Meaningful Love
John Ashbery
What the bad news was
became apparent too late
for us to do anything good about it.
I was offered no urgent dreaming,
didn't need a name or anything.
Everything was taken care of.
In the medium-size city of my awareness
voles are building colossi.
The blue room is over there.
He put out no feelers.
The day was all as one to him.
Some days he never leaves his room
and those are the best days,
by far.
There were morose gardens farther down the slope,
anthills that looked like they belonged there.
The sausages were undercooked,
the wine too cold, the bread molten.
Who said to bring sweaters?
The climate's not that dependable.
The Atlantic crawled slowly to the left
pinning a message on the unbound golden hair of sleeping maidens,
a ruse for next time,
where fire and water are rampant in the streets,
the gate closed—no visitors today
or any evident heartbeat.
I got rid of the book of fairy tales,
pawned my old car, bought a ticket to the funhouse,
found myself back here at six o'clock,
pondering "possible side effects."
There was no harm in loving then,
no certain good either. But love was loving servants
or bosses. No straight road issuing from it.
Leaves around the door are penciled losses.
Twenty years to fix it.
Asters bloom one way or another.
Love is a incongruous and curious state of being. Who really knows what meaningful love is? Each person has their own template, I suppose. As humans we yearn for it, find it, lose it, find it again, suffer for it, bludgeon ourselves and others over the head with it, nurse our broken hearts, try again, fail, fail, fail, and hate those who have found it. Hate them with a fierce Chuck Norris intensity.
But, what is meaningful love? We think we know what it is. Fairy-tale romance, obsessive love, mother love, religious fervor, self-sacrificing, unconditional, negating, all consuming passion. We read novels, tell ourselves and our kids fairytale stories and pretend they aren't part of our psychic DNA. We watch films that show us what love should be:, sweeping and all encompassing, with a ubiquitous violin score ratcheting up in the background.
Be honest, don't you put your love life on scale and weigh it against some novel, legend, fairytale, or film, or some couple that has "found it"? Of course, we all do, and of course, this ultimately leaves us feeling cheated because our significant other forgot our anniversary, or left the freaking toilet seat up, yet again!
Perhaps, love is like what Ekhart Tolle said in the first few pages of his latest book, something about Jesus commanding us to be as a flower. The natural world blooms and recreates itself regardless of the losses or harm it suffers. A flower blooms and that's enough. I think we'd all be much happier as flowers.
30 Poems in 30 Days - Thirty: Wish You Were Here
Poets & Writers challenge for todays is to transcribe a poem—one of your own from this month’s challenge or a poem that’s spoken to you sometime this month—onto a postcard. By the end of the day, slip that card into the mail to be delivered to a friend.
I think that in addition to transcribing one of my poems for a friend, I'll write a postcard poem.
Wish You Were Here
Danna
Dear Siobhan.,
I wish you were here beside me,
alternating between holding
your breath and screaming curses
into the swirling chaos. The sky
is a threatening lapis blue,
and the trees are bent in a sideways
prayer beneath the wind's finger.
You always loved to be scared,
always loved knowing that the whirlwind
was out on the horizon waiting for you,
sharpening its scythe on its leather strop.
Best,
Danna
I think that in addition to transcribing one of my poems for a friend, I'll write a postcard poem.
Wish You Were Here
Danna
Dear Siobhan.,
I wish you were here beside me,
alternating between holding
your breath and screaming curses
into the swirling chaos. The sky
is a threatening lapis blue,
and the trees are bent in a sideways
prayer beneath the wind's finger.
You always loved to be scared,
always loved knowing that the whirlwind
was out on the horizon waiting for you,
sharpening its scythe on its leather strop.
Best,
Danna
30 Poems in 30 Days - Twenty-nine: Driving to Mercury
When I finally looked at the clock last night, it was midnight and too late to get my twenty-ninth poem in on time. If you've been reading this blog, you know I've written a poem every day,(well, except for that Oregon weekend where I posted three poems in advance). It appears I'm the kind of runner that runs strong the entire race until the finish line is in sight, then just peters out. Not that I'm a runner, but an apt analogy. Speaking of running, I used to run everywhere, compete and win races at elementary and middle school. I had dreams of becoming a track star, but my mother told me it wasn't "feminine", which I understand now meant independent, tomboy, perhaps alternative, oh my! Come to think of it, nothing I did was "feminine", even the church patriarch after he gave me a blessing, said it was a "man's blessing", but that's a story for another day. To be fair to all involved, this was right on the cusp of the equal rights movement, and the cultural paradigm shift, I mean, women could be ticketed for wearing slacks in public buildings. No kidding.
I wish I had continued running. I really miss those muscles.
Here's Poets & Writers prompt for yesterday's poetry challenge: Pause today and allow yourself at least fifteen uninterrupted minutes to write freely, using the first word or phrase that comes to mind to guide the entire exercise. If you come to a stopping point in the writing before time is up, revisit the initial word or words as you would a refrain.
Driving to Mercury
Danna
We shred ribbons of highway
stretching across the planet's surface
under the watchful eyes of the stars
the car's headlights illuminating our path
I am strapped into the driver seat
hands holding the steering wheel loosely
heading toward that dark horizon
pulled by its gleaming iron core
My dog is curled in the passenger seat
whimpering in his dreams
He is unaware the smallest planet
of the solar system
is expecting our arrival
I know we must hurry into the distance
to win the race with the swift
footed messenger's flight across the heavens
before he disappears
once again in the morning light
I wish I had continued running. I really miss those muscles.
Here's Poets & Writers prompt for yesterday's poetry challenge: Pause today and allow yourself at least fifteen uninterrupted minutes to write freely, using the first word or phrase that comes to mind to guide the entire exercise. If you come to a stopping point in the writing before time is up, revisit the initial word or words as you would a refrain.
Driving to Mercury
Danna
We shred ribbons of highway
stretching across the planet's surface
under the watchful eyes of the stars
the car's headlights illuminating our path
I am strapped into the driver seat
hands holding the steering wheel loosely
heading toward that dark horizon
pulled by its gleaming iron core
My dog is curled in the passenger seat
whimpering in his dreams
He is unaware the smallest planet
of the solar system
is expecting our arrival
I know we must hurry into the distance
to win the race with the swift
footed messenger's flight across the heavens
before he disappears
once again in the morning light
Poem Therapy at 10:54 P.M. - Jack Stewart
Keeping Track of My Genius
Jack Stewart
I sometimes find him in the attic,
lying on his side, contemplating
the insulation. Or just staring at
the beams, trying to get the measure
of force and distribution. He turns up a lot in the garage.
I know he loves me. But if I look
away for an instant, he's off,
and I worry that he won't come back
(or when he does he'll have no taste,
gone in for some fad I'll have to bear,
and every move he makes a test).
But usually he's charming,
following me to the cafe
and lying on the awning so carefully
as not to make it sag, only
casting a slight shadow on my table.
Of course I act as though I
haven't seen a thing. He only wants,
I think, to do what can't be done.
Why just yesterday, for instance,
I found him going through the public trash,
figuring how to fill a bottle
some angry drunk had smashed.
My genius has been wandering lost in the trees for a very long time. If you see her, please drop a few bread crumbs so she can find her way home. I really need her help with my novel.
I spent the last four and one half hours soldering, hammering, sanding, oxidizing, and it was a glorious time! My little finger is protesting right now, though. I've learned I have to be very careful of it when I'm working, since I still can't feel the outer side. The tip still can't bend on its own volition, but it's geting better. I think.
Jack Stewart
I sometimes find him in the attic,
lying on his side, contemplating
the insulation. Or just staring at
the beams, trying to get the measure
of force and distribution. He turns up a lot in the garage.
I know he loves me. But if I look
away for an instant, he's off,
and I worry that he won't come back
(or when he does he'll have no taste,
gone in for some fad I'll have to bear,
and every move he makes a test).
But usually he's charming,
following me to the cafe
and lying on the awning so carefully
as not to make it sag, only
casting a slight shadow on my table.
Of course I act as though I
haven't seen a thing. He only wants,
I think, to do what can't be done.
Why just yesterday, for instance,
I found him going through the public trash,
figuring how to fill a bottle
some angry drunk had smashed.
My genius has been wandering lost in the trees for a very long time. If you see her, please drop a few bread crumbs so she can find her way home. I really need her help with my novel.
I spent the last four and one half hours soldering, hammering, sanding, oxidizing, and it was a glorious time! My little finger is protesting right now, though. I've learned I have to be very careful of it when I'm working, since I still can't feel the outer side. The tip still can't bend on its own volition, but it's geting better. I think.
Jewelry Spring Trunk Show - May 1
The trunk show will feature sterling metalwork, gemstone jewelry & dyed silks.
The show is this Saturday - May, 1 from 12-5.
Come and enjoy!
30 Poems in 30 Days - Twenty-eight: What Goes Around
Poets & Writers challenge for today is to choose a clichéd phrase ("fit as a fiddle," "think out of the box," "running on empty," etc.) and turn it around. Use the new meaning created by this reversal to fuel a poetic meditation.
I'll be working with either "have your cake and eat it too" or "what goes around comes around", but much later today.
What Goes Around
Danna
the burdens of the dead
float inside him
like a boat made of sharp bones
his own death is coming
a shadow out on the dark water
I'll be working with either "have your cake and eat it too" or "what goes around comes around", but much later today.
What Goes Around
Danna
the burdens of the dead
float inside him
like a boat made of sharp bones
his own death is coming
a shadow out on the dark water
Poem Therapy at 11:18 P.M.- W. D. Snodgrass
April Inventory
W. D. Snodgrass
The green catalpa tree has turned
All white; the cherry blooms once more.
In one whole year I haven’t learned
A blessed thing they pay you for.
The blossoms snow down in my hair;
The trees and I will soon be bare.
The trees have more than I to spare.
The sleek, expensive girls I teach,
Younger and pinker every year,
Bloom gradually out of reach.
The pear tree lets its petals drop
Like dandruff on a tabletop.
The girls have grown so young by now
I have to nudge myself to stare.
This year they smile and mind me how
My teeth are falling with my hair.
In thirty years I may not get
Younger, shrewder, or out of debt.
The tenth time, just a year ago,
I made myself a little list
Of all the things I’d ought to know,
Then told my parents, analyst,
And everyone who’s trusted me
I’d be substantial, presently.
I haven’t read one book about
A book or memorized one plot.
Or found a mind I did not doubt.
I learned one date. And then forgot.
And one by one the solid scholars
Get the degrees, the jobs, the dollars.
And smile above their starchy collars.
I taught my classes Whitehead’s notions;
One lovely girl, a song of Mahler’s.
Lacking a source-book or promotions,
I showed one child the colors of
A luna moth and how to love.
I taught myself to name my name,
To bark back, loosen love and crying;
To ease my woman so she came,
To ease an old man who was dying.
I have not learned how often I
Can win, can love, but choose to die.
I have not learned there is a lie
Love shall be blonder, slimmer, younger;
That my equivocating eye
Loves only by my body’s hunger;
That I have forces, true to feel,
Or that the lovely world is real.
While scholars speak authority
And wear their ulcers on their sleeves,
My eyes in spectacles shall see
These trees procure and spend their leaves.
There is a value underneath
The gold and silver in my teeth.
Though trees turn bare and girls turn wives,
We shall afford our costly seasons;
There is a gentleness survives
That will outspeak and has its reasons.
There is a loveliness exists,
Preserves us, not for specialists.
So the cliche that "April is the cruelest month" rings true for some, I suppose, but begs the question, which month is the kindest?
I like the idea of writing an inventory of each month, so I'll begin with May.
Only three more poems to write for my 30 Poems in 30 Days!
W. D. Snodgrass
The green catalpa tree has turned
All white; the cherry blooms once more.
In one whole year I haven’t learned
A blessed thing they pay you for.
The blossoms snow down in my hair;
The trees and I will soon be bare.
The trees have more than I to spare.
The sleek, expensive girls I teach,
Younger and pinker every year,
Bloom gradually out of reach.
The pear tree lets its petals drop
Like dandruff on a tabletop.
The girls have grown so young by now
I have to nudge myself to stare.
This year they smile and mind me how
My teeth are falling with my hair.
In thirty years I may not get
Younger, shrewder, or out of debt.
The tenth time, just a year ago,
I made myself a little list
Of all the things I’d ought to know,
Then told my parents, analyst,
And everyone who’s trusted me
I’d be substantial, presently.
I haven’t read one book about
A book or memorized one plot.
Or found a mind I did not doubt.
I learned one date. And then forgot.
And one by one the solid scholars
Get the degrees, the jobs, the dollars.
And smile above their starchy collars.
I taught my classes Whitehead’s notions;
One lovely girl, a song of Mahler’s.
Lacking a source-book or promotions,
I showed one child the colors of
A luna moth and how to love.
I taught myself to name my name,
To bark back, loosen love and crying;
To ease my woman so she came,
To ease an old man who was dying.
I have not learned how often I
Can win, can love, but choose to die.
I have not learned there is a lie
Love shall be blonder, slimmer, younger;
That my equivocating eye
Loves only by my body’s hunger;
That I have forces, true to feel,
Or that the lovely world is real.
While scholars speak authority
And wear their ulcers on their sleeves,
My eyes in spectacles shall see
These trees procure and spend their leaves.
There is a value underneath
The gold and silver in my teeth.
Though trees turn bare and girls turn wives,
We shall afford our costly seasons;
There is a gentleness survives
That will outspeak and has its reasons.
There is a loveliness exists,
Preserves us, not for specialists.
So the cliche that "April is the cruelest month" rings true for some, I suppose, but begs the question, which month is the kindest?
I like the idea of writing an inventory of each month, so I'll begin with May.
Only three more poems to write for my 30 Poems in 30 Days!
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