Poetry Monday: The Future is an Animal

Today’s poem is courtesy of poets.org Poem of the Day email listserv. The title caught my attention, and it just seems appropriate right now in my life.

The Future is an Animal
by Tina Chang

In every kind of dream I am a black wolf
careening through a web. I am the spider
who eats the wolf and inhabits the wolf’s body.
In another dream I marry the wolf and then
am very lonely. I seek my name and they name me
Lucky Dragon. I would love to tell you that all
of this has a certain ending but the most frightening
stories are the ones with no ending at all.
The path goes on and on. The road keeps forking,
splitting like an endless atom, splitting
like a lip, and the globe is on fire. As many
times as the book is read, the pages continue
to grow, multiply. They said, In the beginning,
and that was the moral of the original and most
important story. The story of man. One story.
I laid my head down and my head was heavy.
Hair sprouted through the skin, hair black
and bending toward night grass. I was becoming
the wolf again, my own teeth breaking
into my mouth for the first time, a kind of beauty
to be swallowed in interior bite and fever.
My mind a miraculous ember until I am the beast.
I run from the story that is faster than me,
the words shatter and pant to outchase me.
The story catches my heels when I turn
to love its hungry face, when I am willing
to be eaten to understand my fate.

Poetry Monday: The season changes, we bow our heads

I don’t recall the first Christina Rossetti poem I read was; it wasn’t one of her usual ones. Even now, I can’t think of what it is or what I loved about it, except it caught my heart and sent it soaring through ideas.

Today’s Poetry Monday selection seems appropriate, given the changes in season, winds tossing leaves and lives around.

Who Has Seen the Wind?

by Christina Rossetti

Who has seen the wind?
Neither I nor you.
But when the leaves hang trembling,
The wind is passing through.
Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I.
But when the trees bow down their heads,
The wind is passing by.

Poetry Monday: The gifts we give and are given

Over two years ago, I had a moment where I decided there wasn’t enough poetry in my life. There wasn’t a chance for me to sink into the song of words as much as I wanted. It was then that I discovered Poem-A-Day through the Academy of American Poets. And I’ll admit, I don’t always read them as they come through in my inbox, but it’s a daily newsletter I can’t seem to let go of. It’s an amazing reminder to me of the beauty of words and of human creation.

The Gift

by Chard deNiord

In memory of Ruth Stone (June 8th, 1915-November 19th, 2011)

“All I did was write them down
wherever I was at the time, hanging
laundry, baking bread, driving to Illinois.
My name was attached to them
on the page but not in my head
because the bird I listened to outside
my window said I couldn’t complain
about the blank in place of my name
if I wished to hold both ends of the wire
like a wire and continue to sing instead
of complain. It was my plight, my thorn,
my gift-the one word in three I was
permitted to call it by the Muse who took
mercy on me as long as I didn’t explain.”

Poetry Monday: Everything is Waiting for You

I was first introduced to David Whyte through his poem, The House of Belonging, back in undergrad. I then promptly forgot about his work until I was in a Shambhala weekend full of poetry, laughter, and art. I don’t know what they read that weekend, but I know that I rediscovered some of his work and often return to reread it as a way to sink into beauty and reminders of my own humanity.

Everything is Waiting for You

Your great mistake is to act the drama
as if you were alone. As if life
were a progressive and cunning crime
with no witness to the tiny hidden
transgressions. To feel abandoned is to deny
the intimacy of your surroundings. Surely,
even you, at times, have felt the grand array;
the swelling presence, and the chorus, crowding
out your solo voice You must note
the way the soap dish enables you,
or the window latch grants you freedom.
Alertness is the hidden discipline of familiarity.
The stairs are your mentor of things
to come, the doors have always been there
to frighten you and invite you,
and the tiny speaker in the phone
is your dream-ladder to divinity.

Put down the weight of your aloneness and ease into
the conversation. The kettle is singing
even as it pours you a drink, the cooking pots
have left their arrogant aloofness and
seen the good in you at last. All the birds
and creatures of the world are unutterably
themselves. Everything is waiting for you.

– David Whyte
from Everything is Waiting for You
©2003 Many Rivers Press

Poetry Monday: Forward I go…

I appreciate your patience over the spottiness the last few days. You guys are the best readers EVER.

Today, I will be sharing one of my favourite poems learned in elementary school, during a poetry section in Language Arts class. I had a yellow folder and this was one of the poems whose language was amazingly powerful and has stuck with me since then.

This is a teaser for tomorrow’s race update from Saturday’s half marathon.

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

William Ernest Henley

***

There is still time to sign up for the Tuesday night Guinea Pig Session! It will run Tuesday, October 16, 7:00 PM – 9:00 PM (eastern) SIGN ME UP!

Poetry Monday: My first introduction to poetry

Like most young children in America (I like to believe), I was first introduced to the beauty of words and poetry through the magical works of Shel Silverstein.

Enjoy some silliness, word play, and creativity this Monday morning!

(Link for embedded video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CNiaYHZme_U)

Poetry sharing: Diving into the Wreck by Adrienne Rich

 

This may become a regular thing. I think there is not nearly enough poetry shared in the world, and what better way to start a Monday than with some beauty?

Diving Into the Wreck
by Adrienne Rich

First having read the book of myths,
and loaded the camera,
and checked the edge of the knife-blade,
I put on
the body-armor of black rubber
the absurd flippers
the grave and awkward mask.
I am having to do this
not like Cousteau with his
assiduous team
aboard the sun-flooded schooner
but here alone.

There is a ladder.
The ladder is always there
hanging innocently
close to the side of the schooner.
We know what it is for,
we who have used it.
Otherwise
it is a piece of maritime floss
some sundry equipment.

I go down.
Rung after rung and still
the oxygen immerses me
the blue light
the clear atoms
of our human air.
I go down.
My flippers cripple me,
I crawl like an insect down the ladder
and there is no one
to tell me when the ocean
will begin.

First the air is blue and then
it is bluer and then green and then
black I am blacking out and yet
my mask is powerful
it pumps my blood with power
the sea is another story
the sea is not a question of power
I have to learn alone
to turn my body without force
in the deep element.

And now: it is easy to forget
what I came for
among so many who have always
lived here
swaying their crenellated fans
between the reefs
and besides
you breathe differently down here.

I came to explore the wreck.
The words are purposes.
The words are maps.
I came to see the damage that was done
and the treasures that prevail.
I stroke the beam of my lamp
slowly along the flank
of something more permanent
than fish or weed

the thing I came for:
the wreck and not the story of the wreck
the thing itself and not the myth
the drowned face always staring
toward the sun
the evidence of damage
worn by salt and sway into this threadbare beauty
the ribs of the disaster
curving their assertion
among the tentative haunters.

This is the place.
And I am here, the mermaid whose dark hair
streams black, the merman in his armored body.
We circle silently
about the wreck
we dive into the hold.
I am she: I am he

whose drowned face sleeps with open eyes
whose breasts still bear the stress
whose silver, copper, vermeil cargo lies
obscurely inside barrels
half-wedged and left to rot
we are the half-destroyed instruments
that once held to a course
the water-eaten log
the fouled compass

We are, I am, you are
by cowardice or courage
the one who find our way
back to this scene
carrying a knife, a camera
a book of myths
in which
our names do not appear.

You can find this poem (and a reading of it) over here at Poets.org.

Recommend me a poem. Please?

 

Poetry fuels the soul

I forget that poetry is potent, powerful. I forget the ways in which it reminds me to slow down. To be present to this beautiful world in ways that I don’t always remember. To breathe in the words of my writing lineage and feel the words of inspiration from others.

Today, as I’m feeling quiet, I want to share some poetry with you. It’s not my absolute hands-down favourite poem, but the second half of this poem has been cropping up in my brain recently.

The Summer Day

Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

from New and Selected Poems, 1992
Beacon Press, Boston, MA

What is poem may be resonating with you right now? What lyrics (songs or poetry) hum in your veins right now?

[Book Review]: The Invitation and The Dance by Oriah Mountain Dreamer

Okay, before you completely disregard this post due to the author’s name, stick with me a bit.

Oriah Mountain Dreamer is a coach, writer, and retreat leader. Her work and teaching often comes from Native American traditions. I value her viewpoint and feel that her books are easily approachable but not preachy in the sense of “This is what you should do” in specific ways. Her name was given to her as part of her studies/work with her spiritual teachers. Each book is based on a prose poem written by Mountain Dreamer and include multiple meditations to work with the topics included.

I’m posting this book review for two reasons. One, I’m trying to get better about reviewing books I read. Second, I think these two books fit with the overall ideals of this blog and think that you all might find value in them. They touch on some of the themes I write about here – practice, authentically and fully living one’s life. (All this said, not all books I read will be reviewed here. If you’re ever interested, feel free to find me on Good Reads.)

I first heard about The Invitation in 1999, shortly after the book came out. (I believe the poem came out earlier.) The poem that serves as the book’s foundation went viral (at least, as things could then). It spoke to where I was and how I wanted to live my life. While the entire thing still resonates, I think this stanza still is one that crops up for me most frequently:

It doesn’t interest me who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the center of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.

The book is a testament to living fully – to owning your own story and to trying to live from an authentic place. Rather than shy away from what is hard and what is not what we want others to see, she calls for us to live from our heart. I read this book back in 1999 and found that I would’ve underlined most of the same passages. Either the book holds up really well, or I’m dealing with some of the same stuff.

Probably both.

Anyway, I reread it because I wanted to read the follow up book, The Dance, as it popped up in Susannah Conway’s book, This I Know. There is also a poem that serves as the basis of that one. (There is a third one, called The Call, which I do not have and have not read. It’s on my list.)

The foundation of what the book explores is the following question:

What if the question is not why am I so infrequently the person I really want to be, but why do I so infrequently want to be the person I really am?

It’s an interesting twist (or not) to the Shambhala lineage’s understanding of basic goodness – that who we are is basically good, as in fundamentally.

There are more stories, included in this one and I found myself underlining large swathes of paragraphs, until I’d realize they were whole paragraphs and then just mark it with a star. :) Yes, that’s my reading style for you.

Over the next few weeks, I will be using pieces of the books as catalysts for some entries, as a lot is now percolating and I want to give the thoughts proper time to be digested and worked through. But, as practice is something that’s been coming up a bit, I leave you with this quote – her definition of practice.

A practice is a structured activity that offers us a way to consciously enter and be with sacred emptiness at the center of our being. It is by definition done on a regular, preferably daily, basis. The regularity is what makes it a practice. You do it whether you feel like it or not, and not feeling like it – resistance – seems to be a pretty universal human response to doing anything on a regular basis, at least in Western culture. The structure is what makes the regularity possible. It gives us a way – a method or an activity – with a shape that does not depend upon how we are feeling at the moment. (p. 177)

What do you think about her definition of practice? Does it fit with your experience?

Weekend Reads

My Google Reader feed is still showing 1000+ unread items. It feels a bit overwhelming. But, I’m slowly going through them, as I can’t bear the thought of potentially missing a gem of a post. The next few weeks of Weekend Reads might be kind of long. Just warning you!

Share your comments and your own great finds in the comments (or your own blog)! Just be sure to point me in that direction :)

Too Muchness and Other Things We’re Afraid to Claim
This post by Jen Lemen hit someplace that feels a bit vulnerable right now. I found myself really want to read this, but transitioning to skimming much of it, rather than reading. It’s definitely on a reread list.

All You Sweet and Delicate Flowers
A lovely post by Gena Radcliffe, recommended by M. Fenn in last week’s Weekend Reads comments. It’s Radcliffe’s take on feminism. I’ll leave it at that. :)

Play.
Janene at One Run at a Time was all about curiosity… which is a great big win in my book!

Poetry Wednesday: The tender gravity of kindness
Patti Digh over at 37 Days posted this beautiful poem by Naomi Shihab Nye (whom, if you’ve never read… do it, and do it soon). Also? There is an indigogo project going on for her family right now. They’re about $20,000 from the goal of $100,000. All proceeds will help pay medical bills for her husband, who has been diagnosed with kidney cancer. The family is uninsured.

Piecing Together Connie’s Sky
From A Human Thing, this is a beautiful response to a response, circling around truth, community, and impermanence. Read the post, and enjoy the lovely sky images.

Of Grain and Steel: A Look at the Secret Lives of Buildings
A lovely post (with beautiful pictures) from the blog, As I See It.

Start small, but start.
A great post by Patti Digh about practice, specifically self-care practice. Love the Martha Graham quote: “Practice means to perform, over and over again in the face of all obstacles, some act of vision, of faith, of desire. Practice is a means of inviting the perfection desired.”

QUIT: Caring About What Other Drivers on the Road Are Doing
The blog, Cordelia Calls It Quits, is just fantastic. It’s posts like this one that remind me why. This is a must read for anyone who get road rage. (Or, as she calls it, Road Rage Severe Irritation.)

What I Do
This was introduced to me from another blogger’s link list. And I am totally in love with the questions asked and am excited to delve more deeply into the post, and my own writing and journaling, about the topics.

Why Be Still?
A brief post on the importance of stillness – especially in community – from one of my favourite yoga teachers.

I Dare You to Chair Dance.
Another from Cordelia Calls It Quits. Oh, this is pure joy, partly because it’s totally me some days.

What Happens on Tour Stays on Tour
Susannah Conway talks a bit about her US book tour earlier this summer. What strikes me is how she talks about each event – and each participant – and the stories we tell.

Don’t Poke the Editor: Six Deadly Don’ts (and Dos) for Dealing with Editors
From Omnivoracious, the Amazon.com blog, a great list of things to, and NOT to, do when dealing with editors. For the record? The Writer’s Don’t Cry column is awesome, in general.

Being Clear…
A beautiful, heartfelt, raw, wholehearted response to a recent statement made by a Congress person.

Looking at Their Lives
A lovely picture and the quote about writers? What I want to cultivate here…

When Saturday Mornings Meant Something
Found this one through WordPress Freshly Pressed. This one is hysterical. As a child of the late 80s/early 90s, this one got a laugh and a raise of my glass of nostalgia.

Make a Big Decision on the Spot With This Trick
Oh, this came in another blogger’s link list just when I needed to read this. This blog may be getting added to my reader, too.

It Is Not Possible to Fail
An interesting look at failure and what (we think) it means.

The Role of Intuition in the Art of Creative Badassery
Looking at creativity, outlining, and Monty Python in a whole new way.