That Inaugural Poem

I'll admit that during the inauguration yesterday I wasn't overwhelmed by Elizabeth Alexander's poem. Moments of it stuck out, for sure. I kept thinking, though, that I'd have to read it to evaluate it. It wasn't sinking in. It was too hard for the ear.

I was really curious to look it up, though, since my class is in the midst of our poetry unit, and when does poetry have such a stage? They'd all watched the inauguration yesterday. I looked it up, and read "Praise Song for the Day" again.

And it's really good. It's a tremendously concrete poem. She seems to mean it to be. That makes it difficult to read aloud, oddly enough. Abstractions about love and hope without the anything tying them down would have been much easier to hear, much easier to remember. It certainly is a hopeful poem. But it's a hope located in the day-to-day, where it's usually more difficult to find.

As such, it couldn't have been a better companion to Obama's sober speech yesterday.

We discussed the poem today in class, and things went surprisingly well. That line about enacting a "love with no need to pre-empt grievance" especially intrigued the students. That's a good sign. Maybe some change is coming.


Praise Song for the Day - Elizabeth Alexander

Each day we go about our business,
walking past each other, catching each other's
eyes or not, about to speak or speaking.

All about us is noise. All about us is
noise and bramble, thorn and din, each
one of our ancestors on our tongues.

Someone is stitching up a hem, darning
a hole in a uniform, patching a tire,
repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere,
with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum,
with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus.
A farmer considers the changing sky.
A teacher says, Take out your pencils. Begin.

We encounter each other in words, words
spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed,
words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark
the will of some one and then others, who said
I need to see what's on the other side.

I know there's something better down the road.
We need to find a place where we are safe.
We walk into that which we cannot yet see.


Say it plain: that many have died for this day.
Sing the names of the dead who brought us here,
who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges,

picked the cotton and the lettuce, built
brick by brick the glittering edifices
they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle, praise song for the day.
Praise song for every hand-lettered sign,
the figuring-it-out at kitchen tables.

Some live by love thy neighbor as thyself,
others by first do no harm or take no more
than you need. What if the mightiest word is love?

Love beyond marital, filial, national,
love that casts a widening pool of light,
love with no need to pre-empt grievance.

In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air,
any thing can be made, any sentence begun.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp,

praise song for walking forward in that light.

the lesson of the moth

This poem needs a little background information.
Don Marquis was this humorous poet whose poetic
voice was as his creation Archy the Cockroach.
Hence, the lack of capitalization. A roach hopping
around the typewriter couldn't hit the shift key.
Anyway, this poem is about a conversation between
Archy and a moth. 

the lesson of the moss – don marquis

i was talking to a moth
the other evening
he was trying to break into
an electric light bulb
and fry himself on the wires

why do you fellows
pull this stunt i asked him
because it is the conventional
thing for moths or why
if that had been an uncovered
candle instead of an electric
light bulb you would
now be a small unsightly cinder
have you no sense

plenty of it he answered
but at times we get tired
of using it
we get bored with the routine
and crave beauty
and excitement
fire is beautiful
and we know that if we get
too close it will kill us
but what does that matter
it is better to be happy
for a moment
and be burned up with beauty
than to live a long time
and be bored all the while
so we wad all our life up
into one little roll
and then we shoot the roll
that is what life is for
it is better to be a part of beauty
for one instant and then cease to
exist than to exist forever
and never be a part of beauty
our attitude toward life
is come easy go easy
we are like human beings
used to be before they became
too civilized to enjoy themselves

and before i could argue him
out of his philosophy
he went and immolated himself
on a patent cigar lighter
i do not agree with him
myself i would rather have
half the happiness and twice
the longevity

but at the same time i wish
there was something i wanted
as badly as he wanted to fry himself

archy

Poems Composed Upon Accidentally Shaving Off My Beard and Not Accidentally Growing It Back

I made my students write a whole bunch of those formula poems that they often make you write in high school (you know, a cinquain, a "why" poem, a poem where you have to pick something and decide what seasons it's like, a comparison poem). It was sort of fun, and they actually produced some neat stuff.

Anyway, yesterday was our poetry reading day, and I thought that if they had to write all those formula poems, so should I. So, this is what I came up with--a cycle of poems inspired by the accidental shaving of my beard. They liked them, but if you've read my last post, you know that that may not mean much.

Poems Composed Upon Accidentally Shaving Off My Beard and Not Accidentally Growing It Back

My beard
Spreading always over the surfaces of my face
the wide plains, the rolling hills, the tiniest crevices.
Never ceasing to grow…
Except for that one time when I accidentally shaved it off.

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

My beard, spreading over the surface of my skin,
Like moss growing on the north side of the tree,
Like barnacles clinging to a new hull,
Like skin closing over the opened wound.
Things return to their rightful places.
I think this is the better of my faces.

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

My beard is like the fall.
As autumn leaves cascade groundward at the faintest breeze,
So fell my beard into the sink. One errant touch of the trimmer.

My beard is like the spring,
Awaking from a bare and chilly sleep,
To put forth full foliage
Despite the fallen hair…
Despite the fallen hair.

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

My beard,
warm, fuzzy-goodness,
shining, shimmering, seducing,
Man, I really missed you—
O Beardy.

The Poem - Franz Wright

It was like getting a love letter from a tree

Eyes closed forever to find you--

There is a life which
if I could have it
I would have chosen for myself from the beginning

Be Still My Soul

Be still, my soul: the Lord is on thy side.
Bear patiently the cross of grief or pain.
Leave to thy God to order and provide;
In every change, He faithful will remain.
Be still, my soul: thy best, thy heavenly Friend
Through thorny ways leads to a joyful end.

Be still, my soul: thy God doth undertake
To guide the future, as He has the past.
Thy hope, thy confidence let nothing shake;
All now mysterious shall be bright at last.
Be still, my soul: the waves and winds still know
His voice Who ruled them while He dwelt below.

Be still, my soul: when dearest friends depart,
And all is darkened in the vale of tears,
Then shalt thou better know His love, His heart,
Who comes to soothe thy sorrow and thy fears.
Be still, my soul: thy Jesus can repay
From His own fullness all He takes away.

Be still, my soul: the hour is hastening on
When we shall be forever with the Lord.
When disappointment, grief and fear are gone,
Sorrow forgot, love’s purest joys restored.
Be still, my soul: when change and tears are past
All safe and blessèd we shall meet at last.

Be still, my soul: begin the song of praise
On earth, believing, to Thy Lord on high;
Acknowledge Him in all thy words and ways,
So shall He view thee with a well pleased eye.
Be still, my soul: the Sun of life divine
Through passing clouds shall but more brightly shine.

A Remarkable Poem by W.H. Auden

As I Walked Out One Evening

As I walked out one evening,
Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
Were fields of harvest wheat.

And down by the brimming river
I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
‘Love has no ending.

‘I’ll love you, dear, I’ll love you
Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street,

‘I’ll love you till the ocean
Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
Like geese about the sky.

‘The years shall run like rabbits,
For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages,
And the first love of the world.’

But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
‘O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.

‘In the burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.

‘In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or to-day.

‘Into many a green valley
Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the treaded dances
And the diver’s brilliant bow.

‘O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you’ve missed.

‘The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.

‘Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
And Jill goes down on her back.

‘O look, look in the mirror,
O look in your distress;
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.

‘O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour
With all your crooked heart.’

It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on.

A Ginger Andrews Poem

Prayer

God bless the chick in Alaska
who took in my sister’s ex,
an abusive alcoholic hunk.
Bless all borderline brainless ex-cheerleaders
with long blonde hair, boobs,
and waists no bigger around than a coke bottle
who’ve broken up somebody else’s home.
Forgive my thrill
should they put on seventy-five pounds,
develop stretch marks, spider veins,
and suffer through endless days of deep depression.

Bless those who remarry on the rebound.
Bless me and all my sisters;
the ball and chain baggage we carried into our second marriages.
Bless my broken brother and his live-in.
Grand him SSI. Consider
how the deeper the wounds in my family,
the funnier we’ve become.
Bless those who’ve learned to laugh at what’s longed for.
Keep us from becoming hilarious.
Bless our children.
Bless all our ex’s,
and bless the fat chick in Alaska.

from Thomas Traherne's "The Centuries of Meditations"

The First Century, 91

O Jesu, Lord of Love and Prince of Life! who even being dead, art greater than all angels, cherubims. and men, let my love unto Thee be as strong as Death and so deep that no waters may be able to drown it. O let it be ever endless and invincible! O that I could really so love Thee, as rather to suffer with St. Anselm the pains of Hell than to sin against Thee. O that no torments, no powers in heaven or earth, no stratagems, no allurements might divide me from Thee. Let the length and breadth and height and depth of my love unto Thee be like Thine unto me. Let undrainable fountains, and unmeasurable abysses be hidden in it. Let it be more vehement than flame, more abundant than the sea, more constant than the candle in Aaron's tabernacle that burned day and night. Shall the sun shine for me; and be a light from the beginning of the world to this very day that never goeth out, and shall my love cease or intermit, O Lord, to shine or burn? O let it be a perpetual fire on the altar of my heart, and let my soul itself be Thy living sacrifice.

Another Great Passage from Wendell Berry

from his novel Jayber Crow

"You have been given questions to which you cannot be given answers. You will have to live them out--perhaps a little at a time."

"And how long is that going to take?"

"I don't know. As long as you live, perhaps."

"That could be a long time."

"I will tell you a further mystery," he said. "It may take longer."

rounding the bend
finally beginning to see the
curve

I will tell you something about stories ...
They aren't just entertainment.
Don't be fooled.

They are all we have, you see. All we have to fight off illness and death ...
Their evil is mighty, but it can't stand up to our stories.

So they try to destroy the stories, let the stories be confused or forgotten.

They would like that ... because we would be defenseless then.
--Leslie Silko, Ceremony

In light of my latest rant...

I thought I'd repost this Wendell Berry poem. I think I've put this on the ol' blog three times now. It's worth it though. I read this each day as part of my morning prayers.




From Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front by Wendell Berry

So, friends, every day do something
that won’t compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.
Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias….
Listen to carrion—put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts….
Go with your love to the fields.
Lie easy in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is highest in your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn’t go. Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

Richard of Chesterfield’s Prayer

Thanks be to Thee, my Lord Jesus Christ
For all the benefits Thou hast given me,
For all the pains and insults
Which Thou has borne for me.
O most merciful Redeemer, Friend, and Brother,
May I know Thee more clearly,
Love Thee more dearly,
Follow Thee more nearly,
Day by day. Amen.

I've been interested in St. Francis. I ran across this poem attributed to him.


Lord, Make Me an Instrument of Thy Peace

Lord, make me an instrument of thy Peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love,
Where there is injury, pardon;
Where there is doubt, faith;
When there is despair, hope;
Where there is darkness, light;
When there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master, grant that
I may not so much seek
To be consoled, as to console;
Not so much to be understood as
To to understand; no so much to be
Loved as to love:
For it is in giving that we receive;
It is in pardoning, that we are pardoned;
It is in dying, that we awaken to eternal life.

And Another One

The Leader

Head like a big
watermelon,
frequently thumped
and still not ripe.

A nice little poem I happened across by Wendell Berry.

A Passing Thought

I think therefore
I think I am.

I think I'm going to start my portfolio with this quote. I think it suggests fairly well something about the connections I have seen between literature and Christianity.


“Every man has forgotten who he is. One may understand the cosmos, but never the ego; the self is more distant than any star. Thou shalt love the Lord thy God; but thou shalt not know thyself. We are all under the same mental calamity; we have all forgotten our names. We have all forgotten what we really are. All that we call common sense and rationality and practicality and positivism only means that for certain dead levels of our life we forget that we have forgotten. All that we call spirit and art and ecstasy only means that for one awful instant we remember that we forget.”
G.K. Chesterton, Orthodoxy

Good Poem.

In my poetry class this semester, I read some pretty good stuff (though not by Wallace Stevens). Anyway, last week we read a poem by Elizabeth Bishop that struck me for some reason. It's not my favorite poem of the semester (that would be "The Death of the Hired Man" by Frosst), but it's my favorite by Bishop. Here it is.

Filling Station

Oh, but it is dirty!
--this little filling station,
oil-soaked, oil-permeated
to a disturbing, over-all
black translucency.
Be careful with that match!

Father wears a firty,
oil-soaked monkey suit
that cuts him under the arms,
and several quick and saucy
and greasy sons assist him
(it's a family filling station),
all quite thoroughly dirty.

Do they live in the station?
It has a cement porch
behind the pumps, and on it
a set of crushed and grease-
impregnated wickerwork;
on the wicker sofa
a dirty dog, quite comfy.

Some comic books provide
the only not of color--
of certain color. They lie
upon a big dim doily
draping a taboret
(part of the set), beside
a big hirsute begonia.

Why the extraneous plant?
Why the taboret?
Why, oh why, the doily?
(Embroidered in daisy stitch
with marguerites, I think,
and heavy with gray crochet.)

Somebody embroidered the doily.
Somebody waters the plant,
or oils it, maybe. Somebody
arranges the rows of cans
so that they softly say:
ESSO---SO---SO---SO
to high-strung automobiles.
Somebody loves us all.