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!

British Rail Regrets

One of the things I wanted to do with this blog was to show people poems that they can relate to. In my current state of frustration with National Rail, after experiencing a day of delays and cancellations, I am confident that today's poem will have a refrain that is familiar to many.  I'm going to type it out this time as it doesn't seem to be widely available online.

British Rail Regrets, by Steve Turner

British Rail regrets
having to regret.
British Rail regrets
it cannot spell.
British Rail regrets
the chalk ran out.
British Rail regrets
that due to a staff shortage
there will be no-one
to offer regrets.
British Rail regrets, but will not be sending
flowers or tributes.
British Rail regrets
the early arrival
of your train.
This was due to industrious action.
British Rail regrets
that because of a work-to-rule
by our tape machine
this is a real person.
British Rail regrets
the cheese shortage
in your sandwich.
This is due to
a points failure.
The steward got
three out of ten.
British Rail regrets.
Tears flow from beneath
the locked doors of staff rooms.
Red-eyed ticket collectors
offer comfort
to stranded passengers.
Angry drivers threaten
to come out in sympathy
with the public.
British Rail regrets.
That's why its members
are permanently dressed in black.
That's why porters stand around
as if in a state of shock.
That's why Passenger Information
is off the hook.

British Rail regrets
that due to the shortage of regrets
there will be a train.

the bearers of bad news

This poem highlights how British Rail has to apologise for every little thing, and uses a bit of humour in the process. Whether or not Turner did this to emphasise how bad the service is or how demanding the customers are, I'm not sure - but I think there's a certain degree of sympathy in here for the people who work for train companies.  They're described as 'red-eyed', 'angry', and 'in a state of shock'. It can't be easy having to regularly deal with pissed off customers, people who take out their anger on you for things that probably aren't your fault. This poem, while reminding me of how irritating train services can be, also reminds me to try to be nice to the staff.

Unless, of course, I come across someone who is responsible for train signalling. How there can be so many regular signal failures is beyond me, and I hope for their own good that those people are kept in offices far out of the reach of the general public.

[end rant] 

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

I recently stumbled across a blog which really made me stop and think about my mortality in a way that I don't think I had before.  Obviously, I know I won't be around forever, but I take it for granted that I've got at least 50 years ahead of me.  I think to a certain degree, you have to ignore the fact of your own mortality - not so much that you don't look before crossing the road, but just to be able to go ahead and make future plans and goals and to have hope and dreams.  The blog is written by a young woman named Ellie, 28, who was diagnosed with terminal cancer earlier this year and is fighting it remarkably bravely.  I like the blog because I like her - she is angry, sad, realistic, funny and not overly cheesy.  Take a look:  http://writtenoff.net/about/

Ellie believes she can beat her cancer, and I sincerely hope that she does.  This reminds me of a poem - more of a traditional classic than the others I have posted so far (don't let that put anyone off!)

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, by Dylan Thomas.  Read it here:

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/do-not-go-gentle-into-that-good-night/

This poem and Ellie's blog have a fighting spirit in common.  If you've ever had anyone close to you be critically ill or even dying, you will know that urge, that desperation, for them to keep going and to resist death - whether or not that's a fair or possible ask.  The repetition of the lines 'do not go gentle into that good night' and 'rage, rage against the dying of the light' are really powerful in embodying that anguish and the need to keep going.  I like the universality of the poem too; despite being addressed to a father, I think it is less about one person and more about being human full stop.  Be you wild or wise, good or grave, everyone will face death.  You could wonder why it's even worth trying, but I suppose it's the love of those around us - like the son's voice in the poem, or Ellie's fiance in her blog - that keeps us going and makes us want to fight and stay alive for as long as we can.

If you're a complete geek like me, you may be interested to know that this poem is an example of a villanelle.