Poem 15 (Pandemic Day 30)

My Daughter Says

My daughter say

she feels like a Martian,

that no one understands her,

that one friend is too perfect, 

and another too mean,

and that she has 

the earliest bedtime

in her whole class.

I strain to remember

how a third grader feels

about love, about pain

and I feel a hollow in my heart 

where there should be blood

and an ache where there should 

be certainty.

My darling Molly,

no earthling ever lived who did not feel

like a Martian,

who did not curse her bedtime,

who did not wonder

how she got to this planet,

who dropped her here

and why

and how she can possibly 

stay.

I go to bed 

whenever I like 

and with whomever I choose,

but still I wonder

why I do not 

belong in my class,

and where my class is anyway,

and why so many of them

seem to be asleep 

while I toss and turn

in perplexity.

They, meanwhile, imagine I am perfect

and have solved everything:

an earthling among the Martians,

at home on her home planet,

feet planted in green grass.

If only we could all admit

that none of us belongs here,

that all of us are Martians,

and that our bedtimes

are always

too early

or 

too late.

Erica Jong, Becoming Light: Poems: New and Selected. Harper, 1991 (acquired 1996)

When you hear the name, Erica Jong, some of you of a certain age, will think of her novel, Fear of Flying  and remember it as this blurb from Amazon does: "Originally published in 1973, the groundbreaking, uninhibited story of Isadora Wing and her desire to fly free caused a national sensation. It fueled fantasies, ignited debates, and even introduced a notorious new phrase to the English language. Now, after thirty years, the revolutionary novel known as
Fear of Flying still stands as a timeless tale of self-discovery, liberation, and womanhood."

I don't remember if I was fearless enough to read it the early 70's.  I had aspirations to be liberated and uninhibited, but by then I was a newly married, first grade teacher in a small town--not living the life that Erica Jong did.  And what a life!  She had 4 husbands and one child; I got by with one husband and 4 pregnancies.  By the time I acquired this book of poetry, I was considerable more experienced and worldly and was writing poetry myself.  Through some wonderful classes at the Loft with poet John Reinhard, I became part of a writers group that met regularly at a coffee shop on Grand Avenue.  The group members were more talented and dedicated than I and became published poets:  Mary Jo Thompson, Kathleen Jesme, Susan Steger Welsh.  Still, I have folios full of poems that helped me find my way through things I didn't understand and couldn't have found any other way to express.  Things like not belonging, like yes, being as uncertain and out of place as a Martian.

One of the first poems I wrote in my class at the Loft was about my daughter, who was a teenager at the time.  Some people turn to alcohol; I was lucky to have poetry.

Erica Jong's daughter, Molly, no longer a 3rd grader, is a writer too.  Somehow I ended up reading a chapter of her book, The Sex Doctors in the Basement: True Stories From a Semicelebrity Childhood.
Oy vey!

Poems 12-14 (Pandemic Day 29)

Summer in Kashega

The old ones, Alexie and Fekla, they say,

"Go, Vera. Go to Kashega.  See your mother, your friends.

It is only for the summer," they say.

"Go.  Nothing will happen to us."

So I go, eager to visit Kashega.

Riding the mail boat out of Unalaska Bay

     as Alexie and Fekla Golodoff,

     and our snug house in Unalaska village,

     and my photographs and books, my little skiff,

And my twelve handsome chickens,

All fade into the fog.

What War?

I arrive in Kashega.  My friends Pari and Alfred squabble over me

     like a pair of seagulls fighting for a crab claw.

     My mother greets me like a stranger, with an 

     Americanchin hug, then touches my hair.

There is no sign of trouble here.  We have crayon days, 

     big and happy.

The windows sparkle at night.

I had forgotten how a lighted window shines

     without blackout paper.

The Japanese

They weren't always our enemy. There was time when the

     Japanese sailed in and their crews played baseball with 

     our Aleut teams.

But we saw what they were up to.  We warned our

     government about Japanese who charted our

     shorelines, who studied our harbors from their fishing

     boats.

Our Japanese visitors expected always

     an amiable Aleut welcome. But

     when the hand of friendship was withdrawn,

They took their measurements and made their calculations

    anyway.

Karen Hesse, Aleutian Sparrow, Margaret M. McElderry Books, 2003.

I just finished reading this young adult novel written in free verse by the Newbery-winning author of Out of the Dust, (1998) which was also written as a series of poems.

While the infamous Executive Order 9066, which forcibly removed 120,000 Americans of Japanese ancestry from their homes during WWII is a well-known atrocity that took place on American soil; the removal and detainment of Native Americans from the Aleutian Islands was something I'd never heard about before opening this book from my poetry shelf.

While the number of Aleuts was much smaller (881) the relocation and detention was done "under conditions that are as shocking as any in the long, sad history of the Government's relations with its Native-American citizens." (David Oyama, New York Times op-ed, July, 1981).  The destruction of their culture was disproportionate.

Hesse's spare but powerful verses bring you into the lives and struggles of these displaced people through the eyes of Vera, a young Aleut girl.  Although the reason these people were moved was because the Japanese had seized and occupied some of these strategic islands, the Japanese had left by 1943 and yet the Aleuts were not returned until 1945 and they returned to homes that had been destroyed, without adequate compensation to rebuild.

What strikes me is that these actions taken to protect a group of people was done with such indifference to who they were and to their basic humanity--not willful harm, but lack of regard.  I've been fortunate enough to have lived in another country (Australia) and to have traveled widely enough to be able to recognize our universal commonalities as humans and to despair over our human tendencies to disregard our basic connections to one another and replace them with artificial barriers of race and color and nationality.  Will this current crisis help more of us to see that?  

Poem 11 (Pandemic Day 28)

Acquainted with the night

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.

Robert Frost, The Poetry of Robert Frost,  Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1969.

f you recall your literature classes that dealt with the forms and structures of poetry, this evocative poem by Frost first published in 1927, would check many of the boxes.  It is a sonnet; a poem consisting of 14 lines made up of 3 quatrains and one rhyming couplet.  (Shakespeare wasn't the only one writing sonnets, although he helped popularize the form of the English or Shakespearean sonnet, as opposed to the Italian or Petrarchan sonnet which came centuries earlier. )

It has a classic rhyming scheme: ABA CDC DAD AA. and to top it all off, it's written in good old "iambic pentameter" the type of meter (10 syllables that make 5 heartbeats in the poem)  that just assures that you will read it with a poetic rhythm. 
I don't think it hurts to understand how something works; but wonderful poems like this rise above the mechanics.  The sadness, loneliness and isolation expressed by the poet is something that during this distressing time many of us will come to feel, no matter how busy we stay with necessary tasks or binge watching tv shows.  Night comes eventually, and with it, uncertainty.  We are not reassured or comforted by Frost's words; but we know we are not alone.  Our sadness and loneliness are legitimate feelings, worthy of acknowledgment.

Poem 10 (Pandemic Day 27)

The Little Hat

I lost my little

Hat. It had

Ribbons round and 

Round it.

And this made me very sad.

And I never found it.

Dorothy Aldis, All Together, G.P. Putnam's Sons, 1952

Yesterday was T.S. Eliot; today for contrast is Dorothy Aldis, whose poetry was written to be accessible to children, not to be mused over in drafty garrets, contemplated in the flickering light of the fireside or dissected in college classrooms. 

Eliot(1888-1965) and Aldis(1896-1966)  were basically contemporaries, both born in the midwest to wealthy families of note and both were educated in prestigious eastern private schools.  We always associate T.S. Eliot with British literature, but he spent his first 25 years in the US.  Perhaps their paths might have been more congruent if they had been born 50 years later.  Despite Aldis's talent and opportunities, her choices may have been much more restricted than Eliot's.

Both poems are about loss.  The Waste Land takes you through the landscape of death and destruction and loss.  It is a stunning journey.  Aldis gives you a picture of grief in less than 25 words.

For a child, loss can be such a tangible emotion.  You love something and then it is gone, you look, you wait, you hope, but it never returns.  Early life lessons in loss can be a treasured toy, a beloved pet, or a grandparent.  It is the finality of loss that I feel right in my gut in this poem..."And I never found it."  My parents, my aunts and uncles, and all 5 of my siblings are gone.  This makes me very sad.

Poem 9 (Pandemic Day 26)

I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD 
April is the cruellest month, breeding 
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing 
Memory and desire, stirring 
Dull roots with spring rain. 
Winter kept us warm, covering 
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding 
A little life with dried tubers. 
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee 
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade, 
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,                             
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour. 
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch. 
And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s, 
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled, 
And I was frightened. He said, Marie, 
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went. 
In the mountains, there you feel free. 
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow 
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,                                 
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, 
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, 
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only 
There is shadow under this red rock, 
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock), 
And I will show you something different from either 
Your shadow at morning striding behind you 
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; 
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.                           

From: T. S. Eliot. The Waste Land, Harvest Book, Harcourt Brace, 1962

This paperback copy (listed price: $1.25) has been with me since I read it in Mr. McFarland's Humanities class at Moorhead State in the early 1970's.  I had some amazing professors there, Larry McFarland and especially Dr. Clarence Glasrud, English instructor whose nickname was Soc (short for Socrates).
 I'll have to admit I was a receptive student, full of youthful idealism--literature took this country girl to exotic and esoteric places in both time and space.  I had such a desire to be "erudite", even if that word had not been in my vocabulary before.
The Waste Land was a dense poem, full of literary allusions and historical references.  I noted them all in small and careful writing in a purple pen.
Written in 1921 and published in 1922 it was inspired by the ravages of W.W. I.  Perhaps another great literary masterpiece like this will arise of this global crisis.
While The Waste Land is still under copyright protection in the U.K. and Europe by has been in the public domain in the U.S. since 1998.  If you would like to read this amazing poem or other available class books; Project Gutenberg is the best source.

Poem 8 (Day 25)

Desiderata

Go quietly amid the noise and the haste, and 

remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible, without surrender, be on good

terms with all persons.  Speak your truth quietly

and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and

ignorant; they too have their story.  Avoid loud

and aggressive persons; they are vexatious to the 

spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you
may become vain or bitter, for always there will be
greater and lesser persons than yourself.  Enjoy
your achievements as well as your plans.  Keep
interested in your own career, however humble; it
is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the
world is full of trickery.  But let this not blind you to
what virtue there is; many persons strive for high
ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism.  Be
yourself.  Especially do not feign affection.  Neither
be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity
and disenchantment, it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully
surrendering the things of youth.  Nurture strength
of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
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.  And whether or not it is clear to you, no
doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you
conceive Him to be.  And whatever your labors
and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep
peace in your soul.  With all its sham, drudgery
and broken dreams, it is is still a beautiful world. Be
cheerful.  Strive to be happy.

From: The Desiderata of Happiness; a collection of philosophical poems, by Max Ehrmann,
Crown Publishers, various copyright dates; poem written in 1927.

This piece, nicely printed and laminated has hung inside a kitchen cupboard door for years.  It's probably been a long time since I even consciously looked at it; but it deserves to be revisited for its simple but profound wisdom--"Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with
yourself."  "With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world."

My yard was filled with birds yesterday despite the chilly weather.  Male cardinals were sparring, a small flock of fluffed-up red-winged blackbirds were checking out the cracked corn we had just spread and dozens of slate-colored junco on there way to some place north were popping like popcorn in the dead leaves.  At least two handsome fox sparrow were also scratching around for food on their brief stopover.  It still is a beautiful world.

Poem 7 (PD 24)

Campfire

Just think--

when Mother was my age,

she could build a fire

with sparks from rocks,

catch a bunch of 

grasshoppers and roast them whole

for a summer night's snack!

"Get me a good stick,"

she says, "thin but strong," 

and I bring her one

from the woods

behind our tent.

On the way back 

I see a brown bag

by her feet--

could it be?

When the fire is spitting ready,

she reaches

in the bag, rustling,

and hands me

one big, fat, luscious

marshmellow.

From: A Suitcase of Seaweed and Other Poems, by Janet S. Wong, Margaret McElderry Books, 1996

A gift from Bill Raffloer and Suzanne Prenderville

I choose this poem to honor the heritage of my grandson, Asher Junsoo Lee Doolittle; a bright-eyed, sparkling child who was born on April 2, 2018 in South Korea.  I was supposed to be there, in Daegu, South Korea, to help celebrate his second birthday.  My plane was scheduled to leave on March 6.  Unsurprisingly that didn't happen, for as of today over a million cases of Co-vid 19 have been confirmed around the world.  The last picture I received of him showed him in a face mask.  The world he will grow up in is very different than the world I grew up in.  I don't know when it will safe enough to travel again to see him.  

The poet, Janet Wong, like my grandson, has a Korean mother who married an American soldier.  Unlike Asher, she was born in the US and didn't have a deep connection to the country of her mother, but as an adult she came to crave Korean beef bone soup and kimchi.  Our connections are deep and many to our family and our heritage and show up in many unexpected ways.  

Because we cut down 14 trees on our 4 acre property last winter, our yard will require much spring clean-up.  We've recently collected and burned twigs, sticks and other brush and toasted weiners for dinner over the coals.  This poem pulls together many facets of my life at the moment.  Poetry has a way of doing that.

Poem 6 (PD 23)

Alone,
Against a darkling sky,
Absence of leaves
Reveals the delicate tracery
Of branches impelled outward
By the orderly impulses
Of life,
Itself.

From: Impressions, Roger Cooper (poet), John Erickson (photographer)
Evergreen Press, Brainerd, MN, 2002
Photo by Jean Doolittle, 2013; on the road to Springfield, IL

Poem 5 (PD 22)

Another Emily Dickinson poem appropriate for the first day of April:

April

An altered look about the hill;

A Tyrian light the village fills;

A wider sunrise in the dawn;

A deeper twilight on the lawn;

A print of a vermillion foot;

A purple finger on the slope;

A flippant fly upon the pane;

A spider at his trade again;

An added strut in chanticleer;

A flower expected everywhere;

An axe shrill singing in the woods; 

Fern-odors on untravelled roads,--

All this, and more I cannot tell,

A furtive look you know as well,

And Nicodemus' mystery

Receives its annual reply.

From: Selected Poems of Emily Dickinson, original editions edited by Mabel Loomis Todd and T. W. Higginson, Gramercy Books (originally published in Poems, 1890; Second Series, 1891; and Poems, Third Series, 1896.

https://www.mentalfloss.com/article/89564/11-poetic-facts-about-emily-dickinson

Links within the poem take you to the Emily Dickinson Lexicon, a scholarly but very accessible resource.  Here is an introduction from the website:

The Emily Dickinson Lexicon is a dictionary of alphabetized headword entries for all of the words in Emily Dickinson’s collected poems (Johnson 1955 and Franklin 1998 editions). The scope of the Dickinson lexicon is comprehensive. A team of lexicographers and reviewers has examined almost 100,000 individual word occurrences to create approximately 9,275 headword entries. The EDL includes proper nouns, person names, and place names that are not usually listed in general dictionaries of the English language. Because high-frequency function words such as a, of, and the are important for Dickinson studies, the EDL includes basic definitions for 168 words that were omitted from Rosenbaum's concordance (xi) with their 38,235 occurrences. 

Poem 4  (PD 21)

I'm NOBODY! Who are you?
Are you--Nobody--Too?
Then there's a pari of us?
Don't tell! they'd advertise--you know!

How dreary-to be -Somebody!
How public--like a Frog--
To tell one's name--the livelong June--
To an admiring Bog!

From: Judge Tenderly of Me; the Poems of Emily Dickinson
Hallmark Editions, 1968
(A treasured little book, gifted to me by my friend, Nancy Jenson with a lovely inscription)

Poem 2 (PD 19)

Lord,
what a menagerie!
Between Your downpour and these animal cries
one cannot hear oneself think!
The days are long.
All this water makes my heart sink.
When will the ground cease to rock under my feet?
The days are long.
Master Raven has not come back.
Here is Your dove.
Will she find us a twig of hope?
The days are long,
Lord.
Guide Your Ark to safety,
some zenith of rest,
where we can escape at last
from this brute slavery.
The days are long,
Lord.
Lead me until I reach the shore of Your covenant.
Amen.

From: Prayers from the Ark, selected Poems by Carmen Bernos de Gasztold, Translated by Rumer Godden. Puffin Books, @1995. Original English text copyright @1962.

Poem One (day 18)

I was never good at hide
 & seek
because I’d always

Make enough noise so my

Friends would be sure to
Find me.
I don’t have

Anyone to play those games

With any more, but now &
Then I make enough noise

Just in case someone is

Still looking & hasn’t

Found me yet

 From: Story People by Brian Andreas,
Story People Publishing, Decorah, IA, 1997