Crib-side Poetry

I'm embarrassed to admit that I only recently began subscribing to Poetry magazine. I've been keeping up with the Poetry Foundation website for some time, but this is different. The magazine, founded in 1912, is sublime. I've been reading the poems out loud to my womb-bound son. His little kicks tell me he likes the sound of my poetry voice. I like it, too. Like most people, I've always hated the sound of my recorded voice. I never look like me in pictures, so now I'm wondering if I sound like me on audio. I like to think not. I like to think he hears what I hear - a slow, rhythmic, ocean that can only be heard when cradling unimaginably divine lines on the tongue.

October's issue of Poetry has given me a great gift. It's the first time I've really bonded with this little person. In a few months, I'll be reading Poetry to him crib-side. Will he grow up to love poetry as I do? Will the sounds of poets soothe him? I'm not naive, but I'm hopeful.

If you haven't subscribed already, please consider Poetry the next time you feel like indulging yourself. If you can't afford it, check out their website at www.poetryfoundation.org

Dr. Maya Angelou

Last Saturday evening, I had the honor of seeing Dr. Maya Angelou speak at Michigan Technological University in Houghton, Michigan. I was nervous about this event for weeks preceding it. In my mind, I rehearsed several possible conversations I might have with this larger-than-life poet, memoirist, novelist, actress, singer, historian, civil rights activist, former Poet Laureate, etc. I'm sure I've left out some of her many accomplishments, but you get the point.

When I was twelve, I happened to see President Clinton's inauguration on TV. I think my dad was watching it, and somehow I flitted into the room in time to catch a woman reciting a poem on TV. Until that day, I had been obsessed with Shel Silverstein, but wasn't really aware of the world of poetry. As Maya Angelou read "On the Pulse of the Morning," I was mesmerized. Her rhythm and grace opened up in me a future of possibility. The next morning, I tore the paper from my dad's hand. The poem had been printed on it. My parents, thankfully, noticed my interest, and I began receiving Angelou's poetry books and memoirs at birthdays and holidays. Then, relatives branched out and gifted me with Robert Frost, Emily Dickinson, and William Shakespeare. I fell in love.

The curtains opened to an elegant woman with a shock of white hair. She wore a long navy blue dress simply adorned with a gold necklace. She was singing a slave spiritual about a rainbow. Throughout the show, Dr. Angelou would suddenly break into song. It was beautiful. She also recited poetry by Shakespeare, Henley, and Dunbar. She told stories about her life. One story was about the time she was asked to conduct the Boston Pops. When she was up on stage, she asked her family to stand up. Three black people stood up. She asked her other family to stand up. A group of white people stood up. She asked that all her family stand up. Thousands of people stood, spanning the rolling green hills. Dr. Angelou told us that, we, too, were her family. We stood up. We were her family, and we were her rainbow.

Dr. Angelou ended the evening by reciting the poem she wrote for the United Nations' fiftieth anniversary, called "A Brave and Startling Truth." I urge and invite you to look up this poem. It's both sad and hopeful, a poem about the sorrows of the world and the endless possibilities we have to make this world a better place.

When the curtains closed, we stood and clapped for several minutes. Then, I sat down. As the auditorium emptied out, I just sat. I tried to remember every detail about her speech. When that failed, I vowed to hold on to the feeling she gave me, a magical feeling that I had the power to change the world. Dr. Angelou taught me that we all have that power. Poets, teachers, cashiers, and clerks, we all have that power.

Thank you, Dr. Maya Angelou for inspiring me to be a poet. I'm not sad I didn't get to deliver my well-rehearsed speech to you. We had a conversation that night, and I wouldn't change a word.

Morning Sea

Politics, love, religion - many poems have been written on these weighty subjects. Most will not stand the test of time. Nor do they speak to us the way a simple poem based on observation does. Observation forms an image, and an image is the spark that gets the poem rolling. The poem may turn out to be about a relationship, a fear, a quite moment, but it all begins with simple observation.

C.P. Cavafy was the master of observation. Whether writing about nature or people, he matter-of-factly, without any bells or whistles, states how things are. Poems written in 1903 make absolute sense in 2010. The natural world is most prone to observation, and many of the best poems out there look to nature for insight. "Morning Sea" is a poem that simply observes a natural scene:

Let me stop here. Let me, too, look at nature awhile.
The brilliant blue of the morning sea, of the cloudless sky,
the yellow shore; all lovely,
all bathed in light.

The opening line is marvelous, the way it forces the reader to stop with the poet and observe nature. And the following lines are just what Cavafy promises. A look at nature. No commentary, no inferences, and yet, it still makes you feel. Words like "brilliant," "yellow," and "lovely," instantly transport you to a glorious sunrise. Indeed, it gives me a sense of euphoria.

The second and final stanza is somewhat different. It really makes you think. Cavafy has made you stop and appreciate this beautiful scene only to stop again and jar your perception. He says:

Let me stand here. And let me pretend I see all this
(I really did see it for a minute when I first stopped)
and not my usual day-dreams here too,
my memories, those images of sensual pleasure.

At first, you might feel hood-winked. Wait a second, you weren't really watching the sun rise over the sea? Yet how many of us write down an image the instant we see it? Maybe we get home and are inspired to write a poem, or we tell our family about the amazing thing we saw on vacation. We might take a picture to help us remember it later. Well, isn't that what Cavafy does here? He has a mental picture, a memory, and he takes it out for us to admire. Can't we all do this? Don't we all do this? Our observations are crucial to how we see and remember the world, and yet we often bypass the natural world, and even the not-so-natural modern world, around us.

So whether you're a writer or not, do me a favor. Take a lesson from Cavafy. Observe your surroundings now. You'll have so much more to look at when you're old and immobile.

Summer Vacation: The Perfect Time to Fall in Love with Poetry

People love many things. I love coffee! I love chocolate! I love those red galoshes! A friend's mama used to say "You love people; you like things," and I think she's mostly right, with the exception of poetry. If we go around stating we love every little thing, the word itself begins to lose meaning. How do we differentiate between like-love and love-love? With poetry, we don't have to. Reading poetry is a relationship. No matter your age, you can fall in love with poetry for the first time or all over again. Without any financial strain, you can pick up a book of poems at your local library or simply search the Internet. Poems are out there free for the taking (but not always for distributing; check the copyright!). In honor of this glorious summer - I have no doubt that this summer will be all that you've dreamed of and more - let's go out on a date with a poem.

Today let's go out with "the earth is a living thing" from The Book of Light by Lucille Clifton (Copper Canyon Press, 1993). This is a powerful poem and reminds us that the earth is indeed a living thing, full of bears and oceans, hawks and fish. Beauty and wonder, but also life and death. The earth is also full of bones and rocks, hard things. Its a poem that reminds us of joy and sorrow. The last stanza reads:

is a black and living thing
is a favorite child
of the universe
feel her rolling her hand
in its kinky hair
feel her brushing it clean

Of course, there is an ethnic and cultural element to this poem that is valid and necessary to consider, as is Clifton's body of work as a whole. But for now, I think it is enough to appreciate the vastness that is being presented here. The earth is complex. It holds all these things, good and bad. An earth that brings life also brings death. And earth that holds love also holds hate. It's frightening and inspiring, and is the type of poem that can stop you in your tracks and re-evaluate the way you view the world. A poem that can accomplish this is a poem you'll be naming your kids with on the first date.

Spring Fever

Lately, I can't stop thinking about Robert Frost. He is the man responsible for my love affair with poetry. It's been years since I've picked up his poems; I've been too distracted by all the amazing contemporary work being produced these days. But Robert. Oh Robert. This time of year, my heart is especially gooey and romantic. I'm looking out the window at this moment. I see cars and our small weedy patch of grass, but somehow Spring has clouded my vision. I'm looking at the world with Frost-vision, that is to say, with Nature on my mind. I throw out the cars and gravel and zone in on the tall evergreen trees across the street, the small birds not eating the seeds we put out for them, and the rhubarb growing in giant patches on the side of the house. I am making Robert proud.

Not all poetry is about nature, but a lot of it is. What's better or more timeless and universal than nature? Our plants and animals up here in the UP may be different from yours down in the tropics, but I bet we all get the same thrill from the natural world. Even when I lived in Pittsburgh, I felt alive and energized just by walking to the park. Mr. Frost knew that nature holds all the elements of humanity. It can be wild or tame, violent or gentle, devastated or bountiful.

"A Prayer for Spring" is a poem that makes nature holy, spiritual. It is a religious poem, especially in the last stanza, but those of us who adhere to an alternate belief system can still feel the wonder and awe in "Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white, / Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night; / And make us happy in the happy bees, / The swarm dilating round the perfect trees." To me, it's simply hypnotic, almost ritualistic. I hear this stanza as a chant, a call to nature, and a call to humanity to witness the glory of nature. Yes, I am filling my romantic goo quota, but come on folks, I've been Frosted! You, too, can be Frosted anytime you like.

Sayonara National Poetry Month; Konnichiwa Poetry Year!

You may or may not have known that April was National Poetry Month. Does it really matter? Sort of; it's extra fun to have a month where you can get away with posting quotes and sending all your non-literary friends poems and links. But I recommend doing it all year long. Some will shake their heads and think "Oh, so and so, you never quit, do you?" Others will appreciate the effort, and maybe you'll just make their day. One awesome thing about a poetry month is that many poetry sites will highlight or send you a poem of the day (see the links to your left for great poetry resources).

This month, my favorite poem from poets.org is April 29th's "Sharks in the Rivers" by Ada Limon (look it up!). It's an interesting piece that explores the nature of fear. The speaker is afraid of sharks and imagines seeing them in the river, yet I get the feeling that the "sharks" are a symbol for something greater, an intangible fear, or perhaps all fears in general.

There is an odd humor in the poem, too. The speaker's friend sends her an article from National Geographic that states "Sharks bite fewer people each year than New Yorkers do, according to Health Department records." The speaker walks around saying to herself "Sharks are people too" over and over. It's funny, yet it's not really helpful, is it? Facts and rational thinking have nothing to do with fear.

One suggestion I think the poem makes right off is that one of our greatest fears as humans is relationships with other humans, or how they may go astray. Limon says "We'll say unbelievable things / to each other in the early morning—" Is it possible that we are all sharks? That sharks in the rivers is a reference to humans in the world? Is the speaker afraid of interactions with other people?

Limon ends the poem by talking directly to the river, not to the sharks from which her fear stems, but to the river itself, to the place that breeds sharks. I find that the most intriguing part of the poem. The river is the source of fear somehow. Are these last stanzas, addressed to the river, what she really wants to tell the world?

I want to walk through this doorway
But without all those ghosts on the edge,
I want them to stay here. I want them to go on without me.

I want them to burn in the water.

It's a powerful ending, and not at all humorous. It's a declaration, a renouncement of fear. I'm left wondering who or what these ghosts are (they are mentioned in the beginning as well). Are they another manifestation of fear or a reference to actual ghosts, deceased people? And desire. The speaker is all desire. "I want them to burn in the water" is a strong image that demands a sort of destruction of fear, of whatever haunts the speaker.

Bravo, Limon. Bravo. I'll be sending this one out to folks all year long!

Happy Poem In Your Pocket Day!!

April 29th is national Poem In Your Pocket Day. A strange, yet fun excuse to carry bits of paper around with you, along with fuzz and pennies. I'll be carrying the poem "Day of Foreboding" by Stanley Kunitz, because it's pretty short, and I like short poems, especially when I'm trying to convince random people to read from scraps I'm pulling from my pockets. I love this poem because the title is ridiculously clever. But also because when I read this poem, I feel anything but foreboding. The irony strikes me like, well, hot iron. The first line reads "Great events are about to happen." It makes me think of Mr. Ollivander in Harry Potter, which is bizarre, I know. But he made a point of explaining that great deeds can still be terrible deeds. Is that what Kunitz is saying? Are great events terrible events? Should we be scared of what's coming? Mid-poem, Kunitz does do something frightening; he alludes to enormous flocks or birds, and if that doesn't frighten you, go watch some Hitchcock films and get back to me. The poem ends with the speaker "waiting for the uncertain signal to resume a long march." Maybe I'm too excited about Poem In Your Pocket Day to pick up on the foreboding, or maybe I'm just so darn optimistic, I've really flown the coop, but this poem gives me chills and goose pimples of the good kind. Like I don't care if what's coming is good or bad, just bring it on. The anxiety of waiting is intense, though the poem is so very short (nine lines). This poem is a thriller, a small gift from me to you. Look it up.

You'll Get A Hernia!

"-You think about a poem too much.
Like Spanish moss,
it starts killing the tree!"

Brenda Hillman's first stanza from the poem "Visiting Creature" (above) reminds me of one of the most important things to remember when reading a poem. Don't over-think it. Don't give yourself a hernia. I must admit, with some embarrassment, that I don't really understand half of what Hillman writes about in her poems from the books Bright Existence and Death Tractates (which includes the above-mentioned poem). These books are ambitious works that ask big questions and ponder gnostic ideas. And grief, a whole lot of grief, especially in Death Tractates, which is about the death of Hillman's good friend. Yet, I'm never frustrated, never confused. Instead, I'm left with a sense of mystery and wonder, of sadness and grief. A great poem leaves you with emotion. If you're scratching your head, it may have missed its mark. But if it makes you think, makes you adapt it to your own life and understanding, makes you look at it from your perspective, well, it's done its job. I find it interesting that Hillman mentions this in her own work. I wonder if she had received criticisms about her work being inaccessible, and I laugh, knowing that we've all faced this obstacle. Sometimes people try too hard to understand where we're coming from, instead of listening and absorbing whatever we throw their way. So next time you screw up your face with wonder at some strange poem, relax. Give that poem a chance to grow into you.

http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/1442

Welcome

Welcome to Let's Talk About Poetry! The purpose of this site is to celebrate poetry. You'd think we could all agree on the basics of what poetry entails. For instance, we can probably all agree that poetry is a bunch of words on a page, or at least one word on a page, or spoken out loud... Well, then again, maybe not. There are books galore on the craft of poetry, the technical aspects of poetry, the way to analyze a poem from a literary perspective. We're not interested in that here. Unless we are. Our number one goal is to take the fear out of reading poems. Our number two goal is to then roll around in the poems and get cuddly. There are no rules here. We may talk about a sunset we saw over the canal that made our hearts sing, and how just seeing something beautiful is the beginning of poem that has not yet been written. Maybe it never will be. Or we may talk about a totally famous poem that makes us __________ (insert emotion here, i.e. mad, happy, sad) or a totally no-name poem that also makes us feel some sort of strong emotion. We may ponder, and we may form conclusions. But never, never will we pretend we know everything. That's a promise. Please feel free to share your comments and thoughts, as long as they are free of bigotry. And please give credit where credit is due. Always name the poet and title of any piece you reference. Thanks, and we look forward to talking poetry with you!