Poetry Wednesday

It must be the three weeks of rain that have me in this dark mood, or perhaps it’s just my personality.  What do you think?  Discuss.

Today I’m posting poems by Jane Kenyon.   Kenyon, a resident of New Hampshire, was a brilliant poet who at times was overshadowed by her more famous husband Donald Hall.  She died of cancer in the ’90s, leaving behind a small but powerful body of work.  (And I personally prefer her writing to her husband’s, though his work is quite amazing as well.)

What I love about Kenyon’s poems are her rich images of nature, and the way she intertwines a personal mysticism with her surroundings.  As a New Englander who spent her fair share of summers in New Hampshire, I adore the familiar world Kenyon moves in.    Both of these poems come from her collection, Let Evening Come (Graywolf Press, 1990).

 

 

In the Grove:  The Poet at Ten

 

She lay on her back in the timothy

and gazed past the doddering

auburn heads of sumac.

 

A cloud — huge, calm,

and dignified — covered the sun

but did not, could not, put it out.

 

The light surged back again.

 

Nothing could rouse her then

from that joy so violent

it was hard to distinguish from pain.

 

 

Let Evening Come

 

Let the light of late afternoon

shine through chinks in the barn, moving

up the bales as the sun moves down.

 

Let the cricket take up chafing

as a woman takes up her needles

and her yarn.  Let evening come.

 

Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned

in long grass.  Let the stars appear

and the moon disclose her silver horn.

 

Let the fox go back to its sandy den.

Let the wind die down.  Let the shed

go black inside.  Let evening come.

 

To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop

in the oats, to the air in the lung

let evening come.

 

Let it come, as it will, and don’t

be afraid.  God does not leave us

comfortless, so let evening come.

After 3 weeks of rain….

What to do when fatigue drowns the day?

What to do when rain chokes inspiration?

What to do when the mundane becomes a hangman’s noose?

What to do when sleep is the pacifist?

What to do when television is the sublime soporific?

What’s left?

To rise, to begin,

again?

The plea, the hope.

That this time.  Yes.

This time.  Yes.

The first sleepover

Mitzi is having her first sleepover tonight.  Until now, it’s been the occasional night with her cousin either with us at Muggy’s house, or with cousin Anna at Anna’s house.  Very safe, very predictable.  Tonight, though, Mitzi is at our neighbor’s house, with our neighbor’s daughter.  Many  weeks of anticipation have built up to this activity — Mitzi has had a bag packed and at the ready since the idea was first floated in December.  So off she went this afternoon — finally!  – for a chilly swim in the pool, and to have dinner and girly fun with Sofia and her mom.  Off we went, to Cooper’s last baseball game of the season, followed by dinner at Salsa’s, the restaurant who sponsored Coop’s team.

I was at ease.  I expected no trouble.

Alas.  Mitzi called once, during the game, to say hi, and to ask for her sleeping bag.  After we got home, I walked over with the sleeping bag and some wine for the moms.  Daniela and I chatted while the girls watched The Wizard of Oz, dressed up, bickered, made up, and asked for nineteen different things.  

It’s funny.  Mitzi kept wanting to walk home — to kiss Daddy, to kiss the little girls, to have a story with Cooper.  I had assumed my outgoing firstborn would be in her milieu at a big-kid sleepover, but in the end she was no different than anyone other child.  She kissed me 37 times and jumped into my arms every time (this is a kid who is nearing my height, ouch).  She was a little nervous about staying alone in a new place, no matter how many times she’d been over to play.

We kissed goodnight a last time and I walked home.  She waved me into the darkness, with shouting promises of an early-morning reunion.  I’ve left the back yard light on, just in case.

I shouldn’t be surprised.  She’s just a kid.  Being away is hard.  Remember your first night at college?  This first sleepover was a little like that, for this gregarious seven-year-old.  Things were different, and she needed reassurance.  The view was altered and she needed grounding.  The environment was not hers and she needed a compass.

No matter where you go, you always need your Mom.  I still talk to my mom once a day.  Less than that, I get a little antsy.

I get it.  

So tonight I will sleep fitfully, with the light on and a phone held loosely in my hand, should my child, my baby, sleeping just a few hundred feet away, need me.

I am prepared.  But I wonder:  Is it for her, or for me?

Poetry Wednesday, a day late

Yeah, well, it wouldn’t be me if it were on time, right?

This is a poem by Lucille Clifton.  It’s always inspired me, especially when I feel frozen or lost in my life.  

 

it was a dream

 

in which my greater self

rose up before me

accusing me of my life

with her extra finer

whirling in a gyre of rage

at what my days had come to.

what,

i pleaded with her, could i do,

oh what could i have done?

and she twisted her wild hair

and sparked her wild eyes

and screamed as long as

i could hear her.

This.  This.  This.

–from The Book of Light, 1993, Copper Canyon Press

Not real, but real sad

I really hate to jump on the gossip bandwagon, but I am just so sad about the crumbling of Jon and Kate.

I got into the reality show (”Jon and Kate Plus 8″) a few years ago.  How could I not?  At the time I had four kids under five years old, and was always on the lookout for someone to validate my insecurities, fears, failures, and faux pas.  I eagerly watched to see if Kate struggled much more than I did (perhaps she did, but I couldn’t tell), felt the guilt I did (she managed to feed her kids organic food and get them to church every Sunday, so I guess she did not).  It didn’t take me too long to grow cynical about this family  – I mean, if I had three nannies I could do just about anything, not to mention an extra $75K a week, plus free vacations and product-placement supplies.  The perks of a TLC celebrity.

But at what cost?  Any regular viewer has his or her opinion of the relationship, but no one can deny the obvious crumbling of the marriage.  I wonder, where were the friends?  The family?  The producer?  Heck, even the craft service rep might have suggested counseling of some kind long before this happened.

But I guess strife is good TV.  Repairing a marriage is not.  Certainly not good for the bottom line.

Does TLC have the license for the future “when they were child stars” profiles of the Gosselin 8?  I wouldn’t be surprised if they did.   Ante up, gossip mongers.

I’d say that I’m not one to judge someone else’s marriage, but I guess I am, particularly if you broadcast it around the world.  Jon, Kate, you failed.  Each other, yes, but those kids.   

Tonight, on the “special episode” in which the pair revealed that not only are they separating, but that divorce proceedings are underway, both Jon and Kate reiterated again and again that evreything they did was for the benefit of the kids.

What a load of hooey.  With that much help, money, and encouragement, much more should have been spent on the marriage, the relationship that created the kids in the first place.  Maybe Kate’s gym time could’ve been sacrificed?  Jon’s snowboarding?

I’m sure the kids would’ve understood about a regular Saturday night date instead of a shared custody.

Ray and I work at our relationship, sometimes more than at other times.  I can’t imagine the drain that 8 kids puts on a marriage — I know what 4 kids demand.  But I’ve learned, with no cameras or paychecks, that sometimes what’s best for the kids is that the parents put their relationship first.

I guess TLC’s most famous couple never figured that out.  Let that be a sad lesson for the rest of us who live in the real, not the reality, world.

Rejections, self-esteem, and the big picture

The other day I was rejected.  It’s funny.  The rejection really hurt, even though it was a relationship I initially had no thoughts about, at least not in a serious way.

I’m  both surprised and  nonchalant about the rejection.   On the one hand, who could possibly turn my writing (and, therefore, me) down?  On the other hand,  it’s no surprise that I was (politely, kindly, if-only-you-were-my-type) let down.

I have the classic writer’s brain — I am at the same time a self-effacing,  low-self-esteem artist, and the egocentric, confident author.    Both surprised and shocked by your interpretation and acceptance (or not) of my work, and therefore, me.

Oh, you know.  You’ve been there.  The guy who’d have been your boyfriend — since you were already such good friends — if only you were  his “type.”  For a writer, or any artist, this is a daily experience.

So, I was rejected by an agent I didn’t initially know I cared about.  She contacted me first, and I was flattered, interested…oh, I was so confident!  I was sure I was right for her!   But in the end, it was not to be.  Reading her assessment of my work — which led her ultimate rejection of me — I could nod and say, yes.  That’s right.   It’s a fair, objective assessment.

So I revise.  I believe in my talent.  I challenge myself to move beyond the ordinary to the extraordinary.  I mean, geez.  I can get an A on any old paper.  I can write a standard news story or a feature profile with the best of ‘em.  But long-lasting art?  A  unique perspective?  A truth heretofore untold?  An investigative scoop?   It’s in me!   I know it is!  The question is if I have the courage to give it legs and eyes.  I am very good at being average.  I have thrived on being average.  I could make a career of it.

But is that enough?

Date Night!

Last Saturday night Ray and I had a night out. This was the first time we’d been out together since last summer’s party in Dracut. Pretty pathetic! Sadly, it’s been a tight year financially, and dating never made the budget.

So it was especially fantastic to get out of the house, and the reason was even more so: a fundraiser to support the absolutely fabulous Puppet Showplace Theater in Brookline. We got all fancied up, and with friends had a pre-party dinner at Pomodoro, also in Brookline.

First, the food. Amazing! I had orrechiette with sausage and broccoli rabe in a tomato cream sauce. It was so wonderful I showed no self-control and ate it all. Very delicate of me. Having adult conversations, enjoying adult drinks, eating adult food — well, it was a singular experience I hope to encounter more often than once a year.

Then we walked to the Theater to have more pre-show drinks and delicious pastries provided by Montillio’s in Quincy. This bakery is famous for not only who it serves, but the quality of its goods. It’s one of the few things I miss about our tiny apartment — the proximity to Montillio’s!

The show itself was amazing. If you have thought that puppet shows are soley intended for children, you are quite mistaken. The group performing on Saturday night is called the Tanglewood Marionettes. I was especially curious, since I’ve never seen a professional marionette show and this is a group that performs regularly in Brewster, on Cape Cod, where we have enjoyed some summer vacations.

I’m no expert, but the show was spectacular. If you ever get a chance to see this group, take it. You won’t be disappointed!

We got home very late, but our babysitter was busy studying for final exams, so she didn’t mind. I sent her home with a fat check and a container of leftover pastries. The kids were asleep, the dishes were done, the house was tidy — amazing.

I hope to do it again soon, but if we have to have a single date night each year, well, this was a pretty good one to have!

Poetry Wednesday, No. 2

Ahh, nothing the destruction of a hard drive to keep one from blogging for a while!  While my old data may forever be lost, at least my machine is repaired, up and running.  While I ponder deep thoughts, here is a poem by Gary Snyder for your enjoyment:

 

How Poetry Comes To Me

 

It comes blundering over the

Boulders at night.  It stays

Frightened outside the

Range of my campfire

I go to meet it at the 

Edge of the light

 

– from No Nature: New and Selected Poems, 1992

New feature — Poetry Wednesday

If you know me, you know my poet’s heart.  Inspired by other writers’ blogs, I’ve decided to christen Wednesdays to be Poetry Wednesdays (shut up, if you have a better name, send it to me!).  On this day each week I’ll post a favorite (oh, god, so many!)  by a new (or old, familiar) writer, or perhaps (gasp!) share one of my own.  

On this inaugural day, here’s one by a favorite poet, Naomi Shihab Nye.  For years I shared this one with my students…I always hoped it resonated with them as much as it did me.

 

Famous

 

The river is famous to the fish.

 

The loud voice is famous to the silence,

which knew it would inherit the earth

before anybody said so.

 

The cat sleeping on the fence is famous to the birds

watching him from the birdhouse.

 

The tear is famous, briefly, to the cheek.

 

The idea you carry close to your bosom

is famous to your bosom.

 

The boot is famous to the earth,

more famous than the dress shoe,

which is famous only to floors.

 

The bent photograph is famous to the one who carries it

and not at all famous to the one who is pictured.

 

I want to be famous to shuffling men

who smile while crossing streets,

sticky children in grocery lines,

famous as the one who smiled back.

 

I want to be famous the way a pulley is famous,

or a buttonhole, not because it did anything spectacular,

but because it never forgot what it could do.

 

from Words Under Words: Selected Poems by Naomi Shihab Nye,

1995, Far Corner Books

 

Whenever I read this poem, I think of my mother, who continues to inspire me every day.   She has spent a lifetime with a quiet, strong voice, guiding and nurturing everyone around her, famous for the things she did reflexively — 20 years later, my high school friends still rave about her Friday night pizza open houses — and for the things she did courageously.

I remember the moment I learned that my mother was a person outside of her role as mother or wife.  God, I was so old!  How could I have never seen it before?  Looking back, it is not strange at all to me now that this moment of discovery was linked to poetry.  I don’t know what she has written, but my mother has always been a poet.  For her, for her fame, for that moment I saw clearly, I wrote this poem:

 

Salad Bowl

 

The sudden stranger chopping garlic

wears my mother’s soft body

and doesn’t pause in her cooking

to acknowledge the careless remark,

while I stare, frozen, slack-jawed,

red pen still marking scribbled

eighth grade compositions.

 

She is my mother

(I check to make sure)

this familiar figure who,

through giving birth to four children,

gave up another kind of life.  She

uses the torn, tomato-stained apron

to wipe the comment away from her hands

along with olive oil and garlic peels –

my mother’s hands, the ones

that taught me how to make meatballs,

plant marigolds.

 

I watch her move on to salad greens

while sipping ice-water, shrewdly

choosing crisp arugula over iceberg,

sprinkling parsley and oregano

as the writer does with verbs and nouns,

precisely, each selected 

for taste and clarity.  I wait for her

to finish the thought somehow but

her words hang in the air,

 

stirred by the overhead fan,

spinning in echoes over me, her daughter –

I’ve always wanted to write poetry, said my mother,

and every steel girder in my life’s framework

crumbles like the blue cheese

she has now tossed among

the red peppers and mushrooms,

its singularity lost forever when

mixed in a scarred wooden salad bowl.

(1994)

 

Remember:  you are famous to somebody.

And, Mom.  You do write poetry.  You always have.

A Summer Wind

Today I took advantage of the year’s first summery day (we may have reached 90 degrees) to get my butt in gear.  I’ve been going through something this spring and haven’t had my usual enthusiasm for getting outside to play and putter in the yard.  So I spent half the day cleaning garden beds, weeding, raking, digging, replanting, pruning, and generally doing all the stuff most people do in mid-April.

The kids are finally at the age where they don’t need me to entertain them every five seconds — they “helped” me garden, but mostly played with each other.  Yeah, they fought too, but I’m getting pretty good at tuning that out until there is actual bloodshed.  (Today Ellie bit Joanna pretty good and earned herself a very long indoor timeout.  Ouch.)

I pulled the plastic baby pool from the basement, dusted it off, and filled it with freezing hose water.  The kids didn’t care.  Bathing suits were donned faster than I could say “You can’t all fit in there at once!”  I forgot sunscreen, but thanks to our giant linden tree everyone but me avoided getting sunburned.

I’m glad I went outside.  Too often lately I’ve felt like huddling indoors, curling under a blanket, napping the afternoons away. (But that’s a topic for another day, I guess.)  Even when the afternoon got hairy (after Mitzi’s riding lesson we had to rush to Quincy to get Ray from the red line then rush back to Hingham to feed the kids so Cooper could get to a baseball practice — in an hour, in commuter traffic), I breathed well and hardly yelled at all.

Tonight the wind blows through the house, through every open window and every crack and crevice of this old structure, brushing gently over the exposed arms of the exhausted kids, rustling work papers to the office floor, whispering and calling me to the back porch where I’ll ponder the night sky and remember New Hampshire mountains and New Jersey lakes, all the summer winds that rocked me to bed for so many years when I always knew I was safe.

I can almost believe that this one is the same sort of breeze.