Drew Myron's Blog, page 20

Litany

Three months ago I started a file of Pandemic Poems. 

Words rushed in and writing was both compulsion and comfort. I wasn't trying to "say something” but keeping my head above water in the only way I knew, by writing it out. 

But now an entire season has passed. How do we call this a phase? We're not only in a pandemic, but in a seismic shift of actions, attitudes, systems. This is mental, emotional, and cultural change.

Now every poem carries the strain. 

Things are hard, things are easy. I make them so, or, I make the best. Can these statements be both true and false, and at the same time?

I don’t know what to say or share, how to tell this story. Language fails. And still I keep talking. Language is a secret everyone is keeping, writes Rebecca Lindenberg in Catalogue of Ephemera.

My mind is a crowd gathered too close. All day and into night, the sky is the same static gray. Is this winter or summer? Slumber or resignation? I am not sick and not noticeably sad. Maybe this is surrender.

It's not enough to love and wish and poem and pray.

All over this neighborhood now, nothing happens. Stillness. A few walkers, like me, heads down, crossing before approach.

There's little room left for another sorrow.

For Hard Times

Riveted

It is possible that things will not get better
than they are now, or have been known to be.
It is possible that we are past the middle now.
It is possible that we have crossed the great water
without knowing it, and stand now on the other side.
Yes: I think that we have crossed it. Now
we are being given tickets, and they are not
tickets to the show we had been thinking of,
but to a different show, clearly inferior.

Check again: it is our own name on the envelope.
The tickets are to that other show.

It is possible that we will walk out of the darkened hall
without waiting for the last act: people do.
Some people do. But it is probable
that we will stay seated in our narrow seats
all through the tedious denouement
to the unsurprising end- riveted, as it were;
spellbound by our own imperfect lives
because they are lives,
and because they are ours.

— Robyn Sarah

This poem was originally published in A Day’s Grace and appeared again in Good Poems for Hard Times.

Friends, we’re in difficult days.

Heads and hearts are heavy as we experience the unraveling of systems, cities, beliefs. All in this together takes on a deeper meaning with each day.

And so, we turn to poems. The world is full of them, thankfully. In a swift stream you’ve got to find your raft and hang on tight.

Have you a poem you’re holding close?

On Sunday: Uncertainty

What I’m saying is uncertainty is a way in.

Please pass the humility.

Not knowing, and knowing the more we know we don’t know, is a start.

What I’m saying is uncertainty is the softer strength.

Are you shaken, unsteady, not sure?

Yes, good, let’s start here, rebuilding mind, body, world.

What To Do?

[image error]

This poem, by Langston Hughes, was published in 1931 — nearly 100 years ago — and is still relevant, and still too true.

With a global health crisis, economic upheaval, racial violence and civil unrest, it’s no wonder we’re tired but what’s worse is that this is not new. This is again and again and still.

The world may be on fire, but it’s been burning all along.

With this new urgency, what can we do?

“White people need to do a lot of introspective work to understand the ways in which they personally contribute to, benefit from and tolerate white supremacy,” says Leslie Mac, community organizer.  

While we may never fully understand, we can listen, learn, and work for change. Here’s a start:

Watch: I Am Not Your Negro
A chilling, essential film featuring the powerful writing of James Baldwin, combined with historical context against contemporary events. Free on Amazon Prime. 95 minutes that will expand your mind.

Read: How To Be An Antiracist
At my library, the waiting list for this book runs six months long — which gives me hope that change is possible. Can’t wait? Purchase from your favorite bookstore.

Talk less, listen more: For white allies, this is not the time to prove your “goodnesss” by sharing how racism makes you feel.

“Any ‘allyship’ rooted in performance is not effective,” notes Mac. “If the action you are taking has any component of making you feel like you did something versus knowing something was done, then you know you aren’t productive.”

On Sunday: Holding On

Hey there, 

Are you holding on, and how? 

In these rollercoaster days, I’m gripping tight and letting go, in a rush of fluster and relief. I’m in no immediate danger, and so my discontent is a sort of diffused dread. It seems my mind is casting a net and catching every fear, then retracting to calibrate to some sense of normal (whatever that is now). 

And so, here’s how I’m holding on: 

- Writing through 
A friend leads a writing group that because of my work schedule I’ve never been able to attend. Now the group is meeting by email, and I get to take part. Each week she sends out a prompt and we have several days to think, write, and share. The structure is just what I need to feed my mind and feel accountable, and I’m enjoying new work by people in my community that I’ve never met.

- Weeding my worry 
I loathe yard work and have no love for gardening. Yet, I have recently found unexpected satisfaction in tearing weeds from earth. This is the best therapy I’ve had in years! 

- Hearing from you 
Several readers of this blog have shared with me their writing, from Poem Scrambles to Cut-Ups and more. Others have urged me on with words of encouragement. Thank you! I’m heartened to know you are out there, and hanging around here, in this space for writing and reflection. 

Let’s keep together, apart, pushing through & holding on. 

With appreciation, 
Drew

Try This: Make A Scramble

For long stretches, I don’t need tricks. Words arrive, phrases flow, and I am delighted scribe.

And then, the door closes with a thud. Block, stuck, mud, slog, whatever you wanna call it, I’m in it and need relief. When I want less pressure and more play I reach for tricks. This week I made a poem-scramble.

Here’s how: Take a poem, cut it up, rearrange, and make your own new poem.

1.
I started with Shelter in Place by Kim Stafford:

Shelter In Place

March 20, 2020

Long before the pandemic, the trees
knew how to guard one place with
roots and shade. Moss found
how to hug a stone for life.
Every stream works out how
to move in place, staying home
even as it flows generously
outward, sending bounty far.
Now is our time to practice —
singing from balconies, sending
words of comfort by any courier,
kindling our lonesome generosity
to shine in all directions like stars.

~ Kim Stafford

2.
I cut up the words, and assemble new, taking care to not “lift” too much whole cloth. If your first pass sounds too good to be true, it probably is. Check the original to ensure that you haven’t borrowed too exactly.

Here’s mine:

In Place, Shelter 


Any kindling is our courier
sending words of comfort
outward in all directions.

Every generosity
works out how to
shine like stars

even now
as we practice
how to move in place

how to stay in shade
how to love the lonesome
like moss to stone.

~ Drew Myron

Your turn! 
Make your own scramble, (or even scramble my scramble). If you like, share your poem with me at: dcm@drewmyron.com 



Want more tricks?
Wordcatching
Cut Up
Overwrite
Headlines

On Sunday: This Fence

1.
We build a fence. Day after day. In rain and heat, in wind and cold, in more rain. Just you, me, and a refrain: hold, measure, cut, level, drill.

Day after relentless day. 

Maybe there was a call and a duty, in the way that god sometimes call softly and you think how nice, but the next day your head is a throbbing ache of demands and you think kindness is a chore that stings like penance. 

Still, we keep on: build, break away, return.

Coming along we say, nodding, not too much more.

But there is much more, always more. 

2.
This is not metaphor.

This isn’t political commentary, or an afterschool special with a redeeming end. The fence is real.

This fence is our focus and also our division. Because I grumble and you steam. I don't hold the board steady or cut it exact and you hold back because you are too nice to bellow, but the holding in hurts too. This fence is my weakness, your purpose, my dither, all of it swirling so that the boards aren't straight and I'm dizzy with everything we’ll never complete.

3.
It's fine, I say, meaning it is not fine.

I’m too hot, too cold, too tired, and, really, the world wears me down. I shrug and steam, mutter and sulk.

Still, I’m here, again and again. And so are you.

This fence won't end but neither will we. 

Under the Influence

Our Ground Time Here Will Be Brief, by Jeanie Tomanek, from
Artists and Poets Respond to the Pandemic, an online exhibition.

In these hazy days, I’m feeling the fatigue of feeling.

Empaths call it absorption, when the mind is a sponge taking in every drop. And it’s mental too, this sifting and sorting of every new thing done, said, reported, refuted. More than ever, we need retreat. The best mental and emotional rest, I’m finding, is reading.

Under the influence of words that feed, fuel and nurture, I feel fine. Feel good doesn’t mean “comfort read” or “easy read” but more of a feed-the-mind read. Here, a few of my latest favorites:

1.
I’ve learned to value failed conversations, missed connections, confusions. What remains is what’s unsaid, what’s underneath. Understanding on another level of being.

 — Anna Kamienska
A Nest of Quet: A Notebook

2.
That such a bright and layered woman had fallen for Emerson — a mediocrity in search of an admiration society — was a cosmic vote for pessimism.

— Tom Rachman
The Rise & Fall of Great Powers: A Novel

3.
Between isolation and harmony, there is not always a vast distance. Sometimes it is a distance that can be traversed in a moment, by choosing to focus on the essence of what is occurring, rather than on its exterior: its difficulty or beauty, its demands or joy, peace or grief, passion or humor. This is not a matter of courage or discipline or will; it is a receptive condition.

— Andre Dubus
Making Sandwiches for My Daughters
God is Love: Essays from Portland Magazine

4.
One-Star Yelp Reviews of Heaven (an excerpt)

Not sure about all the positive reviews on here.
I’ve been here twice now and it was awful both times.
Over-excite, tepidly deliver. The results are un-inspired
because of a fairly bland approach.

— Shawnte Orion
Gravity & Spectacle, a photo-poem collaboration
by Jia Oak Baker and Shawnte Orion

5.
Social Safety Net (an excerpt)

I work in a nursing home
I get gloves, a mask I wear

all day. No gown.

My wife and family . . . We are
scared.

About almost everything.

— Maureen E. Doallas
Artists and Poets Respond to the Pandemic
an online exhibition featuring 22 artists and 18 poets

And you, what’s feeding your mind?

You know the gnaw

Are you making — making something, making it through?

I’m still writing through the pandemic, this season of outer quiet and inner scream. Some days the words rush in and I am arms open, catching rain. Other days, words — like me — are sluggish and stumped.

So I hunt through magazines, novels, recipes and mail, finding words that call, then stringing the misfits together to make new sense. This is the cut-up, or collage, poem — one of my favorite ways to plumb the mysteries of meaning. It tenders comfort, discovery, and great relief.

Tell me, what do you do when you can’t find the words? Do you have tricks or prayers or special potions to summon the creative rush?

Threading my arm through yours

I’m trying to stay cracked

open because you can’t

go wrong with tenderness

I’m finding something new to want

because you know meanings

inside of meanings

You are calculating

the weight of plums

the myth of marigolds

the changing weather

You know the gnaw

of things we

can’t understand

What we feel now, is it

a memory of remembering?

— Drew Myron

More Notes (on a pandemic)

1. 
I am angry everywhere. 

A friend snaps at me, I snap at my husband, he snaps back. Mouths shut tight, a thousand bees buzzing in us, together and apart, stung. 

2.
Because frustration is cousin to anger, I take a walk to notice all the red things and suddenly the world is alive: red leaves on a tall tree, red berries on small hedge, red candy wrapper. 

With attention, red turns more alluring than angry. 

3. 
After all these years, I haven't matched the beautiful names — snowberry, blue blossom, fiddle fern, red alder, camelia, hyacinth, goldenfleece — to all the beautiful things, and don't know if I ever will. 

Is it enough to call it beauty and make it real, make it mine? 

4. 
When death is a number, we don't feel the loss. 

One hundred confirmed cases. Three deaths today. 

When it is a name and a life —your mother, neighbor, friend — that's what makes it real. Beauty, life, loss, needs a name. 

5. 
Every choice is fear or love, a friend once told me. 

I took his truth and examined my life: work, love, my sadness, my joy. Love or fear, to every thing a division. But now it seems too easy and too hard. Life isn't this or that. Aren't there more choices? 

Lately, everything I say is a question I don't want to answer. 

6.
I'm trying to be real but it costs too much.

— Ocean Vuong, from Not Even This

7. 
At the nursing home where I work, it's been months since I've held a hand, or talked soft, or laughed close. I wave down a long hall but the gesture is lost in the long space between.  

In the distance today, a thin voice wobbles in song: 

. . . little ones to him belong

they are weak but he is strong . . . 

And I am broke open, again. 

It's not true that our choice is only love or fear, or that sadness is anger turned inward. Or maybe it’s all true — love and sadness, fear and uncertainty, endlessness and urgency — all of it true.

In my anger, sadness makes a nest. In my sadness, anger rises. 

In this, a voice.