The Voice of God

I am totally in love with this poem by Mary Karr.

The Voice of God

Ninety percent of what’s wrong with you
  could be cured with a hot bath,
says God from the bowels of the subway.
  but we want magic, to win
the lottery we never bought a ticket for.
  (Tenderly, the monks chant, embrace
the suffering.) The voice of God does not pander,
  offers no five year plan, no long-term
solution, nary an edict. It is small & fond & local.
  Don’t look for your initials in the geese
honking overhead or to see thru the glass even
  darkly. It says the most obvious crap—
put down that gun, you need a sandwich.

 From Commonweal

Prayer by Langston Hughes

Prayer

I ask you this:
Which way to go?
I ask you this:
Which sin to bear?
Which crown to put
upon my hair?
I do not know,
Lord God,
I do not know. 

                    -Langston Hughes

A poem whose title I can't remember by a poet I'm only learning about now

Somewhere in history
Somewhere in untold ages
Somewhere in the sands of time
Somewhere in the vast seas of eternity
There is one person
Only one
Who could understand me and love me
And you're it
So get with it

                       -Bill Knott

***
It's a Wednesday in April, which is National Poetry Month, and I'm posting another poem that has been important to me, this one pulled from the recesses of my memory, somewhere in the sands of time.

I remember where this poem was on the photocopied sheet we got from my creative writing professor. And my friend Ming Ming and I said it over and over; we thought it was so hilarious.

I wanted to find the poem again, but I couldn't remember the title. I couldn't even remember who wrote it, until I started looking for it today, googling the phrase "somewhere in the vast seas of eternity." And there he was: Bill Knott. Of course. I remember now. And there it was: this poem I had fallen in love with 25 years ago. Because the poet dared to play with cliches and was able to get away with it.

The only place I could find the poem online was on Yelp, of all things, where someone had started the discussion "What's the most beautiful quote?" I still don't know the title.

But now I know who the poet is, and I've found more of his work. I don't love it all, but here's the thing: I am so glad it doesn't sound like Poetry with a Capital P. That stuff gets so tiresome. Here are 10 short poems by Bill Knott. Here are two of them that I really like:

Sleep
We brush the other, invisible moon.
Its caves come out and carry us inside.

Maybe (to H)
a stopsign stranded
in a sea of cacti
won’t grow needles
maybe but then

even I take on some
characteristics
of human when
I’m with you

Filling Station by Elizabeth Bishop

April is National Poetry Month and each Wednesday I'm posting a poem that is meaningful to me.

I've loved this poem for a long time, for reminding me to look for goodness, care, and beauty in all things, and for the vivid picture of the gas station in an out of the way place. At least that's what I see when I read it. I hope you enjoy it.

Filling Station

Oh, but it is dirty!
—this little filling station,
oil-soaked, oil-permeated
to a disturbing, over-all
black translucency.
Be careful with that match!

Father wears a dirty,
oil-soaked monkey suit
that cuts him under the arms,
and several quick and saucy
and greasy sons assist him
(it’s a family filling station),
all quite thoroughly dirty.

Do they live in the station?
It has a cement porch
behind the pumps, and on it
a set of crushed and grease-
impregnated wickerwork;
on the wicker sofa
a dirty dog, quite comfy.

Some comic books provide
the only note of color—
of certain color. They lie
upon a big dim doily
draping a taboret
(part of the set), beside
a big hirsute begonia.

Why the extraneous plant?
Why the taboret?
Why, oh why, the doily?
(Embroidered in daisy stitch
with marguerites, I think,
and heavy with gray crochet.)

Somebody embroidered the doily.
Somebody waters the plant,
or oils it, maybe. Somebody
arranges the rows of cans
so that they softly say:
esso—so—so—so
to high-strung automobiles.
Somebody loves us all.

                                  -Elizabeth Bishop (1911-1979)

Wednesday Poem: Those Winter Sundays

As I was trying to think of what poem to post today, this poem by Robert Hayden leapt to mind. Who am I to argue? More about the poet and poem here.

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?

Introduction to National Poetry Month

April is National Poetry Month and I thought I'd observe it by posting a poem on Wednesdays, and maybe some more thoughts. I don't know yet. But in the meantime, here's a poem I like very much by Billy Collins that seems like an excellent opener.

Introduction To Poetry

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.

Various & Sundry: Supermodels, Martyrs, Poets, and other animals

*sigh* It's been one of those weeks that's clunked along. I had lots of plans of things to blog, but, as you see, it didn't happen. Probably because I never did get that handsome dose. But I do have a few things left lying about the place that are worth sharing, late as it is, so here you go.

For example, there are good reasons I didn't become a supermodel. Again, the handsome dose would have made my career as a supermodel more likely. But there are other legitimate reasons, as Nancy Kho points out.

I don't know if you've been following Lent Madness, but this week the martyrs have been beating the tar out of the more naturally-death-inclined. Yesterday, however, in a match-up between John Donne and the martyr Agnes of Rome, Donne charmed the votes out of people, which broke the martyrs' win streak. Does it have something to do with his erotic poetry?

This leads very nicely into Book Riot's Date, Dump, or Marry: Famous Author Version. Your choices? I'm thinking to date Jane Austen (she would be an excellent dinner companion, don't you think?), dump Poe (I mean, creepy, although I'd worry I'd be the inspiration for some gothic character), and marry Dick Francis. He seems stable and unpretentious.

Oscar fanatics and film buffs may want to read this analysis of Django Unchained. I haven't seen the movie, and don't plan to, so I am in no position to opine, but it strikes me as a really important perspective.

I really liked what Beth Kanter had to say about the importance of being data-informed rather than data-driven. And I especially appreciated this article on the seven  habits of highly effective mediocre people:

Being mediocre doesn’t mean you won’t change the world. It means being honest with yourself and the people around you. And being honest at every level is really the most effective habit of all if you want to have massive success.

In law enforcement news,

Prosecutors in England, prepping for a case, repeatedly contacted a police department for details on the arrest—specifically, they demanded a witness statement from "PD Peach," an officer who assisted. The problem is, PD stands for Police Dog, and Peach is an adorable German Shepherd, and as such is incapable of reading or writing.

Well, maybe, maybe not, as this police report shows:

Perhaps Peach had someone speaking for him, something Pat Derby did quite well. Ms. Derby, who died last week, was "a former animal trainer for television shows like “Lassie” and “Flipper” who became a crusader against animal exploitation in entertainment and founded of one of the largest privately operated wildlife sanctuaries in the United States." I read two obituaries for her this week, one in the Times, and one in the Telegraph. In both, she sounds tough-minded and realistic. "Throughout her life, she remained acutely conscious of the inherent shortcomings of raising wild animals in captivity: 'You can never replace the wild. You can only make the prison as comfortable as possible.'"

I don't know. I think this bucket of sloths looks pretty cozy.

Reading Auden for Christmas

I tend to look at blog stats too much, but I'm glad I did so recently when I noticed someone had clicked on Christmas Oratorio. What's that? I wondered, and found a post I'd done a year ago that was a poem by W.H. Auden that is fantastic. (It's reposted below.)

I did a little more digging and found it was one small snippet of a very long piece called For the Time Being: A Christmas Oratorio. The plan was for Benjamin Britten to set it to music, which would have been fantastic except it probably would have taken days to perform. It's 37 pages of text in the edition of Collected Poems I checked out of the library, and covers from Advent to the Flight Into Egypt.

And it ends there, with the flight into Egypt. I hadn't thought about that, about how Christmas ends with a cliffhanger. The order of events gets so mixed up in the calendar, with the magi arriving tomorrow on Epiphany (in the church year), but the Slaughter of the Innocents, which happens after they leave, occurred a week ago on December 28.

And so, with Joseph and Mary and Jesus on the lam, and with the recitative immediately before beginning, "Fly, Holy Family, from our immediate rage," the next-to-last section begins with "Well, so that is that." So shocking, and so wonderful.

There are so many wonderful, shocking moments in this work. I haven't made my way through it all yet. I loved part II in the Temptation of Joseph section. Here's a little bit:

  For those delicious memories
Cigars and sips of brandy can restore
To old dried boys, for gallantry that scrawls
  In idolatrous detail and size
A symbol of aggression on toilet walls,
For having reasoned -- "Woman is naturally pure
since she has no moustache," for having said,
  "No woman has a business head,"
You must learn now that masculinity,
To nature, is a non-essential luxury.

And Herod's essay/proclamation on The Massacre of the Innocents is incredible.

But the whole thing is. It's worth savoring. It gave me so much to think about in a deep Christmas mode, far past the manger. I can see this is a work I will have to revisit when Advent rolls around.

The oratorio ends with this text, which is in the Episcopal hymnal and have never heard sung. It makes much more sense in its original context.

He is the Way.
Follow him through the Land of Unlikeness;
You will see rare beasts, and have unique adventures.

He is the Truth.
Seek Him in the Kingdom of Anxiety;
You will come to a great city that has expected your return for years.

He is the Life.
Love Him in the World of the Flesh;
And at your marriage all its occasions shall dance for joy.

October 1941-July 1942

From "For the Time Being: A Christmas Oratorio" by W.H. Auden

The Flight Into Egypt
III
Narrator

Well, so that is that. Now we must dismantle the tree,
Putting the decorations back into their cardboard boxes --
Some have got broken -- and carrying them up to the attic.
The holly and the mistletoe must be taken down and burnt,
And the children got ready for school. There are enough
Left-overs to do, warmed-up, for the rest of the week --
Not that we have much appetite, having drunk such a lot,
Stayed up so late, attempted -- quite unsuccessfully --
To love all of our relatives, and in general
Grossly overestimated our powers. Once again
As in previous years we have seen the actual Vision and failed
To do more than entertain it as an agreeable
Possibility, once again we have sent Him away,
Begging though to remain His disobedient servant,
The promising child who cannot keep His word for long.
The Christmas Feast is already a fading memory,
And already the mind begins to be vaguely aware
Of an unpleasant whiff of apprehension at the thought
Of Lent and Good Friday which cannot, after all, now
Be very far off. But, for the time being, here we all are,
Back in the moderate Aristotelian city
Of darning and the Eight-Fifteen, where Euclid's geometry
And Newton's mechanics would account for our experience,
And the kitchen table exists because I scrub it.
It seems to have shrunk during the holidays. The streets
Are much narrower than we remembered; we had forgotten
The office was as depressing as this. To those who have seen
The Child, however dimly, however incredulously,
The Time Being is, in a sense, the most trying time of all.
For the innocent children who whispered so excitedly
Outside the locked door where they knew the presents to be
Grew up when it opened. Now, recollecting that moment
We can repress the joy, but the guilt remains conscious;
Remembering the stable where for once in our lives
Everything became a You and nothing was an It.
And craving the sensation but ignoring the cause,
We look round for something, no matter what, to inhibit
Our self-reflection, and the obvious thing for that purpose
Would be some great suffering. So, once we have met the Son,
We are tempted ever after to pray to the Father;
"Lead us into temptation and evil for our sake."
They will come, all right, don't worry; probably in a form
That we do not expect, and certainly with a force
More dreadful than we can imagine. In the meantime
There are bills to be paid, machines to keep in repair,
Irregular verbs to learn, the Time Being to redeem
From insignificance. The happy morning is over,
The night of agony still to come; the time is noon:
When the Spirit must practice his scales of rejoicing
Without even a hostile audience, and the Soul endure
A silence that is neither for nor against her faith
That God's Will will be done, That, in spite of her prayers,
God will cheat no one, not even the world of its triumph.