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.