Life Lines

Wow. On Poetry Thursday this week, Dr. Jim posted an interesting project called life lines. The idea is "to recall words, lines, by a poet that stayed with you, that you could not let go for the life of you, and then in a paragraph (or two), describe a moment when these words arose in your life in which they brought you understanding, insight, solace, reconciliation, or comfort" and it has been quite fascinating to see what has been significant for people. Of course, it also got me thinking about what lines have been most meaningful for me.

There are many choices... lots of Mary Oliver, Janet Beeler's exquisite Dowry which I have yet to find online, some HD, some pieces by the great Romantic poets. But, when I think about the very first poem I remember having a strong effect on me, I return again and again to Robinson Jeffers' The Answer.

Here's an excerpt:
Integrity is wholeness,
the greatest beauty is
Organic wholeness, the wholeness of life and things, the divine beauty
of the universe.

Imagine this: it is the early 1980s. I am a quiet and rather shy high school student. I'm interested in the typical teenage things - music (U2 before they were mainstream!), my after-school job as a waitress, my friends, my school activities, my crush/obsession with Clark Gable (yes, I know he was dead) and all of a sudden, I read this poem.

It absolutely sucker-punched me. It took me completely outside of myself and helped me to understand that teenage angst would pass and that even the broken places in life had a place in the whole. I loved and still love Jeffers' belief that one must look unflinchingly at *all* of the world - both the growing and the dying, the complete and the fragmented - or else you will be disappointed when the perfection you seek does not materialize.

These words are an anchor for my life. Those who know me would say, I think, that I am very stoic. I don't cry over spilled milk. I accept what comes. I *do* try to focus on the positive, but I am interested in the way both sides contribute to the whole. Good and bad. Light and dark. Chiaroscuro. I'm fascinated by the way the threads of loss that intertwine our lives intensify life's sweetness, and I think this is a theme that recurs frequently in my poetry.

So - what lines moved YOU?

Good Morning, World

I'm posting from one of my two private balconies at the *amazing* country inn where my staff is on retreat. I also have two bathrooms, a bed so high they give you a ladder to climb into it, and a huge whirlpool. My bath last night was literally steaming. I stayed in for over an hour.

I am never leaving.



sprinklers chirrup
mist precise English gardens
peace steals over me

Nothing Random

The (cato) prompt at Poetry Thursday this week was to use the 'randomizer' - their spiffy random prompt generator - to jump start a poem for the week. I got as far as using the randomizer, but my week got crazy and the poem is still in progress. I like where it is going, so I do plan to share it, but it just wasn't ready in time for this week.

Instead, I offer a haiku I wrote as a fifth-grade student at outdoor education. Please don't forget to check out what other PTers have been up to this week as well. Thanks!


Fossils, so unique
Indentations of the past
on our minds today

ups and downs

So, I actually had a commitment-free lunch hour today. No meetings, no errands, just one blissful hour to spend as I chose. This almost never happens, so it was a delightfully decadent luxury. And...

I walked uptown to discover that the wonderfully quirky rabbit-warren of a used bookstore is closed on Wednesdays. Grrrrr! What a disappointment.

But, on the plus side: the day is gorgeous and I got to be outside for a little while. My walk took me past the grubby little convenience store that sells banana ice cream popsicles enrobed in chocolate for 25 cents. (really. where else can you get so much pleasure for so little money.) And I came back and searched our online catalog and discovered that Natasha Trethewey's Native Guard is actually in our library and not out on loan.

So, in sum, a good hour.

Turning Flower Beds in Spring

This week was a 'free' week at Poetry Thursday. Since I so enjoyed experimenting with forms last week I decided to do it again. Dana and Liz, see what you have wrought? So, here's my terzanelle about how I spent my time last weekend. Comments gratefully accepted; I feel like I am struggling with meter.

Oh - please don't forget to check out what other PTers have been up to this week.



Turning Flower Beds in Spring

Haul rotted leaves out to the compost bin.
Old husks must go – it’s time – their gift has passed,
so clear the way for new growth to begin.

No, nothing in the earth is meant to last
forever. Seasons always change and these
old husks must go. It’s time. Their gift has passed

into the roots. They nurtured and released
their essence: birth from death, the pulse of life.
Forever, seasons always change and these

things still remain. So ply the pruning knife
without remorse. Move on; you will not scar
their essence. Birth: from death, the pulse of life

returns. Breathe in the damp and fecund air
to taste the promise waiting to roar forth.
Without remorse move on. You will not scar

the heartwood. See? Strip out the old, the coarse;
haul rotted leaves out to the compost bin.
To taste the promise waiting to roar forth,
just clear the way for new growth to begin.

If you would be at peace...

It helps to find beauty in simple things.
In daily life is the joy we seek. Here,
in our expanse and not our lessenings,

in the unprotected margins, we are
made whole through our own imperfection.
In daily life, the joy we seek is here:

the lover’s touch, the child’s smile. Connections
weave the cloth of which serenity is
made. Wholly through our own imperfection

we admit the divine - such blessings
with abandon gather. Your faith within
weaves the cloth of which serenity is,

luminous and bright. This is how we begin
to touch the sacred. Heart of God! To love
with abandon, gather your faith. Within

your grasp is grace. Do not rebuff
its help: to find beauty in simple things,
to touch the sacred heart of God, to love
in our expanse and not our lessenings.

Susurration

Listen: into each life the rains must come.
Death waits for all. Do you not hear
the soft, incessant beating of the drum?

Make something of your time. Not a simulacrum
of conspicuous consumption but a truth to revere.
Listen. Into each life the rains must come

to sprout the seed. May we become
essential as we age – distilled, austere.
The soft, incessant beating of the drum

a call to heart, to action. Returning to some
source of strength, we see: the stories are here.
Listen into each life. The rains must come

and go again, and so shall we. Struck dumb
by death? Perhaps, and yet it is sincere,
this soft, incessant beating. The drum

may stop, but echoes shake the sphere
if you’ve lived well. So do not fear
the soft, incessant beating of the drum.
Listen: into each life the rains must come.

the not-so-villainous villanelle

The (cato) prompt this week at Poetry Thursday was to write a villanelle. Now, I have *never* tried to follow a poetic form before (except for one fifth-grade haiku) and I was a little apprehensive, given all the comments about how villainous the villanelle can be. To my surprise, I loved it! I felt that the constraints of the form helped me to push myself a little more; that perhaps I wasn't satisfied as quickly as I might otherwise have been. I will be writing more of these and will be trying other forms as well. Stay tuned!

Two notes: Jessica’s piece on villanelles mentioned iambic pentameter; other research I have done suggests that this is not an absolute requirement of the form - so I chose not to do so. Also, I altered one word in each repeat of the second refrain.

I can't WAIT until late tonight when I can link this to PT and see what all the other PTers have to offer.

On Writing Poetry Outside at 5:00 AM

In the quiet of the pre-dawn hour
alchemy awaits me as I wield my pen
Reborn, sustained by Nature's gathering power.

The rushing creek, the birds, the brightening flower
all free my soul of weight. Begin again
in the quiet of the pre-dawn hour

to voice my dreams, my hopes. This verdant bower
cradles me. I am no longer fallen --
Reborn, sustained by Nature's stately power.

I am deluged with thoughts both sweet and sour.
I wait, and watch, and deeply listen
in the quiet of the pre-dawn hour.

The drought of words becomes a building shower.
The gift will come, the transmutation happen
Reborn, sustained by Nature's fearsome power.

The poet in my heart will sing, if I allow her
the time and space to gently reawaken
in the quiet of the pre-dawn hour --
reborn, sustained by Nature's graceful power.

On Monday

This week's prompt at Poetry Thursday was guerilla poetry and I had every intention of participating. And then the massacre at Virginia Tech occurred. The higher ed world has been turned upside down and I find myself seeking comfort in the familiar and repetitive until I can listen to the news without having to remind myself to breathe. And so my only offering this week is this, raw and unedited, simply how I am feeling at this moment.



On Monday

on monday the storm passed us by
or so i thought
brave daffodils pulsing yellow beating back the snows
the bloodroots lifting their faces to the grey and leaden
sky seeking the warmth, the promise, the kiss of light
april's cruel mercy notwithstanding. flowers are sentient
in their own way, calyx and corolla turning toward the sun
even when there is little sun to be found. for what else
is there, for them and for us, to do? on monday i
picked up my son and danced him around the kitchen, made
him dinner, read him a story. every word, every act, every
breath a litany: make it not so, Lord, make it not so. for
all the mothers, Lord, make it not so.

To Rabindranath Tagore

This week at Poetry Thursday, the (cato) assignment is in two parts: write a poem to, for, or about a poet; and write a letter to a poet. I am both attracted to and humbled by this idea - to speak to those who speak so eloquently to me. I've always been a reader, a voracious consumer of words. I particularly loved the transportative quality of great novels - swallowing me whole and depositing me, hours or days later, in a strange and different place. Surfacing from the words like waking from a long sleep: surprised by the sunlight, a little disoriented, newly aware of my skin.

But - life intervened. Though I still love novels, I don't have room in my life to lose hours that way. When I do succumb to that temptation, I finish feeling a little sick - looking around, seeing forgotten dinner dishes soaking in gelid water, a bit like having a hangover.

Poems, though, are a different story. Reading them doesn't require a large investment of time, and yet they slip inside the pockets of my soul, resonating, slipping into the synapses of memory. A great poem becomes a part of me always - I can take it out and revisit it, stunned as always by its capacity to capture and transform.

Case in point: this excerpt from Rabindranath Tragore's The Gardener:

I am restless. I am athirst for faraway things.
My soul goes out in a longing to touch the skirt of the dim distance.
O Great Beyond, O the keen call of thy flute!
I forget, I ever forget, that I have no wings to fly,
that I am bound in this spot evermore.

Ah, Gurudev, you died 26 years before my birth, and yet you know me.

Why I love poetry

The current prompt over at Poetry Thursday was to write 153 words or less about why you love poetry, and I have been mulling this over all week. I can tell you that I have loved poetry for a long time; since college at least. I won't say JUST how long that is... everyone is entitled to a few secrets :-) but poetry and I have been more or less constant companions for years. I can talk about my favorite poets and explore themes and patterns that bring cohesion to a list which may seem disjointed upon first reading. But getting to the why is a greater challenge.

The poets I have loved: Mary Oliver, of course. Robinson Jeffers. H.D., especially Trilogy. Janet Beeler, now Janet Beeler Shaw of American Girls fame, who published one exquisite volume called Dowry in the late 70's. William Blake. Madeleine L'Engle. Wonderful jillypoet, whose blog led me to Poetry Thursday. And so many of the PTers I have discovered.

An odd list, I know. Different styles. Different periods. The more I think about it, though, I see some commonalities: An abiding sense of the spiritual. A willingness to engage the tough questions - why are we here? what does it mean to be human? where do we fit in the order of the universe? An appreciation of the natural world. A certain lyricism in choice of language.

So, in 153 words or less: Poetry, for me, is a mirror in which to view the everyday sacred. Those astonishing and incomprehensibly beautiful moments when our temporal and spiritual worlds intersect create such a brilliance - I am afraid to look for fear I will be blinded. Through poetry they become approachable. Living life, experiencing life fully, is intense. Poetry gives me a way to sit in the room with that intensity, opening myself to it - the piercing joys, the crumbling sorrows - knowing that others have traveled this path, knowing that the moments I treasure can be revisited. I create scrapbooks of images to share with family and friends, but poetry weaves a scrapbook of words, a written trail of the history of my heart.

In closing, I share with you a poem-in-progress. Lately I have been caught in that bittersweet conundrum that every parent knows too well - each step towards independence is also a step away. I can barely see the nursling-who-was in the bright and accomplished little person who lives in my house, and I am at once full of pride and rather melancholy. This poem is an attempt to capture that feeling. I would love some feedback on it. And, if you are a PTer, I can't wait to hear why you love poetry too.


Untitled, so far

Nothing prepares you for the fatigue
of new parenthood.

"Don't mind if I do," Exhaustion says
and moves right in.
Eats the best kippers
Uses the last clean towels
Makes itself at home in
the very marrow of your bones.

Oh, my little one:
those early days,
stupid with love and
cleaved by joy,
terrifying in its ferocity.
Defenseless, I was.
I would have given six right arms
for one night's sleep.

Those early days:
Could I have guessed
that I would mourn their passing?
Could I have known that I would crave
the dark and holy music of your breath?

Water Lily

This week's prompt at Poetry Thursday was really more of a game. The idea was to post one line from a work of your own, and then use a line (or lines) from someone else to create a new poem. I found this to be one of the most fun experiences I have had in writing. There were so many great lines from which to choose, and yet two spoke to me immediately and I knew they were destined to be joined. The two lines I used were:

gravity wraps me in greedy arms from DebR's poem Born to Fly and

resting in a clean white bowl from Megan's lovely haiku

I do have a question for you Poetry Thursday-ers... what would you do about citations for a poem such as this which clearly alludes to John Keats but only quotes three words?

Any other comments are welcome as well. I am so excited to read everyone's offerings this week.


Water Lily

I seek a pool of silence
in which to be
still and calm. But
gravity wraps me in greedy arms
of sound. The cacophony of daily
life accosts me:
the hungry cat's squall,
the sick child's cough,
the brake shoe's shriek.
The din scalds my throat,
more potent than Cuervo and
dryer than dust.

In my dream, I see
a room devoid of color. Pristine
walls glow with perfect luminescence.
In my dream, I am
a water lily.
Resting in a clean white bowl,
I slip beneath the surface.
Not a ripple do I make.
For one immaculate moment,
I cease
to
be.

Uncle Frank: In Memoriam (with apologies to Robinson Jeffers and William Shakespeare)

I admired the beauty while I was human, now I am part of the beauty...
-Robinson Jeffers, Inscription for a Gravestone, 1938

You are part of the beauty now.
Dendrites and mitochondria transmogrified
into something rich and strange:
Ore in the smelter
A new leaf on a bay tree in Anguilla
The dew that feeds an aphid in the grass.

What was it like, this final and most important stepping-off
into the great and wild unknown?
Did you catch your breath with joy
as one does at the crest of a roller-coaster,
laughing before the plunge,
or did you close your eyes gratefully,
enjoying the softness of your bed in
those last sweet moments before sleep?

No matter now. You
have gone where we all must go.
Everything tends towards ruin,
the poet tells us.
Entropy is the natural order of the universe,
and we should love the symmetry of this chaos.
Here is my subversive, dark secret:
I love the pattern in a Fibonacci spiral,
love the rhythmic pulse of the sunset,
love the beauty in the memory of your life,
love you.

Big Sky Country

This week's Poetry Thursday prompt is Blue...


Packing for Montana, I try to be ruthless,
stripping down. Just the essentials:
warm sweater
new toothbrush
three pairs of socks.
When my rucksack is full, I coil my rope on top.

I made this rope.
Selected the fibers, twisted and twisted
until they kinked and smoothed
into a cohesive whole.
Hemp for the base, simple and strong,
the feather a blue jay left on the porch
clippings from your latest haircut
threads from the hem of my old jeans
and wool sheared from the sheep down the road.
Long enough to tie to a fencepost and
wrap three times around my waist.
I'll anchor myself with the pieces of our life.

Big sky country:
I know what will happen.
Ensnared by the wild and dangerous song in my heart,
forgotten by gravity,
I'll cease to hug the earth
and fall into the great oasis of the endless azure sky.

You May Be Hungry Soon

I'm going to delve into Sunday Scribblings. This week's prompt is Fortune Cookie....


You may be hungry soon. Buy some takeout now.

This is unexpected. I'm a voracious consumer of Chinese food, a fortune cookie veteran. I know the drill: I get the inane fortune, the one written in fractured English, the Jack Handy version: Great things awaits you. My partner gets the philosophical one: The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. We read them aloud, adding the obligatory in bed, amused. Toss them aside, untouched by the words.

But what to make of this? A tongue-in-cheek advertisement, slipped in by some entrepreneurial soul? A message from the cosmos? A harbinger of famine ahead? In bed doesn't work with this fortune. It is strangely unsettling. I make a joke, cover my unease with laughter - but surreptitiously, I slip the paper into my pocket.

Later on, I take it out. The paper is slightly crumpled and I smooth it with my thumb, the heat from my body fleeing it into the chill air. Plan ahead! Be ready! The voice of this unseen sage contrasts with another in my mind: Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust consume and where thieves break in and steal, but store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust consumes and where thieves do not break in and steal. (Matthew 6:19-20)

Treasures in heaven. So far, so distant, so untouchable. I do plan ahead; my pantry is full. Tinned beans, batteries, extra toilet paper. You never know when the wolf will be at the door. So how can I not store up treasures on earth? How can I not gather memories and joys, clutching them desperately close, building them up in the larder of my heart?

BEACHCOMBING

Landbound, I dream of the coast:
The kiss of salt on my lips, the bite of sun on my cheeks,
Roiling surf seducing me, caressing me,
depositing one perfect whelk at my feet.
Anne Morrow Lindbergh promised me a gift from the sea.

So we go.

The beaches are quieter, early in the morning,
before the crest of the heat and the swell of the crowds.
We share the shoreline with a large Amish family.
Incongruous: the girl-children dance in the waves
in their blue and purple dresses.

No whelks or sand-dollars are to be found;
Nothing glamorous and fine.
Only mussels, black and glistening,
a few broken quahogs,
irregular oysters,
and the occasional shattered slipper.

I gather them anyway.
Rinsing off the sand,
turning them in my hands,
laying them gently in an orange pail.
Each of these was created by God
and lived out its life with dignity.
May the same be said for me.