April is Poetry Month: Day 3

 The Blind Men and the Elephant

   by John Godfrey Saxe

It was six men of Indostan
To learning much inclined

Who went to see the Elephant

(Though all of them were blind),

That each by observation

Might satisfy his mind.

The First approached the Elephant

And happening to fall

Against his broad and sturdy side,

At once began to bawl:

"God bless me! but the Elephant 

Is very like a wall!"

The Second  feeling at the tusk,

Cried, "Ho! what have we here

So very round and smooth and sharp?

To me tis mighty clear

This wonder of an Elephant 

Is very like a spear!"

The Third approached the animal,

And happening to take

The squirming trunk within his sands,

Thus boldly up and spake:

"I see," quoth he, "the Elephant

Is very like a snake!"

The Fourth reached out an eager hand

And felt about the knee.

"What most this wondrous beast is like

Is mighty plain," quoth he;

"Tis clear enough the Elephant

Is very like a tree!"

The Fifth who chanced to touch the ear,

Said: "E'en the blindest man

Can tell what this resembles most;

Deny the fact who can,

This marvel of an Elephant

Is very like a fan!"

The Sixth  no sooner had begun

About the beast to grope,

Than, seizing on the swinging tail

That fell within his scope,

"I see," quoth he, "the Elephant

Is very like a rope!"

And so these men of Indostan

Disputed loud and long

Each in his own opinion

Exceeding stiff and strong,

Though each was partly in the right,

And all were in the wrong!

From: Nonsense & Commonsense : a child's book of Victorian verse by John Grossman & Priscilla Dunhill, Workman Publishing, 1992.

    As a lover of Sherlock Holmes in all his permutations, I feel an affinity for the Victorian times, although I am always grateful that I did not have to fit into either the stuffy manners or the stifling garments of the times.  As a lover of poetry, however, I can look upon the Victorian period as a golden age.  

    As they write in the introduction to this beautifully illustrated volume, "In nineteenth-century America,, poetry was a national pastime.  Victorians "rendered" poems in front parlors, at political rallies and family picnics.  Parents knew then, as parents know today, that poetry with its click-clack rhyme, rhythm and repetition is the first literature children fall in love with."  

    The illustrations are all from the years 1880-1920 and are part of the John Grossman Collection of Antique Images.  The book design is top-notch. I found each page a delight to look through and the poems both charming and fun and provided a chance to glimpse the innocence of another time and place. 

    The poem that I chose, seems particularly pertinent for today's media landscape.  We have such amazing technology and information resources at our fingertips that we should, theoretically, be able to see issues in all their fullness and complexity.  However, human nature being what it is, we are, like the blind men, limited by our vantage point and committed to our point of view, regardless of how accurate it might (or might not) be.  

    The poem has a final verse that was not included in the text of the book.  It reads:

MORAL,

So, oft in theologic wars
The disputants, I ween,
Rail on in utter ignorance
Of what each other mean;
And prate about an Elephant
Not one of them has seen!

    I found that verse in an article from On Art and Aesthetics  which delves into this topic beautifully and in depth.  It's worth a read, so click on the link.  The opening paragraph reads:

"The Indian parable of the blind men and the elephant (part of many religious traditions) is a powerful commentary on the perennial tension between subjectivity and objectivity. The narrative is simple – a small group of blind men (or men in the dark) try to touch an elephant to learn what it is like. Each touches only a part (side or tusk or ear or something else) and hastily concludes that it must be the elephant’s real and only form. They quarrel long and loud upon discovering the incompatibility of their accounts. The story has been used to encourage intellectual humility and respect for the views of one’s opponents. It is also a reflection on the tricky nature of truth and highlights the need for dialogue in human society."

    In some small way, that's what I try to accomplish in this blog and other writings that I do. 

April is Poetry Month: Day 2

 Warning

Nashua Volquez-Young, Pexels.com

By Jenny Joseph

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple

With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.

And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves

And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired

And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells

And run my stick along the public railings

And make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain

And pick the flowers in other people's gardens

And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat

And eat three pounds of sausages at a go

Or only bread and pickle for a week

And hoard pens and pencils and beer mats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry

And pay our rent and not swear in the street

And set a good example for the children.

We have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practise a little now?

So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised

When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

From: When I Am An Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple, An Anthology of Short Stories and Poetry, Edited by Sandra Martz, Papier-Mache Press, 1987.

    This is the poem that started a movement: the Red Hat Society, now a global phenomenon.  It is a delicious poem...cheeky and irreverent and yet poignant and wise.  It is delightful to read out loud, but it may not even be my favorite poem in this anthology.  

    It turns out that Jenny Joseph wrote this poem in 1961 when she was 29 years old.  She went on to write 13 books of poetry and 6 children's books, but this is the one poem that is forever associated with her.  Purple, however, was never her favorite color.   Here is Jenny Joseph reading "Warning"

    I plan to spend more time with this book, even though I, like Jenny, have not filled my closet with purple.  As someone who is currently recuperating from another "adventure in aging" surgery; I could use the company of poets who speak of the experiences that come to us as the years inevitably pile on.  Poems like "I know the mirrors" by Janice Townley Moore, "Endurance" by Fran Portley and "Last Visit to Grandmother" by Enid Shomer.  Maybe too,  I'll buy some brandy, although I'll skip the summer gloves and satin sandals for the time being.

April is Poetry Month: Day 1

The first poem of the month, dedicated to my friend Mary Beth Nelson, just because...

The Journey

By Mary Oliver

Lake Superior, Sept. 2016 by Jean Doolittle

One day you finally knew

what you had to do, and began,

though the voices around you

kept shouting

their bad advice--

though the whole house 

began to tremble 

and you felt the old tug 

at your ankles

"Mend my life!"

each voice cried.

But you didn't stop. 

You knew what you had to do,

though the wind pried

with its stiff fingers

at the very foundations,

though their melancholy 

was terrible.

It was already late

enough, and a wild night 

and the road full of fallen

branches and stones.

But little by little,

as you left their voices behind,

the stars began to burn

through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice

which you slowly

recognized as your own,

that kept you company 

as you strode deeper and deeper

into the world,

determined to do

the only thing you could do--

determined to save

the only life that you could save.

    This poem is the first featured poem in ten poems to change your life, By Roger Housden, Harmony Books, 2001.  

    If you feel uncertain about poetry and whether or not there is space in your hectic life for spending time with carefully placed words in rhythmic order, this book may convince you that not only can you make space for poetry, but that you absolutely must, if you want to be fully human and alive.

    Perhaps this sounds like hyperbole.  It is not. 

    Housden himself is not a published poet but he has an uncanny understanding and love for the medium and for making poems accessible to others.  The dust jacket blurb is wonderful, beginning with one of my favorite sentences, ever.

    "This is a dangerous book.  Great poetry calls into question not less than everything.  It dares us to break free from the safe strategies of the cautious mind.  It opens us to pain and joy and delight.  It amazes, startles, pierces, and transforms us.  It can lead to communion and grace.

    Through the voices of ten inspiring poets and his own reflections, the author of Sacred America shows how poetry illuminates the eternal feelings and desires that stir the human heart and soul.  These poems explore such universal themes as the awakening of wonder, the longing for love, the wisdom of dreams, and the courage required to live an authentic life.  In thoughtful commentary on each work, Housden offers glimpses into his personal spiritual journey and invites readers to contemplate the significance of the poet's message in their own lives."

    

    

April is National Poetry Month

 Two years ago when the uncertain days of the Covid-19 pandemic were just beginning, I found something to occupy my newly free hours at home.  I began re-organizing bookshelves and recognized I had a trove of poetry books that had been neglected.  For the next 57 days I explored a different book and shared a poem (or two) each day both on my blog and on .  Eventually I added commentary and pictures.  I'm not sure why I ended my postings, because I had not yet exhausted my supply of poetry books.

Now I once again find myself somewhat confined at home following foot surgery and can return to my unexplored poetry books everyday in April.  If you are interested in additional activities on this topic, check out  National Poetry Month .

Pain Has Been My Companion

 Pain has been my companion for the past few weeks. I had expected her and her little sisters, Discomfort and Distress, to spend some time with me; I knew it to be inevitable, but I didn’t really want them to hang around and I wanted them to leave as soon as possible.

Pain pills could repress them, but they had booked their reservations for a room in my psyche at the same time I booked my foot surgery and I knew that they would be around as long as they chose and I would have to find some way to live with them.

We look for all sorts of ways to deal with unwelcome guests, most of them rather futile.  What would happen if I actually invited them in and tried to get to know them?  To live and talk with Pain?  To see if there were any gifts in this adversity of being unable to walk on my right foot and to spend time waiting for healing to solidify the bones, mend the nerves, ligaments and tendons and meld the flesh together along the jagged lines of incisions and stitches?

It’s not something I really wanted to do, but my time spent in Wellspring, a program of spiritual deepening and reflection, made me consider that it could have value for spiritual growth.

I had done some preparation for my healing time…books to read, projects that could be done sitting, computer files to clean up, movies to watch.  I had some family assistance to fetch and carry, and a walker and a nifty little scooter to aid me in getting around where I needed to go.  

When the nerve block wore off a few days after the surgery, I had hoped that healing was well under way.  When I visited the doctor after 6 days, I was feeling optimistic about the recovery.  It seemed to be going so much better than my knee surgery 8 months before.

I think Pain considered my optimism to be misplaced.  My sleep became  sporadic and the numbness was bothersome.  I found I needed a pain pill after several nights without them.  Now my sick room was getting rather crowded.  Uncertainty and Fear were moving in.  Was this really healing properly?  Would there be permanent nerve damage to my foot?  It hurt.  I sat up in my bed at 3:00 a.m. 

I was a whiny crybaby…”It hurts, it hurts, it hurts,” I moaned. 

 
I felt my personality split and some mature, disdainful part of me looked on pityingly.  It made the whiny part of me whine even louder.  I don’t think my hope for an intellectual relationship with Pain was going that well.  She was having her way with me.

Thankfully, I wasn’t alone.  All three of our cats had been sleeping with me for the last few days.  This was not typical.  Often, I had one or two of them for portions of the night, but since the surgery they had lined themselves up on one side of the bed, a bulwark against the night.  

Now, KitKat, generally the most aloof of the three, came and curled around my head to give me comfort.  I was less alone; companions, human or animal, can help.  Empathy, that innate capacity to recognize the bodily or emotional feelings of others, can exist within and between living creatures.  So, Pain can open the door to positives, as well as negatives, like this caring act.

With positives and negatives in mind, maybe I just needed to dress Pain in different clothes.  Pain was, perhaps, just a side effect of healing and I needed to see her in a different light.  A process, a physical manifestation of cells doing their repair job.  Maybe it just annoying, not distressing. 

 
Not so fast. Pain has created holes for thoughts, feelings and fears to wander through.  Mortality keeps peeking through, Age and Decline also.  Optimism has not yet returned and Patience seemed to be uninterested in spending time with me.  Boredom planned a visit.  

Pain, even of this rather benign variety, is a tough opponent.  I have not yet made her into a friend, come to understand her very well or have a triumph to celebrate.  All I have to say about this visit with Pain is that I see her, I am engaged in a conversation and I hope to be wiser in the end; but if she decides to leave before Wisdom arrives, I won’t bar the door.

Today is a day of mixed blessings...

    We all have a date on the calendar that holds more significance to us than any others; our natal day, the anniversary of our birth--our birthday!  Today is mine and until two years ago, it was fairly run-of-the-mill as a calendar date, with some embellishments.  It is the 12th day of Christmas, also known as Epiphany, the day when the Magi visited baby Jesus and also the date of Jesus's baptism by John the Baptist; it is the birthday of Joan of Arc (in 1412) and if you are a real history geek, you're sure to acknowledge the wedding day of George and Martha Washington way back in 1759.

    However, from 2021 and forever onward, January 6 is a day that is painted black in the history books; the anniversary of the Capitol Insurrection, a day when democracy stood on the precipice.  Today is the second anniversary of that terrible event.

    I remember my birthday in 2021 quite well.  It was cold, as Minnesota tends to be, but pleasant enough for a vigorous walk around Lake Harriet with friends, stopping for a picture with Minions to send to my grandson, Asher, who was currently enamored with those cute villain's assistants.  Afterwards we ordered pizzas and had a birthday picnic in the back of our van, eventually turning on the radio to hear about the unbelievable events occuring at the Capitol. The desecration of the people's house was stunning and frightening, but what we have learned, through the extraordinary efforts of the January 6 committee in the past 18 months, is nothing short of earth-shaking. 

    Yet, two years later, I continue to be in disbelief, in some ways as stunned as I was that day, halfway through a slice of sausage pizza.  While over 950 active participants have been charged, and many are doing time for their actions,  the ringleaders are still free and even more disheartening, are now declaring a bid for presidency again and are participating in the three-ring circle that is the House of Representatives election of a Speaker of the House.  

    How can this happen in our beautiful, wise and free country?  Answers are difficult to find, but over the next months I'm going to explore the sources of the situation and how an ordinary person can find her way through the minefield of politics going forward and reflections on the past decade's journey.

    I have neglected to write in this blog, for quite awhile, but it's a new year and I have new resolve.  Be back soon.

    

 Yesterday, November 3 was Election Day. (This is not news to most of you) I was up early to drive my granddaughter to school.  Afterwards, I stopped at the park where I often go to walk.  It was originally called "Garbage Hill" because that area was the depository for debris from major road construction.  Years ago you could go sliding there in winter and we did.  I remember seriously injuring my tailbone and having to face the loss of joy in sledding and the vulnerabilities of getting older.

Now, however, the hill, covered with grass and substantial trees, is incorporated into a park with a lake and walking paths with the lyrical name of Lochness Park--sledding is no longer allowed.  I have mixed feelings about that.  

The sky was cloudless; a blue-sky, apple-pie, crisp and cool autumn day; I couldn't have asked for better.  Where the path split I took the path to the left; it seemed like the better choice.  I passed a grove of aspen, the wind stirring the leaves and allowing me to overhear their gossip.  I climbed the hill and found a bench.  Except for the hum of the traffic in the distance, all was peaceful and quiet.  How long could I stay removed from what was really happening outside of this oasis of peace?  

Today, I wish I had just stayed there, something organic, gradually returning to the earth, my molecules mingling with the soil. Something natural and fundamental. I do not like what I read in the news.  I am grieving.  We do not know the final vote count, but I do know this; Trump received more votes than his performance as President deserves.  Take any issue you like; as a teacher with him in my classroom I would give him all F's.  Character, deportment, doing his homework, respecting the rules. Without a doubt, he fails science in his response to the pandemic.  A large proportion of my fellow Americans are accepting, even lauding his failures which resulted in a quarter million deaths, including 700 that can be traced directly back to him because of his rallies.  We've heard those numbers so often, they are meaningless, unless one of those people were your family member or friend.  So we really don't have to care?  We don't have to care about immigrant children taken from their families and locked in cages.  We really don't have to care about self-serving corruption, alienating our allies or destroying our planet because....because.

I've got to tell you, I don't understand the" because."