Ann E. Michael's Blog, page 34

Patience

Okay, day … six? Thanks to Marilyn Hazelton, my tanka expert and today’s muse, for engaging with the idea of patience and suggesting a book that gave me this quote by Rodin (long a favorite sculptor of mine):

~

“Patience is also a form of action” –-Auguste Rodin

Clay. Thumb and fingers pressed.

Coolness and warmth awaiting form

or formulation–chemistry binding

components under heat’s influence.

Here, the potter attends the kiln,

biding her time. Or the craftsmen

check and check again as barley

ferments, as bronze hardens, careful.

The woman holds inside herself

for nine months the evolving child

and every moment is one of multiplying,

expending energy during the wait

which may result in either life

or death. Even the Zen place of repose

requires breath: action, inhalation,

oxygenation, illumination. Notice:

this morning, the plum trees blossomed.

~

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Letters

I have been reflecting on the practice of letter writing and how it improves writing skills because it is, essentially, practice in written composition.

I teach writing, and one thing I notice among students who ‘don’t write well’ (in their words) is that they struggle to develop a voice in their written essays. In the hundreds of years before telephones and tablet devices, literate people learned a voice and style not through school essays but through frequent letter-writing practice. If a total stranger were to read aloud to me letters from my two grandmothers, I could identify which grandma penned which letter by style alone.

The adventurous 19th-c. traveler Isabella Bird, to take another example, once wrote a 116-page letter to her sister, Henrietta! Bird’s letters form the basis of her many travel books, which are entertainingly told with an eye for humor and for accurate, sense-based description–her voice remains intact in her work, long after her death.

Today’s poem draft is a prose poem in the epistolary mode.

~

Entanglement

I think of you so often, especially when weeding the perennials, a task

we have so often done side by side and in so many seasons, you and I knee-deep

in goldenrod and wild aster that invades the irises and wild indigo each June,

or earlier in the season, on chill and drizzling April days, clearing shot-

weed, ground ivy and chickweed from the creeping phlox and daffodils.

You’d be dismayed at the state of my ornamentals this year, your perfectionist

streak critical of the stray wanderers, stands of sedum that need dividing,

the dust on my piano, ottoman replete with cat hair, my cupboards in disarray.

I miss your diligence and vivaciousness, the way you take your coffee scalding

hot, your eye for color, your bold opinions I have so studiously ignored.

Today it is raining and the book I’m reading describes quantum entanglement

theory, “a physical phenomenon that occurs when pairs or groups of particles

are generated, interact, or share spatial proximity in ways such that the

quantum state of each particle cannot be described independently of the state

of the others, even when the particles are separated by a large distance.”

I miss you.

 

~

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Poetic naturalism

I have been reading poetry, as usual, and also non-fiction about various aspects that could be deemed scientific, such as Michael Pollan’s Changing Your Mind and physicist Sean Carroll‘s book The Big Picture. 

On my way to work, I posed (in my mind) an argument with Carroll about his use of the word “poetic” in his definition of poetic naturalism, which he defines thus:

Naturalism is a philosophy according to which there is only one world — the natural world, which exhibits unbroken patterns (the laws of nature), and which we can learn about through hypothesis testing and observation. In particular, there is no supernatural world — no gods, no spirits, no transcendent meanings.

I like to talk about a particular approach to naturalism, which can be thought of as Poetic. By that I mean to emphasize that, while there is only one world, there are many ways of talking about the world…

The poet Muriel Rukeyser once wrote, “The universe is made of stories, not atoms” … There is more to the world than what happens; there are the ways we make sense of it by telling its story… The world is just the world, unfolding according to the patterns of nature, free of any judgmental attributes. But these moral and ethical and aesthetic vocabularies can be perfectly useful ways of talking about the world … We just have to admit that judgments come from within ourselves.

Despite my doubts about his use of “poetic,”  it may be that Carroll’s term describes me; at any rate, his definition comes close to my own thinking about the world.

And hence, another draft for my poem-a-day challenge.

~

Brown leaves bouncing across Preston Lane

late afternoon, air currents swirling.

Road shoulder cradles raccoon carcass,

fur shudders, though body’s still, and sun

highlights the gray-white hairs as travelers

speed past. Chlorophyll greens local lawns

and ditches beside the creek, molecules moving,

nitrogen atoms taken up through root and rhizome.

Sudden, yellow, early–narcissus blooms near

the neighboring farmhouse–all of which

recommends itself as The World As It Is.

A reality for at least one universe,

even though there exist other possibilities

in the realm of Undiscovered.

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Kisses & Bees

Today, I have opted to use an Osip Mandelstam poem as a prompt. I apologize in advance to his memory and to his lovely poem, translations of which are here, here, and here.

In a blog post some time ago, I discussed this poem and the problems of translation.

~

Kisses Tattered as Bees

–-after Osip Mandelstam

Your claim asserts that kisses

can be tattered

and bees emerge from

floral tussles or hive dances

in a disordered raggedness

so the two are as like—

simile disperses into breeze:

loose petals and torn wings

fail to impress upon your lips

any tactile memory.

But oh, there were kisses once

so fevered they evaporated

on meeting your cool skin

while you traversed the woods

beguiled by honey’s scent–

and kisses that stung,

leaving a trail of the dead,

soft, gold-and-black bodies

in each of your footprints,

beads strung along your path.

~

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~

Three days, three poems, one tenth of National Poetry Month having passed; I can do this, right? NaPoWriMo has a site that includes daily poetry prompts, if you happen to be interested. It is worth trying even if you do not plan to write a poem a day.

 

Tanka

The second day of my daily poem challenge won’t give me much time to compose. A tanka poem may be in order.

These 5-line poems pose considerable constraints on the writer and, in my experience trying to write them, require frequent revision to get the moment vivid enough. So this one will be a rough draft. An experienced tanka poet may be able to compose tanka rapidly; my attempts usually need eight or ten revisions…well, here goes.

~

Past midnight, silence

4 am, flying squirrels chirp–

maple buds redden at dawn

how sleep eludes

those who mourn

~

 

Other poets working on daily-writing include Michael Czarnecki of FootHills Publishing, who posts a daily poem (usually haiku) on his Facebook page here.

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April experiment

It is National Poetry Month once again. I usually do not take part in poetry month writing challenges, but I thought this year I might try something out of my comfort zone.

My plan: post a poem draft a day for this month. I have never blogged daily before, and I have never tried to compose a poem a day as Luisa Igloria has been doing on the via negativa blog for, I think, more than three years!!

This concept–er, this practice–will be super-challenging for me and scary on several levels, mostly on the level of posting unrevised, often unfinished or awkward material publicly. But I have just about 3,000 followers and only a minuscule percentage of them read my blog regularly, so I have to think of this as reading to a small room.

I can deal with that. At least–I think I can.

We’ll have to see how the month goes. Meanwhile, welcome to my month-long experiment in immediacy.

~

Tom’s Green Field

In your landscape

light exists as waves, not particles

active, roiling

over the placid horizontal planes: sky, treeline,

cropland in wind.

For there must be currents of air, speedy thrill

storm can assume

chopping at clouds miles distant, changing hue

illuminating

the dense grove’s surface so it shines

and no rain’s fallen

and perhaps no rain will dampen the field today–

only luminescence

pigment trapped in layers of oil, bouncing

cobalt, cadmium

iron oxide through your swirling glaze

that gazed once

on energy in patterns, an hour’s moment, waving green.

~

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Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Book review, mind review

My book group chose to read Michael Pollan’s latest: How To Change Your Mind. The subtitle says a lot: What the New Science of Psychedelics Teaches Us About Consciousness, Dying, Addiction, Depression, and Transcendence. That’s a bundle of complicated concepts Pollan takes on, but he recognizes his task looms large and that he can only make forays into the many overlapping arenas the book explores.

His approach–he uses this in his other books and articles, too–is a mix of serious research and journalism (interviews, mostly) and personal inquiry and experiences. If you have read Second Nature or The Omnivore’s Dilemma, you might find this one to be a more “difficult book.” It is heavily documented and features neuroscience (brain pathways and structure, mostly), psychology, pharmacology, and chemistry (tryptamine-related molecules). Not to mention mushroom biology and mushroom hunting, and serum produced by plants, toads, and ergot.

What attracted my book group members to this text is its chapters on dying; as a hospice volunteer myself, and having read articles on the potential value of psychedelics among people with terminal illnesses, this part certainly interested me.

Pollan writes: “The uncanny authority of the psychedelic experience might help explain why so many cancer patients in the trials reported that their fear of death had lifted or at least abated: they had stared directly at death and come to know something about it, in a kind of dress rehearsal.”

These outcomes seem significant enough that we ought to find ways to employ them in our palliative care work. In my own, somewhat limited, experience with dying people, those who are less fearful of death–for whatever reason that may be–stay alert longer, respond better to palliative efforts (pain medicine, massage, positioning, and so on), and are more likely to comfort their loved ones. They die more “easily,” if dying can ever be called “easy.”

~

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Ramón Cajal. See: http://www.faena.com/aleph/articles/19th-century-illustrations-of-the-human-brain-as-it-really-is-precious/

Yet I found the parts of Pollan’s book which deal with the huge question of what consciousness is and where it resides most relevant to my own interests. Yes–that difficult neurobiology stuff. Pollan suggests, with the healthy pragmatism of the skeptic, that empirical approaches to consciousness based on the idea that “the brain is meat” (viz, medical science) are unlikely ever to explain consciousness fully or to anyone’s satisfaction. In other words, consciousness may possess a component one might name “spiritual.” Here is how he frames this concept:

“…it seems to me very likely that losing or shrinking the self would make anyone feel more ‘spiritual,’ however you choose to define the word, and that this is apt to make one feel better. The usual antonym for the word ‘spiritual’ is ‘material.’ That … is what I believed when I began this inquiry—that the whole issue with spirituality turned on a question of metaphysics. Now I’m inclined to think a much better and certainly more useful antonym for spiritual might be ‘egotistical.’ Self and Spirit define the opposite ends of a spectrum, but that spectrum needn’t reach clear to the heavens to have meaning for us. It can stay right here on earth. When the ego dissolves, so does a bounded conception not only of our self but of our self-interest. What emerges in its place is invariably a broader, more openhearted and altruistic—that is, more spiritual—idea of what matters in life. One in which a new sense of connection, or love…seems to figure prominently.”

~~

When I was much younger, I considered myself “spiritual.” I stopped using the term once I began a more serious exploration of my life and began to study philosophy, psychology, aesthetics, phenomenology, and consciousness more intentionally. But the crucial components–connection, relation to and with others (sentient and not), and love–those I have always understood as necessary. Even though my ego has never “dissolved” quite the way Pollan describes.

So maybe I can go back to considering myself somewhat spiritual. At this moment in life, Nature and Others matter more than accomplishments and outcomes.

Welcome Spring, welcome Spirit. Namaste, Amen.

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iris reticulata

Deer metaphor

I think the best poem about a car-struck deer is Stafford’s “Traveling through the Dark.”

Like Hayden Carruth’s “Mother,” (see my last post) Stafford’s poem is, for me, a kind of zenith–something to which I might aspire, but look, it’s already been done. So why pen my versions of the experience? Especially when I am not the writer Stafford was.

And might a reader accuse me of hijacking Stafford’s imagery when I write about similar incidents? I suppose I do run that risk. Nonetheless, the whitetails occur often in my poems from the past 20 years because I live in eastern Pennsylvania. Pennsylvania has an estimated 1.5 million deer—about 30 deer per square mile–and I suspect that in the suburban-rural zones such as the region where I reside, the number is higher. [image error]

As a writer, my inclination has pretty much ever been to write about environment and place and to supply anecdote or lyrical narrative. Deer abound in my environment and in my work; and deer get killed on the roads here. The imagery lodges in my consciousness. After so many years observing them, deer have become both subject and metaphor. I may swerve, but I cannot always avoid them.

The following poem is from my collection Water-Rites, and here it is the speaker’s husband who pushes the doe’s body off to the side of the road. The presence of children changes the perspective considerably, despite other similarities to the Stafford poem. Maybe that is all I can offer: a slightly changed perspective, a different closure. I cannot un-moor myself from the images and places that inhabit me.

~

Yellow Forsythia

We glimpsed the doe

trying to rise, and failing,

in the roadside darkness.

“Stay here,” my husband said—

and a moment later,

“She’s hit.” I nodded. I’d seen

skidmarks on macadam.

The doe lay on her side and thrashed

while our engine idled,

thrashed, shuddered;

my husband placed his hand

on her neck.

In the car, our son stared

at the darkness. Our daughter wept:

“He’s frightened the deer.

She’s kicking to get away.”

The doe jerked, paused. “No,”

I said, “Your father is touching it.

Soothing it, so it will not die alone.”

He knelt by the quieting body.

Blood ran from the muzzle.

One ear twitched, I could see it

in the headlights. Death

closed in, a gentle exhalation.

My husband eased the carcass

off the road shoulder. He said,

“She must have suffered awhile.”

“Stupid cars,” my daughter muttered.

Her outrage engulfed our station wagon.

My son watched the white-

throated body, the yellow

forsythia lit by car lights.

He said, “Close the windows, please.”

~~

Poet and blogger Molly Spencer recently posted a lively consideration about recurring and repeating images here: https://mollyspencer.wordpress.com/2019/03/07/the-spider-why-the-spider-or-a-defense-of-recurring-images/

Worth a read, and worth discussion, too.

Come let us sing

I have been reading Hayden Carruth’s poems, admiring the breadth of his experiments in styles from sonnets to jazzy free verse to prose poems and extremely short poems–even haiku. One thing becomes clear after awhile: his appreciation of song, of the poem as song, of the need to create song as an expression of life and against the things one wishes to resist, even when (especially when) it is impossible to resist.

His poem “Mother” says all of the things I wanted to write about my mother-in-law’s death, and more. It is achingly honest and achingly sad and deeply loving.

After reading it, I thought to myself, “You do not need to write those poems; Carruth has achieved what you are trying to accomplish.” But we compose poems under individual circumstances and for personal reasons, and I suspect that reading “Mother” will help me to revise my own poems in probing ways.

This is why we read other poets’ work. One reason why, anyway.

I am in mourning at present, shocked by the death of a Beloved Friend’s adult son. I thought of a poem I had recently read in Carruth’s Contra Mortem.  I searched through the book to locate it–it is, in fact, (appropriately) the last poem in the collection. Here is Carruth in a spiritual and almost elegiac mode, as the singer he always is in his work, exhorting us to give to one another our small songs, no matter how they fail, for whatever they are worth. I love the line “the was the is the willbe out of nothing” for the way the simplest verbs, forcibly combined, guide the reader to face a fundamental truth: “and thus we are.”

~

The Wheel of Being II

Such figures if they succeed are beautiful

because for a moment we brighten in a blaze of rhymes

and yet they always fail and must fail

and give way to other poems

in the endless approximations of what we feel

Hopeless it is hopeless       Only the wheel

endures      It spins and spins winding

the was the is the willbe out of nothing

and thus we are      Thus on the wheel we touch

each to each a part

of the great determining reality    How much

we give to one another        Perhaps our art

succeeds after all our small song done in the faith

of lovers who endlessly change heart for heart

as the gift of being    Come let us sing against death.

~Hayden Carruth

~~

 

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Prayer wheels

Perspectives

Snow lies on the grass and the fields, freezes, shoved into huge piles graying with macadam and gravel, trash and mud. Winter abides but only just; even with the cold snap, I sense a kind of anticipatory nudge toward warmer hours and longer days. It gets me thinking about my perspective on seasons. The lunisolar calendar I mentioned in a previous post seems more appropriate to my experience than the Gregorian, and perhaps the reason is that NongLi originated as, and essentially remains, an agricultural calendar.

The Things of This World

The things of this world that matter

are of a personal nature: redpolls

and ovenbirds, tidal waters, the sounds

of freight trains hurtling heavily on rails,

horns wailing; rattle-clap thunder;

patterns lace leaves when pressed

against the inner thigh; and justice.

The things that matter always matter

mostly from one perspective

which varies from yours to mine,

solid to liquid, season, valley, treetop,

galaxy, gorge, gray matter, anti-

matter, energy. The things of this world

depend on the heuristics what and how:

how we define this world, how define

what matters and what makes things yours

or mine: my mushrooms, my macaroons,

my highway, spring light, continental

shelf, hummingbird, suspension bridge,

my mountain, my miracle, mine—

~~

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Human beings can hardly avoid seeing things from a human perspective, though human perspectives can differ vastly. But we do have the knee-jerk tendency to view other beings as “ours.” The Judeo-Christian biblical approach basically states that God gave us everything, and it’s ours to eat and to command; some interpretations temper that statement as stewardship rather than ownership, but just read Genesis 1:28-30 in the King James version–

 

 

 

…and God said unto them, Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth, and subdue it: and have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth.

29 And God said, Behold, I have given you every herb bearing seed, which is upon the face of all the earth, and every tree, in the which is the fruit of a tree yielding seed; to you it shall be for meat.

30 And to every beast of the earth, and to every fowl of the air, and to every thing that creepeth upon the earth, wherein there is life, I have given every green herb for meat: and it was so.

Which perspective I’m illustrating in the poem above. The poem’s speaker aggregates everything into the personal construct of ownership: what is owned is what matters. Implications of greed, of personal views on justice, of personal definitions (how points of view get tainted as they run through human beings’ individual filters)–those abstract ideas the poem tries to convey through the concrete images of animals, sounds, foodstuffs, geology.

The first-person possessive pronoun permits English speakers to colonize the cosmos. Often, I catch myself in claiming “mine.” My house, my meadow, my cat, my children! As if I could actually own any of them (although I possess a piece of paper that asserts that I own my house, sometimes I have my doubts). I did not intend, when I started writing this poem, to remind myself not to go about “making it all about me.” But it does serve as a reminder. And I think a few of us human beings ought to be more aware that our tendency to hoard and claim may not serve us, or the world, all that well.

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Goldfinches in winter attire