{#winterlight: poetry friday, early in the year}

This is going to be a year absolutely packed with literature.

It’s going to be a year of taking risks with writing, including no longer dipping a toe into fantasy and fairy tales, but diving in, and also… taking my poetry writing seriously. I’m not fond of calling myself a writer, much less a poet… somehow the idea of A Poet seems much more deep and knowledgeable and serious than my iamb-counting, form-conforming, rule-bound, doggerel scribbling self. How do people become poets, anyway? In the same way that we become writers – by doing the thing, I’m told. So, I will be doing the thing, taking serious study with a textbook and instructors and all, and with scheduled practice time.

It’s… a little terrifying, honestly. But, it’s also very hopeful and anticipatory – much like the 365 neat, blank squares marching importantly through our calendars. So many things cluster close to our imaginations, tugging on our fine hairs, breathing into our ears, “Maybe this year! Maybe this year!”

Well? Maybe it is all going to happen this year. But, how will we find out if we don’t start?

Poetry Friday is hosted by Ruth, all the way from Haiti, at There Is No Such Thing As A God-Forsaken Town. Have a lovely, restful weekend – because Monday’s the day we jump in and make it all happen!

{#winterlight: exercises}

I know that the title to this poem specifies that these are exercises for a nature writer, but I think they’re worth being revisited in this liminal space at the New Year. Dress for the weather. Ruminate. Hold your boundaries and walk your fence lines. Work through what is troubling you through serving something else. Make space for life to slip through.

I don’t bother with many things – making resolutions being one of them, as it tends to be about making myself “better” based on a set of external guidelines rather than the interior work of self-investment which pays dividends that the world cannot always see. Yes, one could always make better habits, take up decluttering, eat more veg, or lose a pound or two, perhaps, but I categorically refuse to allow that to be your business when it’s my own, and certainly not during the month of January when people demanding others change are most obstreperous and vocal. I believe it a useful exercise to anticipate growth – not to pretzel oneself into growing into the expectations of others’ – so I will set my mind on that tomorrow, perhaps. However you complete this page of the calendar, I hope you do it warmly ensconced and centered in your own heart. Happy New Year.

{#winterlight: walking away}

I have an older friend whose somewhat disorganized chaos of an orderly life by turns astounds and horrifies me. She is on too many committees, does too much volunteering, and works too many hours – and puts up with too much. In this year of abrupt reversals and sudden losses, what I have learned at least faintly is how ludicrous it is to keep on living that way, when so much is lost so soon. I want to tell her “Choose what you love, and walk away from the rest!”, but the things we do are nine-tenths habit, and one-tenth cement, and change is hard. So, I gentle my words, and bite my tongue. But this poem made me think of her – and all of us – walking in circles this year. May this coming year we wend a path through the year, out walking only regrets and hurrying toward what makes us shine.

Stirling 12

Heaven’s Gate

In her nineties and afraid
of weather and of falling if
she wandered far outside her door,
my mother took to strolling in
the house. Around and round she’d go,
stalking into corners, backtrack,
then turn and speed down hallway, stop
almost at doorways, skirt a table,
march up to the kitchen sink and
wheel to left, then swing into
the bathroom, almost stumble on
a carpet there. She must have walked
a hundred miles or more among
her furniture and family pics,
mementos of her late husband.
Exercising heart and limb,
outwalking stroke, attack, she strode,
not restless like a lion in zoo,
but with a purpose and a gait,
and kept her eyes on heaven’s gate.

– Robert Morgan

{#winterlight: closer than you think}

There’s something about the end of a year that makes me think… about all manner of things. I know people who have made it habit and tradition to do a major clearing out – of clothing, of photographs and possessions, and I think it’s also useful to do a major clearing out of the mind. We always have two or three opportunities per year – there’s the Lunar New Year, there’s Rosh Hashanah, for some, there’s Shab-e-Barat, or National Day of Forgiveness, which seems as good a day as any to begin again… but as with many things, renewals and new beginnings first require distance.

Distance

The world is large, when its weary leagues two loving hearts divide;

But the world is small, when when your enemy is loose on the other side.

– John Boyle O’Reilly

Kelvingrove Park 159

The mushrooms in the photo are so teensy-tiny that it took a high-powered lens to capture them… and you can’t really tell, can you? When we’ve stepped away from something, it’s sometimes easier to see – and other times, a lot harder. I’m intrigued by how such small things can be mistaken for something large. I’m pretty sure there’s some kind of object lesson in that, but… I’ll just leave you with the pretty picture instead of belaboring it, hm?

{#winterlight: liminal}

I’m already tired of people’s predictions.

Days into the annual interstice of just-finished and not-yet, and already the air is thick with the blether of people telling us how next year will be.

As they, too, were surprised by incidents in this current year, I am disinclined to take much heed of them.

This does not, however, have much effect on their speaking.

We spend a lot of time waiting, in life. Airports, post office, doctor’s offices, only the vaguest idea of what will come next, of what more will be required of us. This week between the last holiday of one year and the first of the next always puts me in mind of the labyrinthine waiting rooms in medical centers, moving between a series of larger and smaller waiting rooms down astonishingly similar beige-and-green hallways. It’s always a relief to just get out of the whole building.

Of course, it always occurs to me later that maybe the waiting bit isn’t the worst part…

Oddly, at the time of year when we’re most supposed to be keyed in to other people, Christmas and New Year’s people tend to become super insular… which is why it’s a lonely time for many. Getting all of these jolly cards and holiday posts on social media, it might be difficult to remember that there are people waiting for an answer, waiting to feel better, waiting to see if their test comes back clear… we need that little bit of hope in Pandora’s jar.

{#winterlight: still discovering}

I had so much fun speculating on the truthiness of history the other day, so perhaps we can apply that brush to the Christian tale of The Birth, and remove the soft-focus and the endearing, talking animals today? We have to eliminate, too, the preconception that the stable was a terrible, filthy cave and open our minds to the fact that other cultures live closer to their animals than those in suburbia. In other countries, it’s perfectly reasonable that the stable is on the first floor of a home. So, not so poor and wretched – certainly not ideal, no, but not quite so “away” in a manger as all of that.

Meanwhile, the wise men wanted to go home…

Oh, to discover how to be human now… isn’t that #lifegoals.


For The Time Being: A Christmas Oratorio was written by W.H. Auden in 1942 – after the British entry into World War II. It isn’t one most people have heard, except for in excerpts, because it’s still under copyright AND because it’s…1500 lines long, or 52 pages. (For comparison: Shakespeare’s Macbeth is about 2100 lines long. Yes. Let the mind boggle.) If you’d like to read the whole, it’s found in his Collected Poems. If you’d like to read a bigger chunk, check this out.

{#winterlight: wistful pf poetry peeps}

I loved history in school – it seemed an endlessly wonderful story of All These People doing All These Interesting Things! My sophomore year in high school, however, Dave Reedy was my teacher. Mr. Reedy was (IS) a hippie who was caustic about the government, outspoken about “History Is Written By The Winner” and made us students realize – way back even in the mid/late eighties – that what we were being taught wasn’t exactly inclusive, thus it wasn’t wholly factual. It was from Mr. Reedy that I learned to engage history critically, to think of it with my whole mind and not just passively accept what the text said.

Thus, it was from Mr. Reedy I learned that I Would Not Want To Visit History. History has a smell that is stomach turning, and a texture that would make me want to wash my hands – repeatedly. History has soap that is made of lye and tallow, and not much else. History’s water is cold, unless I boil it over an open flame. Dry skin, toasted front and frozen back, scratchy wool and fleas – I’m…certain I’d want to avoid History at all costs.

…Which is why it’s so funny to me that our last Poetry Peeps prompt of the year is mine (also the date was wrong further indication of my involvement): Theme is Wish I’d Been There, or an historical event that incites wistfulness. Wistfulness! But, do I really wish I’d been there?

love lies lying

“I wish I’d been there,”
The kindest sort of falsehoods
told by introverts,
the chronically booked, and those
sparing of tender feelings.

not to mention the lack of modern dentistry

Nits, pease porridge, fleas
Creaky whalebone, bloomers, wigs
Tanners, tallow, smoke and coal –
Grimed with sweaty industry, the
Grubby march of history.

Um… no. No, I don’t wish I’d been there. But, it’s nice to pretend I bound into adventure, unbothered by oh, slavery, bug bites, rodents of plague-passing sizes, stepping unshod (or shod, for that matter), in scat, or eating dubious food like lark’s tongues or tripe. It’s nice to imagine, but let’s be real: I only wish I’d been there because the outfits look so interesting in paintings and pictures. Oh, well.

If you’d like to see what the other wistful Poetry Peeps poetry closes out the year, Kelly is back with a wistful haiku. Laura is here, while Tricia is here. Sara is here, and Cousin Mary Lee is here. Stay tuned for more Poetry Peeps checking in throughout the day. Poetry Friday today is ably hosted by the poet Irene Latham – thanks Irene! Happy Christmas, if you celebrate! Warm hearths, cozy reading nooks, and historically anachronistic comforts to you.

{#winterlight: by firelight}

The American Chemical Society in 2018 filmed a YouTube video of four hours of a fire burning, with all the lovely attendant sounds of popping and hissing wood, snapping sparks… and overlaid it with the ethereal looking, ephemerally beautiful chemical equations that make up fire, gingerbread, Santa’s suit, reindeer, whisky, chocolate, …and Xanax, I think. This year, the Monterrey Bay Aquarium has a lovely video of fiery colored jellyfish… against a soundtrack of popping, hissing fire. It is not… quite… the same. Himself calls it Sizzling Sealife, which is both horrifyingly amusing and right on the money.

…which kind of brings me to today’s poem, which is one of my all-time favorites, and which I discovered during a college English exam. I had a professor whose joy it was to introduce to us a poem during an exam and require us to write at minimum a five-paragraph in-class essay in response. For many reasons, each time I read it, I am struck anew by the aching beauty of this poem.

Those Winter Sundays

Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?
“Those Winter Sundays” from Collected Poems of Robert Hayden, ©1966.


I learned years later that Robert Haydn was Black, and that twinged my heart even harder. Generations of men, working in silence, putting out the fires that threaten and starting the ones that warm. Misunderstood, misanthropic, perhaps, inarticulate and unstinting. Men like my Dad. Keep warm the fires of your hearth – the hearths of your family, chosen or born. Take no love for granted.

{#winterlight: creature comforts}

In my first apartment, it was so cold I burned candles from November to February, ran the oven at night, and, when my boyfriend came over, put cherry-flavored (? scented?) pipe tobacco on a thin, warped sheet pan, to make that musty attic apartment (complete with molded avocado green carpet and an orange and white crystal beaded curtain I’m still a little sad I didn’t take when I moved out) smell nice. (Why didn’t I use incense? Because it would’ve made smoke – prohibited in that apartment. Crisped tobacco was somehow… acceptably not smoke? Look, I never said logic was my strong point.)

This poem hits me in memory.

Sugar Water in Winter

A bowl of rose water dreams itself empty
on the radiator: It’s December and we can
hardly afford the heat, our milk money
crinkling hungry over the cold counter
of our convenience store, the very last
of our cash for creamer, for pleasantries,
for cheap tea and cigarettes, for the barely-
there scent of roses burning softly. We trade
our hungers for hearth, for the clank and hiss
of warmth. Small fires, these, but even we,
in our clamorous poverty, demand pleasure:
steal sugar, our neighbor’s flowers, and never,
ever are caught thankless in better weather.

– Ted Kooser

Irvington 259

May we indeed never be caught thankless in better weather – or in better years. Will we remember this one and recall all that we avoided, the many “dangers, toils and snares” through which we came? I hope so – and that we store up our small pleasures to remember as we recall our struggle as well.