Rarely Only What They Seem

This morning for breakfast I ate a plum. Normally I would hold it in my hand, and take bites out of  it till it's gone and throw away the seed without a thought. But for some reason, this time, I sliced it into a green glass bowl and ate it slowly with a fork. The skin was purple and slightly bitter. I thought all plums were red or purple throughout, but this one was golden on the inside and sweet and cold.

We think of watermelons as red, but they are green on the outside. We think of apples as red, but they are white on the inside. We think of bananas as yellow, but they are pale on the inside. We think of orange peel as orange, but it is white on the inside. And so on.

A few years ago I was having dinner at an Italian restaurant. A young, plain-looking woman without makeup, hair pulled back into a low ponytail, and dressed quite modestly, approached the table next to ours and began singing opera, beautifully. Everyone in the room fell silent, all eyes on her, caught in the magic of this unexpected moment. I remember thinking this person looked so ordinary. She didn't look like she could sing like that.

What? How easily we sometimes dismiss others. We never know about the stranger standing in front of us in line at the grocery store or sitting in the car next to us while stopped at a traffic light -- his talent, her abilities, his burdens, her struggles. A singer, a poet, a marksman, a water colorist, a person who speaks 5 languages, someone whose mother is dying, someone whose child won a scholarship, or has a loved one addicted to cocaine. Everybody has a story.

People, and things, are rarely only what they seem.

Just as this poem is not only about an old woman eating a plum.


To a Poor Old Woman

by William Carlos Williams

munching a plum on

the street a paper bag

of them in her hand

They taste good to her

They taste good

to her. They taste

good to her

You can see it by

the way she gives herself

to the one half

sucked out in her hand

ComfortedComforted When originally published in the journal Smoke (Autumn 1934), the line read: “Comforted, Relieved—”

a solace of ripe plums

seeming to fill the air

They taste good to her

What Are We Doing?

The Wind, One Brilliant Day
   by Antonio Machado
      translated by Robert Bly

The wind, one brilliant day, called
to my soul with an odor of jasmine.

"In return for the odor of my jasmine,
I'd like all the odor of your roses."

"I have no roses; all the flowers
in my garden are dead."

"Well then, I'll take the withered petals
and the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain."

The wind left. And I wept. And I said to myself:
"What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?"

Choose Happiness

I have been taking a four-day vacation from work, and if you include the weekend, it will be six days.  I sigh twice -- first for the reason it is almost over, second with contentment because I feel so relaxed. I have accomplished only half the things I planned to do in the realm of Spring cleaning, but no matter. Half is better than nothing, and I determined not to put pressure on myself during these much anticipated days off.

Not wanting to feel pressure applies to a book I was reading. It had been recommended and given to me by a friend, whom I will see again in a couple of weeks. It was quite well written, (a national book club selection), and the characterization and sense of place were real and credible. But the protagonist led a depressing life, and as I typically identify with the main character in a book, I did not want to live in her world. I kept reading. I realized I was feeling pressure because my friend wanted me to read and like the book, and I didn't want to disappoint. Nonetheless, about halfway through, I purposed to go no further.  Any friend who is a friend will understand. For me, enough sad things come our way unbidden without living, even vicariously, more of them unnecessarily.

So I picked up a different book, and this is the page I turned to --

So Much Happiness
  by Naomi Shihab Nye

It is difficult to know what to do with so much happiness.
With sadness there is something to rub against,
a wound to tend with lotion and cloth.
When the world falls in around you, you have pieces to pick up,
something to hold in your hands, like ticket stubs
or change.


But happiness floats.
It doesn't need you to hold it down.
It doesn't need anything.
Happiness lands on the roof of the next house, singing,
and disappears when it wants to.
You are happy either way.
Even the fact that you once lived in a peaceful tree house
and now live over a quarry of noise and dust
cannot make you unhappy.
Everything has a life of its own,
it too could wake up filled with possibilities
of coffee cake and ripe peaches,
and love even the floor which needs to be swept,
the soiled linens and scratched records...


Since there is no place large enough
to contain so much happiness,
you shrug, you raise your hands, and it flows out of you
into everything you touch. You are not responsible.
You take no credit, as the night sky takes no credit
for the moon, but continues to hold it, and share it,
and in that way, be known.

Let me savor the ripe peach and love the floor which needs to be swept. Let me never forget the clutch of  my newborn's hand around my finger, or the solid embrace of loved ones who have passed.  Let me open my eyes and ears to all things beautiful, and choose happiness whenever, wherever I can.

Meanwhile

Banks of the Seine, Isand of La Grande Jatte, 1878

Monet

Wild Geese
   by Mary Oliver


You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
     love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting --
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

Station

 

Station / Poem of the Day : The Poetry Foundation

Each morning I begin my day with poetry. Today when I heard the audio poem Station by Li-Young Lee,  I knew I must share it with you.  Please take three minutes to listen. If you are like me, you will listen again. And then you might have to go in search of the poem in printed form so you can take it in slowly, line by line.

Note: I am not familiar with the book pictured here, but I included it for its captivating image. If you click on the picture it will take you to Amazon.

This and That

It has been a busy week, so this post will be a little of this and that to bring you up to date.

A few days ago, I received a call at 5 AM telling me the hotel I manage was filling with water on the first floor. A 6 inch-water line had burst, and by the time I got there, there were waves in the lobby! The water shorted out several key systems.  Imagine the fun I had with a hotel full of guests who couldn't shower, flush a toilet, make coffee, watch TV, or access the internet. We are dry now, and systems are working, but things are not back to normal.

My daughter and four of my grandchildren spent the last week with me. They went to the beach a couple of times, the pool several times, and I accompanied them to the zoo. It was hot! They slept on the bed that makes into a couch, made tents and hiding places with blankets and quilts, blew bubbles in their chocolate milk, and watched Curious George and the Electric Company. We played Guess the Animal and ate ice cream cones. The youngest is crawling everywhere (and every minute) so there was very little still time. It's quiet now. I miss them.

I live next to a wooded area, and we saw a snake with red diamonds on its back in my yard. I went to Home Depot and bought snake repellent, but before I arrived home,  I could smell the unopened product in my car. It is awful. It has an upleasant odor of strong mothballs. According to the instructions,  I have to be careful when applying it to make sure the snakes stay out and that I don't barrier them in. I haven't even stepped outside yet. This will not be fun.

But this was! Friday afternoon, a friend asked if I had a poem about a garden for her to share in a Power Point presentation. So yesterday, I wrote the one that follows. As writers, sometimes we just need the assignment, and the inspiration will come.

I hope you can all spend some time in your own garden, real or imagined. Let the kids blow bubbles in their chocolate milk. And be sure to make some time for at least one ice cream cone!


No Wonder It All Started Here
   by Carol Drummond

No wonder
it all started here.
Or not here exactly,
but in a garden.

For what could be better
than greens of moss
or bay
or cypress
to foster contemplation?

Marvel how
lime and loden
and sage and beryl
pair with rose
and iris
and lavender.

Did He stroll
with hands in soft pockets
and look from side to side,
satisfied with a job well done?

Dew drops glisten
on black-eyed Susans.
Morning glory whispers
to Queen Anne's lace.

A breeze.
A canopy of trees.
The ideal spot
for sitting with le plume,
waiting
for just the right word,
for just the right poem.
And then
There goes a butterfly.

They Bow Shyly

This morning I read the following poem and knew it would be included in the new notebook of daily delights.  I've been typing and deleting, wording and re-wording my commentary, but I give up. Some things just can't be expressed in ordinary sentences and paragraphs. That's why we have poems. And if you are like me,  you will never forget the last three lines.

A Blessing

by James Wright

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass,
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.

A Marvelous Morning

I'm having a marvelous morning. 

It began with a rain concerto playing for me outside each window. I listened for awhile, then pulled the covers up, and listened a little more.  I reached for one of the books on my nightstand -- How to Read a Poem and Fall in Love With Poetry, by Edward Hirsch. I read about things I already love to love. I marvelled at the beauty of the language. I wished everyone could feel what I was feeling. Then I realized that many already do.

A leisurely breakfast was in order. My sound senses were  keen, and I heard  the crunch of one of my new-found joys -- demerara cane sugar, as I ate cinammon toast and a sliced banana. I paid attention to the taste and temperature and aroma of my coffee. Oh, the joy of simple things.  I read some more.

It still rains. The sky light is dim, as if in reverance. Even the birds are quiet. Perhaps they're listening, too.

And I have the pleasure of not having to do anything I don't want to do today. It can be anything. Or it can be nothing. Nothing, except what I may choose.  And who knows what that will be? Because right now, the now is quite enough.

Waiting For The Rain

Waiting For The Rain
by Carol Drummond

Waiting for the rain to fall
Is not like waiting for a letter
Because you know
Eventually
The rain will happen.
Waiting for the rain to fall
Is not like waiting for the phone to ring
Because you know
Eventually
The rain will happen.
Waiting for the rain to fall
Is not like waiting
For him to go
Because you know
You already know
Eventually
Already
Happened.
And the umbrella won't open.
And your raincoat is full of holes.

So I Said "Yes"

Yesterday I was privileged to be included in a PoetryFest on Sanibel Island.  During the reception, a woman approached me and said, "I really liked your poem. Is it true?" I hesitated, since I had read two poems, and asked her, "You mean about the geese?" She nodded. I was unsure how to answer.  So I said, "Yes."

 I've been thinking about this ever since.

For a writer, what is true? Do we say, "A poem reveals and conceals"? Do we say, "It is true metaphorically"? Do we describe the instant of the inspiration? Do we say this happened, but this was expanded and expounded upon, because it is a poem?  Do we say "What is true is what is true for you?" Do we say, "Even fiction comes from somewhere within us, so it must somehow be us?"  Do we remind the curious of the quote by Red Smith? "Writing is easy. All you have to do is sit down at the typewriter and open a vein."

So I say, "Yes!" If what we write somehow touches the writer or the reader, it is true, or truth... for at least one of us or one of them.

When I was in high school, I had one semester of Creative Writing. I only remember one thing the teacher said. "Good writing is when someone reads something and thinks, 'Yes, that's it.' "

In every man's writings, the character of the writer must lie recorded.
     Thomas Carllyle

No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader.
     Robert Frost

The  true writer has nothing to say. What counts is the way he says it.
     Alain Robbe-Grillet

I'm glad I just said, "Yes," to the woman. The philosophy of it all doesn't matter. If we can write, or if we can read,  or if we can feel -- this is how we connect with one another. This is how we know we are not alone.

This Is One Of Those Poems

Every morning before leaving for work, my routine includes reading at least one poem, and when I'm very lucky, it will move me in such a way I know I will think about it throughout the day. This is one of those poems:

My Life
by Billy Collins

Sometimes I see it as a straight line
drawn with a pencil and a ruler
transcending the circle of the world

or as a finger piercing
a smoke ring, casual, inquisitive,

but then the sun will come out
or the phone will ring
and I will cease to wonder

if it is one thing,
a large ball of air and memory,
or many things,
a string of small farming towns,
a dark road winding through them.

Let us say it is a field
I have been hoeing every day,
hoeing and singing,
then going to sleep in one of its furrows,

or now that it is more than half over
a partially open door,
rain dripping from the eaves.

Like yours, it could be anything,
a nest with one egg,
a hallway that leads to a thousand rooms --
whatever happens to float into view
when I close my eyes

or look out a window
for more than a few minutes,
so that some days I think
it must be everything and nothing at once.

But this morning, sitting up in bed,
wearing my black sweater and my glasses,
the curtains drawn and the windows up,
I am a lake, my poem is an empty boat,
and my life is the breeze that blows
through the whole scene

stirring everything it touches --
the surface of the water, the limp sail,
even the heavy, leafy trees along the shore.

Every Life Is A Story

Writers sometimes read others' work and think, "I wish I had written that," or "If only I could write like that."

Blue Iris, the title poem of a book of poetry and essays by Mary Oliver, is an example of one of those wishful moments of mine. It begins rather simply and, if it were a story, we might say it has a surprise ending. But, as I think about it a moment, poems are stories.  Our lives are stories. And if every life is a story, perhaps every life can be a poem.

Blue Iris

by Mary Oliver

Now that I'm free to be myself, who am I?

Can't fly, can't run, and see how slowly I walk.

Well, I think, I can read books.

     "What's that you're doing?"

the green-headed fly shouts as it buzzes past.

I close the book.

Well, I can write down words, like these, softly.

"What's that you're doing?" whispers the wind, pausing

in a heap just outside the window.

Give me a little time, I say back to its staring, silver face.

It doesn't happen all of a sudden, you know.

"Doesn't it?" says the wind, and breaks open, releasing

distillation of blue iris.

And my heart panics not to be, as I long to be,

the empty, waiting, pure, speechless receptacle.

Sound Thinking

It's raining this morning, and I find listening to it soothing. Sometimes I don't even know I need to be soothed until it is happening, and I feel a greater sense of calm come over me. Even the sound of the word soothe is like its own ointment. It's fitting that it rhymes with smooth. Maybe there is something about the double-o in the middle of words that has this effect -- the cooing of a baby, the cooling of a breeze, the hooting of an owl, the wooing of a lover.

I can think of a few more sounds that calm my spirit -- the crashing of waves against the seashore, the crackle of  fire in a fireplace, the call of  birds as they fly overhead, the wind as it whispers through the trees.

And I wonder how other things would sound if only we could hear them -- a seed as it sprouts, the sun as it sets, a butterfly emerging from its cocoon.

These thoughts remind me of the following poem. As I read it, preparing to copy it for this post, I am overwhelmed -- particularly by the last line. How could it possibly be said any better? But then again, that is what makes a great poem, a meaningful poem, a poem that you will never forget.

What The Dog Perhaps Hears
by Lisel Mueller

If an inaudible whistle
blown between our lips
can send him home to us,
then silence is perhaps
the sound of spiders breathing
and roots mining the earth;
it may be asparagus heaving,
headfirst, into the light
and the long brown sound
of cracked cups, when it happens.
We would like to ask the dog
if there is a continuous whirr
because the child in the house
keeps growing, if the snake
really stretches full length
without a click and the sun
breaks through the clouds without
a decibel of effort;
whether in autumn, when the trees
dry up their wells, there isn't a shudder
too high for us to hear.

What is it like up there
above the shut-off level
of our simple ears?
For us there was no birth-cry,
the newborn bird is suddenly here,
the egg broken, the nest alive,
and we heard nothing when the world changed.

A River Runs Through It

I seldom buy DVD's, but I realize I must make an exception and buy the 1992 film A River Runs Through It. I saw it a week ago as a rerun on TV, and I'm still thinking about the characters, the landscape, the words.  The story centers around the complicated relationships of two very different boys and their father who is a Presbyterian minister, and their common love of fly-fishing in scenic Montana.  

For those like me who love the beauty of language, you will find pleasure in the off-camera narration by Robert Redford, who tells the story from the point of view of one of the sons. The narrative's rhythm matches that of the to and fro casting with fishing rods, which made me think at various times of a ballet or a waltz. The rushing of the river and the light in the sky and against the mountain tops is cinematography at its best.  There is a little poetry quoted here and there. I found myself wondering where "...splendor in the grass..." came from, researched it, and read excerpts from the poem over and over again. I realized it was not only beautiful, but relevant to the story.

This Academy-Award-winning movie is sad, beautiful, thought-provoking, and one which makes me feel wiser for having seen it. Though it  is based on a book, and we know books are always better, I'm wondering how, in this instance, it can be.

What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now forever taken from my sight
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind

     by William Wordsworth 
     Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood, 175-180

A River Runs Through It

Don't Go Far Off, Not Even For a Day

Today, as we begin the new year, be sure to kiss the ones you love. Think about how much you would miss them if they were not here. Then tell them so. And remember to thank God for evey moment you have together.

Don't Go Far Off, Not Even For A Day

by Pablo Neruda

Don't go far off, not even for a day, because --

because -- I don't know how to say it: a day is long

and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station

when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.

Don't leave me, even for an hour, because

then the little drops of anguish will all run together,

the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift

into me, choking my lost heart.

Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach;

may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance.

Don't leave me for a second, my dearest,

because in that moment you'll have gone so far

I'll wander mazily over all the earth, asking,

Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?

Whatsoever Things Are Lovely

I've been in a quandary the past few days, trying to find a substitute for the word lovely.

There is certainly nothing wrong with the word. In fact, so much about it is right -- the way it sounds, the way it looks, the way it flows before and after the other words in my poem -- that I used it two times, only a few stanzas apart. Only later did I realize this redundancy, and knew that I, as a poet, must replace one of them with another suitable perfect word.

This week, as I have been in conversation, listened to the radio or watched TV, read some fine poetry, perused the paper and the mail, I've been on the lookout, but to no avail. A thesaurus, you say? A few literary works? The dictionary?  No luck. Not yet. Oh -- the struggles of an artist! We suffer those who suppose a masterpiece could be so easy.

I used to think of lovely as a rather general term, but it has served its purpose rather well. Consider:

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep.
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Robert Frost

My candle burns at both ends
It will not last the night
But, ah, my foes, and oh, my friends --
It gives a lovely light.
Edna St. Vincent Millay

The rainbow comes and goes
And lovely is the rose.
Willliam Wordsworth

He is made one with Nature: there is heard
His voice in all her music, from the moan
Of thunder to the song of night's sweet bird.
He is a portion of the loveliness
Which once he made more lovely.
Percy Bysshe Shelley

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely, and more temperate.
Shakespeare

I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as a tree.
Joyce Kilmer

Whatsover things are true, whatsover things are honest,
Whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure,
Whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of a good report;
If there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.
The Holy Bible

So I'll keep looking. I'll find another word. But will it (can it possibly) be as lovely?

December

December
by Carol Drummond

We fold another year
Like the last page of a calendar
Its promises now history
Its tomorrows now yesterdays.
Time tucks it softly in a drawer
Beribboned
To join past years' moments
Some bidden 
Some not.
Each carries its own scent
And casts its own hue.
We recognize the fragrance
Of hope and gratitude
The blue skies of birth
And the gray which stains our losses.
December -- a month, a history.
December speaks our past.
December promises a new page.


Labels:  December, Poem

Back to the Sea

I decided to go out to the beach for a few minutes this morning, just before the rain.  Here are a few pictures for you to enjoy. I trust they will help calm your spirit, as the visit did mine.

When I went back to the sea

it wasn't waiting.

Neither had it gone away.

All its musics were safe and sound; the circling gulls

were still a commonplace, the fluted shells

rolled on the shore

more beautiful than money --

oh, yes, more beautiful than money!

From "The Return" by Mary Oliver

Labels:

Sea

Beach
Mary Oliver
Poem

Opening Our Own Door

I once read a book whose author, living in New York, had one objective -- getting to Denver. Life would be different, and surely better. I forget what better meant, but I think most of us can relate.  Many chapters were devoted to his efforts and experiences in reaching this destination. Almost there, he met a young woman in a coffee shop who had never left her home state of Colorado. All she dreamed about was getting to New York.

This irony was not lost on me when today I wistfully read Ode to the Smell of Wood by Pablo Neruda. I live in a tropical paradise, the envy of many who must chop wood and shovel snow, and long for blue sky and green grass, and a  colorful landscape each winter. Yet my neighbors and I can bask in the sunshine alongside the warm waters of the Gulf,  have our air conditioners on for most months of the year, and we lament  there are so few days we can comfortably wear a turtleneck sweater.

Late, with the stars
open in the cold
I open the door.
The sea galloped
in the night.
Like a hand from the dark house
came the intense aroma of firewood in the pile.
The aroma was visible as if the tree were alive
As if it still breathed
Visible like a garment.
Visible like a broken branch.
I walked into the house surrounded
by that balsam-flavored darkness.
Outside the points sparkled in the sky
like magnetic stones
and the smell of the wood
touched my heart like some fingers,
like jasmine,
like certain memories.
It wasn't the sharp smell of the pines, no it wasn't
The break in the skin of the eucalyptus, neither was it
the green perfumes
of the grapevine stalk, but
something more secret, because that fragrance
only one
only one
time existed
and there, of all I have seen in the world
in my own house at night, next to the winter sea
was waiting for me the smell
of the deepest rose.
the heart cut from the earth,
something that invaded me like a wave
breaking loose
from time and it lost itself in me
when I opened the door
in the night.

I can imagine myself somewhere late at night opening the door to the cold, hearing the galloping sea, and  smelling the intense aroma of firewood as if the tree were alive. I remember a balsam-flavored darkness I once breathed when in Yosemite Valley, but never did I think to call it such. And how brilliant for the poet to tell us the wood touched his heart like certain memories, but not this, nor that, neither the other, but something more secret. Because that fragrance  only one, only one time existed. (Notice how he repeats on separate lines "only one.") Then, of all he has seen in the world, right in his own house, he found the smell of the deepest rose, the heart cut from the earth, something that invaded like a wave breaking loose from time.

All of this -- when he opened the door, in his own house, in the night.



labels:
Opening Our Own Door
Ode to the Smell of Wood
Pablo Neruda

Little Red Bird

Little Red Bird
by Carol Drummond

Did you think you found your Love again
When you kissed that mirror
Just before you flew away
Little Pretty Red Bird?

Or did you fly
(The only thing you could do)
Because you knew it wasn't him
And never, ever could be?


Little Red Bird
Poem