Even the gods speak of God

A book I am currently reading has introduced me to the poetry of David Whyte.

Self Portrait is one of my favourite poems so far.

Maori Jesus in the window of the Faith Anglican Church
Rotorua New Zealand

Self Portrait

It doesn’t interest me if there is one God
Or many gods.
I want to know if you belong — or feel abandoned;
If you know despair
Or can see it in others.
I want to know
If you are prepared to live in the world
With its harsh need to change you;
If you can look back with firm eyes
Saying “this is where I stand.”
I want to know if you know how to melt
Into that fierce heat of living
Falling toward the centre of your longing.
I want to know if you are willing
To live day by day
With the consequence of love
And the bitter unwanted passion
Of your sure defeat.
I have been told
In that fierce embrace
Even the gods
Speak of God.

~ David Whyte ~

With my older son

Other posts…………

Two Poets on Prayer

Sweets For A Hundred Flowery Springs

A New Poet

The Power of A Poem

As far as I’m concerned the poet stole the show at yesterday’s inauguration of American President Joe Biden. Standing full of promise in her bright yellow coat and bold red hat twenty-two-year-old Amanda Gorman’s voice rang true and clear across her country and the world as she recited the rich and rhythmic words she had written especially for the occasion. What passion! What poise! What purpose! I’ve listened to Amanda recite her poem The Hill We Climb about half a dozen times now and so far I just can’t choose which is my favorite line.

We lay down our arms so we can reach out our arms to one another

Even as we grieved we grew, even as we hurt we hoped, even as we tired we tried

Victory won’t lie in the blade but in all the bridges we’ve made

We will raise this wounded world into a wondrous one

If we merge mercy with might, and might with right, then love becomes our legacy and change our children’s birthright.

Let us leave behind a country better than the one we were left

For there is always light if only we are brave enough to see it. If only we are brave enough to be it.

I have a feeling Amanda’s poem will be read or listened to in many classrooms this morning. By yesterday afternoon my Twitter feed was lighting up with ideas from teachers about how they might share The Hill We Climb with their students.

I was thrilled about that. I taught high school English for six years and inevitably when I would introduce our poetry unit there would be groans in the classroom. Teenagers thought poetry was boring, hard to understand, and certainly not something they could write. I loved to watch them develop personal preferences for certain poems and poets, learn that a poem could mean something different and true to every person who read it, and realize they too could be poets.

Amanda’s poem will certainly become one that is oft-recited and loved and its words will be interpreted in a myriad of ways as people think about how its message applies to them. I wonder if it may have the power to inspire a whole generation to believe they can be poets and also practical people of principle who dream they can change the world and then go out and do it.

A very young and incredibly gifted Black female poet stole the show at yesterday’s American presidential inauguration. What could be more fitting or give the world more faith in the future?

Other posts………

Poetry and Teenagers

Artistic Inspiration For Our Time

The Comfort of a Poem

The Tree of Life- Poems by Sarah Klassen

 In a book chat featured on the 2020 Thin Air Writers Festival site, Sarah Klassen and Sally Ito talk about Sarah’s latest volume of poetry The Tree of Life published by Turnstone Press.  

Since I had just read The Tree of Life I was interested to learn from their discussion that many of the poems in the section of the book titled Ordinary Time were inspired by things Sarah observed in nature while standing on the balcony of her fourth-floor apartment.  

Sarah introduces us to a convoy of geese as they “contemplate, courageously, the next long flight,” the sparrow with its “claws like little commas”, the hawk that “hovers, hungry, wings wide open as if in benediction,” and the bald eagle “in transit across the sky’s blue canopy.”

Readers are enchanted by foxes “yelping, chasing, wrestling on the grass like children unrestrained by fear of predators or vixen mother,”  deer who “come softly to the garden bringing nothing but their hunger and their grace,” and even wasps who “nuzzle the patio’s torn screen door seeking refuge from the autumn wind.”

In keeping with the title of Sarah’s book The Tree of Life, there is a series of thought-provoking poems in the Ordinary Time section about trees…. the apple, fig, spruce, oak, elm, and sycamore. Of an oak tree remembered from childhood Sarah writes…..

“A branch of our oak had grown thick and bent
into something resembling the handle of an oversized cup
a giant could stick his fat thumb through.”

I thought the nature poems in Ordinary Time were particularly appropriate for our current time. Of course, nothing about 2020 is ordinary. But people unable to travel or socialize have been drawn to the natural world for activity, inspiration, and reflection. Sarah is a nature watcher and she reminds us not only of the beauty but also the brutality we can witness as we observe the natural world.  In a poem about a loving pair of geese and their little family, Sarah also includes 

“A crow couple clamped to a willow branch.
Four jet eyes nail the goslings, a succulent quartet”

I was particularly drawn to the poems in the section of Sarah’s book titled Half the Sky.  The first six are about women from the Bible and Sarah makes the choice to expose the darkness in their lives. The concubine in Judges 19:22-26 who is

“gang-raped
in a town where all she wanted was
a little rest from travel and some food”

Queen Esther for whom

“days are long, and nights she is at the mercy of the king’s whim. She could live, or
she could die if she lifts onto her soft shoulders
the burden of a nation’s fate.”

There are also poems about Jephthah’s daughter who becomes a human sacrifice, Eve whose son murders his brother, Hagar who is sent into exile, and Mary who is harshly judged for her impropriety in anointing Jesus’ feet with costly oil.  

Sarah Klassen – photo from Turnstone Press by Nadine Kampen

During her interview with Sally Ito, Sarah revealed she had not written the poems that appear in The Tree of Life in any particular order and certainly not with the idea they would fit into a certain section of a book. I felt that gave me a kind of license to skip around the book too, savouring Sarah’s rich and riveting texts, one at a time, thinking about the questions they raised and the personal connections they brought to mind. 

Four of my favourite poems in The Tree of Life were Country which turns a pedicure into a moving experience, New Music where a young violinist inspires an ageing heart, Itinerary which catalogues the anxieties of travel, and Tower which offers a child’s perspective on a tragedy. I could connect with each poem in such a personal way. 

I can highly recommend Sarah Klassen’s The Tree of Life.  You are sure to find poems on its pages that will inspire you to look at the natural world with new eyes, help you see old stories from new points of view, and poems that will make you think about your own personal experiences in new ways. 

Other posts……….

Poetry and Teenagers

The Consolation of Water Lilies

Where I’m From

Oh Great Spirit

My friend Esther introduced me to the beautiful Great Spirit Prayer. She learned it from the children in an inner-city Winnipeg school where she was a student-teacher. It’s words have stayed with her over many decades.  I thought I’d share it this Sunday morning along with some photos I’ve taken that I thought might illustrate it well. 
Oh, Great Spirit, whose voice I hear in the wind, whose breath gives life to all the world. 

Hear me; I need your strength and wisdom. 

Let me walk in beauty, and make my eyes ever behold the red and purple sunset. 

Make my hands respect the things you have made and my ears sharp to hear your voice. 

Make me wise so that I may understand the things you have taught my people. 

Help me to remain calm and strong in the face of all that comes towards me. 

Let me learn the lessons you have hidden in every leaf and rock. 

Help me seek pure thoughts and act with the intention of helping others. 

Help me find compassion without empathy overwhelming me. 

I seek strength, not to be greater than the other, but to fight my greatest enemy, Myself. 

Make me always ready to come to you with clean hands and straight eyes. 

So when life fades, as the fading sunset, my spirit may come to you without shame. 

Chief Yellow Lark – 1887- Lakota

Other posts ……………..

A Change of Prayer

Prayer- A Kick in the Pants

The Artist’s Prayer

The Journalist’s Prayer

 

The Comfort of a Poem

I had to memorize poetry in elementary school.  I can still recite I Keep Three Wishes Ready by Annette Wynne which I performed at a poetry festival in Grade Three. I remember every word of The Song My Paddle Sings by Emily Pauline Johnson which I memorized in grade four.  At some point in my school life, I memorized The Swing by Robert Louis Stevenson, Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost and The Day is Done by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Many times when I’ve needed to calm my mind or heart I have recited one of those poems. 

Photo of my grandparents’ tombstone by my cousin Al Loeppky

My grandmother Margaretha Peters had a marvellous memory for poetry and well into her 90s could still recite long German narrative poems.  An excerpt from a favourite poem is engraved on her tombstone. 

Yesterday The Atlantic published an article by Elliot Cohen called Go Memorize a Poem. Cohen suggests that memorizing a poem may be just what we need to do in these uncertain times. We can choose a poem that gives us hope, a poem that inspires us or brings us peace.  

Oprah Winfrey’s inspirational poem is Phenomenal Woman by Maya Angelou

Cohen talks about how civil rights leaders John Lewis and Nelson Mandela both believed in the power of the poem Invictus by W.E. Henley. Cohen says that poems we have memorized can stave off self-pity, offer us a new world view and make us feel powerful. Oprah Winfrey has often stated that Phenomenal Woman by Maya Angelou is that special kind of poem for her. Stephen Spielberg says for him it‘s Self-Portrait by David Whyte. 

I published a poem by Marge Piercy with my blog post on Sunday and one of my readers commented that she was going to memorize it.

I think it may be a good time to add another memorized poem to my canon. What should I choose? What poem might be the perfect one for you to memorize right now?   

Other posts………

Come Healing

The Song My Paddle Sings

Two Poets on Prayer

They Jump Into the Work Head First

Alexandria Ocasio- Cortez

This week as I listened to Alexandria Ocasio- Cortez give her brave and incredibly important speech decrying the sexism and misogyny still firmly entrenched in politics, I was reminded of a poem by Marge Piercy called  To Be of Use.  Ms Cortez follows a long line of women who have not been afraid to jump in headfirst to bring about the changes so necessary in our world. 

Social justice fighter Dorothy Day photographed in Solanus Casey Center in Detroit

To Be of Use    by Marge Piercy

The people I love the best

jump into work head first 

without dallying in the shallows

and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.

They seem to become natives of that element,

the black sleek heads of seals

bouncing like half-submerged balls.

A trio of Quebec suffragettes who fought for 22 years to get women the right to vote in their province. Photographed in Quebec City.

I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,

who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,

who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,

who do what has to be done, again and again.

Rosa Parks civil rights activist in a portrait by Tony Scherman photographed at the Winnipeg Art Gallery

I want to be with people who submerge

in the task, who go into the fields to harvest

and work in a row and pass the bags along,

who are not parlour generals and field deserters

but move in a common rhythm

when the food must come in or the fire be put out.

Maria Leal de Noguera influential educator, literacy pioneer and writer of children’s literature in Costa Rica photographed in Santa Cruz Costa Rica. 

The work of the world is common as mud.

Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.

But the thing worth doing well done

has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.

Greek amphoras for wine or oil,

Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums

but you know they were made to be used.

The pitcher cries for water to carry

and a person for work that is real.

Other posts…………..

Difficult Women

Are You This Determined to Vote? 

The Beatitudes Come to Life 

Two Poets on Prayer

Small stones I photographed at The Arches in Newfoundland

It  doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.

― Mary Oliver from the poem Praying

Wicker basket of oranges I photographed in a shop in Lisbon

I pick an orange from a wicker basket
and place it on the table
to represent the sun.
Then down at the other end
a blue and white marble
becomes the earth
and nearby I lay the little moon of an aspirin.

I get a glass from a cabinet,
open a bottle of wine,
then I sit in a ladder-back chair,
a benevolent god presiding
over a miniature creation myth,

and I begin to sing
a homemade canticle of thanks
for this perfect little arrangement,
for not making the earth too hot or cold
not making it spin too fast or slow

so that the grove of orange trees
and the owl become possible,
not to mention the rolling wave,
the play of clouds, geese in flight,
and the Z of lightning on a dark lake.

Then I fill my glass again
and give thanks for the trout,
the oak, and the yellow feather,

singing the room full of shadows,
as sun and earth and moon
circle one another in their impeccable orbits
and I get more and more cockeyed with gratitude.

– Billy Collins from As If to Demonstrate an Eclipse

Other posts……….

Artist’s Prayer

Prayer for a Golf Tournament

A Prayer for the New Year

Sweets For A Hundred Flowery Springs

What plant we in this apple tree?
Sweets for a hundred flowery springs
To load the May wind’s restless wings
When from the orchard row she pours
Her fragrance through our open doors
– from The Planting of the Apple Tree by William Cullen Bryant

Last Sunday friends invited us over for lunch. The apple tree in their back yard was in spectacular bloom.  We had our delicious naan pizza in their sunroom right next to that glorious tree. I couldn’t get enough of it and neither could the cadre of bees that were enjoying the tree’s sweetness.  

Apple Trees in Bloom at Giverny 1900-1901 Claude Monet

 Other posts…….
At the Apple Orchard in Leamington
A Kiwi A Day
Without Him We Might Not Even Recognize the Name Monet

Inspiration From Poet Mary Oliver

Hiking the Peralta Trail in Arizona with our friends Rudy and Sue

Sometimes I need only to stand wherever I am to be blessed.

With my first class of students in 1974

Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?

Our younger son reading poetry 

As a child, what captivated me was reading the poems myself and realizing that there was a world without material substance which was nevertheless as alive as any other.

In the Cloud Forest in Costa Rica

I have become a child of the clouds and of hope

My Mom showing my school students how to bake bread

Eat bread and understand comfort. 

Praia da Luz beach in Portugal at sunrise from our kitchen window

Every morning the world is created. 

Ringing the peace bell in Hiroshima

I believe art is utterly important. It is one of the things that could save us.

Hiking in Akaka Falls State Park Hawaii

When I am among the trees,  ………..they give off such hints of gladness. I would almost say that they save me

My Mom listens intently while her oldest grandchild reads the Christmas story from the Bible

To pay attention, this is our endless and proper work.

Swan photographed on Lake Constance in Germany

Across the wide waters something comes floating–a slim and delicate ship, filled with white flowers–and it moves
on its miraculous muscles

Other post……….

Sisters

Thinking About Work For Labor Day

Inspiration in Sioux Lookout Ontario

 

Contrasts

Aging

I like the freedom of it, constructing my days as I like, an extra cup of coffee in the morning, maybe a massage in the afternoon, an extra glass of wine in the evening

Exploring the wide world, the delight of a grandchild’s love, stretching my comfort zone, reading books in stacks, time to create and think and write and volunteer

No longer at an employer’s beck and call, I can defy convention, have opinions of my own, spend time with those I like, do things my way 

More cavalier about my appearance, less attached to “stuff”, open to new adventures, long walks

The twinge in my knees, knowing my mother only as a memory, a friend’s cancer diagnosis

Lost keys, a missed appointment, the forgotten name of a former student

Repeating stories, mourning lost ideals, confusing screens bombarding me with Twitter and Facebook and What’s Ap and Instagram

Like the screen on the heart monitor erratic and then slowing to a flatline. 

When I taught high school English I used the poem about smoking below to introduce my students to the art of contrast poetry. Then they had to write their own contrast poems.  This last week the Glaser poem inspired me to write the contrast poem about aging that opens this post.  

Smoking                        by Elton Glaser

I like the cool and heft of it, dull metal on the palm,

And the click, the hiss, the spark fuming into flame,

Boldface of fire, the rage and sway of it, raw blue at the base

And a slope of gold, a touch to the packed tobacco, the tip

Turned red as a warning light, blown brighter by the breath,

The pull and the pump of it, and the paper’s white

Smoothed now to ash as the smoke draws back, drawn down

To the black crust of lungs, tar and poisons in the pink,

And the blood sorting it out, veins tight and the heart slow,

The push and wheeze of it, a sweep of plumes in the air

Like a rack of horses dragging a hearse through Old,

London, at the end of December, in the dark and fog.

Other posts……….

A Fine Balance

Forgetfulness

Growing Old is Not for Cowards