Lent, Day Eleven - and Another Poem

Again, from Poets.org:

To W.C.W. M.D.
by Alfred Kreymborg
There has been Another death. This time I bring it to you. You are kind, Brutal, You know How to lower Bodies. I ask only That the rope Isn't silk, (Silk doesn't break) Nor thread, (Thread does.) If it lifts And lowers Common things, It will do.

Yesterday's poem~ Lent, Day Ten

Poets.org

Art Class
by James Galvin
Let us begin with a simple line, Drawn as a child would draw it, To indicate the horizon, More real than the real horizon, Which is less than line, Which is visible abstraction, a ratio. The line ravishes the page with implications Of white earth, white sky! The horizon moves as we move, Making us feel central. But the horizon is an empty shell— Strange radius whose center is peripheral. As the horizon draws us on, withdrawing, The line draws us in, Requiring further lines, Engendering curves, verticals, diagonals, Urging shades, shapes, figures… What should we place, in all good faith, On the horizon? A stone? An empty chair? A submarine? Take your time. Take it easy. The horizon will not stop abstracting us.

Lent, day 8

Today was my birthday.  I didn't read to my Pilates class today, but did play a recording of Garrison Keillor reading the following poem (which I've always loved):

This poem, and more, can be found at Poets.org - one of my favorite sites~

A Blessing
by James Wright
Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota, Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass. And the eyes of those two Indian ponies Darken with kindness. They have come gladly out of the willows To welcome my friend and me. We step over the barbed wire into the pasture Where they have been grazing all day, alone. They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness That we have come. They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other. There is no loneliness like theirs. At home once more, They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness. I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms, For she has walked over to me And nuzzled my left hand. She is black and white, Her mane falls wild on her forehead, And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist. Suddenly I realize That if I stepped out of my body I would break Into blossom.

Day Six of Lent, and a poem by Li Po

Today I was actually early with my daily poem.  I taught both Silver Sneakers Yoga Stretch, and Pilates.  I'm finding these two classes kindly receptive to my reading to them.  I find that the cool down period and the beginning breathing a good time to read.

My poem for today:

 

Written While Wandering the White River in Nan-Yang, After Climbing Onto the Rocks

Morning up near White River origins,

and suddenly that human world’s gone:

islands all end-of-the-earth beauty,

river and sky a vast vacant clarity.

Ocean clouds leave the eye’s farewell,

and the mind idle, river fish wander.

Chanting, I linger out a setting sun,

then return moonlit to a farmland hut.

--Li Po, from The Selected Poems of Li Po

For a link to more of his poems, visit Famous Poets and Poems . com

Oops, Missed a Day!

But not really.  I remember that I hadn't yet shared a poem for yesterday, and was already in bed.  I weighed getting out of bed (I'd already gotten up once to have my son check his blood sugar and was going to do that again in a couple of hours, and I'd already turned off the computer) with staying in it.  Then I realised I had my iPod nearby, so I pulled it under the covers and looked for a poem to share before it was too late.

The one I selected was again from Poetry Daily, and I shared it on Facebook.  A wonderful poem written by Tina Chang, entitled "Patriotism," the language is confident and truthful, and isn't worried about getting down into the dirt, looking for new life. 

Here, in keeping with my Lenten promise to myself (to share a poem a day with one person or more) and with links to Poetry Daily and Four Way Books, is the poem:

Patriotism

The village was in tatters, smoking before it spoke,
shrapnel in a lung, a toothache in a guilty mouth.

There's something in the back of my mind I'd like
to remember, rubble there and a shovel for digging.

We stood in the deep muck for years. I wrote
love notes to nurse him back to health. If he dreamed

origami cranes I kept folding this paper inward
and inward until it bloomed and found velocity.

To get inside the earth's black center, I must have tools.
I must be alert and willful. I sat on the ground

to get down deeper, below kneeling, below bowing
and scramble, and boulder. And when you get that low,

you can mount the cry, the zero. What happened
in the marriage between the heart and its territory?

The tools were man-made, the tools worked slowly with labor.
The work was not without toil. When I found him there

face up, I put my mouth to his mouth, exhaled
for many years, my tongue waving like a flag.
Tina Chang


Of Gods & Strangers
Four Way Books
 

Lent, the 4th day and another poem shared

The poem I found today is by Rachel Elizabeth Griffiths, and is on Poetry Daily.  I was a little last minute with this one, and shared it on Facebook as it felt weird to send it to someone. It's about death, a son lost.  It's a beautiful poem.

Here is the first part:

Perdre

Leave me here
amidst the underworld
of pickaxes. Anvils. Work
horses and sawdust.

The afternoon light
was the texture of language—

dust before a death.

   ...

  Oh, and I did get the Fellowship application done, and sent off today. Phew!

Spring, a poem by Mary Oliver

Here's a link to the Mary Oliver poem, Spring, that I shared in the last post~

Spring

  
Somewhere
a black bear
has just risen from sleep
and is staring

 

down the mountain.
All night
in the brisk and shallow restlessness
of early spring

 

I think of her ...

 

*

 

For the poem in it's entirety, here's a link: 

http://webcache.googleusercontent.com/search?q=cache:3f0Y97Bh4R4J:www.panhala.net/Archive/Spring.html+&cd=1&hl=en&ct=clnk&gl=us&client=firefox-a

(House of Light)

 

 

Day Two of Lent, and a poem a day

Well, I won't even say how long it's been since I posted here.  My blogs and a few other things got away from me since, well, ...

So, time to put that aside.  Yesterday was Ash Wednesday, and time for me to make some decisions.  What to give up?  Or rather, what to take on?  Of course, I would write daily in my journal for the days of Lent.  I try to do that every year, some years more successful than others, but a good practice to put into action.  But, what else could I do that might have farther reaching effects?

Certainly I get a few poems from journal entries, and those go on to enter the rounds of the submission game, and eventually a few are published.  But - what could I do, during Lent, that would reach someone every day?

It came to me in the shower this morning.  Day Two of Lent.  Why not read a poem to my Silver Sneakers Yoga Stretch class? That sounded good to me.  But I teach the class only on Tuesdays, so I needed to do something else.  Perhaps my Pilates class would like to hear a short poem each time we meet.  I was becoming more energized as I continued to plan my project. Why stop there?  Maybe my weight-training (Ultimate Strength) class would like to hear a haiku ...

So, today I read Mary Oliver's "Spring" to my Pilates group today.  And, they liked it.  I teach again tonight, this time Ultimate Strength (which is like BodyPump or Group Power).  And I'll read one to them, too.  Tomorrow morning I am subbing the 6 am Ultimate Strength.  Wonder what they would think?

Which brings me to another point I've been thinking about.  Drawing attention to myself as a poet.  Or, just drawing attention to myself, period.  I mull that over from time to time, and have done over the years.  But then I got to thinking, after my shower, as I made the bed that, in order to bring something good to others, you first have to do something good for yourself.  Pretty standard stuff.  But, shouldn't it be the other way around?

The way I see it:  I like poetry.  Maybe others do, or they don't.  Often people just don't understand it.  I like to write poetry, and yes, I like it when it gets published.  I won't lie.  So, why not take a poem, one that has a good chance of "reaching" others, and share it with them?  Maybe we will both (or all) benefit.  I'll get something out of reading the poem, tasting the words, and I'll be giving it away to someone else.  I'll find the poems that speak to many, written by others mostly, and set them down different paths, one each day.  Might be in a fitness class.  Might be on Face Book.  Or via email.  Or tacked onto the bulletin board at a grocery store.  Or ...

What will you do?

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On 1 January, 2011

my dad passed away.  It seems the poems on Poets.org understand that tenuous feeling that the first of the year, even without death, can bring.  Here are two examples:

The Thread of Life
by Christina Rossetti

1

The irresponsive silence of the land,
The irresponsive sounding of the sea,
Speak both one message of one sense to me: —
Aloof, aloof, we stand aloof, so stand
Thou too aloof bound with the flawless band
Of inner solitude; we bind not thee;
But who from thy self—chain shall set thee free?
What heart shall touch thy heart? what hand thy hand?—
And I am sometimes proud and sometimes meek,
And sometimes I remember days of old
When fellowship seemed not so far to seek
And all the world and I seemed much less cold,
And at the rainbow's foot lay surely gold,
And hope felt strong and life itself not weak.

2

Thus am I mine own prison. Everything
Around me free and sunny and at ease:
Or if in shadow, in a shade of trees
Which the sun kisses, where the gay birds sing
And where all winds make various murmuring;
Where bees are found, with honey for the bees;
Where sounds are music, and where silences
Are music of an unlike fashioning.
Then gaze I at the merrymaking crew,
And smile a moment and a moment sigh
Thinking: Why can I not rejoice with you ?
But soon I put the foolish fancy by:
I am not what I have nor what I do;
But what I was I am, I am even I.

3

Therefore myself is that one only thing
I hold to use or waste, to keep or give;
My sole possession every day I live,
And still mine own despite Time's winnowing.
Ever mine own, while moons and seasons bring
From crudeness ripeness mellow and sanative;
Ever mine own, till Death shall ply his sieve;
And still mine own, when saints break grave and sing.
And this myself as king unto my King
I give, to Him Who gave Himself for me;
Who gives Himself to me, and bids me sing
A sweet new song of His redeemed set free;
He bids me sing: O death, where is thy sting?
And sing: O grave, where is thy victory?



*   *   *   *   *   *   *



My Heart
by Kim Addonizio

That Mississippi chicken shack.
That initial-scarred tabletop,
that tiny little dance floor to the left of the band.
That kiosk at the mall selling caramels and kitsch.
That tollbooth with its white-plastic-gloved worker
handing you your change.
That phone booth with the receiver ripped out.
That dressing room in the fetish boutique,
those curtains and mirrors.
That funhouse, that horror, that soundtrack of screams.
That putti-filled heaven raining gilt from the ceiling.
That haven for truckers, that bottomless cup.
That biome. That wilderness preserve.
That landing strip with no runway lights
where you are aiming your plane,
imagining a voice in the tower,
imagining a tower.