On this day in 1892, Edna Vincent Millay was born in Rockland Maine. Would that she had lived twice as long as her too brief 58 years.
Although perhaps most famous to the general public for her poem First Fig, this poem (obviously, no?) speaks to me.
I read it often a couple of years ago.
Things are so much better now.
I Know The Face Of Falsehood And Her Tongue
I know the face of Falsehood and her Tongue Honeyed with unction, Plausible with guile, Are dear to men, whom count me not among, That owe their daily credit to her smile; Such have been succoured out of great distress By her contriving, if accounts be true: Their deference now above the board, I guess, Dishcharges what beneath the board is due. As for myself, I'd liefer lack her aid Than eat her presence; let this building fall: But let me never lift my latch, afraid To hear her simpering accents in the hall, Nor force an entrance past mephitic airs Of stale patchoulie hanging on my stairs
Famous, but only to all of you. It's been so very long since I could find the time, and the will, and the inspiration to write, but mostly, I needed the courage.
Let me explain.
I love Facebook. If it wasn't for Facebook, I wouldn't have reunited with several old friends that I had assumed were out of my life forever, I wouldn't know that my niece was accepted into the Cytogenetics program at UT / MD Anderson. (Go Mattie! - and yes, I had to look it up to see what the hell that meant.) I wouldn't know about friends new puppys, or jobs, or many other mundane but joyous things. If it wasn't for Facebook, I wouldn't have the lovely Xena to wake up to each morning. So yes, I love Facebook.
So . . . . the problem is, Facebook makes it so damn easy to keep in touch with people, including the great majority of you, that my communication has become one-liners and hitting the Like button. I have forgotten how to sit down, organize my thoughts and turn them into a coherent post.
Believe me, I've tried. You should see the unfinished drafts in my queue. It's not like I haven't had plenty to write about. Writing has just become scary and hard.
So bear with me.
Scold me.
Remind me to go write something more than a poorly punctuated paragraph about how stupid Sarah Palin's admirers are.
When I was a brash young man, I dreamed of being famous. I still want that, but I want a different kind of famous now. Something like this.
What do you know about Ted Hughes? I didn't know much. To me, he was always the guy who killed Sylvia Plath. Of course, that's not true, things are rarely that simple.
This year, I was gifted by a dear friend with two volumes of his poetry.
This one is from Birthday Letters. It is addressed to Sylvia, as are all but two in the collection. They are deeply personal, intimate, and occasionally disturbing. Reading some of them almost makes me feel like a voyeur, peering into the raw emotion of an intense but flawed relationship.
If you can't guess what this one says to me, you haven't been paying attention.
The Shot
Your worship needed a god. Where it lacked one, it found one. Ordinary jocks became gods- Defiled by your infatuation That seemed to have been designed at birth for a god. It was a god-seeker. A god finder. Your Daddy had been aiming you at god. When his death touched the trigger. In that flash You saw your whole life. You ricocheted The length of your Alpha career With the fury Of a high-velocity bullet That cannot shed one foot-pound Of kinetic energy. The elect More or less died on impact- They were too mortal to take it. They were mind-stuff. Provisional, speculative, mere auras. Sound-barrier events along your flightpath. But inside your sob-sodden kleenex And your Saturday night panics, Under your hair done this way and that way, Behind what looked like rebounds And the cascade of cries diminuendo, You were undeflected. You were gold-jacketed, solid silver, Nickel-tipped. Trajectory perfect as through ether. Even the cheek-scar, Where you seemed to have side-swiped concrete, served as a rifling groove To keep you true. Till your real target Hid behind me. Your Daddy, God with the smoking gun. For a long time Vague as mist, I did not even know I'd been hit, Or that you had gone clean through me- To bury yourself at last in the heart of the god.
In my position, the right witchdoctor Might have caught you in flight with his bare hands, Tossed you, cooling, one hand to the other, Godless, happy, quieted. I managed A wisp of your hair, your ring, your watch, your nightgown.
I've always considered song lyrics to be a particularly difficult type of poetry. If I could be a poet, I think I'd want to be a troubadour in the vein of Lyle Lovett or Townes Van Zandt. Yes, poets, both of them, to be sure. With song writing, not only does the poem have to speak to the audience, it has to fit within the frame work of the melody, not to mention the bridge. It is a skill I stand in awe of. That is not to say that only the singer/songwriter model of a lyricist is a poet, on the contrary, poetry can be found in every genre of music no matter whether it is to one's taste or not.
Hmm, funny how these blog posts work - that paragraph really didn't have anything to do with what I sat down to write about, but as I always tend to say - "that's another post", and then never get back to it, I think I'll expand a bit on that idea.
Yes, I suck at this stream of consciousness thing - So sue me.
Take Eminem for example. though you may revile his music, or him personally, and though his lyrics may be misogynistic and homophobic, the man is truly a wordsmith. Do I aspire to write his kind of poetry? Certainly not, but he is a poet.
It was through a song lyric that I first heard of Aphrodite. I looked her up in the library (no Internet back in those days), so I could better understand a particular song that was a favorite in my hard rocking adolescent days. I still look back amazed at how naive I was at 13. I can assure you, my children are far more worldly than I ever was.
So where am I going with this? I sat down to write about how this blog and blogging are a life line to me, and I suspect to many others, connecting isolated souls to like minded people. What made me think of this, was a song that came on while I was doing housework. More on that in a moment.
It may appear that I'm changing the subject again, but bear with me, someday I hope to have an amazing skill at tying seemingly disconnected ideas together into a beautiful post, but sadly, I am not there yet.
Do you remember a radio show called In The Studio With Redbeard? It apparently still comes on but I haven't heard it in years. The song I heard a while ago reminded me vividly of an episode of that show I heard many, many years ago. If you're unfamiliar with the show, Redbeard, the host takes the audience behind the scenes of a famous album and talks about when and how it was made, and interviews the artists, producers, etc... Great show, btw.
This particular episode was on The Police's 3rd studio album, ZenyattaMondatta. During the interview portion, Steward Copeland called Sting the king of the three minute pop ditty, and noted that Sting considered it a high calling indeed. I think I'd agree with that sentiment on both counts. Yes, Sting can be pompous, and even pretentious, but come on - who else is going to work Nabokov into a pop song? A funny aside - during the same interview, Copeland said of Sting:
Sting is probably the person whom fame has changed the least, he was swaggering and cocky when he didn't have a dime to his name.
I love that.
So, back to the original post. As I'm cleaning house with the Satellite radio going, I'm thinking that I've really been neglecting my blog, and at the same time, not spending much time on other sites either. Most of my comments of late have been quick little one liners. I miss the ongoing conversations that comment strings can become. I was thinking to myself that it has been ages since I've sat down and just started writing whatever's on my mind. I miss it. I miss all of you, both here, and at your own little corner of the web.
As I'm think that, the live acoustic version of Message In A Bottle came on. As the final verse came on, I stopped folding the towel, and I just marveled at Sting's words. It gave me a little chill as he sang:
Walked out this morning, don't believe what I saw Hundred billion bottles washed up on the shore Seems I'm not alone at being alone Hundred billion castaways, looking for a home Ill send an s.o.s. to the world Ill send an s.o.s. to the world . . . . . . .
I thought to myself, that is exactly what blogging is, little messages, floating out on the vast ocean of the Internet, hoping to be plucked out of the water and to find a home. Who says pop music can't be poetry? Not me.
Here is a video of the same version of the song, it is most likely the exact same performance. It is from the Secret Policeman's Other Ball, and yes, I have the LP. Oh, and can one help but notice how young and beautiful he was back then?
A boy told me if he roller-skated fast enough his loneliness couldn't catch up to him, the best reason I ever heard for trying to be a champion. What I wonder tonight pedaling hard down King William Street is if it translates to bicycles. A victory! To leave your loneliness panting behind you on some street corner while you float free into a cloud of sudden azaleas, pink petals that have never felt loneliness, no matter how slowly they fell.
Wonderful poet. I was introduced to her a few months ago, and I just can't get enough of her.
This one shouldn't need any introduction. Whether or not Shakespeare invented the modern idea of romantic love, as Harold Bloom contends, or not, he certainly understood it. Happy Birthday Mr. Shakespeare.
Sonnet 116
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Off that landspit of stony mouth-plugs, Eyes rolled by white sticks, Ears cupping the sea's incoherences, You house your unnerving head -- God-ball, Lens of mercies, Your stooges Plying their wild cells in my keel's shadow, Pushing by like hearts, Red stigmata at the very center, Riding the rip tide to the nearest point of departure,
Dragging their Jesus hair. Did I escape, I wonder? My mind winds to you Old barnacled umbilicus, Atlantic cable, Keeping itself, it seems, in a state of miraculous repair.
In any case, you are always there, Tremulous breath at the end of my line, Curve of water upleaping To my water rod, dazzling and grateful, Touching and sucking. I didn't call you. I didn't call you at all. Nevertheless, nevertheless You steamed to me over the sea, Fat and red, a placenta
Paralyzing the kicking lovers. Cobra light Squeezing the breath from the blood bells Of the fuchsia. I could draw no breath, Dead and moneyless,
Overexposed, like an X-ray. Who do you think you are? A Communion wafer? Blubbery Mary? I shall take no bite of your body, Bottle in which I live,
Ghastly Vatican. I am sick to death of hot salt. Green as eunuchs, your wishes Hiss at my sins. Off, off, eely tentacle!
There is nothing between us.
This seemed appropriate. Alas, I am not Perseus, but I'm trying.
I find much of his work to be difficult. That is one of the reasons I like him. He challenges me. For those of you unfamiliar with his work, he is often quoted as the inspiration for many of the Beat Poets.
He was an avid pacifist, an anarchist, poet, painter, novelist, and champion of the union movement. I'd like him even if he never wrote a thing!
He also created many "painted poems" not unlike the engravings of William Blake. The graphic above is one of them.
As I said, he can be difficult, but I find that with each new reading, meaning and understanding flesh out, and are constantly changing. This poem, to me at least, was pretty clear the first time I read it, but over the years it has never failed to reveal a bit more of itself to me.
I like to think of his work as the beautiful but shy young woman sitting in the back of the classroom. Few take the time to notice her, or to get to know her, because of all the barriers she has put up. But if you befriend her, she will start to reveal herself to you a little at a time. Never all at once, but by the end of the semester, she is your friend and you understand her. Years later, she is still one of your dearest friends, and you never cease to marvel at the new layers she has, waiting to be discovered, and at the depth of her soul.
When We Were Here Together
when we were here together in a place we did not know, nor one another. A bit of grass held between the teeth for a moment, bright hair on the wind. What we were we did not know, nor even the grass or the flame of hair turning to ash on the wind. But they lied about that. From the beginning they lied. To the child, telling him that there was somewhere anger against him, and a hatred against him, and the only reason for his being in the world. But never did they tell him that the only evil and danger was in themselves; that they alone were the prisoners and the betrayers; that they - they alone - were responsible for what was being done in the world. And they told the child to starve and to kill the child that was within him; for only by doing this could he become a useful and adjusted member of the community which they had prepared for him. And this time, alas, they did not lie. And with the death of the child was born a thing that had neither the character of a man nor the character of a child, but was a horrible and monstrous parody of the two; and it is in this world now that the flesh of man’s spirit lies twisted and despoiled under the indifferent stars. When we were here together in a place we did not know, nor one another. O green the bit of warm grass between our teeth. O beautiful the hair of our mortal goddess on the indifferent wind.
My oldest son turned 17 a few days ago. Not exactly a man, but not far from it. Whenever I think too hard about my children growing up and moving away, I get a little sad.
I'm sure it must be a bittersweet moment when the empty nest finally appears. Suddenly one finds one's self with all the time in the world, and wondering how on earth they will fill it.
Happily, that time is still not quite on me yet.
Today's poem is what got me thinking on this. On a first reading, I must confess, it brought a little tear to my eye because of its sweetness. Subsequent reading have allowed me to find the joy in it. Even when they're gone, they'll always be my kids.
Sentimental Moment or Why Did the Baguette Cross the Road?
Robert Hershon
Don't fill up on bread I say absent-mindedly The servings here are huge
My son, whose hair may be receding a bit, says Did you really just say that to me?
What he doesn't know is that when we're walking together, when we get to the curb I sometimes start to reach for his hand
Technically, a haiku should have a suggestion of nature, and perhaps a reference to the season in which it was written, but those constricts have mostly been done away with in English versions.
The acknowledged master of traditional Japanese haiku was Basho.National Geographic Magazine did an excellent article on his life and his Journeys which I would direct you to read, rather than trying to do it justice on this page.When I read the article, I was struck by how serene his life and his work seemed.I have since read as many of his poems as I can, but I can’t help but think that I will never appreciate his mastery without learning his language.As that seems unlikely at this point, translations will have to do.
Translating Poetry must be among the most difficult of tasks.For what is poetry, if not meter, and rhythm, and sometimes rhyme?To get the essence, the feeling of the original into another language must take the utmost skill, and mostly I think - the passion for the art and the language.
To understand the difficulty, go to this page.There is an original Haiku by Basho, and 30, that’s right 30 different translations.Which one is the most accurate?I know which one I like best.How about you?I Like this one:
The old pond is still a frog leaps right into it splashing the water
Perhaps I like that one best because in my mind, the 5-7-5 must hold, but it just seems to capture the feeling right. Who knows?
I have recently been reading a new translation of Beowulf, and it is such a beautiful poem.Not at all the way I remember reading it before.
So, back to my little Haiku at the top:
Do you like Haiku?
It is relaxing to write.
Please write one for me.
Please, today, include a haiku in your comments.If possible, make it about this blog in some way.It doesn’t matter how.It could be about a particular post, about me, about a commenter, about our little community here in this corner of the tubes.It can be about one of the pictures to the right.Just 5-7-5, that’s all.
As National Poetry Month Continues, I couldn't let today pass without honoring French Poet Charles Baudelaire. He was born on this day in 1821.
I wasn't familiar with his work, but was recently introduced to him via Bee.
This poem is the source of her nom de blog, and a wonderful exaltation.
Be drunken Always. That's the point. Nothing else matters; If you would not feel the horrible burden of Time weigh you down and crush you to the Earth, Be drunken, continually. Drunken with what? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue as you please. but Be drunken. And if sometimes on the steps of a palace or on the green grass in a ditch or in the dreary solitude of your own room You should awaken and find the drunkenness half or entirely gone Ask of the wind ,of the wave, of the star of the bird, of the clock of all that flies, of all that sighs, of all that moves, of all that sings, of all that speaks, Ask what hour it is, and wind, wave, star, bird or clock will answer you,
"It is the hour to be drunken Be drunken if you would not be the martyred slaves of Time. Be drunken Continually, with wine, with poetry or with virtue, as you please."
I love the idea of this poem. Be filled!! Be Drunk with what is ever it is that fills you, be it poetry, virtue or wine. So, with what are you drunken? With joy, with love? Are you drunk with rage at this administration? Can our congress be drunk with justice?
Let's all be drunk with something!! Please let's not be martyrs of time.
Well I say you should! Poetry is good for your soul, it works the mind, it expands your range of understanding words and language.
I challenge you to read at least one poem a day for the whole of April. You may find that you'll want to continue when April is done. I also ask that you expand into Poets and styles that might be new to you.
Sometime in this month, post on a poem you like.
Here are some sites you can go to:
Poetry 180 - This is a Poem a day site with Poems selected for High School Students.
Poets.org - The Academy of American poets. This would be a good way to read a poem a day without any effort, they are posting a poem a day on their site.
Favorite Poem Project - I like this one. Founded in 1997 by then Poet Laureate Robert Pinsky, 18,000 Americans wrote in and suggested their favorite poem. From that list, 50 were selected and given the chance to read and talk about their favorite poem. It's worth looking into this site, it is rich with content.
A dear friend sent me this poem a couple of days ago and I just love it. It seemed perfect for this post. (Don't you love it when serendipity just steps in and hands you something like this?) I love the idea that Poetry is alive, it's everywhere, and just needs finding. And yes, Poetry is in the eye of the beholder.
You can't order a poem like you order a taco. Walk up to the counter, say, "I'll take two" and expect it to be handed back to you on a shiny plate.
Still, I like your spirit. Anyone who says, "Here's my address, write me a poem," deserves something in reply. So I'll tell you a secret instead: poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes, they are sleeping. They are the shadows drifting across our ceilings the moment before we wake up. What we have to do is live in a way that lets us find them.
Once I knew a man who gave his wife two skunks for a valentine. He couldn't understand why she was crying. "I thought they had such beautiful eyes." And he was serious. He was a serious man who lived in a serious way. Nothing was ugly just because the world said so. He really liked those skunks. So, he re-invented them as valentines and they became beautiful. At least, to him. And the poems that had been hiding in the eyes of skunks for centuries crawled out and curled up at his feet.
Maybe if we re-invent whatever our lives give us we find poems. Check your garage, the odd sock in your drawer, the person you almost like, but not quite. And let me know.
Early February, the very heart of winter for most of us. For me, Spring is only a week or two away, but where many of you live, I suspect the winter hasn't yet had its say.
It is coming, as surely as the sun will rise tomorrow Spring is coming.
It is coming where you live, it is coming where I live, and mostly, it is coming in Washington.
Look forward to it, and welcome it.
Spring
Nothing is so beautiful as spring— When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush; Thrush’s eggs look little low heavens, and thrush Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing; The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush With richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling.
What is all this juice and all this joy? A strain of the earth’s sweet being in the beginning In Eden garden.—Have, get, before it cloy, Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning, Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy, Most, O maid’s child, thy choice and worthy the winning
Gerard Manley Hopkins
I thought this was appropriate for our anticipation of Spring. Hopkins takes a bit of energy to read, to absorb.
It will take a bit of energy to get through our winter, but Spring is coming, it is surely coming.
