Poem 73 (Pandemic Day 75)

We Have a Beautiful Mother

We have a beautiful

mother

Her hills

are buffaloes

Her buffaloes 

hills.

We have a beautiful

mother 

He oceans 

are wombs

her wombs

oceans.

We have a beautiful

mother

Her teeth

the white stones

at the edge

of the water

the summer

grasses

her plentiful

hair.

We have a beautiful

mother

Her green lap immense 

Her brown embrace

eternal

Her blue body

everything we know.

--Alice Walker

Her Blue Body

Everything We Know

Mother Earth: Through the Eyes of Women Photographers and Writers, Edited by Judith Boice, Random House, 1992.

Most of us recognize the name Alice Walker, (1943-) the writer who was the eighth child of Georgia sharecroppers. While growing up she was accidentally blinded in one eye, and her mother gave her a typewriter, allowing her to write instead of doing chores. She received a scholarship to attend Spelman College, where she studied for two years before transferring to Sarah Lawrence College. After graduating in 1965, Walker moved to Mississippi and became involved in the civil rights movement. She also began teaching and publishing short stories and essays.  Probably her most famous work is The Color Purple.  If you click on her name above you are connected to her blog, a rather eclectic gathering of current events, ideas and original work.  I love this piece that she wrote recently--I'll post the beginning here, the rest is available at her blog:


Anybody who despises elephants except for their tusks
is not from here.
Anybody who decapitates mountains
is not from here.

Anybody who assassinates
rivers, oceans,
and the air,
is not from here.

Anybody who “disappears” continents
of buffalo
and foxes, turtles and rain forests
oil, gold, diamonds
and sandalwood
is not from here.

You can sleep on
if you like.

But this is the easiest way
to tell
who is not Earthling....

You can see the woman essence she embodies in her words...the deep connections of feminine creativity and nurture, the circle of life that invites everyone in, who unselfishly gives.  Our beautiful Mother can forgive us, if only we can recognize the harm that we are doing and return her embrace.
I dedicate today's poem to my forever friend, Mary O'Neil Hemmesch, the epitome of loving mother on her birthday.

Poem 72 (Pandemic Day 74)

What the Ancient Ones Knew

Petroglyphs in the rock:

a woman balancing a world

in each outstretched hand.

The worlds spin in place.

She stares across

the valley at winter peaks

floating in clouds. A small 

smile lightens her face.

Her feet ground the earth.

Her head grazes the sky,

To her right side coyote tosses

the moon off the end of his nose

and barks at the close of night.

As the hot sun dries her face

the woman moves her left hand 

forward and offers me a world.

"Here," she says, "let it spin.

It will weave its own fabric."

--Gayle Lauradunn

Mother Earth: Through the Eyes of Women Photographers and Writers, Edited by Judith Boice, Random House, 1992.

I'm going to let this beautiful poem written by New Mexico poet, Gayle Lauradunn stand on its own.  You can click on the poet's name for a link to an interview with her that gives you insight into her process and her amazing personal story.

I am blown away by this bewitching book of photography and poetry in which her poem appears; still available and worth the $8.99 sticker price.  It is so special that tomorrow I will share two more poems from the book.

I seldom want to admit it or even consider the thought, but it is just possible that I own too many books.  Last week I packed up 75 books in three large boxes and mailed them off to a company that buys books.  Some of the bookshelves may have given a small sigh of relief for more breathing room, but I have to face it--there is not a noticeable decline in the number of books available to read.

Current calculations are that I need to read 100 books a year for the next 30 years without acquiring one additional new book or visiting a library to come even close to empty shelves.
It is sad to think that there are undoubtedly books on my shelves that I will not ever get to and some, such as Mother Earth  that deserve to be lingered over and loved that may not be touched.  I am grateful that this sheltering time has allowed me to linger with some books longer and also make decisions to send some books on their way to be treasured and enjoyed by others.  I can reduce my wardrobe, part with dishes and linens more easily than I can with my books--that's just the way it is--simplicity in all its forms is something I may never achieve--so I'll just love the chaos.  And, as much as possible, heed the words of Winston Churchill:

"If you cannot read all your books...fondle them---peer into them, let them fall open where they will, read from the first sentence that arrests the eye, set them back on the shelves with your own hands, arrange them on your own plan so that you at least know where they are. Let them be your friends; let them, at any rate, be your acquaintances."

Poem 68 (Pandemic Day 71)

FLOTSAM

Cool day
Middle of May

Fleece jacket, helmet,
just enough to break the chill
Two wheels take me off
 to clear my mind,
release the detritus,
the dregs and the dreck

But.      

     I’m a collector, a saver, a hoarder;

Ahead of me, a pheasant rooster
disappears into a ditch

     Isn’t this the country road
where my son’s childhood friend lived?
I like his mother;
we still exchange Christmas cards.

So long since I came this way—
which house is theirs?

     A movement in the trees
A black turkey buzzard,
too big for the space
Wheels tight and low over a pond
Noisy frogs chirrup and croak

I’ll collect only these sights
to take back with me
They don’t require space
in a full house
I don’t stop for the shiny bolt
or the rusted metal
No other roadside treasures
to be found today

Then.
     A white balloon. And another
New, listless, uninflated.
Three, four, five and yes, six.

And now I have the answer to a question
never asked before—

     Where do balloons go
     when the parties are gone
     and the people don’t gather?

Just briefly,
before the grass overwhelms,
I know.

--Jean Doolittle

...And now for something completely different, as John Cleese might say; today's poem didn't come from my poetry shelf, but arose out of my own experience.  My first poem of the pandemic.  I realize there are new questions being asked and new ways of seeing.  Today I added the epigram from Mary Oliver at the top of the page--I'm just following instructions.

Poem 67 (Pandemic Day 70)

I Hope You Dance

I hope you never lose your sense of wonder

You get your fill to eat but always keep that hunger

May you never take one single breath for granted

God forbid love ever leave you empty-handed

I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean

Whenever one door closes I hope one more opens

Promise me that you'll give faith a fighting chance

And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance

I hope you dance...I hope you dance

I hope you never fear those mountains in the distance

Never settle for the path of least resistance

Livin' might mean takin' chances but they're worth takin' 

Lovin' might be a mistake but it's worth makin'

Don't let some hell-bent heart leave you bitter

When you come close to sellin' out reconsider

Give the heavens above more than just a passing glance

And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance

I hope you dance.... I hope you dance

Time is a wheel in constant motion always rolling us along.

Tell me who wants to look back on their years and wonder

where those years have gone.

I hope you dance...I hope you dance

I hope you dance

Mark D. Sanders & Tia Sillers, I Hope You Dance,  Rutledge Hill Press, 2000.

You probably recognize the lyrics of Lee Ann Womack's hit song.  The songwriters crafted a little book that expands the message and adds evocative images...a nice little companion for a sunset walk in the park, a little rest on a bench and then, feeling moved to do so--I hope you dance!  It's okay, go ahead, the universe approves and if anyone else looks askance; it really doesn't matter!

I dedicate today's post to my lifelong friend Wanda Fingalson, who birthday it is today and whose friendship has been music in my life.

Poem 66 (Pandemic Day 69)

To Manage

She writes to me--

     I can't sleep because I'm seventeen

Sometimes I lie awake thinking

     I didn't even clean my room yet

And soon I will be twenty-five

        And a failure

And when I am fifty--oh!

I write her back 

     Slowly      slow

Clean one drawer

     Arrange words on a page

let them find one another

        Find you

Trust they might know something

   You aren't living      the whole thing

        At once

That's what a minute     said to an hour

Without me      you are nothing

Naomi Shihab Nye, Voices in the Air: Poems for Listeners, Greenwillow Books, 2018.

Earlier I posted the Desiderata--one line comes back to me after reading this poem about managing our lives when they are unruly and overwhelming; "beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.  You are a child of the Universe no less than the trees and the stars you have a right to be here."   

I'm going to be gentle with myself here too and share some of Nye's introduction with you that speaks so beautifully about the focus and intent of this book of poetry, that makes it so worthwhile to read. 

"Poet Galway Kinnell said, "To me poetry is someone standing up, so to speak, and saying, with as little concealment as possible, what it is for him or her to be on this earth at this moment."

Someone--Abraham Lincoln?--once remarked that all the voices ever cast out into the air are still floating around out there in the far ethers--somehow, somewhere--and if we only knew how to listen well enough, we could hear them even now.

Voices as guides, lines and stanzas as rooms, sometimes a single word the furniture on which to sit...each day we could open the door, and enter, and be found. These days I wonder--was life always strange--just in different ways?  Does speaking some of the strangeness help us survive it, even if we can't solve or change it?"

Poem 65 (Pandemic Day 68)

Time is

Time is...

Too slow for those who wait,

Too swift for those who fear,

Too long for those who grieve,

Too short for those who rejoice; 

But for those who love,

Time is not.

--Henry van Dyke

For Your Retirement: Writings About This Rewarding Time of Life. Hallmark Editions, 1977.

Yes, a sweet little gift-sized Hallmark book from more than 30 years ago...I was in graduate school then, hardly contemplating retirement!  How did this find its way to my shelf and manage to stick around?  Maybe I found it at a garage sale much more recently?  But it is syrupy and trite at best and will be going into a very final retirement after this; but with hope of rebirth as something useful.  A cardboard box that a retiree will pack their stuff on their last day perhaps?  

Amid all the cheery verses (Life is good, and we're content...) Henry van Dyke's brief words carry a lot of meaning.  Time is our companion, but not always a welcome or treasured one.  As in most things, love makes all the difference.

Check out the links to learn more about van Dyke, recycling paper and hear a performance artist read his poem.

Poem 64  (Pandemic 67)

How To Be An Artist

Stay loose. Learn to watch snails.

Plant impossible gardens.  Invite

someone dangerous to tea.  Make

little signs that say yes! and post 

them all over your house.  Make friends

with freedom & uncertainty.  Look

forward to dreams.  Cry during movies.

Swing as high as you can a a 

swingset, by moonlight.  Cultivate

moods.  Refuse to "be responsible."

Do it for love.  Take lots of naps.

Give money away.  Do it now.

The money will follow. Believe in magic.

Laugh a lot. Celebrate every gorgeous

moment.  Take moonbaths.  Have 

wild imaginings, transformative 

dreams, and perfect calm.  Draw on the

walls.  Read everyday.  Imagine yourself

magic.  Giggle with children.  Listen to old

people.  Open up.  Dive in.  Be free.

Bless yourself.  Drive away fear.  Play

with everything.  Entertain your inner

child.  You are innocent.  Build a fort

with blankets.  Get wet.  Hug trees.

Write love letters.

SARK, (Susan Ariel Rainbow Kennedy), A Creative Companion: How to Free Your Creative Spirit, Celestial Arts, 1991.

Do you know this irrepressible spirit known as SARK?  She makes a great creative companion--it is not idle musing that this book will help you free your creative spirit.  The poem above, in poster form, which I discovered about 30 years ago inspired me like nothing had before.  I hand-lettered my own copy and then set about creating "impossible gardens", inviting "dangerous people to tea", and embracing more willingly and openly the things I already found easy to do--crying at movies, looking forward to dreams and reading everyday.
I'm so glad to revisit this poem today.  I already found myself getting wet by staying out gardening in the light rain that was falling this afternoon; and taking lots of naps is more appealing now than ever and also much easier to get by with.
What better way to drive away fear and bless yourself than with a healthy dose of creativity?  Take SARK's advice and be bodacious and succulent--celebrate each gorgeous moment!

Poems 62 and 63 (Pandemic Day 66)

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a House

A house covers up everybody's problems.

A person walking by can't see 

two people fighting in the kitchen.

A lot of people have lived in every house

What happened in that house

Forty years before?

--A murder committed in the kitchen,

A robbery in the basement.

When people built my house,

Did they mess up and maybe my house 

Will fall from under me tonight?

There are parts of my house 

That are not quite normal, like my bathroom, 

Right by the dining room, used to be for the maid.

--I wonder if anybody ever died in my house.

I wonder if they died in my room?

Outside my house, 

The tree is the biggest thing there.

The leaves die every fall.

And in the backyard,

Our rotting swing set lifts off the ground

Whenever you do.

My house is almost 100 years old.

It could have been a century ago 

When someone was sleeping in my room.

Out the back door and down the stairs,

The old garage sits,

Falling apart, day by day.

--And in the garage, there is an attic

Where no one ever goes.

It's possible that a dead body

Is up there, but we may

Never find out.

The garage is old and dying

Like the rest of this old house,

And slowly, the people who live in it, as well.

--Nick Day

Writing from Student Author Night, Barton Open School, Minneapolis, MN, 2005.

This is definitely a limited edition volume--available for one night only in 2005.  As I glance through it, I see names I remember of the students who passed through my doors, my face is full of smiles and my mind is full of questions.  Where are these students now, fifteen years later?  

Sadly, as I page through again, I see Samantha Hastings's name--one of our brightest and best who died in a car accident that also killed her father and seriously injured her younger sister.  I believe the poem in this booklet might have been the one that was included in her funeral handout.  I must include that poem too.  

Wow.  I thought this was going to be a quick and light-hearted posting for a Friday and now....

Nick's poem about ways of looking at a house has relevance for us now, as we spend more time homebound.  Is your home revealing secrets?  Are you hearing noises, uncovering mysteries or at least finding missing socks?  If your house has been talking to you in any ways, blatant or subtle, will you share that with me? 

And now...

Moonset 

I'll tell you how the moon set

     So silvery and white,

The Flowers waited tentatively

     For Sun's bright joyful light

The Stars put on a morning show

     Before they said Goodbye,

The Moon gave last its golden glow

     Then sank beneath the Sky.

I know my Moon is somewhere else

     She never really sets

Her beauty's there for all to see,

     For in your Heart she's kept. 

--Samantha Hastings

Poem 61 (Pandemic Day 65)

From: A Grateful Heart: 

Daily Blessings for the Evening Meal from Buddha to the Beatles

Empower me

              to be a bold participant,

              rather than a timid saint in waiting,

              in the difficult ordinariness of now;

              to exercise the authority of honesty,

              rather than to defer to power,

              or deceive to get it;

              to influence someone for justice,

              rather than impress anyone for gain;

              and, by grace, to find treasures

              of joy, or friendship, of peace

              hidden in the fields of the daily

              you give me to plow.

---Ted Loder

 A Grateful Heart: Daily Blessings for the Evening Meal from Buddha to the Beatles, Edited by M. J. Ryan, Conari Press, 1994.

For the last few years I have often woken up in the morning feeling troubled; an uneasy, uncertain feeling that gravity was disappearing, that pieces of the world that I thought were stable and sound were falling off into space... 

Throughout my life I have always leaned towards tolerance and acceptance of others; their personalities and actions were fascinating or enlightening or just merely different than my own, not alarming or threatening.  Quirks were fine with me; I have them, I liked and appreciated them in others.  But things had been changing in society for a while, it had still possible to ignore or overlook or step around those changes for years, but the last presidential election completely lifted the veil--some of the changes were ugly and unsettling, even dystopian. 

 1984 by George Orwell was meant to be an unnerving fiction, not a potential reality; the "Ministry of Truth" not meant to be an actual government functionary--but here we had "alternative facts" and "fake news" and vulgar tweets and uncouth insults and self-dealing, hyper-partisanship and nepotism and all the deadly sins of governance...and a substantial portion of the American public saying, "That's all OK with me."  And some of those people were people I loved and cared about.  How do we dance around these clashes of values and perspectives and definitions of truth and reality?  

Ted Loder's words are a blessing I have sought and a grace that I hope for; a restoration of gravity and peace at sunrise and sunset--I share that blessing with you.

Poem 60 (Pandemic Day 64)

IN BLACK EARTH, WISCONSIN

thistles take the hillside
a purple glory of furred spears
a fierce army of spiky weeds
we climb through them
your mother, two of her daughters, and me
a late walk in the long June light

in the barn the heart throb
of the milking machine continues
as your father and brother change
the iodide-dipped tubes
from one udder to the next
and the milk courses through the pipeline
to the cooling vat where it swirls
like a lost sea in a silver box

we are climbing to the grove of white birch trees
whose papery bark will shed
the heart-ringed initials of your sister
as the grief wears down

this farm bears milk and hay
and this mother woman walking beside us
has borne nine children
and one magic one is dead:

                                                        riding her bike
                                                        she was a glare of light
                                                        on the windshield of the car
                                                        that killed her

a year and a half has passed
and death is folded in among the dishtowels
hangs in the hall closet by the family photos
and like a ring of fine mist
above the dinner table

we stand on a hill looking at birch bark
poking among hundred-year-old graves
that have fallen into the grass
rubbing the moss off and feeling for the names
that the stone sheds
we are absorbing death like nitrates
fertilizing our growth

this can happen:

                                                    a glare of light
                                                    an empty place
                                                    wordlessly we finger her absence

already there are four grandchildren
the family grows thick as thistle

—Andrea Musher

Poems for Life: Famous People Select Their Favorite Poem and Say Why It Inspires Them, Compiled by the Grade V Classes of the Nightingale -Bamford School, Arcade Publishing, 1995.  (Proceeds from Poems for Life were donated to the Women's Commission for Refugee Women and Children, a division of the International Rescue Committee.)[Linked to written/audio text of the book]

This poem, the first in the book, was selected by Jane Alexander, (1939-) a remarkable author, Emmy and Tony award-winning actress and former director of the National Endowment for the Arts.  Her choice is an interesting one.  She selects a poem by Andrea Musher, a professor at the University of Wisconsin-Whitewater (who a few years later became the poet laureate of the city of Madison.) Ms. Alexander's career had been on the east coast and the west coast, but this poem set in the heartland somehow reached her and grabbed her attention.

The first lines began with a military air: thistles taking the hillside--a fierce army of spiky weeds...What battle awaits the women mounting the hill and why are the men carrying on with the normal tasks of the farm?  We learn soon enough that the battle is with grief, the unspeakable grief of the loss of a child.  That one will never be won, but life will continue--already there are four grandchildren.  The last word is the same as the first word--"thistle"--the prickly truth about life.

Poem 59 (Pandemic Day 63)

When I was teaching, we planned in 9-week blocks.  Teacher work days were scheduled for the end of the quarter, when all the assignments were (supposed to be) completed and the grades were tabulated.

In our global community, we have now completed 9 weeks of a declared pandemic; and yes, grades are being given, but there is no sense of conclusion or completeness...the possibilities of sickness and death and disruption stretch out before us. We know there will be new assignments, new lessons to learn and tests--many tests ahead of us; as individuals, communities and nations.  There are no clear guidelines or rubrics, no certainly about when we will be dismissed from this school of hard knocks and tough lessons.

I remember being in a school where our students faced significant obstacles to learning and we took the challenges day by day.  At the end of a particularly challenging week, after our students had left, our principal would get on the intercom and say, "you did a good job, the roof is still on and the building is still standing--go home and have a well-deserved break."  At the end of this pandemic, can we still say our roof is still on and our country is still standing?  Let's take it day by day, but remember why we are here.

Map

by J. Patrick Lewis

Brash canvas,

Bleeding borders,

Jasper Johns (1930-), Map, 1961,
In the collection of the  Museum of Modern Art (MoMA)

Kindled calm,

This is oxymoronicamerica,

Forged out of iron and lace

By people strapping and raw

Who wrestled and pinned history

To the map.

Happy as a circus boy,

Spirited as an outlaw,

Rough as a gandy dance,

This continent of tinted steel
Spread an easel of colors
On fifty pieces of scissored history--
And painted itself a self.

Heart to Heart: New Poems Inspired by Twentieth-Century American Art, Edited by Jan Greenberg, Harry N. Abrams, 2001.

One commonality of the books on my poetry shelves seems to be that a number of them capture the connection between poetry and the visual arts, such as this small volume.  Certainly poetry can be painting with words and art can be poetry on canvas. 

The editor invited distinguished American poets to choose a piece of American artwork to write about.  Forty-three poets accepted her request.  I liked this pairing of poem and painting, because they both ask us to look at something familiar and iconic, but not often closely examined.  The wall label of the painting reads thusly:

"Reflecting his choice of easily recognizable images, Johns said that he was interested in "the idea of knowing an image rather than just seeing it out of the corner of your eye." The map of the United States, in its ubiquity and iconicity is "seen and not looked at, not examined." Preserving the overall proportions of the country and the shape of its states, John's energetic application of paint subverts the conventions of cartography, as do the stenciled names of states, such as Colorado, which is repeated in several locations. Map invites close inspections because its content is both familiar and imaginary."
Text from the MoMA wall label.

I think back on 1961, when this painting was created and we were striving and lurching towards both peace and war;  towards civil liberties through civil unrest; our country was definitely scissored and yet we stayed connected.  I've lived through tumultuous times before but now I am more uncertain about the glue that holds us together.

Poem 58 (Pandemic Day 62)

And My Heart Soars

By Chief Dan George

The beauty of the trees,

the softness of the air,

the fragrance of the grass,

     speaks to me.

From a kayak in the Silver River,
Silver Springs, FL. Jan 9, 2019; J. Doolittle

The summit of the mountain,

the thunder of the sky,

the rhythm of the sea,

     speaks to me.

The faintness of the stars,

the freshness of the morning,

the dew drop on the flower,

     speaks to me.

The strength of fire,

the taste of salmon, 

the trail of the sun,

And the life that never goes away,

   They speak to me.

And my heart soars.

'Til All the Stars Have Fallen: A Collection of Poems for Children, Selected by David Booth, Viking, 1989.

When I saw that a poem by Chief Dan George was included in this beautiful volume of children's poetry, I knew that I had to chose it.  His performance in the 1970 epic movie, "Little Big Man" starring Dustin Hoffman left an indelible impression on me.  I just added that movie to my DVD queue in Netflix.   

I believe that Chief Dan actually could hear the mountains and the sea speak to him.  It is perhaps possible that the morning and the dew drops and the salmon will speak to us also; but that kind of patient attention and attunement to nature is not something that we are taught or often choose to practice. Their voices are muted and drowned out by the busyness of our lives. 

But now, as we approach the third month of sheltering, we still have the opportunity, perhaps even the duty to listen, really listen and allow our hearts to soar.

Poem 57 (Pandemic Day 61) Sunday, May 10, Mother's Day

For a Mother-To-Be

Nothing could have prepared
Your heart to open like this.

From beyond the skies and the stars
This echo arrived inside of you
And started to pulse with life
Each beat a tiny act of growth,
Traversing all our ancient shapes,
On its way home to itself.

Once it began, you were no longer your own.
A new, more courageous you, offering itself
In a new way to a presence you can sense
But you have not seen or known.

It has made you feel alone
In a way you never knew before;
Everyone else sees only from the outside
What you feel and feed
With every fiber of your being.

Never have you traveled farther inward
Where words and thoughts become half-light
unable to reach the fund of brightness
Strengthening inside the night of your womb.

Like some primeval moon,
Your soul brightens
The tides of essence
That flow to your child.

You know your life has changed forever,
For in all the days and years to come,
Distance will never be able to cut you off
From the one you now carry
For nine months under your heart.

May you be blessed with quiet confidence
That destiny will guide you and mind you.

May the emerging spirit of your child
Imbibe encouragement and joy
From the continuous music of your heart,
So that it can grow with ease,
Expectant of wonder and welcome
When its form is fully filled

And it makes it journey out
To see you and settle at last
Relieved and glad in your arms.


- John O'Donohue, To Bless the Space Between Us: A Book of Blessings, Doubleday, 2008.

Robin Citrin, connected to me by those complicated connections we call family ties, but much simpler by the bonds of friendship and common idealism, shared a lovely poem by O'Donohue a few weeks ago that was so fitting for this time in history, that I just had to find O'Donohue on my shelf and share one of his blessings on a special day.  

Robin has a son that is just as far away from her as my eldest son is from me (in Korea). Of course there are no distance limits on the extent of a mother's love.  Here's the poem she shared with me.  Happy Mother's Day to all of you who give out "mother love".

this is the time to be slow,
lie low to the wall
until the bitter weather passes.
try, as best you can, not to let
the wire brush of doubt
scrape from your heart
all sense of yourself
and your hesitant light.
if you remain generous,
time will come good;
and you will find your feet
again on fresh pastures of promise,
where the air will be kind
and blushed with beginning.
john o’donohue ~

http://www.johnodonohue.com/to-bless-the-space-between-us

Poem 56 (Pandemic Day 60)

Two People

She reads the paper,

while he turns on TV

she likes the mountains,

he craves the sea.

He'd rather drive,

she'll take the plane;

he waits for sunshine,

she walks in the rain.

He gulps down cold drinks,

she sips at hot;

he ask, "Why go?"

she asks, "Why not?"

In just about everything

they disagree,

but they love one another

and they both love me.

Illustration by John Nez

Eve Merriam, A Word or Two With You: New Rhymes for Young Readers,  Atheneum, 1981.

How comforting to imagine that people with differing habits, interests and propensities can still love one another and create a happy family.  How remarkable it would be if we could expand that beyond the couch and the home and into the world.

 I turned to works by Eve Merriam often as a teacher.  You could truly experience the joy that she felt in poetry as she played with words.  When I directed a choral reading choir of 2nd and 3rd graders, her poems were often chosen, because as... Merriam urged: "Whatever you do, find ways to read poetry. Eat it, drink it, enjoy it, and share it."

"As one who practiced what she preached, Merriam's poetry was particularly conducive to being read out loud. Her poems exemplify her fascination with language, as evidenced by her puns and word puzzles, her concentration on the eccentricities and idiosyncracies of the English language, and her broad use of poetic devices, such as onomatopoeia, inner rhyme, alliteration, assonance, metaphor, and so forth, in addition to traditional rhyming. "How to Eat a Poem," originally from Merriam's second children's poetry collection, It Doesn't Always Have to Rhyme, illustrates Merriam's use of metaphor, but it is also "a poem of the invitational mode," noted Zaidman. Accordingly, "How to Eat a Poem" includes the lines: "Don't be polite./ Bite in./ Pick it up with your fingers and lick the juice that may run down your chin./ It is ready and ripe now, whenever you are." Overall, Zaidman held that It Doesn't Always Have to Rhyme could serve "as an excellent minicourse in the elements of poetry" because it contains the distinctive poems "Metaphor," "Simile: Willow and Ginkgo," "Couplet Countdown," "Quatrain," "Learning on a Limerick," "Beware of Doggerel," "Onomatopoeia," and "A Cliche." Merriam also worked with the positioning of the words on the page, thus bringing the visual sense into her verse more fully." (from the Poetry Foundation; link attached to Eve Merriam's name above)

Poems 53-55 (Pandemic Day 59)

The poems I'm going to share today are from the book Art & Love: An Illustrated Anthology of Love Poetry. (Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1990)   The poems in this book touch on many aspects of love--love for our family and for our friends; the quest for romantic love and the trials and tribulations of loving, that may lead us to celebrate a mature love that can last.

Today is a good day to speak of love for it is the wedding day of my beloved nephew Jerik and his bride Maycie.  Even in times of challenge and chaos, life goes on, and their wedding ceremony will too, although the guests will watch it live-streamed on YouTube.  I think I'll dress up for my virtual attendance, even though no one will see me.  Special occasions should still call for clean socks, regardless.

I'm heartened that Jerik and Maycie have trust in their future together and will put their love and faith out there for the world to acknowledge.  Some love, some belief in tomorrow, some hope for a world to go on that they and their children-to-be will call home.  May it still be a beautiful world.  Let's try to make it so.

The Telephone

Mount Fuji and Flowers, David Hockney, British, (1937-)
Acrylic on canvas, 1972

"When I was just as far as I could walk

From here today,

There was an hour

All still

When leaning my head against a flower

I heard you talk.

Don't say I didn't, for I heard you say--

You spoke from that flower on the windowsill--

Do you remember what it was you said?"

"First tell me what it was you thought you heard."

"Having found the flower and driven a bee away,

I leaned my head,

And holding by the stalk,

I listened and I thought I caught the word--

What was it? Did you call me by my name?

Or did you say--

Someone  said "Come"--I heard it as I bowed."

"I may have thought as much, but not aloud."

"Well, so I came."

 Robert Frost (1874-1963)

Hearing That His Friend Was Coming Back From the War

Wang-Hsi-chih Watching Geese. Ch'ien Hsuan,
Chinese, ca. 1235-after 1301. Handscroll in
ink, color and gold on paper

In old days those who went to fight

In three years had one year's leave.

But in this war the soldiers are never changed;

They must go on fighting till they die on the battlefield

I thought of you, so weak and indolent,

Hopelessly trying to learn to march and drill.

That a young man should ever come home again

Seemed about as likely as that the sky should fall.

Since I got the news that you were coming back,

Twice I have mounted to the high wall of your home.

I found your brother mending your horse's stall;

I found your mother sewing your new clothes.

I am half afraid; perhaps it is not true; 

Yet I never weary of watching for you on the road.

Each day I go out at the City Gate

With a flask of wine, lest you should come thirsty.

Oh that I could shrink the surface of the World,

So that suddenly I might find you standing at my side!

Wang Chien (756-835)

When You Are Old

L'Arlésienne: Madame Joseph-Michel Ginoux,
Vincent Van Gogh, Dutch (1853-1890)

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,

And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,

And loved your beauty with love false or true,

But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,

Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled

And pace upon the mountains overhead

And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

This is one of my favorite poems.  How can I tell you why?  Perhaps the wonderful phrase "loved the pilgrim soul in you" is reason enough.  It's sad, melancholy, but the ache I always feel when I read it is for the truth of our brief existence.  I felt it when I was 20 years old reading it for the first time, I understand it more deeply now. 

Poems 51 and 52 (Pandemic Day 58)

By My Age

By my age I thought I would finally be able to 

Finish Moby Dick,

Wait for the meal to be served without eating the roll,

And display unruffled composure when I'm at a cocktail party

     where I don't know a single soul

And nobody talks to me,

Instead of wanting to run and hide in the bathroom.

By my age I thought I would finally be able to 

Read a tax return,

Admit that I'm wrong when I'm wrong--and not gloat

     when I'm right,

And display serene acceptance when I watch my married son

     walk out into the cold and snowy night

In a pair of torn sneakers

Instead of screaming, Stop! You'll catch pneumonia.

By my age I thought I would finally be able to 

Speak coherent French,

Refrain from providing advice unless someone begs,

And display mature detachment when this lady M.B.A. with 

     perfect skin and even better legs

Makes a play for my husband,

Instead of plotting to push her face in the pasta.

By my age I thought I would finally be able to 

Cope with Celsius

Drive to New Jersey without getting lost every time,

And display a mature and serene and composed and detached

     and unruffled acceptance of all that I'm 

Still not able to do 

By my age.

And Now You Want to Know If There Is Anything 

Good to Say about Getting Older

We aren't as self-centered as we used to be.

We're not as self-pitying--or as just plain dumb.

Middle age has come, and we find

(Along with the inability to sleep all night without

      a trip to the bathroom)

A few compensations.

We aren't as uncertain as we used to be.

We've learned to tell the real from the tinsel and fluff.

Getting old is tough, but we find

(Along with the inability to shave our legs unless

     we're wearing our glasses)

A few compensations.

We aren't as compliant as we used to be.

We choose our own oughts and musts and got-to's and shoulds.

We're deep into the woods, yet we find

(Along with the inability to eat a pepperoni pizza at 

     bedtime)

A few compensations.

We aren't as judgmental as we used to be.

We're quicker to laugh, and not as eager to blame.

There's time left in this game.  May we find

(Along with the inability to tell ourselves that

     we'll keep playing forever)

A few compensations.

Judith Viorst, Forever Fifty and other negotiations, Simon and Schuster, 1989.

It took Judith Viorst 20 years (1969-1989) to produce the poems I've shared with you in just the last 3 days.  (She's gone on producing these snapshots of life for 30 more).  Literature is a time machine that is available to us all; we can journey with one author through her life and work or hop through time and space just by going down the next aisle in the library.  

If we can acknowledge to ourselves  that our path will eventually lead in the same general direction as the rest of humanity, we have a chance to gain some insight into our own future.  Not 50 yet?  If you are lucky, someday you will be--so be prepared to gain some things, just as you are losing others.  But if you're not 50 yet, maybe you should just be busy living the age you are right now and gain the experience and wisdom that are available to you.  Your body, your mind, your employment, your family, your social circle...all of these things change as you age; some changes are good, some less so, but it's your life to treasure and to build. There are compensations.

Mid-Life Crisis by Judith Viorst

Poem 50 (Pandemic Day 57)

Mid-life Crisis

What am I doing with a mid-life crisis?

This morning I was seventeen.

I have barely begun the beguine and it's 

Good night ladies

Already.

While I've been wondering who to be

When I grow up someday, 

My acne has vanished away and it's

Sagging kneecaps

Already.

Why do I seem to remember Pearl Harbor?

Surely I must be too young.

When the boys I once clung to

Start losing their hair?

Why can't I take barefoot walks in the park

Without giving my kidneys a chill?

There's poetry left in me still and it

Doesn't seem fair.

While I was thinking I was just a girl,

My future turned into my past.

The time for wild kisses goes fast and it's 

Time for Sanka.

Already?

Judith Viorst, How Did I Get To Be 40 & Other Atrocities,  Siimon and Schuster, 1976.

When I was 40 I looked on a map and picked out a place to escape to...White River Junction,VT. if I recall.  My plans didn't extend much beyond that...I didn't divorce my husband, quit my job, abandon my children, but somehow it was important to feel I had a destination, if I needed to get away.  My forties were good for me, but there were upheavals, revelations and atrocities too...that's all I'll say for now.

Poem 49 (Pandemic Day 56--8 weeks and many more to come)

A Good Catch

Although he is still wearing his college ring,

And driving a white Imperial.

And taking girls to supper clubs where the entire meal

     is served flambé

Because he still thinks the more flames the better,

Freddie the bachelor

Is what is known in New Jersey as

A good catch.

He has waves in his hair,

Caps on his teeth,

A manicure on his nails,

And what is known in New Jersey as

A nice physique. Also

A clean bill of health,

A great sense of humor,

And a steady job,

With what is known in New Jersey as

Room for advancement.  Also

Serious interests

Such as reading and Broadway plays

That are not even musicals.

Although he still remembers the fraternity handshake,

And the football cheers,

And is still singing in girls' ears while dancing

Because someone once told him that singing in ears

     is sexy,

Freddie the bachelor

Is what is known in New Jersey as

A good catch.

He has cashmere sweaters,

A Danish-modern apartment,

A retirement plan 

And what is known in New Jersey as

Sound investments.  Also

A way with children

Consideration for others,

And what is known in New Jersey as

A good head on his shoulders.  Also

Important contacts

Such as a nephew of the Congressman

From Flushing.

And whenever my husband is showing

What is known in New Jersey as no respect

For my mother,

She tells about Freddie the bachelor,

Who never talks back and is such 

A good catch.

Judith Viorst, It's Hard to Be Hip Over Thirty and Other Tragedies of Married Life,Signet Books, 1968

When are we grown-up?  Is there an age when magically we are adults?  As Judith Viorst let's us know in this poem, she is a married woman, but she still has the tugs and pulls of trying to please her mother, or be subjected to her mother's opinions about her life.  Freddy, the bachelor may have his own apartment, "sound investments" and a retirement plan, but he also still wears his college ring and remembers his football cheers.  

The demarcation line is unclear and wavering.  When you are 30 you may feel grown-up, you may want to be grown-up, but there are so many appealing things about youth...you may keep up your sexy whispering in girls' ears long after you have a ghost of youth about you.  Life's transitions can so often be unsettling--we are always adjusting.  As they say, there is no dress rehearsal for life.  You're on the stage and maybe you'll flub your lines or miss your cues, but the show must go on! 

The Atlantic published a very interesting article about becoming an adult   https://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2016/01/when-are-you-really-an-adult/422487/

Poem 48 (Pandemic Day 55)

If I Were in Charge of the World

If I were in charge of the world

I'd cancel oatmeal,

Monday mornings,

Allergy shots, and also 

Sara Steinberg.

If I were in charge of the world

There'd be brighter night lights,

Healthier hamsters, and 

Basketball baskets forty-eight inches lower.

If I were in charge of the world

You wouldn't have lonely,

You wouldn't have clean,

You wouldn't have bedtimes.

Or "Don't punch your sister."

You wouldn't even have sisters.

If I were in charge of the world

A chocolate sundae with whipped cream and nuts

     would be a vegetable

All 007 movies would be G,

And a person who sometimes forgot to brush,

And sometimes forgot to flush,

Would still be allowed to be

In charge of the world.

Judith Viorst, If I Were In Charge Of the World: and other worries, Atheneum, 1981.

Judith Viorst (1931-) has written many books for both children and adults.  I admire her chameleon nature; getting inside the minds of children as she did in this poem (and in the Alexander books, such as Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Very Bad Day) but also giving us the view of life from each decade she has passed through.  This week I'll share a poem from her life in her 30's, 40's and 50's.  Her most recent book is Nearing Ninety.   Maybe from her place of wisdom of observing human nature over the years she should revisit the idea of being in charge of the world--somehow I wish someone was who might actually care about the fate of the rest of us.

Poem 47 Pandemic Day 54)

Early Evening in the Kitchen of Love

Love is always stirring and 

thinking about what it will do.
St. Teresa of Avila

The light runs

in through the window

like somebody's chasing it.

Her hair is all wild,

and she hums

and dances a little,

with those hips of hers,

serious hips, good for toting

babies, or propping open 

the screen door

while she calls me

down from the backyard tree.

And this is the call

I've been waiting for;

this is what I want to know:

what Love's been fixing

for me. So I push

into her kitchen,

stand on tiptoes,

try to see

what she's got

in that big pot of hers.

Is goodness 

something the mouth 

can decide?

Years later; the smell

is almost an ache,

the downdraft

of left-behind dreams.

I stand

facing the stove

a long time.

I stir and wait,

hoping to catch the secret 

sleeping in the low

afternoon,

wake it steaming

in the valley 

of my spoon.

Susan Steger Welsh, Rafting On The Water Table,  Minnesota Voices Project #96, New Rivers Press, 2000.  

Such a wise and poignant voice has my friend Susan.  I haven't seen her in years since I left our writers' group that met regularly at a coffee shop on Grand Avenue.  The book that this poem comes from was nominated for a Minnesota Book Award.  The other poems in her book are equally worthy. 

"The kitchen of love"... does this call to mind any happy memories for you?  My mom would make homemade doughnuts and she would plan the deep-frying to coincide with my arrival home on the school bus.  Her gift of love was fresh, hot doughnut holes and a glass of cold milk.  As I remember it, that humble kitchen in our tiny farm home glowed with warmth and love on doughnut days.