A certain day became a presence to me;
there it was, confronting me–a sky, air, light:
a being. And before it started to descend
from the height of noon, it leaned over
and struck my shoulder as if with
the flat of a sword, granting me
honor and a task. The day’s blow
rang out, metallic–or it was I, a bell awakened,
and what I heard was my whole self
saying and singing what it knew: I can.
by Denise Levertov
I love this. It reminds me of how I felt when I first heard Sam Cooke. lv, molly
There are the mud-flowers of dialect
And the immortelles of perfect pitch
And that moment when the bird sings very close
To the music of what happens.
by Suheir Hammad
The half-stripped trees
struck by a wind together,
bending all,
the leaves flutter drily
and refuse to let go
or driven like hail
stream bitterly out to one side
and fall
where the salvias, hard carmine–
like no leaf that ever was–
edge the bare garden.
Tonight I paged through a poetry anthology from college and found the following poem dog-eared.
I remember reading it as I sat in a dorm room that overlooked Union Square, feeling that the narrator and I were kindred spirits.
I love this couplet: “I watch a malady’s advance, / I recognize my love of chance.”
(And the last stanza is pretty fantastic too.) lv, molly
by Thom Gunn
I stand upon a hill and see
A luminous country under me,
Through which at two the drunk sailor must weave;
The transient’s pause, the sailor’s leave.
I notice, looking down the hill,
Arms braced upon a window sill;
And on the web of fire escapes
Move the potential, the grey shapes.
I hold the city here, complete;
And every shape defined by light
Is mine, or corresponds to mine,
Some flickering or some steady shine.
This map is ground of my delight.
Between the limits, night by night,
I watch a malady’s advance,
I recognize my love of chance.
By the recurrent lights I see
Endless potentiality,
The crowded, broken, and unfinished!
I would not have the risk diminished.
by John Updike
The stripped and shapely
Maple grieves
The ghosts of her
Departed leaves.
The ground is hard,
As hard as stone.
The year is old,
The birds are flown.
And yet the world,
In its distress,
Displays a certain
Loveliness—
A poem for September. And another poem. Just because. lv, molly
P.S. Doesn’t W.S. Merwin write some of the most beautiful poetry you’ve ever read? His poems stop me in my tracks and catch me with a line that perfectly encapsulates a feeling I’ve had– or one I imagine I’ve had. I suppose that’s the genius of poetry.
To the Light of September
BY W. S. MERWIN
When you are already here
you appear to be only
a name that tells of you
whether you are present or not
and for now it seems as though
you are still summer
still the high familiar
endless summer
yet with a glint
of bronze in the chill mornings
and the late yellow petals
of the mullein fluttering
on the stalks that lean
over their broken
shadows across the cracked ground
but they all know
that you have come
the seed heads of the sage
the whispering birds
with nowhere to hide you
to keep you for later
you
who fly with them
you who are neither
before nor after
you who arrive
with blue plums
that have fallen through the night
perfect in the dew
_______________________________________________
Bread
BY W. S. MERWIN
for Wendell Berry
Each face in the street is a slice of bread
wandering on
searching
somewhere in the light the true hunger
appears to be passing them by
they clutch
have they forgotten the pale caves
they dreamed of hiding in
their own caves
full of the waiting of their footprints
hung with the hollow marks of their groping
full of their sleep and their hiding
have they forgotten the ragged tunnels
they dreamed of following in out of the light
to hear step after step
the heart of bread
to be sustained by its dark breath
and emerge
to find themselves alone
before a wheat field
raising its radiance to the moon
This morning I lay in bed and thumbed through a stack of poetry collections, revisiting the dog-eared and worn down pages, and flipping to undiscovered territory. I’ve been reading a lot of poetry lately in preparation for a poetry unit later in the year. Much to my delight, the students are interested in poetry, and I’ve no doubt their work will be wonderfully insightful, innovative, and intelligent.
Reading student work is a joy and one of the most rewarding aspects of teaching. What a gift to be given a lens into someone else’s life, her inner thoughts and her experiences in the world! I could wax poetic about how much I love reading students’ writing, but instead I’m going to share a few poems I rediscovered this morning. They stopped me in my tracks. lv, molly
P.S. I wish you a very happy weekend! I’m getting a hoola hoop.
Separation
W.S. Merwin
Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its color.
In a Station of the Metro
Ezra Pound
The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.
Streets
Naomi Shihab Nye
A man leaves the world
and the streets he lived on
grow a little shorter.
One more window dark
in this city, the figs on his branches
will soften for birds.
If we stand quietly enough evenings
there grows a whole company of us
standing quietly together.
overhead loud grackles are claiming their trees
and the sky which sews and sews, tirelessly sewing,
drops her purple hem.
Each thing in its time, in its place,
it would be nice to think the same about people.
Some people do. They sleep completely,
waking refreshed. Others live in two worlds,
the lost and remembered.
They sleep twice, once for the one who is gone,
once for themselves. They dream thickly,
dream double, they wake from a dream
into another one, they walk the short streets
calling out names, and then they answer.
The Garden of Love
William Blake
I went to the Garden of Love,
And saw what I never had seen;
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.
And the gates of this Chapel were shut,
And ‘Thou shalt not’ writ over the door;
So I turned to the Garden of Love
That so many sweet flowers bore.
And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tombstones where flowers should be;
And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars my joys and desires.
The Guest House
Jelaluddin Rumi
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice.
meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.
Monday in B-Flat
Amiri Baraka
I can pray
all day
& God
wont come.
But if I call
911
The Devil
Be here
in a minute!
Image via A Cup of Jo.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955)
The house was quiet and the world was calm.
The reader became the book; and summer night
Was like the conscious being of the book.
The house was quiet and the world was calm.
The words were spoken as if there was no book,
Except that the reader leaned above the page,
Wanted to lean, wanted much most to be
The scholar to whom the book is true, to whom
The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
The house was quiet because it had to be.
The quiet was part of the meaning, part of the mind:
The access of perfection to the page.
And the world was calm. The truth in a calm world,
In which there is no other meaning, itself
Is calm, itself is summer and night, itself
Is the reader leaning late and reading there.
I absolutely love this poem by current U.S. Poet Laureate W.S. Merwin. The imagery has stuck with me all day. lv, molly
Separation
Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its color.
Can you tell I’ve been a little obsessed with women writers as of late? (See Joan Didion and Betty Smith posts.)
As I spend more time in schools, it’s becoming clearer to me that female authors and historical figures are rarely referenced in assigned texts and classroom discussions. Even the aesthetics of some schools are male-dominated; over the years, I’ve noticed too many classrooms that feature a disproportionate number of posters featuring men. There are so many amazing women who are too often left out of curricula because they’re not standard members of the ever-frustrating literary canon. [For the record, I'm not disparaging any particular school. This pattern of underpresenting women seems pervasive enough in many schools (my own high school included) to merit mention.]
As I ponder how to create lesson plans, curriculum, and classroom environments that embody social justice and promote equity, I’ve been revisiting my favorite women writers’ work. Tonight I reread some of Anne Sexton’s poetry and stumbled across this gem of a poem. It’s so beautiful. I’d love it if students were given a chance to read this. It challenges students’ notions about poetry being pretentious or inaccessible, and I’d love students to relate this to their own lives. Where do they find joy? Where do you find joy? xo, m
There is joy
in all:
in the hair I brush each morning,
in the Cannon towel, newly washed,
that I rub my body with each morning,
in the chapel of eggs I cook
each morning,
in the outcry from the kettle
that heats my coffee
each morning,
in the spoon and the chair
that cry “hello there, Anne”
each morning,
in the godhead of the table
that I set my silver, plate, cup upon
each morning.
All this is God,
right here in my pea-green house
each morning
and I mean,
though often forget,
to give thanks,
to faint down by the kitchen table
to a prayer of rejoicing
as the holy birds at the kitchen window
peck into their marriage of seeds.
So, while I think of it,
let me paint a thank-you on my palm
for this God, this laughter in the morning,
lest it go unspoken.
The joy that isn’t shared, I’ve heard,
dies young.
Next up? Zadie Smith. I’m going to reread one of her books and post passages that cause me to pause, reread, and wonder.
For the next two weeks I’m embarking on a terrifying little journey entitled “13 Hour Days.” These days will be composed of things I find meaningful and satisfying: observing middle school classes and helping students one-on-one, grad school classes, homework, tutoring, and pretending it’s okay to replace exercise with chocolate and little sleep.
When I returned home tonight, I fell onto my rocking chair and resembled a lump of exhaustion in teacher’s clothing. I’m not even sure what that means. If a student used that analogy, I may encourage him or her to think more deeply about it. But that’s all I’m capable of delivering currently; I’m sorry.
The point is, I’m tired. And I won’t be posting much, but I’ll leave you with this poem for now. It was given to us during a reflective session at the university last week, and I think the sentiment will carry me through the more tiring times. I hope this finds you well and happy and resembling something far more attractive than a lump of exhaustion. xo, m
PS- Did I mention I’m loving it so far? Children are amazing.
A grand piano wrapped in quilted pads by movers,
tied up with canvas straps – like classical music’s
birthday gift to the insane -
is gently nudged without its legs
out an eighth-floor window on 62nd street.
It dangles in April air from the neck of the movers’ crane,
Chopin-shiny black lacquer squares
and dirty white crisscross patterns hanging like the second-to-last
note of a concerto played on the edge of the seat,
the edge of tears, the edge of eight stories up going over, and
I’m trying to teach math in the building across the street.
Who can teach when there are such lessons to be learned?
All the greatest common factors are delivered by
long-necked cranes and flatbed trucks
or come through everything, even air.
Like snow.
See, snow falls for the first time every year, and every year
my students rush to the window
as if snow were more interesting than math,
which, of course, it is.
So please.
Let me teach like a Steinway,
spinning slowly in April air,
so almost-falling, so hinderingly
dangling from the neck of the movers’ crane.
So on the edge of losing everything.
Let me teach like the first snow, falling.
I really needed this poem today. This is a poem for a bad day. Picture me in a doctor’s waiting room, crying, wearing one of those SARS-era face masks with hair as out of control as an ’80s prom queen. No, I’m not dying. But I have swine flu and a sinus infection, and my ride was late to get me, and I felt like shit. It was the feeling of ALONE that really got to me. Worse than loneliness somehow, aloneness is piercing, and you feel it in your gut. Alternatively, that could’ve been my flu meds. I’m glad to be home eating soup. I’m glad I had a good cry, even if too many people saw it. And I’m glad 30 Rock is on Netflix instant stream. xo, m
Jelaluddin Rumi
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice.
meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.
Be grateful for whatever comes.
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
