Last Day of National Poetry Month

"You see, I want a lot.
Perhaps I want everything.
The darkness that comes with every infinite fall
And the shivering blaze of every step up.

So many live on and want nothing,
And are raised to the rank of prince
By the slippery ease of their light judgments.

But what you love to see are the faces
That do work and feel thirst.

You love most of all those who need you
As they need a crowbar or a hoe.

You have not grown old, and it is not too late
To dive into your increasing depths
Where life calmly gives out its own secret."

This poem was given to me years ago by someone trying to convince me to read Rilke. He was successful. I don't know the name of this poem. The last stanza says very much what the Stanley Kunitz poem in the sidebar says. The depths of life hide much, much more.

On a slightly different subject: I saw a documentary yesterday called Boy Interrupted about a boy who showed signs of depression and/or bipolar disease as early as age five. He committed suicide at 15; his father's brother had had the same disease and killed himself at 21. It was a sensitive, probing film, there was a little talk of brain studies and almost none of genetics. The question that remains is about the depths of the mind and that so much is yet unknown despite the various "advances" -- the technological understanding.
Unlike Rilke's line, when life gives out it's secret it is not always "calm." Sometimes, for some people, despite how they are cared for by those around them, the secrets in the depths are too painful to bear and what sad excuses exist for medications are both inadequate and cruel.

I gave a ride home to an older gentleman who spoke of a grandson who committed suicide last winter, a promising, brilliant young man who had had no symptoms of mental distress that his family had seen. The grandfather, who is partly handicapped and live in an assisted living community, said he felt he was more deeply affected by the loss than the young man's mother. Perhaps, in a way he was, as he has fewer other distractions and a closer personal relationship with death. ... Negative notes on which to end a celebration of poetry but good poetry covers the spectrum and speaks to whatever comes up in the randomness of our experience as I have attempted to say with comments about the poems this whole month.

Penultimate day of National Poetry Month

A Note

Life is the only way
to get covered in leaves,
catch your breath on the sand,
rise on wings.

To be a dog,
or stroke its warm fur,

or tell pain
from everything it's not;

to squeeze inside events,
dawdle in views,
to seek the least of all possible mistakes.

An extraordinary chance
to remember for a moment
a conversation held
with the lamp switched off.

And if only once
to stumble on a stone,
end up soaked in one downpour or another.

Mislay our keys in the grass,
and follow a spark on the wind with our eyes,

and keep on not knowing
something important.

For this next to last day of the month a poem by one of my half dozen most, most favorite poets, Wislawa Szymborska. I was happy to see someone posted some new photos of her on Wikipedia -- or I should say different. This one probably shows a younger woman than the rather stiff one I've seen most often before. There are several now on the site and I enjoyed seeing them a few minutes ago.

I think I am going to make copies of this one to give to my writing class this morning. It is the last class of the spring semester and I wish I knew how to make a zine because I would put in a couple poems and some quotes about writing. I know it's only a matter of looking at a good tutorial and following the steps but I just haven't done it yet. Maybe over the summer I'll teach myself.

Ming Bowl

Masterworks of Ming

Ming, Ming,
such a lovely
thing blue
and white

bowls and
basins glow
in museum
light

they would
be lovely
filled with
rice or
water

so nice
adjunct
to dinner

or washing
a daughter

a small
daughter
of course
since it's
a small basin

first you
would put
one then

the other
end in.

Kay Ryan wrote this meditation on a precious ancient bowl. [The one in the picture is upside down to show the design.] Ryan's brief poems, laid out so thoughtfully, have a way of sticking in the mind so that when I see a Ming style bowl -- or maybe the real thing in a museum -- I will think of washing a small girl child in it.

National poetry month is nearly over. A lot of nice poems have come my way this month, and I've tried to spread some around. I read recently a lament, by a poet, that no one buys poetry books except poets -- I think that's mostly true. But of the many things people profess they love, lovers of poetry seem especially passionate. Although I think the writer must not know many of that male species called the sports addict. I think poetry loves cannot be compared to sports addicts, only contrasted.

Another Jane Hirschfield poem

For Horses, Horseflies

We know nothing of the lives of others.
Under the surface, what strange desires,
what rages, weaknesses, fears.

Sometimes it breaks into the daily paper
and we shake our heads in wonder --
"Who would behave in such a way?" we ask.

Unspoken the thought, "Let me not be tested."
Unspoken the thought, "Let me not be known."

Under the surface something that whispers,
"Anything can be done."

For horses, horseflies. For humans, shame.

Sometimes, says she, it breaks into the paper. I just read in today's paper about two girls who assaulted another girl [who they knew to be transgendered] in a MacDonald's restroom [saying she was a he and didn't belong there]. They beat the girl, dragged her into the restaurant and only stopped when an older woman intervened. I'm glad they were arrested for assault. Their actions are shameful and disgusting. Also shameful and disgusting -- of the patrons in the restaurant, none interceded for a while and immediately began filming the assault on his [or her] cell phone and immediately published it on the Internet.

The combination of video capable cell phones and immediate publication of those videos has made it difficult for many public incidents to go unrecorded. It has also made many people active users of society's violence for their own satisfactions -- they can then tell everyone they meet, "I'm the one that caught it on my cell and published it," no doubt feeling righteous and proud. Have we created a species of horseflies buzzing around public events who feel no shame?

Flowers

Flowers

Some men never think of it.
You did. You'd come along
And say you'd nearly brought me flowers
But something had gone wrong.

The shop was closed. Or you had doubts --
The sort that minds like ours
Dream up incessantly. You thought
I might not want your flowers.

It made me smile and hug you then.
Now I can only smile.
But,look, the flowers you nearly bought
Have lasted all this while.

This poem by Wendy Cope arrived in the mail yesterday. The note also told me that Wendy Cope was discussed as a candidate for Britain's poet laureate in 2009 but made a public statement that she would not accept because she believed the position ought to be discontinued. Her rhymes are so integral they make me smile.

I have almost totally discontinued buying cut flowers because of the idea of killing something for brief, selfish pleasure. As a moral stance this makes only limited sense. A great many people depend upon the flower industry for their livelihood and, of course, flowers are plants and not creatures with minds and feelings. Still I prefer potted plants and have, in vases, at the moment only pieces of plants, i.e., some pussy willows and some eucalyptus stems [for the scent]

I've just noticed that the shrub outside my window beside the forsythia is a pussy willow and I suspect it was planted there by someone sticking cut stalks into the ground. I think I may do that with the pussy willows I now have. On a morning after a rainy night I'm sure they could be shoved into the ground near the one already there ...

Easter Poem

Three Lilies

Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in
the morning. Psalm 30

Before dawn, under a thin moon disappearing
east, the planet Mercury, the messenger
and healer, came up vanishingly
into the blue beyond the garden where
three lilies at the bottom of the yard
arrayed white trumpets on iron stalks
under a slow, slow lightning from the sun.
I stood on a rotten step myself,
and smelled them from a hundred feet away.

This poem by Brooks Haxton was the one sent yesterday by Knopf which sends a poem a day during National Poetry Week to those who have signed up to receive them -- as I did three years ago. I love having poem arrive every morning. Many are new to me, many of the poets as well are ones I don't know. I believe they have sent this poem on a previous Easter. Although I don't celebrate Easter the poem, without even mentioning the day or celebration is perfect.

First Birthday Party

A Little Tooth

Your baby grow a tooth, then two,
and four and five, then she want some meat
directly from the bone. It's all

over, she'll learn some words, she'll fall
in love with cretins, dolts, a sweet
talker on his way to jail. And you,

your wife, get old, flyblown, and rue
nothing. You did, you loved, your feet
are sore. It's dusk. Your daughter' tall.

Thomas Lux's summary of life as a parent is today's poem because yesterday we had a small birthday party for Phineas Cade and I thought at one point such a big name for such a little boy -- of course he's called Finn. Oh, did I mention he's my great-grandson...

I was thinking also at one point of the book I mentioned in the previous post about attention. Finn had no idea it was a party for him, even if there were some new toys. He moved from one curiosity to another: toy, fruit salad, the dog's toy, one grown-up to another, wrapping paper, green icing on a cupcake ... total attention until distracted. And the grown ups talked about this and that and watched the baby and his 4 year old cousin who needed not much watching but wanted attention too. Pictures were taken and I thought of a picture from his grandmother's first birthday party, which she now remembers only as that one old black and white picture. Lux's summary is every summary from tooth to tall.