Honey

There's a poem, called "Honey," written by a Minnesota native named Connie Wanek. I've come across her work before, but I found this one through Garrison Keillor's Writer's Almanac. As it happens, it was the poem of the day for March 14th, which is a wonderful date for an array of reasons. Personally, it also marked a first-- and very important-- kiss. The poem, though! (Before I blush!)

Honey

Luxury itself, thick as a Persian carpet,
honey fills the jar
with the concentrated sweetness
of countless thefts,
the blossoms bereft, the hive destitute.

Though my debts are heavy
honey would pay them all.
Honey heals, honey mends.
A spoon takes more than it can hold
without reproach. A knife plunges deep,
but does no injury.

Honey moves with intense deliberation.
Between one drop and the next
forty lean years pass in a distant desert.
What one generation labored for
another receives,
and yet another gives thanks.

--Connie Wanek.

Now here's the strange part. Normally, a few reads into a poem, I Get It. You know? Things click into place, and every subsequent reading brings a little more to the meaning I have previously gleaned from it. This one, though, I am having trouble with. I have a few ideas-- I am probably wrong-- I am going to leave it up here so that I can check back on it often and see if I have any thinks.

Empty Houses

I wrote in my last post that my former Lit teacher, Director Dan, had introduced us to Stafford's "A Ritual to Read to Each Other," but I neglected to say that his exposing us to wonderful poetry never really ended. He slipped in poems when he thought students weren't looking, like a parent driving their child to the dentist without ever having revealed the destination; poetry was a territory that most students would never want to explorewillingly, however much good it might do them. This poem is one that he read at our high school commencement, and has stuck with me ever since. The refrain is the absolution and the saving grace.

The Stare's Nest By My Window

The bees build in the crevices
Of loosening masonry, and there
The mother birds bring grubs and flies.
My wall is loosening; honey-bees,
Come build in the empty house of the stare.

We are closed in, and the key is turned
On our uncertainty; somewhere
A man is killed, or a house burned.
Yet no clear fact to be discerned:
Come build in the empty house of the stare.

A barricade of stone or of wood;
Some fourteen days of civil war:
Last night they trundled down the road
That dead young soldier in his blood:
Come build in the empty house of the stare.

We had fed the heart on fantasies,
The heart's grown brutal from the fare,
More substance in our enmities
Than in our love; O honey-bees,
Come build in the empty house of the stare.

It's a bit of a grim poem, but grim is what the world is sometimes. I was going to add the other poems I have been digesting, but I think this will do for now. Contemplation.

Conduit

My friend Ramey referred to me as a conduit today; he meant "messenger," but I preferred his original diction. What a lovely thought, that things should pass through me and transfer to the consciousness of others! So here are a few things I encountered today, that brought me a little joy.

I worked a strange shift today-- we call it the "middle kid" shift. It overlaps the opening and closing shifts by two and a half hours each, so you do a little of everything. As it was happens, I was relegated to cooking sausage for our breakfast burritos (although I haven't eaten red meat in over five years, and in fact was totally vegetarian until last fall when I abandoned it for health reasons, there is still a fascinating sort of alchemy about cooking meat that I enjoy). Breaking up the pound of it in the skillet, I realized that one chunk looked remarkably like the continent of Africa.  Incredible! As I continued to poke around, I found too an America-- Central American countries attached! And then, South America! Australia! New Zealand, Greenland, Iceland... remarkable similarities, all of them. It certainly made me wish for a camera, but, alas, none were to be had. I dubbed it Geography Sausage and went about my kitcheny business.

It was, of course, a Continental Breakfast.

Har har.

After work (my days are indeed divided by that omnipresent factor), I was walking along the street towards home when I found an envelope full of cash. Lots of cash! For a minute, I wondered if I had wandered into a Philosophy 101 textbook (Section One: Moral Autonomy*. Due Thursday). Without a second thought, though, I identified the bank where it had come from, and raced to get there before it closed. I had to walk through the drive-through-- the lobby was closed-- but I'm so glad I got an opportunity to get the money back into its rightful hands. I felt pretty good about it, in some selfish way, but it's so rewarding to imagine the relief of the person who thought they had dropped it. Wonderful!

Still on the same walk-- I should add, it's really not a very long walk by any means; today's was simply rich-- I happened on an elderly dog limping like zig-zagged lightning through streets and into strangers' yards (and trash). We were working in the same general direction for a few blocks, and then I caught up to him; I called the owners, who happened to be only a few blocks from where I was, and walked him home. Probably a very small thing, maybe even meddling (I hope not) but I know that, if karma's kind, I'd like someone to do the same for me. Besides that, the house from which Shadow (the delinquent) had escaped is only two doors down from where I'll be living-- so, I sort of know someone in the neighborhood. That's a good thing!

(*-- Moral Autonomy was oft-repeated phrase in my senior year of high school; my Lit teacher, also the director of our small charter school, used it in everything from lessons to our many, many school trips.  I remember him giving a short informal lecture on it just before reading what is now one of my favorite poems, while on a ten-day "camping" trip in January... which, as it happens, changed my life. So much to say! That poem is this:

A Ritual to Read To Each Other

If you don't know the kind of person I am
and I don't know the kind of person you are
a pattern that others made may prevail in the world
and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.

For there is many a small betrayal in the mind,
a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break
sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood
storming out to play through the broken dyke.

And as elephants parade holding each elephant's tail,
but if one wanders the circus won't find the park,
I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty
to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.

And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,
a remote important region in all who talk:
though we could fool each other, we should consider—
lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.

For it is important that awake people be awake,
or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;
the signals we give—yes or no, or maybe—
should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.

--William Stafford.

Incidentally, William Stafford also has a poem called Lit Instructor, which I always associated with Director Dan. The last lines of the poem are some of my favorites: "Well, Right has a long and intricate name/ And the saying of it is a lonely thing." Again: Moral Autonomy!)

Really, these are just a few little things, but I suppose everything's pretty little from the right perspective. Now, the evening is winding down; I'm going to clean to some sweet soundtracks for awhile, windows open, and then maybe spend some time with the man who has quickly become my favorite company. It's been a good day; I feel like the bridges I didn't realize I was burning between my friends are slowly being rebuilt, and I am entering a more placid territory with them. I guess that deserves an explanation unto itself. For now, though, I've got real, tangible messes to soothe; I will save the metaphysics for a metaphorical morning. Between then and now, I will surely post the set of poems that has been haunting me. Later tonight, perhaps.

Marvelous Things!

This is a compendium of some beautiful things I encountered today.

First-- and these can't be put fully here-- I saw the first dandelions of the spring. That alone makes today worth waking up for, but there was even more to it than that! Beautiful, I know. (I may be easily amused).

I've been spending some time perusing a blog-style compilation of "literary tattoos" at Contrariwise. There are some pretty beautiful stories in there, and pretty tattoos with that.

That lead me on some brief explorations, including one which turned up this little snippet from Ray Bradbury. It concerns magic, and immortality, and electricity. Perfect topics. So, In His Own Words.

(I wanted to share this with Andy, but he of course already knows it by heart. He directed my attention to this YouTube video, of Bradbury telling the story).

Another avenue of thought lead me to this Bukowski poem, called My Doom Smiles at Me. I've never read much Bukowski, but I am thinking I may have to change that; I love the final few lines:

"like the fox

I run with the hunted and

if I'm not the happiest

man on earth I'm surely the

luckiest man

alive."

I've a few more poems I'd like to post, but I don't want to impact the mood of this one-- so, I think, those will come later. Until then--

A Prayer

In other news-- and news there is aplenty, but we'll get the good stuff first-- I may have a new favorite poem. It feels like the distillation of every circular (or spherical) thought process that I have been going through recently.

A Prayer

Whatever happens. Whatever

What is is is what

I want. Only that. But that.

--Galway Kinnell.

Green leaves

Yesterday was an absolutely tremendous day-- singularly spectacular, I've been saying. Everything was beautiful (and nothing hurt). Work was enjoyable, and my co-workers were great; the seven hours passed faster than I could believe.

Our performance went far better than I had expected, too, and that was a wonderful feeling! Our producer, a well-known theater alum and accomplished actor & director, told me he was impressed at the performance, that he really enjoyed it. He went on to say, "You have a wonderful calm about you onstage. It's very comforting. Something that can't be taught." It meant so much to me to hear that, especially from him. I feel like a lot of this play has been me working on my own, because our director (bless her) is absolutely terrible at constructive criticism-- which is to say, she doesn't really believe in it. She would rather insult and mock and make you change your performance by shame than she would support and suggest... with me being who I am, that has really been weighing on me, and I have felt incompetent and untalented. Last night helped, though, and I think these other performances will be great.

I had the first of my mid-terms today, and although I was worried and resigned to failing, I think I actually did pretty well. I know I made up a couple things on the short-answer identifications (this is for Medieval Scandinavia-- The Viking Age, essentially) but I based them in historical fact. So! I also rocked the face right off both the short essays contextual identifications, and plan to do the same to the take-home essay. Raid and pillage, yo.

In other happy news, I discovered that Poets.org (my favorite poetry reference site, and incidentally the home of a wonderful poetry organization) has archives of their "poem-a-day" selections from past years. I found this one while browsing; I haven't read much Coleridge, but I got some joy from this:

Answer to a Child's Question

Do you ask what the birds say? The Sparrow, the Dove,
The Linnet and Thrush say, "I love and I love!"
In the winter they're silent—the wind is so strong;
What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud song.
But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather,
And singing, and loving—all come back together.
But the Lark is so brimful of gladness and love,
The green fields below him, the blue sky above,
That he sings, and he sings; and for ever sings he—
"I love my Love, and my Love loves me!"

Furthermore, the poem for today was one by Sara Teasdale, who I haven't read in years. She was my favorite through middle-school for her accessible verse style and reasonably simple-- though poetic-- subjects. This is one that I haven't read-- or, at least, don't remember.

Barter

Life has loveliness to sell,
All beautiful and splendid things,
Blue waves whitened on a cliff,
Soaring fire that sways and sings,
And childrens's faces looking up
Holding wonder in a cup.

Life has loveliness to sell,
Music like a curve of gold,
Scent of pine trees in the rain,
Eyes that love you, arms that hold,
And for your spirit's still delight,
Holy thoughts that star the night.

Spend all you have for loveliness,
Buy it and never count the cost;
For one white singing hour of peace
Count many a year of strife well lost,
And for a breath of ecstacy
Give all you have been, or could be.

I think that's all for now. I have been trying to recover my poetry-loving self, because for the first time in nearly a year, I have someone with whom I can speak intelligibly on the subject! It makes me so happy... even yesterday, I asked one of the English teachers (!) at my old high school (where I work now) if he'd ever read The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock (one of my favorites). He said he hadn't, because he didn't like love poems. THE TRAVESTY!

In any case, I must run and catch a bus. Until later!

Theme

So, to break things up, I'd like to post some more poetry here; eventually, I'm going to run out, and then I'm not going to have any choice but to read more and more of it!

I've really been enjoying re-reading William Carlos Williams lately, because even his simplest poems are wrought with humor and humanity. My favorite:

This is Just To Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold.

This poem in particular, though, sparked a tongue-in-cheek movement, characterized by this response by Kenneth Koch:

Variations on a Theme by William Carlos Williams

1
I chopped down the house that you had been saving to live in next summer.
I am sorry, but it was morning, and I had nothing to do
and its wooden beams were so inviting.

2
We laughed at the hollyhocks together
and then I sprayed them with lye.
Forgive me. I simply do not know what I am doing.

3
I gave away the money that you had been saving to live on for the next ten years.
The man who asked for it was shabby
and the firm March wind on the porch was so juicy and cold.

4
Last evening we went dancing and I broke your leg.
Forgive me. I was clumsy and
I wanted you here in the wards, where I am the doctor!

Beauty

I've enjoyed nearly the whole day from this chair, but at least I am trying to sort things out. In the process (okay, while I was checking my twitter) I found this wonderful link from Roger Ebert-- It's the translation of a Romanian poem, with a video of the original being read at the bottom. It's lovely sort of subject matter for a grey, contemplative day.

Poetry:

Since blogging seems wired into my cultural identity, I feel I might as well do it properly. It's all about sharing, so I'm putting here one of my favorite poems (and the source of this little blog's title).

i thank You God-- e e cummings.

i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday; this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any--lifted from the no
of all nothing--human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)