Howling, stirring, lurking

Wind by Ted Hughes from Collected Poems (Farrar, Straus and Giroux)

This house has been far out at sea all night,
The woods crashing through darkness, the booming hills,
Winds stampeding the fields under the window
Floundering black astride and blinding wet

Till day rose; then under an orange sky
The hills had new places, and wind wielded
Blade-light, luminous black and emerald,
Flexing like the lens of a mad eye.

At noon I scaled along the house-side as far as
The coal-house door. Once I looked up -
Through the brunt wind that dented the balls of my eyes
The tent of the hills drummed and strained its guyrope,

The fields quivering, the skyline a grimace,
At any second to bang and vanish with a flap;
The wind flung a magpie away and a black-
Back gull bent like an iron bar slowly. The house

Rang like some fine green goblet in the note
That any second would shatter it. Now deep
In chairs, in front of the great fire, we grip
Our hearts and cannot entertain book, thought,

Or each other. We watch the fire blazing,
And feel the roots of the house move, but sit on,
Seeing the window tremble to come in,
Hearing the stones cry out under the horizons.

 

Last night the wind picked up and howled around the house like a pack of hungry wolves. This morning when I woke up the clouds were pressing down on the sea compressing the light into a ribbon of illumination.   

I love to watch the effects of the wind on the landscape and sky. It always amazes me how at times it can whip loose clothes, hair, leaves, trash can lids into a frenzy yet the clouds sit stonily in an expanse of blue sky.  At other times, the air on the ground is stoic and still while the clouds race across the horizon like it's field day in the heavens. 

I'm reminded of the movement of the Spirit in my life and in the world.  At times I'm keenly aware of its presence, stirring things up, uprooting, lashing, howling, creating noise and chaos and movement.  Then there are those seasons of my life where things appear tranquil and still on the surface yet when I look back I can see the Universe was hard at work in ways I was unaware of at the time. 

It makes me wonder what's happening behind the clouds, under the sea, in the dark recesses of my soul today . . .

 

 

 

Happy Birthday Mary Oliver

Of all the books by Mary Oliver that I own, the one I keep going back to over and over again isn't a volume of poetry, rather a volume about poetry.  A Poetry Handbooks:  A Prose Guide to Understanding and Writing Poetry is ostensibly a book for those who want to hone their craft.  Elements such as diction, voice, tone, imagery, sound, meter are discussed in surprising depth for such a short book-- a mere 122 pages excluding acknowledgments and the index.  Understanding these elements not only makes for better writers of any sort, it also makes for better readers.  Just as my art history professor in university said she was going to teach us the basic elements of art so that we could verbalize why we liked or disliked a particular painting, so does grasping the elements of a poem allows readers/hearers to understand why a particular poem does or doesn't work for them. 

And yes, all that's wonderful and reason enough to return to A Poetry Handbook but what really keeps this book on my bed-side table and has me underlining passages in different colors each time I read it are the words of wisdom that go beyond the sitting-at-a-desk-putting-words-on-paper work of a writer and get to the body/mind/heart of writing.  The way we are in and with the world impacts the way were are in and with words.  

So in honor of her birthday today, rather than a poem for Mary Oliver Monday, I thought I'd share some of my favorite lines from A Poetry Handbook (Harcourt, Inc.). 



"Poetry is a river, many voices travel in it; poem after poem moves along in the exciting crests and falls of the river waves.  None is timeless; each arrives in an historical context; almost everything, in the end, passes.  But the desire to make a poem, and the world's willingness to receive it-- indeed the world's need of it-- these never pass." 

"To write well, it is entirely necessary to read widely and deeply."

" . . . the space between daily language and literature is neither terribly deep nor wide, but it does contain a vital difference-- of intent and intensity."

"A 'rock' is not a 'stone'.  But why is a rock not a stone?"

"Language is rich, and malleable.  It is a living, vibrant material . . . "

"Rhythm underlies everything."

"The language of the poem is the language of particulars."

"Poetry is one of the ancient arts, and it began, as did all the fine arts, within the original wilderness of the earth.  Also, it began through the process of seeing, and feeling, and hearing, and smelling, and touching, and then remembering-- I mean remembering in words--what these perceptual experiences were like, while trying to describe the endless invisible fears and desires of our inner lives."

Henri Rousseau - The Dream

"To interrupt the writer from a line of thought is to wake the dreamer from the dream."

"No one can tell you how to make the best writing happen.  For one poet at least, short naps have proved helpful; for him, leaving consciousness for a brief time is invitational to the inner, 'poetic' voice.  For myself, walking works in a similar way.  I walk slowly, and not to get anywhere in particular, but because the motion somehow helps the poem to begin.  I end up, usually standing still, writing something down in the small notebook I always have with me.  For yourself, neither napping nor walking has to be the answer.  But, something is.  The point is to try various activities or arrangements until you find out what works for you."

"Athletes take care of their bodies.  Writers must similarly take care of the sensibility that houses the possibility of poems.  There is nourishment in books, other art, history, philosophies-- in holiness and mirth.  It is an honest hands-on-labor also; I don't mean to indicate a preference for the scholarly life.  And it is in the green world-- among people, and animals, and trees for that matter, if one genuinely cares about trees.  A mind that is lively and inquiring, compassionate, curious, angry, full of music, full of feeling, is a mind full of possible poetry."

"For poems are not words, after all, but fires for the cold, ropes let down to the lost, something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry.  Yes, indeed."

Mary Oliver Monday - When I Am Among the Trees

WHEN I AM AMONG THE TREES
by Mary Oliver from Thirst (Beacon Press)

When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness,
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.

I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.

Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, "Stay awhile."
The light flows from their branches.

And they call again, "It's simple," they say,
"and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine."

I've been re-reading Mary Oliver's A Poetry Handbook:  A Prose Guide to Understanding and Writing Poetry.  It's an invaluable resource for those who want to write poetry, as well as anyone who wants to read poetry better.  In discussing the hardware and tools of the craft (sounds, imagery, tone, rhythm), she invites readers to consider what makes a poem "work."  In this way, we can say more than simply, "I like this poem."

I can say, "I like this poem because of the rhythm of the first stanza carries me like footsteps into a forest."  Or, " I can clearly discern the voice of the poet in the second stanza."  Even, "The sound of the third stanza-- the repetition of the sibilant S-- is inviting."  All these go into making me like this poem just as much as the message in the final stanza.

And I do like this poem.  A lot.  For all the reasons given above and more.  For me, every word, line, image, sound in this poem speaks volumes.  I can just sit and read it over and over, like a mantra or a prayer, which it very much is. 

In the final line of her poetry handbook, Mary Oliver writes, "For poems are not words, after all, but fires for the cold, ropes let down to the lost, something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry.  Yes, indeed."  Yes indeed, Mary Oliver, yes indeed.


Is there a particular poem that is bread for your soul?

How will you go easy in the world today?