Reality, what can we do with it? Where is it in words?

Just as it flickers, it vanishes. Innumerable lives

unremembered. Cities on maps only,

without that face in the window, on the first door, by the market,

without those two in the bushes near the gas plant.

Returning seasons, mountain snows, oceans

& the blue ball of the earth rotates,

but silent are they who ran through the artillery fire,

who clung to a lump of clay for protection,

& those deported from their homes at dawn

& those who have crawled out from under a pile of bodies

while here, I, an instructor in forgetting,

teach that pain passes (for its the pain of others),

still in my mind trying to save miss Jadvyga,

a little hunchback, a librarian by profession,

who perished in the shelter of an apartment house

that was considered safe but toppled down

& no one was able to dig through the slabs of wall,

though knocking & voices were heard for many days.

So a name is lost for ages, forever,

no one will ever know about her last hours

time carries her in the layers of pliocene.

The true enemy of man is generalization,

the true enemy of man, so-called history,

attracts & terrifies with its plural number.

Don’t believe it. Cunning & treacherous

history is not, as Marx told us, anti-nature,

& if a goddess, a goddess of blind faith.

The little skeleton of miss Jadvyga, the spot

where her heart was pulsating. This only

I set against necessity, law, theory.

Czeslaw Milosz

via MONIKA BIELSKYTE

Rachel Wetzsteon, 19672009 *

The Country of Single Women

At sunrise, check the ashes.
If you see your face in them
you have your freedom.

The national plant, let it be sawgrass
its thin smile sharp enough
to cut the unwary, but easy enough
to pick if you choose your approach.
A practical plant is required
one that survives drought and frost
and can be used as fodder
for the wild and the dumb
when times are hard.

Our anthem must be sung a capella
by a single voice with
or without microphone
in difficult conditions
for there will be many competing voices
to rise above.

National treasures comprise mainly
photo albums, anecdotes
and a shopping bag full of letters
refolded in original envelopes
stamps now wildly out of date
some of them foreign
and every letter
once known
by heart.

Nationality is a gift
that cannot be returned
by the recipient. If revoked
the papers must be twisted
into chains and set alight with a flame
carried from your first birthday cake.
This can only be done by a gentle man
at the time of a full moon.

 

Rhona McAdam

 
 
Rhona blogs at iambic cafe

From The Lemon Trees by Eugenio Montale:

You realize that in silences
things yield and almost betray
their ultimate secrets.
At times, one half expects
to discover an error in Nature,
the still point of reality,
the missing link that will not hold,
the thread we cannot untangle
in order to get at the truth.

You look around. Your mind seeks,
makes harmonies, falls apart
in the perfume, expands
when the day wearies away.
There are silences in which one watches
in every fading human shadow
something divine let go.

Found at Bitter Grace Notes

The rest of the poem is here

cross-posted at mirabile dictu

Ideology
Tom Clark

Ideology dates back to the veldt,
Blood in the dust, the lion’s rage against
The antelope it’s about to have for lunch.
For the luckless prey prayer’s all that’s left,
No ideology’s yet been known to incorporate
Mercy as a feature. But of course all this is irony.
No lion’s yet been known to subscribe to a noble lie.

From Tom Clark’s blog:Rousseau-Hungry-Lion

 

 

via wood s lot

Odds and Ends

An evil swamp meadow, burnt and sawed.
Invisibly small lives hum and rummage in fearful humidity.  Among the stumps
lean six pine saplings, the bare slender trunks
tipped with cone-shaped tufts of needled twigs:
greenery arrowheads.  What made these arrow-trees
fall here notch first and sink their feathers
under the lava flow of golden weed —
what, beyond some whim and power of nature
and ideal of the painter, inexpressible in words?

I was glad as always to leave the museum
and regain the town and again be living
in a picture, restored to our nature as pilgrims
for the ideal law.  But when the walk did not turn
and open on the sea, as map misreading had told me,
my eyes settled on a fallen rhododendron flower.
Its petals, intact and perfect, were in fact
not petals but five rays of a single disc,
shadowy rose, with a circular hole at center.
It was a skirt for a dead Romantic waist:
the upturned, golden, hammer-headed pistil
had fit there, with its garden of ten stamens waving
ovular flecks, and these remained above
on their bush withering, while the shed pink dirndl
was put away in the grass.

                                            O clothes she wore
and we put them away for her to wear again
someday, and today they lie there still.

A. F. Moritz

from The Best Canadian Poetry in English, 2008
published by Tightrope Books

Moritz‘s poem is taken from The Best American Poetry blog and from a post by Canadian poet Molly Peacock.  Peacock takes on the task of trying to articulate the differences between Canadian and American poetry.  Her thesis is interesting and pretty good fun.  I can even see the ways her metaphor for the differences is accurate, though no attempt to theorize the differences can really do the job imo.  I find Moritz an interesting choice since he was born and educated in Ohio.  Peacock doesn’t take note of this.  Although Moritz has been a Canadian citizen for years, I wonder if a “more” Canadian poet would have been a better choice, or if Moritz’s “Canadian” style can be attributed to a “Canadian” personality?

In a second post on a different subject – the connections between BritPo and CanPo – Peacock includes Moritz’s comment on the making of this poem:

“Odds and Ends” describes a painting by Emily Carr in the city art gallery of Victoria, and, more particularly, the experience in which my viewing of the painting was set.  Leaving the gallery, I walked through the surrounding neighborhoods, thinking to come out soon on the ocean, but it turned out to be a long walk on a hot humid day:  I’d misunderstood my map.  And in a front yard I saw a rhododendron petal . . .

For American readers Peacock adds that Emily Carr is an iconic Canadian painter, similar to Georgia O’Keefe for Americans.  (Though I find it rather sad that it’s assumed that American readers won’t be familiar with the wonderful Emily Carr! – is that assumption based on the infamous Canadian inferior complex?  or is it just true?) Yup, there are some similarities between Carr and O’Keefe.  In fact, Sharon Udall wrote a book on Carr, O’Keefe and Frida Kahlo that lead to a wonderful exhibition of their work – I saw it three times – and included fascinating archival photos of the artists at work along with 60 exhibits:

Carr Forest

There is much we can never know about the inner workings of an artist’s mind, but there is much we can learn-much that emerges in the process of comparing creative lives and achievements. The exhibition will invite comparison without imposing it. In their searches for identity, for example, Carr, Kahlo and O’Keeffe shared a number of important concerns. How was each artist’s self consciousness reflected? How did these women relate to an art world in which the masculine is privileged? And how did they respond to the feminine in themselves?

Carr, O’Keeffe and Kahlo each rooted herself in a part of the Americas, and reinvented the image of that place in her paintings. This exhibition probes the unique, sometimes conflicted identities developed within lives imprinted with courage, passion and integrity.

Udall’s book, Carr, Kahlo and O’Keefe: Places of their Own includes beautiful colour plates of the artists’ work and a fascinating exploration of gender, place and identity in the creative process.

You can see Emily Carr’s Odds and Ends at the ARTBase online gallery here.  Molly Peacock’s poems are at Canadian Poets.

NOTE:  Poet David Cavanagh, a dual citizen of Canada and the US, is at work on a collection of poems that explore the “perils and possibilities” of living on borders.

 

Inspired by the new Read Write Poem website, I’m setting up this new blog to mark the beginning of my participation there.  Who knows where it will go.  For now, I’m just collecting links but ya never know when something will show up here.  Or what it will be!  I love the poets I’ve met already.  Huzzah!

hysperia