A poem for Friday

Image found here.

Manna

Everywhere, everywhere, snow sifting down,
a world becoming white, no more sounds,
no longer possible to find the heart of the day,
the sun is gone, the sky is nowhere, and of all
I wanted in life – so be it – whatever it is
that brought me here, chance, fortune, whatever
blessing each flake of snow is the hint of, I am
grateful, I bear witness, I hold out my arms,
palms up, I know it is impossible to hold
for long what we love of the world, but look
at me, is it foolish, shameful, arrogant to say this,
see how the snow drifts down, look how happy
I am.

"Manna" by Joseph Stroud, from Of This World. © Copper Canyon Press, 2009.

A Poem for Father's Day: Rest, by Richard Jones

It's so late I could cut my lights
and drive the next fifty miles
of empty interstate
by starlight,
flying along in a dream,
countryside alive with shapes and shadows,
but exit ramps lined
with eighteen wheelers
and truckers sleeping in their cabs
make me consider pulling into a rest stop
and closing my eyes. I've done it before,
parking next to a family sleeping in a Chevy,
mom and dad up front, three kids in the back,
the windows slightly misted by the sleepers' breath.
But instead of resting, I'd smoke a cigarette,
play the radio low, and keep watch over
the wayfarers in the car next to me,
a strange paternal concern
and compassion for their well being
rising up inside me.
This was before
I had children of my own,
and had felt the sharp edge of love
and anxiety whenever I tiptoed
into darkened rooms of sleep
to study the small, peaceful faces
of my beloved darlings. Now,
the fatherly feelings are so strong
the snoring truckers are lucky
I'm not standing on the running board,
tapping on the window,
asking, Is everything okay?
But it is. Everything's fine.
The trucks are all together, sleeping
on the gravel shoulders of exit ramps,
and the crowded rest stop I'm driving by
is a perfect oasis in the moonlight.
The way I see it, I've got a second wind
and on the radio an all-night country station.
Nothing for me to do on this road
but drive and give thanks:
I'll be home by dawn.

I love this poem written by a former professor of mine. Dear readers, I hope your father's day was lovely. I am grateful for the father figures in my life and especially the quirky-smart-loving-kind dad of my three children. A special father's day wish to the MOMS who are filling the role of both MOM and DAD. They deserve the love and affection of mother's day and father's day and then some. 

35/10 :: One way to look at it

35/10 

Sharon Olds, from Strike Sparks

Brushing out our daughter's brown
silken hair before the mirror
I see the grey gleaming on my head,
the silver-haired servant behind her. Why is it
just as we begin to go
they begin to arrive, the fold in my neck
clarifying as the fine bones of her
hips sharpen? As my skin shows
its dry pitting, she opens like a moist
precise flower on the tip of a cactus;
as my last chances to bear a child
are falling through my body, the duds among them,
her full purse of eggs, round and
firm as hard-boiled yolks, is about
to snap its clasp. I brush her tangled
fragrant hair at bedtime. It's an old
story—the oldest we have on our planet—
the story of replacement.

I posted this poem because I'm 35 and Oliver is 10. He has long hair that I sometimes brush. The story of replacement is real. However, I don't know. There is an emptiness in this poem that I'm not sure I relate to . . . not today anyway. It's true, my firstborn is 10 and he is arriving. But it's such a thrill to witness! And it's also true that I am 35 and have entered a new phase as well. I won't be having any more babies. There are parts of me that are not young. And yet. I feel strong. I feel capable. I made it through the sleepless infant years and the unpredictable toddler years and have entered a new phase of parenting and perhaps of womanhood. Oliver is on the cusp. Aren't we always? I feel slightly mesmerized by the whole thing. And eternally grateful to be part of the story.

The Lanyard, by Billy Collins

The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.

No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.

I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.

She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light

and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.

Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made

at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift—not the worn truth

that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.

Thank you to my friend Sara who introduced this poem to me several years ago. I love its humor and truth and have thought of these words often both with feelings of gratitude toward my mother and as I try to mother our brood of three. (Such a difficult and wonderful task!) All of this crafting and painting and trying to find the perfect gift for this weekend — we're really all just making lanyards, are we not? The poem is included in The Trouble with Poetry. Have a wonderful weekend!

A Poem for April

Summer Storm, by Dana Gioia

We stood on the rented patio
While the party went on inside.
You knew the groom from college.
I was a friend of the bride.

We hugged the brownstone wall behind us
To keep our dress clothes dry
And watched the sudden summer storm
Floodlit against the sky.

The rain was like a waterfall
Of brilliant beaded light,
Cool and silent as the stars
The storm hid from the night.

To my surprise, you took my arm –
A gesture you didn’t explain –
And we spoke in whispers, as if we two
Might imitate the rain.

Then suddenly the storm receded
As swiftly as it came.
The doors behind us opened up.
The hostess called your name.

I watched you merge into the group,
Aloof and yet polite.
We didn’t speak another word
Except to say goodnight.

Why does that evening’s memory
Return with this night’s storm –
A party twenty years ago,
Its disappointments warm?

There are so many might have beens,
What ifs that won’t stay buried,
Other cities, other jobs,
Strangers we might have married.

And memory insists on pining
For places it never went,
As if life would be happier
Just by being different.

I am, as I've hinted here on the blog, thrilled with the way my 35 years have unfolded. However, I think we all indulge in a "what might have been" scenario every once in awhile—whether it surrounds romance or friendship or geography or career. As I was trying to think of a rainy, moody poem to post for April, this one crossed my mind. I picture this taking place in New York or Chicago or LA. I picture (with great nostalgia) the period of time in a woman's early twenties, a time when careers are new and the anticipation of what lies ahead is ripe and (hopefully) exhilarating. I also picture spring rain and dream about the smell and the sound and the humid air you feel as you're caught outside… I hope you enjoy this poem, too! (Photo found HERE. I also love the app VSCO cam that this photo was taken with.)

Here I am in the garden laughing
an old woman with heavy breasts
and a nicely mapped face

how did this happen
well that's who I wanted to be

at last a woman
in the old style sitting
stout thighs apart under
a big skirt grandchild sliding
on off my lap a pleasant
summer perspiration

that's my old man across the yard
he's talking to the meter reader
he's telling him the world's sad story
how electricity is oil or uranium
and so forth I tell my grandson
run over to your grandpa ask him
to sit beside me for a minute I
am suddenly exhausted by my desire
to kiss his sweet explaining lips.

I've always liked this poem and am posting it today because I'm thinking about our backyard and our garden and the passage of time. After the longest case of the Januaries ever, there are finally hints of spring to be thankful for!

Weekending

• It's the weekend and, well, we're jumping right in!! This week has flown by, but not without a bit of drama—and I'm not talking about the insistent snow (blurg). I actually got into a fender-bender on Tuesday after picking the kids up from school and am happy to put that bit of stress behind me! (I hate driving. I'm thankful no one was hurt.) 
• I'm ready to relax! Tonight we get to celebrate my sweet nephew's 10th birthday and tomorrow I'll get gussied up and head out to my cousin's bachlorette party! Mindy's getting married! I'm so happy for her! 
• Lent has begun and it makes me want to burn incense, sit, and ponder all day long. I adore this season of slow. I know I've posted this before, but my goodness, it still resonates. Words by William Channing: To live content with small means. To seek elegance rather than luxury, and refinement rather than fashion. To be worthy not respectable, and wealthy not rich. To study hard, think quietly, talk gently, act frankly, to listen to stars, birds, babes, and sages with open heart, to bear all cheerfully, do all bravely, await occasions, hurry never. In a word, to let the spiritual, unbidden and unconscious, grow up through the common. This is to be my symphony. May your weekend be babes and sages and everything that brings you goodness and joy!

I want to be improbable beautiful and afraid of nothing

The week had ups (applying at the local shelter for a cat(!)/knitting class with Oliver/wearing wool socks) and downs (the flu/the cold/the snow). The weekend, like the stanzas below, holds promise. May yours be filled with Light and Love. 

Ah, world, what lessons you prepare for us,

even in the leafless winter,
even in the ashy city.
I am thinking now
of grief, and of getting past it;

I feel my boots
trying to leave the ground,
I feel my heart
pumping hard, I want

to think again of dangerous and noble things.
I want to be light and frolicsome.
I want to be improbable beautiful and afraid of nothing,
as though I had wings.

(These bold and hopeful thoughts are taken from Starlings in the Winter by Mary Oliver.)

A Poem for A Tuesday Morning

Why I Wake Early

by Mary Oliver

Hello, sun in my face.
Hello, you who make the morning
and spread it over the fields
and into the faces of the tulips
and the nodding morning glories,
and into the windows of, even, the
miserable and crotchety–

best preacher that ever was,
dear star, that just happens
to be where you are in the universe
to keep us from ever-darkness,
to ease us with warm touching,
to hold us in the great hands of light–
good morning, good morning, good morning.

Watch, now, how I start the day
in happiness, in kindness.

"Why I Wake Early” is the title poem of Mary Oliver’s 2004 collection Why I Wake Early.
Poetry Foundation link: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/mary-oliver

I pushed snooze several times before finally stumbling into the boys'  room and waking them up for school at 6:50. I made coffee, I poured cereal; they argued, they laughed; Sintayehu stumbled downstairs in her red nightgown and pink robe; we interrupted breakfast to admire the HUGE snowflakes that fell outside our kitchen window. We piled in the car and said our morning prayer at the corner of Tremont and Bridge, just as we did yesterday and will again tomorrow. The day lightened. Held in its hands…good morning.

Little Boys/Little Things

Something I noticed while moving a bit slower this week was the tops of the boys' dressers. I was opening windows in their room this morning when I noticed the items they have curated. I love seeing the things they deem worthy of placement in this special nook that their sister cannot reach. Paper airplanes, books, library cards and old hotel keys, crumpled up dollar bills, beads, bits of paper. Much like when I do the laundry and clean out pockets, I can't help but smile at all the little-boy treasures that I find. 

Of camp and exuberant souls...

Oliver went to resident camp for the first time this year. Sunday through Friday he fished, shot arrows with a bow, hiked, rode horses, and all around had a great time. I have to admit I was nervous about sending him, but I ended up with zero regrets. He had a wonderful time and learned a lot from the experience.  I didn't take a single photo before or after camp, but kept thinking of this poem which I had enjoyed before but can now feel with all my heart.


The Summer-Camp Bus Pulls Away from the Curb
Sharon Olds

Whatever he needs, he has or doesn't
have by now.
Whatever the world is going to do to him
it has started to do. With a pencil and two
Hardy Boys and a peanut butter sandwich and
grapes he is on his way, there is nothing
more we can do for him. Whatever is
stored in his heart, he can use, now.
Whatever he has laid up in his mind
he can call on. What he does not have
he can lack. The bus gets smaller and smaller, as one
folds a flag at the end of a ceremony,
onto itself, and onto itself, until
only a heavy wedge remains.
Whatever his exuberant soul
can do for him, it is doing right now.
Whatever his arrogance can do
it is doing to him. Everything
that's been done to him, he will now do.
Everything that's been placed in him
will come out, now, the contents of a trunk
unpacked and lined up on a bunk in the underpine light.

To be wild and perfect for a moment...

Peonies, by Mary Oliver

This morning the green fists of the peonies are getting ready
   to break my heart
     as the sun rises,
        as the sun strokes them with his old, buttery fingers

and they open--
   pools of lace,
      white and pink--
       and all day the black ants climb over them,

boring their deep and mysterious holes
    into the curls,
      craving the sweet sap,
        taking it away

to their dark, underground cities--
   and all day
      under the shifty wind,
       as in a dance to the great wedding,

the flowers bend their bright bodies,
   and tip their fragrance to the air,
     and rise,
       their red stems holding

all that dampness and recklessness
    gladly and lightly,
      and there it is again--
        beauty the brave, the exemplary,

blazing open.
    Do you love this world?
      Do you cherish your humble and silky life?
       Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath?

Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden,
   and softly,
      and exclaiming of their dearness,
       fill your arms with the white and pink flowers,

with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling,
    their eagerness
      to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are
        nothing, forever

Eli's Birthday Poem...Two Months Late.

Eli is six...

and his heart is

tender,

generous,

passionate,

filled with wild horses—

fast and strong—

galloping freely within his world.

It looks like

big brother-worship

and sweet sister-love;

has the scent of

something baking

and of acrylics and crayons;

feels soft like

the play-doh he molds

in his hands.

It takes a moment,

but when Eli warms up to the world,

he dashes through the door

and appears a long-haired,

laid-back leader,

a good friend,

a hard worker with a curious mind.

His silliness is inspiring,

his laughter contagious,

his grin a window of light and love.

All this and still.

Still, it’s the heart that Elihu houses—

the strong,

passion-filled

tender heart—

that stops me in my tracks,

and when I’m honest,

reminds me of my own.

It’s an unearthly connection,

a miracle that for six years

I’ve watched unfold:

Eli has named me Mama

and for all my

unreserved wandering,

there is no one

else I’d rather be.

*Happy birthday to my sweet boy.  I try to write a poem for each child around their birthday...a snapshot of their personality.  Some are easier to write and turn out better than others, but they all seem to arrive at a place of personal astonishment.  I get to mother this little being?  

There never was a truer gift.*