to mindfulness in the body     

         increasing the integrity between my thoughts, words and actions

         BREATHING IN - turning awareness to mindfulness in the body 

         BREATHING OUT - increasing integrity between thoughts, words and                                                              actions

 

7.  BREATHING IN AND OUT - turning my awareness toward liberation, turning                              my awareness toward being free

 

 

* Underlined sections are my small edits to the original meditation