Words of Comfort

I recently came across a poem that I instantly loved.  It made me feel comforted and secure.  I read it and imagined someone much older and wiser than I am reading it, or writing it.  My response to this poem then reminded me of two others, so for tonight, I am going to look very briefly at all three.

The first one that I discovered was years ago, when I was a teenager, and is the most famous of the three poems.  I think it has almost become a cliche because of its didactic tone, but I loved it when I first read it and still find wisdom in its words.

Desiderata, by Max Ehrmann.  Read it here: http://allpoetry.com/poem/8574007-Desiderata_-_Words_for_Life-by-Max_Ehrmann

I don't want to discuss that much further as I think it's fairly self-explanatory.  It has some good advice, I feel, a lot of which I probably inadvertently try to follow (without consciously thinking 'ah, I'm obeying Ehrmann!'), but I don't find it that pleasing, that satisfying, in a purely literary sense, in his use of words.  Although it touched me when I was young - and arguably in need of a bit more guidance than nowadays - I now find myself liking the other two poems much more.  The next of these three that I discovered is probably my favourite.  

Wild Geese, by Mary Oliver.  Read it here: http://www.panhala.net/Archive/Wild_Geese.html

Short but sweet, that one.  The first line immediately caught my attention when I read it, because I personally put a lot of effort and time into trying my best to be 'good', and to do everything as well as I can.  Someone immediately saying 'you do not have to be good' made me want to read on.  Every time I read this poem, I feel like a bit of pressure has been lifted from me.  Relax, it says, do what you love, and remember how much the world has to offer.  Everything continues, no matter what happens.  In some ways, this links to the idea of individual insignificance which I discussed in my entry about the sea, but Oliver also reassures the reader that they have their place: 'the world...calls to you...over and over announcing your place in the family of things'.  How beautiful are those last lines!

Finally, the poem that I discovered last week.  For Each Of You, by Audre Lorde.  Read it here: http://www.angelfire.com/on/otherwise/eachofyou.html

This one has a bit of a dark side, I think, but what I love here is that there's a recognition of the benefit of your hurtful experiences.  Lorde reminds us to cherish the power that comes from pain, to examine things that you hate, to respect our pain.  I read the last line - 'your mother was a princess in darkness' - as a reminder that we are all created and formed (hence the reference to your mother) by experiences of two kinds: light and beauty (the princess) and pain and hurt (darkness).  As I always say, this is just my reading of it and perhaps Lorde meant something completely different, but I find comfort in what I think the poem is saying. 

There's definitely more to them all, but take from them what you will, as I'm off to sleep... enjoy!

Goal

This post comes a day late, just as England has left Euro 2012 which was unsurprising, I gather, from those of my friends who follow football.  One of the things I am very much enjoying about writing this blog (albeit sporadically) is that, similar to joining a book club, I am forcing myself to read things that I wouldn't usually read; despite having very few people who follow this, I assume that not everyone will want to read what I tend to read, and I'm therefore exploring new themes and new poets.  

And on a new theme, tonight's poem is about football.  


Goal, by Phillip Gross

One flash and no looking back, that 
 moment, soundless,
through the plate-glass frontage 
of the big-screen (Catch The Big Game 
  BIGGER!) bar: some 

goal! has lifted them clean off their bar stools,
 and out of themselves, 
their mouths wide, like one full-on 
gust of wind; there may be words 
  and, somewhere, losers 

(in some mirror-image bar) but here, 
 now, he’s untouchable—
one lad in the dozen, a tad doughy 
where his cheap kit top rides up, but hey, 
  a good half-metre skyward 

as if hoisted by his high-flung fists—
 Ye-e-es!—launched  
like a toddler from a rough grip 
under armpits, as if gravity had shrugged 
  and dad’s glasspaper grin 

could be always below, great laughter
 like God’s, without words 
in any language, without rights or wrongs 
or sides to fall back into. Why else 
  can we dream of flying, 

unless we were made for this?

I find that this poem sums up the energy, the exhilaration, of football.  I only feel this when England is playing, out of simple national pride, but I think the poem also reflects what devoted fans feel during matches, and equally what players must feel too.  There is much focus on the moment, and for a game that moves fairly quickly, that feeling of the here and now is captured perfectly.  If you look carefully, the whole poem is almost one long sentence,and this gives it a breathy quality - you have to say it fast to say it in one line, which emphasises the excited feel of it.  There's a quality of 'greatness', with the reference to "laughter like God's", and the idea of being above language, right or wrong - I think this can refer to the immense power that a football player must feel, the triumphant moments when a whole nation is watching and you're winning.  I love the last line, too - when everything is going wonderfully and you're doing something you love, you certainly feel as if you're flying and you're made for it.

Ithaca

I went to the Sony World Photography Awards exhibition yesterday. I highly recommend it, there are some amazing pictures. There's not that long of it left, so go while you have the opportunity! http://www.somersethouse.org.uk/visual-arts/world-photo-london

The images from all over the world have left me with a craving to go away. This is nothing new for me, I love travel but that intense longing to be in different surroundings, to be on the move and experience the new all the time reminded me of one of my absolute favourite poems.

Ithaca, by Constantine P. Cavafy. Read it here: http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ithaca/

(In case you wondered (as I did when I first read this), the Laistrygonians are an ancient mythical Greek tribe of cannibals)

When I read this, I think of Ithaca as a symbol for life itself, and all the places I want to go to along the way. The emphasis here is all about the journey, not the destination: 'ask that your way be long' is repeated, and the reader is advised not to hurry but to appreciate the experience, be satiated in joy, in newness ('ports seen for the first time') and in learning ('gather knowledge from the learned'). These are the things I love about travel, the expansion of the mind, the improvement in understanding of the world and its people. There is so much to see and do and we're only here for such a short time; when my desire to make the most of this and get out is so intense, I sometimes find it hard to relate to people who have no desire to experience anything other than their own immediate surroundings.

The references to the Laistrygonians, Cyclops and Poseidon are metaphors for fear, in my reading of this poem: they can be present if you let them, and sure, there's lots in the world to be terrified of - but you can't let it hold you back. 'You will not meet them unless you carry them in your soul'. Let your approach not be dominated by anxiety or the fear of threat, but by all the wonder you can experience.

Much Madness Is Divinest Sense

I spend quite a lot of time around some people who could be considered, in a slightly archaic sense, 'mad'. This isn't a harsh criticism of my friends, but rather a reference to the fact that quite a few of the residents who live in the homeless hostel where I work have varying degrees of mental health problems. This week, I have experienced one person having auditory hallucinations while I was talking to him, another who recently attempted suicide, and one who came to me to talk about how disjointed he feels, how disconnected from the world and everything around him.

Today's poem is by Emily Dickinson who, to be quite honest, I generally really don't like. I think I could find much more poetry out there about madness that I would like much more than this one, however I think this one makes some interesting points. And also, I'm tired and don't want to spend too long looking right now...!

Much Madness Is Divinest Sense, by Emily Dickinson. Read it here: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/182156

What's this one about? In my view, the perception of madness. What's 'true' can vary for different people. When I was talking to my client earlier this week and all I could hear was the sound of my voice, but he could hear other voices that were equally as loud and clear, that was real for him. Because I am in the majority of people who cannot hear those voices, he is considered to be ill. I won't start getting into a long discussion about the mental health industry as a whole, but I think Dickinson makes a valid point here that 'madness' and its various definitions are based on majorities. The majority of people generally don't think that the CIA has implanted a device in their heads to monitor them, so if you think that, it could be a sign there's something wrong. The majority of people don't believe that they have met Santa Claus and they have angels in their minds who guide them, so if you believe that, it could be a sign there's something wrong.

Having said that, some of the maddest sounding things can actually be true and Dickinson compares much sense to 'the starkest madness'. How many movies are there involving government conspiracies, people being spied on, evil agendas etc that turn out to be based on true stories? (The movie 'Fair Game' immediately comes to mind). Governments that punish people for being gay with the death penalty. People with so much faith in God that they spread hate. Sense to them. Absolute madness to me.

Coat

I recently went through a difficult break up and while I'm not going to dwell on it, I was reminded of perhaps one of the first poems to really 'speak' to me. I was sixteen and had broken up with my first boyfriend; I was young and confused and didn't quite know what love was, and I missed him afterwards. I somehow came across Coat, by Vicki Feaver.

Read it here: http://poems.buggslife.com/?p=322

There are a few things I really like about this poem. Firstly, its simplicity: at the age I was, and the emotional state I was in, it was straightforward and easy to understand! Secondly, I think it reflects some familiar relationship themes: feeling suffocated, wanting space, but also the feeling of being warm and safe with someone. And finally, what I liked and continue to like, is the sense of confusion and also the lack of resolve. The narrator gets what she wants (her space) but then she questions whether or not that was right, whether or not that was her real desire. Perhaps it was, perhaps it wasn't; all we're left knowing is that, for an undefined period, she misses what she has pushed away.

Above all, I think 'Coat' is realistic and in some ways, quite different to how some people perceive poetry as being over the top, romanticised, dramatic. Yes, it uses a metaphor, but in my quest to make poetry accessible, I definitely would recommend this as a starting point.

Hay for the Horses

I feel like recently, all I've been thinking about is work, work, work. I've had a very busy couple of months and am noticeably finding it more difficult to relax. I hope this will soon come to an end once things start to settle down, but I'm sure that whatever you do, most people go through busy and stressful periods - which are hopefully interspersed with calmer times!

When trying to find something to write about this evening though, my mind of course automatically went to the themes of jobs and careers. Hence today's poem.

Hay for the Horses, by Gary Snyder. Read it here:
http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15436

It's a sad poem, in a way, and I think in the next few weeks I'll have a look for some happier ones on the theme of work - but it's good to remember that doing something you enjoy and love is really key to being happy in life generally. It also reminds me of how quickly time flies; I think the position of the narrator of this poem is very relatable. It's common to think that you'll only allow yourself to do something for a short time and without noticing, look back and realise it's gone on for a lot longer than you had expected - whether that be work, a relationship, smoking etc. Sometimes making a change doesn't seem immediately urgent, but I find this poem a useful reminder not to become complacent.

I like how the poem isn't overly sentimental, though. The point isn't laboured but Snyder sets the scene with really descriptive images of what the narrator's job entails, so that the reader is almost taken through a full day in the life of this man. I always find it interesting to think and lean about what other people's jobs consist of day to day, and the short but to-the-point introduction to the uncomfortable life of this narrator (the itch, the mere specks of light, the dangerous mountain roads, the pulling and stacking and whirling in the heat) brings the kind of understanding of another job that lets me put the difficulties of mine into perspective.

In summary, my point for today: try your hardest to do something you love!

Life Sentence

My manager at work is a poet, and alongside supporting each other with our (often frustrating) jobs, I really enjoy talking to him about writing and literature and our chats often end up drifting this way.  He recently had a few poems published and when I looked them up, one of them particularly grabbed me.

Life Sentence, by Colin Campbell Robinson.  Read it here (second poem on the page): http://www.stridemagazine.co.uk/Stride%20mag%202012/Jan%202012/colin%20robinson%20poems.htm

When reading this, I immediately thought of a man that I know who is on Death Row in Georgia; we have been penpals for about a year and the descriptions in this poem of the whispering of the man's neighbours and the mice remind me of how he describes Death Row.  I'm intrigued by the links to religion in this poem and I absolutely love the links of the word 'confession' to both guilt and faith.  My own confession is that I don't know if I really understand the poem, but as I've said before, I don't think that matters much: if a poem conjures images in your mind, if it reminds you of something, if it makes you think, if you like the sounds it produces, then that's enough for it to be good and to be worth reading.

I feel that there's something slightly accusatory about religion here, at least on the part of the prisoner if not the writer: 'they were guilty, he believed', with 'they' referring to 'holy men'.  Maybe this is a reference to people who profess to be religious yet don't tend to act lovingly, kindly, in accordance with what their religion teaches?   And what is the 'impossible project'?  Perhaps the act of definitively deeming one to be guilty or not; perhaps it's all about perspective and that's why it's impossible. 

That death is compared to being free at the end of the poem is sad, the sign of a life that has been imprisoned and wished to be over.  The prisoner that I write to has not indicated to me yet that death would signify freedom for him; I think he still sees freedom as existing somewhere in life and he holds out hope that he'll find it.  

And on that note, off I go to write to him!   

Arrests and Assassinations

Sadly, in the news this week there have been two examples of the right to free speech being restricted in the literary world.  Firstly, Zhu Yufu, a Chinese poet, has been charged with 'subversion' because of a poem he wrote and published online.  A pro-democracy activist, he has been arrested before for similar charges.  I can't find the full English translation of the poem, but here is the small extract that has been in the news:

It's time, Chinese people!
The square belongs to everyone
the feet are yours
it's time to use your feet and take to the square to make a choice 

I think the fact that the government takes his poetry so seriously as to go to the extreme measure of arresting him goes some way in demonstrating the power of the written word.  Especially in a world so heavily reliant on the internet, poems and their messages can be spread quicker than ever before, and clearly that instills fear in those who want to control what people think.  If anyone knows where a full English translation of the poem can be found, I'd love to read it.

Secondly, the famous writer Salman Rushdie has had to cancel his appearance at the Jaipur Literary Festival due to threats made to kill him if he attends.  His writing has always been extremely contentious in the Muslim world, with a fatwa requiring his assassination being proclaimed in 1989 (which I believe has since been lifted).  While I'm not a particular Rushdie fan - my only experience with his work being a failed attempt to get through The Satanic Verses several years ago - the notion that anyone should even entertain the idea of killing him because of what he writes is shocking.  Again, we see how powerful the written word can be.

It is sometimes easy when hearing of events like this to think 'how awful, that would never happen here' ("here" being the UK, the US or the democratised Western world in general) but one of the fears of the SOPA/PIPA debate this week is that these bills could have paved the way for governments to, sometime in the future, carry out more widespread censorship.  It was not that long ago, in 1956, that the writer of one of my favourite poems was arrested for publishing obscene literature in the US.  I will refrain from comment on the poem, as today's blog post is all about the power of poetry and writing, and I think the power in the images in this poem speak for themselves!

'Howl' by Allen Ginsberg.  Read it here: http://www.wussu.com/poems/agh.htm

The Sea Question

I've grown up going down to Cornwall pretty regularly, where my dad grew up. I went a couple of weeks ago and was once again reminded of the immensely therapeutic power of the sea.  Here's a poem about that.

The Sea Question, by Elizabeth Smithers

The sea asks 'How is your life now?'
It does so obliquely, changing colour.
It is never the same on any two visits.

It is never the same in any particular
Only in generalities: tide and such matters
Wave height and suction, pebbles that rattle.

It doesn't presume to wear a white coat
But it questions you like a psychologist
As you walk beside it on its long couch.

I like how this poem describes the sea as asking you how you are 'obliquely', indirectly, as it goes about it's usual business of ebbing and flowing and waving.  For me, this poem perfectly sums up how being near the sea always encourages me to be that little bit more reflective and thoughtful. Just like the sea never being the same on any two visits as described in the poem, I am never the same on any two visits either.  As with the sea, my 'generalities' stay the same (my name, my appearance, etc) but my feelings, my circumstances, change and  I love the personification of the sea here, questioning you, also changing, and yet being comforting too.  

Living in London, I often wonder if the sea would seem quite as powerfully peaceful if I were near it all the time, or whether the relaxing influence I associate with it is linked to the fact that I'm only ever by the sea on holiday. Whatever the answer to that, I hope other people will be able to identify with the sense of calm I get from being near the sea, the way it helps me put my life into perspective.  If no one reading this can identify, at least I know Elizabeth Smithers feels the same!  That's one of the wonderful things about poetry; it lets you know that you aren't the only one with a particular thought or feeling.  

Love

I haven't updated this blog for a little while but what with Christmas, New Year and coming towards the end of my job, I've been pretty busy.  I had a great festive period though and hope that anyone reading this did as well.  One of my favourite things about this festive period was spending lots of time with my boyfriend (thanks for an amazing Christmas and New Year if you ever read this, Michael!)  I've steered clear of love poems so far, but tonight I'm going to tackle the subject with two of my favourite poems. 

In The Dying of Anything by Brian Patten

Speaking only that our words might bend grasses,

make paths which are both simple and possible,

we talk together and failing with words we touch.

There is nothing simpler nor more human than this.

Once ignorant of any feeling's end

we dreamt in proportion to galaxies,

measuring each other against rainbows love burst,

fell softly soaking us.

But we lie quieter now,

older,

arms pressed out against darkness.

In the dying of anything walks a creature looking for its song:

huge, it bends down planets that it might ask them

the ways back to life again.

No longer one steady and running stream

we are glad to lie here,

catching what life and light we can.

There is nothing simpler, nothing more human than this.

I love how this poem encapsulates some of my ideals of love, for instance, having shared dreams 'in proportion to galaxies' (which I think really sums up the ecstatic feeling of being able to do anything together), and the idea of going through life together, making things 'simple and possible'.  I also love that this poem ends with the couple still being together and protecting each other from the darkness.  The end can seem sad, with the images of water, life and light becoming scarcer, but they've shared a life together, and to me that's beautiful. 

I also love the line that's repeated in the poem: 'there is nothing simpler nor more human than this'.  Before being in a relationship, I found the thought of getting to know someone, of sharing myself with someone, of overcoming all those little hurdles at the beginning so difficult and overwhelming to imagine.  One of the best things about the relationship that I'm in now, though, is that it's all so easy - I'm sure we'll have difficult times, all relationships do - but just being together seems so natural and effortless.  Simple and human.

The second poem I want to share tonight is one that always makes me smile, and I also like it because I have seen the poet's wife speak about the poet and it was so clear how much she adored him.  This is one that he wrote for her. 

Celia Celia by Adrian Mitchell

When I am sad and weary

When I think all hope has gone

When I walk along High Holborn

I think of you with nothing on.

Short and to the point!  Adrian Mitchell is brilliant in my opinion and no doubt will be making further appearances on this blog.

Happy New Year!