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.

There's a Word For That! Language in the Pandemic Age

From: CNN Newsletter, "What Matters" by Zachary B. Wolf, May 4, 2020.

 Dutch-born anthropologist Harald Prins wrote to point out the effect coronavirus has already had on his native language:

It appears, not surprisingly, that Covid-19 related neologisms are rampant in the Netherlands (and probably in most if not all other languages, too). I doubt most will survive but some will, albeit with unsuspected accretions.

In Dutch, for example, few realize that a popular word like "klerevent" (difficult to translate, but equivalent to bastard or rotten fellow) derives from cholera (klere).

Here are some Dutch corona neologisms with my free translations (but several terms resonate in a unique social-cultural way in the Netherlands)

Huidhonger / skin hunger: a longing for human contact while in isolation

Anderhalvemetereconomie / six-feet-economy: an economy constructed to avoid spreading coronavirus

Hoestschaamte / cough-shame: the anxiety one may experience about possibly triggering a panic among the people nearby when making a coughing sound for whatever reason

Coronahufter / coronajerk: shopper at a supermarket or store who violates the six-foot social distance prescription or other safe-keeping protocol. 

Druppelcontact / spray-contact: exchange of little droplets when sneezing or coughing, esp. as source of infection

Onthamsteren / dehoarding: processing long-stored shelf-stable food into a meal. 

Straatschaamte / street-shame: the embarrassment someone experiences when being out for urgently necessary errands during lockdown

Toogviroloog / blather-virologist: dilettante who spreads false or unsubstantiated information about the virus, its transmission, or its treatment

A new Dutch corona lexicon was created and is updated. It already comprises 700 new words, including those noted above.

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.

Poem 46 (Pandemic Day 53)

English is a Pain! (Pane?)

by Shirlee Curlee Bingham

Rain, reign, rein.

English is a pain.

Although the words

sound just alike,

the spelling's not the same!

Bee, be, B,

I'd rather climb a tree.

than learn to spell

the same old word,

not just one way, but three!

Sight, site, cite,

I try with all my might,

No matter which

I finally choose, 

it's not the one that's right!

There, their, they're,

enough to make you swear.

Too many ways 

to write one sound,

I just don't think it's fair!

To, two, too,

so what's a kid to do?

I think I'll go

to live on Mars,

and leave this mess with ewe!

(you?)

A Bad Case of the Giggles: Kids' Favorite Funny Poems, selected by Bruce Lansky, Meadowbrook Press, 1994.

I spend a big chunk of each day of the pandemic with my 7-year old granddaughter teaching and learning and we both agree...English can be a pain!  The vowels insist on making more than one sound or maybe no sound at all when they are paired with another vowel (why are they even there you could ask...). Even the consonants can turn on you and make hard sounds or soft sounds or no sound at all--"g" and "h" are famous for that when they snuggle up together and "k" likes to let "n" do the talking when they march at the head of a word.  I just all you can do is giggle and use spellcheck!

Poems 44 and 45 (Pandemic Day 52)

Arithmetic 

Arithmetic is where numbers fly like pigeons in and out of your head.

Arithmetic tells you how many you lose or win if you know how many you have before you

         lost or won

Arithmetic is seven eleven all good children go to heaven-or five six bundle of sticks.

Arithmetic is numbers you squeeze from your head to your hand to your pencil to your paper            till you get the answer.

Arithmetic is where the answer is right and everything is nice and you can look out

      of the window and see the blue sky--or the answer is wrong and you have to start all over         and try again and see how it comes out this time.

If you take a number and double it and double it again and then double it a few more times,             the number get bigger and bigger and goes higher and higher and only arithmetic can tell            you what the number is when you decide to quit doubling.

Arithmetic is where you have to multiply--and you carry the multiplication table in your head              and hope you won't lose it.

If you have two animal crackers, one good and one bad, and you eat one and a striped zebra            with streaks all over him eats the other, how many animal crackers will you have if                  offers you five six seven somebody and you say No no no and you say Nay nay nay                and you say Nix nix nix?

If you ask your mother for one fried egg for breakfast and she gives you two fried eggs                 and you eat both of them, who is. better in arithmetic, you or your mother?

Buffalo Dusk

The buffaloes are gone.

And those who saw the buffaloes are gone.

Those who saw the buffaloes by thousands and how they pawed the 

          prairie sod into dust with their hoofs, their great heads down pawing 

          on in a great pageant of dusk,

Those who saw the buffaloes are gone.

And the buffaloes are gone.

Carl Sandburg, Rainbows ARe Made: Poems by Carl Sandburg, selected by Lee Bennett Hopkins, Harcourt, Brace, Jovanovich, 1982.

These poems were selected for young readers by Hopkins who had been a teacher and fell in love with Sandburg's poetry early in his career.  His affection is evident in the poetry selections and design

of the book.  There is plenty of room on the pages for the poems to shine on their own, the full page wood engravings are masterly and engaging and the chapter headings are a poem themselves—about poetry....”Poetry is a series of explanations of life, fading off into horizons too swift for explanations.” Is the first one.  I haven’t read a lot of Sandburg, but I’m reminded now to spend more time with this poet who...”stops for the buzzing of bumblebees on bright Tuesdays in any summer month...”

Poems 42 and 43  (Pandemic Day 51)

Of My Former Self

by Georgia Cook

"Bone loss"

announces my dentist promising

to cap that noble worker,

lower back grinder,

I'm hoping to keep to cremation

It's a disappearing act.

Store clerks and waiters address

my daughters when we're out together...

In family albums

I'm bigger than the children,

How is it now, when we hug,

I'm smaller.

The last week in August

hiking in the Highline Trail,

sumac is starting small fires.

Milkweed grows here:

the arbitrary flutter of monarchs is

taking them to Mexico.

My good shadow bounces

from asphalt to prairie grasses,

to goldenrod, quicker, slimmer, darker than I am.

The Shade of Lilacs

by Charles V. Lisle

The best part of the springtime when he was ten

was sitting with his dog under the lilac bushes at

the end of the block and waiting for his dad to be

walking home.  The little terrier would see him

first and bark and bounce as they ran to him and 

skittered 'round him, trading tales of the day.

One sunny day when he was sixty he drove back

and parked at the corner where the lilacs once

stood.  They were long gone, but the breeze still

held the scent of them.  And the sound of a small

dog barking.

100 Words on Shadow, Volume 4 No. 2, International Writing Program, 1996.

Okay, folks...you've got only 100 words to tell a story, capture a moment, express your reality.  Can you do it and can you do it in such a way that others can understand the moment or the story and feel what you feel?  I think Georgia and Charles succeeded.  What do you think?

https://www.alaskastar.com/2018-05-22/garden-growing-lilacs