Poetry Vacation

I'm taking a one-week vacation from posting on this site... Check back on March 5th!

Under the Harvest Moon: Carl Sandburg

Under the harvest moon,
When the soft silver
Drips shimmering
Over the garden nights,
Death, the gray mocker,
Comes and whispers to you
As a beautiful friend
Who remembers.

Under the summer roses
When the flagrant crimson
Lurks in the dusk
Of the wild red leaves,
Love, with little hands,
Comes and touches you
With a thousand memories,
And asks you
Beautiful, unanswerable questions.

Such beautiful language.

We had a deep red rose growing in our backyard when I was growing up. My dad used to tell the story of how it first grew at the first house he and my mom bought, and then when they bought our house, they dug it up and moved it because they loved this rose so much. It did smell wonderful... and was a perfect deep magenta - not really red, but magenta.

This poem makes me think of sitting out there on summer nights, listening to the wind in the trees, listening to our quiet small-town neighborhood. When I was in high school, sometimes my boyfriend would come over and eat dinner with us, in the backyard. Then we'd sit in the grass, under the mimosa tree, playing with plucked grass, and who knows what we talked about.

I loved the way late summer at my house smelled. Lots of roses. Fresh gardening, preparing for autumn. Cut grass. Fresh peas. The first of the apples falling. Hot baked earth, cooling in the evening air.

I used to take long nighttime walks, looking at the stars as I walked the one mile out to the 'country'. I loved, loved, loved that late summer evening breeze. Standing on the bridge over the creek, listening to the water compete with the rush of rustling leaves. And then, walking on the old road to the fields, and smelling the late-season hay growing.

"Hope" is the thing with feathers: Emily Dickinson

"Hope" is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—
And sweetest—in the Gale—
is heard— And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—
I've heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me.

Oh, Miss Emily. So many dashes for such a little poem.

I have to puzzle out the ending. Hope never asked a bit of me... hope is free for the taking? You can take as much hope as you need and never owe 'It' a thing? Maybe.

What about offering hope to other people? I guess that's sort of a roundable equation, however. "Hope" doesn't care if you give back or not. Mostly, it just wants to be wanted.

(...I have a hard time with this whole 'Hope as a Being' concept)

Hope certainly can be a little fluttery thing that keeps you alive, however. It carries an awful lot of power for something so seemingly lightweight.

What are some places in your life where you've lost hope? How did you find it again?

Danse Russe: William Carlos Williams

If when my wife is sleeping
and the baby and Kathleen
are sleeping
and the sun is a flame-white disc
in silken mists
above shining trees,-
if I in my north room
dance naked, grotesquely
before my mirror
waving my shirt round my head
and singing softly to myself:
"I am lonely, lonely,
I was born to be lonely,
I am best so!"
If I admire my arms, my face,
my shoulders, flanks, buttocks
against the yellow drawn shades,-
Who shall say I am not
the happy genius of my household?

Who's Kathleen?

More on this poem later. I don't know why, but I feel happier having read this.

-------------

OK, a few more thoughts about this poem, which has stayed with me like a little warm light.

I love the lines, "I am lonely, lonely, I was born to be lonely, I am best so!" It doesn't sound lonely at all, to be so happy with oneself. To dance wildly, admiring your crazy, joyful, silly lonely self. It just sounds so happy.

I'm reading this as a celebration of self, even if your true self is best 'lonely'. Best all alone. Sometimes, it's like that. Sometimes I feel like I'm at my best when I'm alone. Then you've got an audience of one... and is that one person worth a damn fine show? I'd say so.

I Didn't Go To Church Today: Ogden Nash

I didn't go to church today,
I trust the Lord to understand.
The surf was swirling blue and white,
The children swirling on the sand.

He knows, He knows how brief my stay,
How brief this spell of summer weather,
He knows when I am said and done
We'll have plenty of time together.

Kind of sums up my dilemma about church in general.

I want to go to a church, because I like churches and I want a community, and I'd like to learn more about a spiritual life.

But me and God (The Divine, The Universe), we don't need a church to talk. I don't think God's there any more than S/He's anywhere else (in the forest, in the grocery store, in my heart).

I feel closest to God when I'm out on a beautiful day, when I'm in a deep forest, when I'm home and the lights are down and I'm sitting quietly with a book and tea. I rarely feel close to God at church (and I've been to lots of different churches... maybe that's my problem?), unless it's when the choir sings, and especially Christmas songs. I always tear up and can't sing along because I start crying.

I figure whatever Divine Spirit there is, is present anywhere. Some people find it in church. Some elsewhere. I wish I could find a church that feels like a spiritual home. Or a synagogue. Or a temple. I don't really care where, I'm not attached to a particular spiritual path (again, maybe that's my problem). But I'd like to find a place where I felt just as close to God, or maybe just a place where I feel like the channel is open, as I do out in nature, or in my quiet house, or singing with joy in my car.

And since our stay is so brief, why not find ways to be with the Universe, with Divine presence, wherever you are?

Finland: Robert Graves

Feet and faces tingle
In that frore land:
Legs wobble and go wingle,
You scarce can stand.
The skies are jewelled all around,
The ploughshare snaps in the iron ground,
The Finn with face like paper
And eyes like a lighted taper
Hurls his rough rune
At the wintry moon
And stamps to mark the tune.

I don't know, is this poem nonsense? However, I chose it because tonight I'm going to see an old friend who was in Finland with me, and because I well remember my legs wobbling and face tingling around this time of year!

It really was beautiful, though harsh. One of my favorite memories is riding my bike home from a night out with friends, at around 2 or 3 am. It would go like this (many nights like this): After riding the bus for about 40 minutes to my small town up north from the city, I got off at the little service station (in the middle of nowhere) and unlocked my bike. It's perfectly quiet. There is no one around, no cars, just snow and forest. No lights. It's probably around 10 below zero. I'm wearing longjohns, jeans, legwarmers, two pairs of socks, an undershirt, a sweater, a scarf, an ankle-length coat, two pairs of gloves (one thinner inside the thicker), an earwarmer and a hat. I have about a 2 mile bike ride ahead of me. I ride right down the middle of the highway; there aren't any cars at this time of night. I ride past the quiet, dark, snowy forests, and suddenly across the sky blooms an undulating curtain, lit like the Emerald City -- the Northern Lights. I stop, right in the middle of the highway, and watch for a few minutes, even though I'm freezing, even though it's 3 in the morning. I can't start riding again until I get my fill, until they start to fade.

Finland was an exercise in living day to day, experiencing every moment as it was, since we knew each moment would only come once. We only had a year. We had to live every single moment IN the moment. And we did, by and large. The year in Finland was rough, really rough. But it was also filled with extremely beautiful moments and deep, deep friendships.

I'd like to go back, but I can't decide: winter or summer? Winter is what I remember most, but summer is the best time to go. Also, I'd definitely want D'Arcy to come. It would not be the same without her.

So, tonight I see Darren, one of my close friends from that year. We'll remember Finland. It was almost 15 years ago. I almost can't believe that.

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in: ee cummings

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

A Valentine poem for my sweetie. One of my favorite poems, from my favorite poet.

Eloquent, emotional, beautiful, unique, straightforward in an obscure way... all these things that she is, and more -- like this poem.

Getting right to the heart of it all.

Sonnet XVII: Pablo Neruda

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

Now, that's a love poem.

Most love poems I like, but I sort of roll my eyes. I'm a sentimental girl for sure, but I'm enough of a Virgo (read: practical) to sort of get embarrassed by too much flowery stuff.

That said, there's a mystery to love that this poem really captures for me. Dark places in the heart that a certain person touches quietly. You fall in love -- you don't know why -- and over time, the reasons come clear.

Between the shadow and soul. Is that where loves lives? The Shadow is your dark self, the one you try to keep hidden. The soul is... well, who knows. Let's say that it's your true self. Love is living between the two. A little irrational, tempestuous, dangerous, scary... and also, it's something that you know.

Well. There's more to love than I can craft in a short blog entry. But I love this poem, and I love Pablo Neruda. A certain someone once sent me a Neruda poem and captured my heart, the sweetie pie.

Acquainted With the Night: Robert Frost.

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain - and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,
But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.

A lonely rain poem. It's raining outside, and it's my favorite kind: gray, thick, drenching. Perfect for a melancholy flop on the couch and a gaze out the window into the evening.

Home Is So Sad: Philip Larkin

Home is so sad. It stays as it was left,
Shaped to the comfort of the last to go
As if to win them back. Instead, bereft
Of anyone to please, it withers so,
Having no heart to put aside the theft

And turn again to what it started as,
A joyous shot at what things ought to be,
Long fallen wide. You can see how it was:
Look at the pictures and the cutlery.
The music in the piano stool. That vase.

I've had to read this over a few times to get what it's really saying.

However, I chose it because yesterday, when Terri left, I came back inside and felt so sad. Looking at her tea-stirring spoon left on the counter; her towel, damp from a shower; her shoes on the floor. Just as she had left it.

I had to remind myself, she's coming back! For some reason over the weekend I had thought about how sad I used to get in Finland... it was such a long time to be away from everyone, and every time I talked to my parents on the phone (once a month), I would get so sad afterwards, missing them, filled with emptiness. I had that feeling when she left, as if I wouldn't see her again for seven months. She's coming home Thursday night. We'll get used to this. But home is just not home without her.

Kyrie: Tomas Tranströmer

At times my life suddenly opens its eyes in the dark.
A feeling of masses of people pushing blindly
through the streets, excitedly, toward some miracle,
while I remain here and no one sees me.

It is like the child who falls asleep in terror
listening to the heavy thumps of his heart.
For a long, long time till morning puts his light in the locks
and the doors of darkness open

First, I had to look up Kyrie. I knew it had something to do with prayer.

I had to think about this one for awhile. There's a feeling at first of being left behind, of being the one who isn't 'in' on the situation. An outsider.

And then second, the feeling of hanging on, just hanging on 'till morning. Being afraid of the dark (my whole life! To this day!), this is a feeling I definitely identify with. Falling asleep in terror. I know that feeling well.

But when you pair it with the title (I love poems that change in meaning when you put the title into the equation), I think about it slightly differently. I especially love the first line, "At times my life opens its eyes in the dark," -- and then realizes... what? What is it about opening your eyes and realizing there is movement, something Big happening, and you have no idea.

Is it about God? Prayer? Being on the outside, waiting to get brought into the throng?

"...until the doors of darkness open." That is what waiting for God to hear you can feel like, at least for me. Waiting in the dark. My eyes opened to the dark. Waiting for the light.

I am loving this poem more and more. It feels as though a little piece of me could have written this, and I'm just now discovering what that part of me wants to say.

Morning: Mary Oliver

Salt shining behind its glass cylinder.
Milk in a blue bowl.
The yellow linoleum.
The cat stretching her black body from the pillow.
The way she makes her curvaceous response to the small, kind gesture.
Then laps the bowl clean.
Then wants to go out into the world
where she leaps lightly and for no apparent reason across the lawn,
then sits, perfectly still, in the grass.
I watch her a little while, thinking:
what more could I do with wild words?
I stand in the cold kitchen, bowing down to her.
I stand in the cold kitchen, everything wonderful around me.

I think Mary Oliver is quickly becoming a favorite. I love how she celebrates every day life and natural surroundings. This was just the right poem for this morning. I'm feeling tired, anxious and worried, and not at all inclined to notice my wonderful surroundings

I'm noticing that I like poetry that creates pictures in my mind. I think I've said this before. I'm not so keen on poetry that just celebrates the word, or is too obscure. I like it when it when I can relate in some way.

When I used to write poetry (in college, just one small step up from bad teenager poetry), my teacher used to say I had a knack for incorporating a story or a memory into the poem. Other people would write about mangoes or autumn leaves; I wrote about what it was like to have a track athlete and eccentric for a father. Certainly not any better than anyone else's, but I do like it when poetry pulls from life.

This morning, my morning, I am tired and anxious. The cats are hungry because I forgot to get cat food last night. Tiger Lily is sitting on my lap, occassionally biting my arm (a reminder?). It's cold outside. I am going in to work late because I worked late last night at the party. We are almost completely out of food in the house, and next week Terri starts to stay up in Sonoma County. I am missing her already.

This poem makes me feel slightly better. Just watch the cat. Just feel the weather.