Instructions for living a life: Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.

Mary Oliver

Friday, May 22, 2020

Poems 70 & 71 (Pandemic Day 73)

The Lobster

See the hard-shelled 
Leggy lobster
Like an underwater
Mobster
With two claws
To catch and crush
Worms and mollusks
Into mush
And antennae
Long and thick
Used for striking
Like a stick.
So be careful
On vacation 
Not to step on
This crustacean.

The Rhea


The rhea rheally isn't strange--
It's just an ostrich, rhearranged.


The trees are lush with fresh green leaves, the formerly sparse thicket of trees and shrubby bushes has filled out to obscure our view of the pond,  a pair of hummingbirds amaze us with their aerial acrobatics by the feeder, and just now an oriole is peeking in our window. Nature is on full display in the month of May.  My thoughts are on gardening and spending much of my day outside instead of cloistered inside.  I'm drawn to the poetry books on my shelf about animals and nature and will be selecting from them this week and next.

I acquired this book at a library event and got a cool autograph from the author, Douglas Florian, a native New Yorker who developed a sustained interest in nature from his artist father.  As Florian later recalled on Embracing the Child online, "I studied drawing with many teachers, but my first was my father. He taught me to love nature in all of its forms." At age fifteen, Florian attended a summer painting course at New York's School of Visual Arts and he enjoyed the experience so much that he decided to make art his career. "When I walked into the school's large studio filled with paint-encrusted easels, vivid palettes, and the smell of linseed oil," Florian explained in a Harcourt Brace publicity release, "I knew then and there I was going to be an artist."

He gained success when he combined his art with writing light verse for children.  You might recognize the influence of Ogden Nash in his poetry.  I found this nice summary at http://paulaoneil.tripod.com/id7.html


According to Douglas Florian...
You have to write a lot before you get really good at it.
There is only one rule to follow when writing poetry: There are no rules!
"Poetry is not black and white. It is more like the gray and purple area that connects all the things we live in."
Always study your subject. Get your hands on as many books about your subject as possible.
His favorite book is always the one he has just finished.
The advice that Douglas would give to a would-be children's author is: "The harder I work, the luckier I get." So get down to work, but try to have fun!
"Remember, in poetry, the only rule is the POETRY RULES!

Enjoy this short video of Florian reading about Worker Bees.




Thursday, May 21, 2020

Poem 69 (Pandemic Day 72)

Burning

"Control nature," my father said.
Or "We must get this yard under control."
I think that's right

I thought of myself as doing the best I could.

Collage by Deborah Keenan
filling buckets, carrying them, aching fingers
coiled around metal, down the slope,
one bucket for each new tomato plant.
I first made a moat for each green life.
I tilted the lip of the bucket
and the moats filled.  I watched the stalks lift,
the green veins fill.

Now there's other conversation.
My son says, "Could you do that in the olden days?"
And I say, "Yes, we could burn and burn and no one cared."
What city friends never understand--not just the leaves
of autumn burned, but in March and April we burned
a line across the back acres, getting rid
of last year's stubble, burning the volunteers
my father hadn't planted himself.

Now I know I was too young to be left
in charge of a line of fire.  Where did he go
that spring day, leaving me with a rake,
a hose that didn't stretch far enough?

I think he went for a drink, a bottle hidden
in the rose bushes, or maybe for another nap of oblivion;
then I only felt he'd given me a precious job.
I don't remember feeling small until the fire jumped
in the wind, and my rake, my anxious movements couldn't hold
the heat in place.

It doesn't matter. the yard survived, though fire took
the raspberry patch, three pines, the best oak for climbing.

I see my son and daughter think I'm old, a pioneer
who believed in burning for free, a sky that could abide
smoke and forever be clean.

The yard's rearranged now.  One tornado, two straight line
wind storms, two brothers, one girl, handy neighbors
carrying spring promises.  The willows my father planted
still grow in the next yard, land sold off
when his job was taken from him.

He controlled nothing, finally, but the patient
and decisive movement of his body into the path
of a train.

What jobs are right for children?
I give my daughter no line of fire
to guard. I ask too little, I think,
and worry they will never be serious enough
for the world.

I stand now under the willows, knowing they root faster,
grow farther, lift higher than any other tree I might choose
for my plot of city land. My father said,

"You plant a willow, and you'll still be around
to see it tower over you."

Deborah Keenan, Happiness, Coffee House Press, 1995. (Minnesota Book Award Finalist)

This is not the kind of poem that would seem to fit into a book entitled Happiness.  I wasn't sure I could keep going for the last 3 stanzas, after I learned of her father's end. Happiness, however, is not really a simple thing; it is not easily purchased online or in a store; not provided to us by our parents, or our friends, or our lovers; not something that we can call up on command.

In her 2007 book The How of Happiness, positive psychology researcher Sonja Lyubomirsky elaborates, describing happiness as “the experience of joy, contentment, or positive well-being, combined with a sense that one’s life is good, meaningful, and worthwhile.”

Perhaps that can be the outcome of our living, but to read Keenan is to first deal with passionate trials of familial lives--love and its betrayals, perhaps then you can recognize the worth and meaning of your life and the happiness that that can bring.  

Keenan (1950-) is a retired professor, but still an active Minnesota poet and collage artist.  She's had a big impact on arts in our state through COMPAS and Artists in the Schools programs and teaching at St. Thomas, U of M and Hamline as well as at the Loft.  I had some of my poetry critiqued by her in a Loft class--20 years later, I'm still thinking about how to improve the final lines of a poem that she told me was "very wonderful".  Maybe now is the time to tackle that final line at last.




Wednesday, May 20, 2020

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.

Tuesday, May 19, 2020

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.



Monday, May 18, 2020

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


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?"

Sunday, May 17, 2020

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.


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.


Saturday, May 16, 2020

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!