I don’t usually like poems that sprawl on forever in a convoluted manner. I tend to prefer those that are short and to the point, yet filled with deep meaning. But there’s something about Stephen Dobyn’s “Lullaby” that demands the extra space. It’s such a profound poem about the end of the millennium, and I love the repetition of “The century is going to sleep” throughout. The poem is more than just a reflection on the past though. It’s a wish for events to have unfolded in a different manner – a cry for our heroes to have survived – “And John Lennon, maybe in another world/the madman missed and more songs got made,” and also an anxious anticipation of the future. The last section of the poem begins as a brilliant denouncement of the grandiose, electronic obsessed social conventions of our modern culture, before taking a darker turn with the question, “What/Auschwitzes and Hiroshimas are already being/prepared.” Still, it ends on an optimistic note, as he writes that while there will surely be pain and suffering in the future, there will certainly be new love and laughter to go along with it, and that, he identifies as a surprise worth waiting for.
Conversely, Charles Simic’s “Classic Ballroom Dances” is one of those brief but insightful poems that I love. It’s a poem that describes the funny dances certain people do each day in everyday life from “pickpockets/Working the crowd of the curious” to “the weave of a little kid/Who is walking to school with eyes closed.” I love the way he organizes the line breaks, establishing the doer and then in the next line, revealing what they do. Some lines like Line 2 serve as a creative transition (In this case between a grandmother and a schoolteacher nun) with the words “Of chickens; old nuns.” And the language is so imaginative, conjuring up instant images of these movement patterns. The last night is especially pertinent right now: “On rainy Monday nights of an eternal November.” Eternal. You got that right. Now change rainy to snowy and you’re describing this week in Dayton. Lullaby: http://www.cortlandreview.com/issue/26/dobyns.html Classic Ballroom Dances: http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php?date=2004/04/14 Sometimes Billboards are wasted opportunities. That isn't the case with these great examples of how to make advertisement into art. Take this one for instance: If that wasn't quite your taste, how could you not appreciate our friends to the North poking fun at their "achievements" I've always enjoyed this next slogan. Nothing sells a product to children better than turning them off to the alternative food items available. I mean, when that worker in the cow costume comes out into the restaurant you feel guilty for even craving a hamburger ever again. And now for some local flavor. Near my hometown of Ft. Wayne, IN a sign sprang up for a adult funstore on a busy highway. It's a massive billboard, one the average person could not possibly miss. Naturally, some conservative Christians got pretty upset at the blatant promotion of what they deemed sinful and immoral behavior. Their response? A sign of their own just after it. Enjoy this one.
Trees are often used as metaphors for people. One of the best examples is in Rush’s “The Trees” where the Canadian prog rock band rips apart the Communist agenda in the simplest of terms (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JnC88xBPkkc). Another example is the much lighter (but still substantial) poem “Some Trees” by John Ashbery. Here, the speaker sits on a park bench in winter looking out at some trees and draws comparisons between them and the relationships he observes between people. He sees the trees as having something to share about the way we should live our lives. They are quietly in union with one another, in an intimate but loving relationship, filled with hope that they will continue to grow together. Ashbery sees them as a blueprint for humans. They were here before us, living in a beautiful, simpler world. They are content with their existence because each moment is meaningful to the trees. In our busy lives, it is nature which has been here the longest of all that can provide brightness we need to get through the day. This is echoed in the closing lines, “Our days put on such reticence/These accents seem their own defense.” When i read all of these beautiful words, I think of the snow anointed trees of Rochester, NY, birthplace of Ashbery and my own parents’ hometown. It is a place I have visited many a time, and knowing that the poet could look out on the scenery there and make beautiful discoveries about life fills me with joy.
SOME TREES These are amazing: each Joining a neighbor, as though speech Were a still performance. Arranging by chance To meet as far this morning From the world as agreeing With it, you and I Are suddenly what the trees try To tell us we are: That their merely being there Means something; that soon We may touch, love, explain. And glad not to have invented Such comeliness, we are surrounded: A silence already filled with noises, A canvas on which emerges A chorus of smiles, a winter morning. Placed in a puzzling light, and moving, Our days put on such reticence These accents seem their own defense. John Ashbery Let’s cut to the chase, I may have found my new favorite poem today. “Yesterday” by WS Merwin straight up knocked my socks off. It’s seemingly simple, recounting a conversation with a friend over an event that happened years ago, but the emotional content is anything but. The poem is heartbreaking, but not because anything particularly tragic happened it it. It’s heartbreaking because at some point every one of us has completely wasted a moment to share with someone we love for no reason - and in this case, the poet wishes he could’ve returned to the past and spent this moment with his father. We never know when those we love will be pulled away from us. It could be today, tomorrow, in five minutes, or in fifty years, but the truth of the matter is that every moment with them is valuable. My mom always tells me the only thing that matters at the end of this life is our relationships with each other. Everything else is fleeting. You’ve lived a good life if you’ve made a positive impact on those around you. Don’t be like the son in this poem who didn’t have a few minutes to spend with his aging father. Get away from the iPhones and laptops and reconnect with your loved ones. They’re too important to let them slip away. Yesterday My friend says I was not a good son you understand I say yes I understand he says I did not go to see my parents very often you know and I say yes I know even when I was living in the same city he says maybe I would go there once a month or maybe even less I say oh yes he says the last time I went to see my father I say the last time I saw my father he says the last time I saw my father he was asking me about my life how I was making out and he went into the next room to get something to give me oh I say feeling again the cold of my fathers hand the last time he says and my father turned in the doorway and saw me look at my wristwatch and he said you know I would like you to stay and talk with me oh yes I say but if you are busy he said I don't want you to feel that you have to just because I'm here I say nothing he says my father said maybe you have important work you are doing or maybe you should be seeing somebody I dont want to keep you I look out the window my friend is older than I am he says and I told my father it was so and I got up and left him then you know though there was nowhere I had to go and nothing I had to do W. S. Merwin Erotic. That was the first word that came to mind when I read Levertov's "The Poem Unwritten". I connected to her intense sexual desire for this other person she wanted so badly. It didn't matter much to me that she was a female talking about a male - the passion is the same I have felt before. Each word of the poem is delicious. I can feel every sensation she wants me to feel on the body of her lover. The most magnificent thing about the poem, though, is the reverence with which she treats the act of making love to her husband. To Levertov, sex is a holy act. “stroking, sweeping, in the rite of/worship,” she writes, describing how she will touch him. For her it is so much more than a sport or a pastime. It’s more than just a selfish, pleasure-seeking game. It’s about love and the other person - a detail too often forgotten in our modern world. Levertov waits for marriage to consummate their love, refusing to let her desires taint her morals. While she calls the years that pass “a forest of giant stones, of fossil stumps” she knows someday her beautiful poem of love will be written. The imagery of the poem reminds me of the still of a young Claire Danes waiting for her Romeo is Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo + Juliet. All of those feelings are there in her face: desire, impatience, reverence, and just enough restraint to make it through to the night.
When reading the poetry of Gwendolyn Brooks this week, I found myself struck by her range. She can write about abortion, youthful defiance, and the arrogance of the rich with ease and it never feels outside of her. The one thing each poem shares is her incredible insight into humanity - the way she sees people - not just on a surface level, but into the essence of their being. The poem that struck me the most was "The Bean Eaters." It's about an elderly couple nearing the end of life's journey as they sit together and eat dinner "Remembering, with tinklings and twinges" the details of their lives. I was instantly struck with the image of an old married couple I knew. They were regulars at the Buffalo Wild Wings I worked at over the summer. They would come in, real sweet to everybody, sit down and hold hands as she played trivia and he watched sports. She was in a wheelchair, and he took care of her with pride and unconditional love. Whispers were abound in the restaurant whenever they showed up. "I hope I find somebody like that," or "That's what I want my life to be like" could be heard piercing the air. I searched for an image that captured this couple, and this painting by Dianne Dengel was the best I could find. It's an imperfect picture though. The couple in the image is smiling with the splendor of youth. The elderly couple I catered to had just as much joy, but happiness manifested itself in a different way in them. Behind the wrinkles, the sunspots, and the dark circles under the eyes that marked a long, well-lived life, there was a vibrance in the pupils. It looked like the embodiment of hope and peace, existing beyond the veil of the iris into the human soul. It's that feeling that Brooks evokes in her poem. Yes, this couple is comprised of "Two who have lived their day,/But keep on putting on their clothes/And putting things away" but they are more than that. They are teachers for all of us. For this generation of high-anxiety and crippling stress; of multitasking and the digital world; a generation that obsesses over interpersonal connection, but never really communicates with anyone. We are searching for answers and they have it figured out. They are the Bean Eaters. Maybe its time to order up some of those beans ourselves. What do you think?
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