What to do when you can't write...

When you've learned it's going to be more like 2 months than 2 weeks until your arm will be strong enough for you to face the "empty order" of the page, what is a writer to do?

Simple. 

1) Heal. 

2) Read. 

3) Share. 

Thanks to the writers and friends who are keeping me company on the road to recovery, and especially to George Ella Lyon, who gifted me...us...with these words:

"How to be a poet"

I know it's been a while since I've written much on here myself. It's in the works and will be posted in the next few days. For now, enjoy my last poetry month post. I wanted to celebrate both the craft of poetry and the incredible talent of Kentucky poets, and who better to do that than the great Wendell Berry. May these words speak to you as they do to me.

How to Be a Poet
(to remind myself)

i.

Make a place to sit down.
Sit down. Be quiet.
You must depend upon
affection, reading, knowledge,
skill–more of each
than you have–inspiration,
work, growing older, patience,
for patience joins time
to eternity. Any readers
who like your poems,
doubt their judgment.

ii.

Breathe with unconditional breath
the unconditioned air.
Shun electric wire.
Communicate slowly. Live
a three-dimensioned life;
stay away from screens.
Stay away from anything
that obscures the place it is in.
There are no unsacred places;
there are only sacred places
and desecrated places.

iii.

Accept what comes from silence.
Make the best you can of it.
Of the little words that come
out of the silence, like prayers
prayed back to the one who prays,
make a poem that does not disturb
the silence from which it came.

"Purple Rain"

Normally I would let the black cat share her thoughts before doing another poetry post, but sometimes life has other plans. Or, in this case, the loss of a life changed my plans. I hesitated a long time before deciding which Prince lyrics to post, but in the end chose these. In them, I find all the reasons I love poetry:

• the hypnotic power of that mystical image, purple rain

• the way the song fits into the soundtrack of my life

• the raw beauty of words brought to life 

Enjoy.

"Purple Rain"

I never meant to cause you any sorrow
I never meant to cause you any pain
I only wanted to one time see you laughing
I only wanted to see you 
Laughing in the purple rain

Purple rain, purple rain
Purple rain, purple rain
Purple rain, purple rain
I only wanted to see you 
Bathing in the purple rain

I never wanted to be your weekend lover
I only wanted to be some kind of friend
Baby, I could never steal you from another
It's such a shame our friendship had to end

Purple rain, purple rain
Purple rain, purple rain
Purple rain, purple rain
I only wanted to see you
Underneath the purple rain

Honey, I know, I know
I know times are changing
It's time we all reach out
For something new, that means you too

You say you want a leader
But you can't seem to make up your mind
I think you better close it
And let me guide you to the purple rain

Purple rain, purple rain
Purple rain, purple rain
If you know what I'm singing about up here
C'mon, raise your hand

Purple rain, purple rain
I only want to see you 
Only want to see you
In the purple rain

"Questions Before Dark"

This poem is by Jeanne Lohmann. I keep it close to me, on the bulletin board at work, at my writing desk, and even in the journal that occupies my night stand. When you read it, I think you will see why. I don't want to ruin it by explaining it any more than that.

Questions Before Dark

 
                                      Day ends, and before sleep
                                      when the sky dies down, consider
                                      your altered state: has this day
                                      changed you? Are the corners
                                      sharper or rounded off? Did you
                                      live with death? Make decisions
                                      that quieted? Find one clear word
                                      that fit? At the sun's midpoint
                                      did you notice a pitch of absence,
                                      bewilderment that invites
                                      the possible? What did you learn
                                      from things you dropped and picked up
                                      and dropped again? Did you set a straw
                                      parallel to the river, let the flow
                                      carry you down stream?

"Adage"

Today's poem is by Billy Collins, former U.S. Poet Laureate, loved by pretty much all who have taken the time to read him. I was fortunate enough to hear him at our university back when we were still a college, and I was instantly charmed. He is often praised for being "accessible," but I think this is just shorthand for the fact that his poetry is grounded in the everyday. It might seem ordinary, yet it's anything but. 

Case in point: the following poem, which happens to be the first thing I hear when I plug my phone into my car. I pretty much have it memorized, as I often wait for it to end before switching to my musical selection du jour. I love the humor of the unexpected combinations and the way piece puts new words to that emotional experience called love. Click here to hear it read by the author ("Adage" starts at minute 10, but the whole video is worth every minute). 




"Adage"

When it's late at night and branches
are banging against the windows,
you might think that love is just a matter

of leaping out of the frying pan of yourself
into the fire of someone else,
but it's a little more complicated than that.

It's more like trading the two birds
who might be hiding in that bush
for the one you are not holding in your hand.

A wise man once said that love 
was like forcing a horse to drink
but then everyone stopped thinking of him as wise.

Let us be clear about something.
Love is not as simple as getting up
on the wrong side of the bed wearing the emperor's clothes.

No, it's more like the way the pen
feels after it has defeated the sword.
Its a little like the penny saved or the nine dropped stitches.

You look at me through the halo of the last candle
and tell me love is an ill wind
that has no turning, a road that blows no good,

but I am here to remind you,
as our shadows tremble on the walls,
that love is the early bird who is better late than never.

-from Aimless Love, Random House, 2013

"April"

As I've written before, as a child, teen, and even into grad school, I didn't think I liked poetry. Turns out I was wrong. I actually read poems for fun and am lucky enough to count several talented poets among my friends.  Therefore, in addition to the black cat's other musings, I have decided to make at least one post per week in honor of National Poetry Month.

What better way to start than with a poem about this month where finally, we start to thaw (well, except back home in NY, but that's a post for another day...). The poet, Mary Oliver, has been on the blog before. I love the way she brings the seemingly small details of life into crystal clarity. As I've also said before, this is an artist who truly sees, and who is teaching me to do the same.

April

                                        I wanted to speak at length about
                                        the happiness of my body and the
                                        delight of my mind for it was
                                        April, night, a
                                        full moon and ––

                                        but something in myself or maybe
                                        from somewhere other said: not too
                                        many words, please, in the
                                        muddy shallows the

                                        frogs are singing.

On Poetry, My Favorite Poet, and Herons

My thoughts are still too far-flung to submit to the discipline of orderly, coherent words. School starts soon, for the kids and for me, and although two of us are returning to the same-old, same-old, my youngest will start middle school, while my oldest is off to her freshman year of college. We also had some sad news concerning the orange cat featured in the blog two weeks ago. Small wonder, then, that my musings refuse to coalesce into something worth sharing!

This is one reason I admire the talent of poets, although for the longest time, I thought I had no taste for poetry. I believed, wrongly, that it was too hard, that I didn't...couldn't..."get it." In fact, I may have been the person most shocked by my decision to write the bulk of my doctoral dissertation on poetry. Seventeenth century French poetry, to be exact. There were a few love poems in there, but mostly it was about satire. Turns out that satire, well, I totally "get" that!  Thus the door to poetry opened.

Since then, I have found comfort and inspiration in a number of contemporary poets. Chief among them is the incredibly wise and talented Mary Oliver. She sees the most ordinary things as though they were jewels, yet her style is anything but "precious." Yes, the writing is beautiful and evocative, the gift of an extraordinary mind, but it is also gentle and incredibly real. She does not condescendingly claim to see for us; rather she invites us to see with her, and so doing, brings us closer both to the world and to our own best selves. Take, for example, the following:

How Heron Comes

It is a negligence of the mind
not to notice how at dusk
heron comes to the pond and
stands there in his death robes, perfect
servant of the system, hungry, his eyes
full of attention, his wings
pure light.

I saw this beautiful creature on a difficult night not so long ago. I would have spotted him regardless. Birds fascinate me and the majesty of herons is impossible to ignore. Yet thanks to Mary Oliver, if this makes any sense, I saw him more.  

Nor, would it appear, am I alone. Just click here to learn more.