To read more about Wendell Berry, click on his name.
THE MEADOW
In the town’s graveyard the oldest plot now frees itself
of sorrow, the myrtle of the graves grown wild. The last
who knew the faces who had these names are dead,
and now the names fade, dumb on the stones, wild
as shadows in the grass, clear to the rabbit and the wren.
Ungrieved, the town’s ancestry fits the earth. They become
a meadow, their alien marble grown native as maple.
And here is another poem I would like to memorize. (I cannot get the indents to work!!! You’ll have to click on this link to see it in its original form.)
Who dares use the great Victorian poet, Gerard Manley Hopkins, as a model? You could keep it simple. Write a poem about dappled things, or about “gear and tackle and trim.” Write a poem about simple things.
Pied Beauty
Glory be to God for dappled things –
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced – fold, fallow, and plough;
And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.
All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.
Mary Cassatt, “Maternal Caress”
After an argument — over the phone, at dinner — with my youngest daughter (I am supposed to be on a getaway with my husband), I spent a sleepless night. This morning when writing in my journal didn’t resolve all my angst, I went on-line and looked up articles on how to fight fair with teenage daughters. Don’t try to oppose her growing up and finding her own identity. Don’t sweat the small stuff (hair, clothes). Be awake to the big stuff (drugs, alcohol, sex). Look for the win-win. Be responsible. Expect responsibility. Expect that your daughter will want to be with her friends rather than you; spend time with her anyway.
Then I looked for “I am” poems, and I found this. Somehow, it made me see some possibilities I hadn’t before. When I looked up the poet, Laura Kasischke, at the Poetry Foundation, I found this commentary:
“Kasischke’s poetry is noted for its intelligent, honest portrayal of domestic and familial life; its explosively accurate imagery and dense soundscapes; and its idiosyncratic use of narrative. According to Stephen Burt in the New York Times: ‘No poet has tried so hard to cut through suburban American illusion while respecting the lives, young and old, that it nurtures or saves. No poet has joined the chasm of ontological despair to the pathos of household frustration so well as Kasischke at her best.’”
The chasm of ontological despair IN household frustration!
Now that you’ve drafted (yesterday?) a list of I am lines, maybe this will give you an idea of where to go next.
I am the coward who did not pick up the phone
I am the coward who did not pick up the phone, so as never to know.
So many clocks and yardsticks dumped into an ocean.
I am the ox which drew the cart full of urgent messages straight into
the river, emerging none the wiser on the opposite side, never looking
back at all those floating envelopes and postcards, the wet ashes of
some loved one’s screams.
How was I to know?
I am the warrior who killed a sparrow with a cannon. I am the
guardian who led the child by the hand into the cloud, and emerged
holding only an empty glove. Oh —
the digital ringing of it. The string of a kite of it, which I let go of.
Oh, the commotion in the attic of it — in the front yard, in the back yard,
in the driveway — all of which I heard nothing of, because I am the
one who closed the windows and said, This has nothing to with us.
In fact, I am the one singing this so loudly I cannot hear you even now.
(Mama, what’s happening outside? Honey, is that the phone?)
I am the one who sings, The bones and shells of us.
The organic broth of us.
The zen gong of us.
Oblivious, oblivious, oblivious.
At church a few weeks ago, my pastor asked if anyone knew who Saint Hildegard of Bingen was. He then rattled through a few more saints, before landing on the object of his homily. But I wanted to stop with Hildegard, a name I hadn’t heard since graduate school. Then, this morning, looking through a book of poems by Rilke, I discovered this epigraph, attributed to her.
I am the one whose praise echoes on high.
I adorn all the earth.
I am the breeze that nurtures all things green.
I encourage blossoms to flourish with ripening fruits.
I am led by the spirit to feed the purest streams.
I am the rain coming from the dew
that causes the grasses to laugh with the joy of life.
I am the yearning for good.
This reminds me of Walt Whitman’s poem, “There Was a Child Went Forth” (“And the first object he look’d upon, that object he became”), though Hildegard was writing about God (as was Rilke, in his Book of Hours). You could use this poem as a prompt for an exercise personifying anything, including yourself. Just start your first line with I am…and add what you see, or love, or most appreciate…and keep going.
