Poetry Pantry #445

The Himalayas in Nepal

from The Beauty of Planet Earth

What a beautiful world we live in! We hope you are enjoying a wonderful, sunny weekend. It has been another great week at Poets United. On Friday, Rosemary posted a hilarious poem about television and children, by Roald Dahl, in her The Living Dead series. Scroll back, if you would like a chuckle.

This Monday, we are featuring one of our very first members at Poets United, in 2010: Carrie Van Horn. Do stop by, as Carrie shares her beautiful poems, and tells us about a challenging event, and a heartbreaking loss, that took place in her life this past year. 

On Wednesday, Susan's prompt at Midweek Motif will be: Writing Poetry, a topic we poets seem to enjoy discussing.  I'm looking forward to the responses.

For now, top up your coffee, and pull your chairs in close. Let's see what goodies await in the Pantry! We are so happy to see you! We wouldn't be here without you!

The Living Dead

~ Honouring our poetic ancestors ~

Television

The most important thing we've learned,
So far as children are concerned,
Is never, NEVER, NEVER let
Them near your television set --
Or better still, just don't install
The idiotic thing at all.
In almost every house we've been,
We've watched them gaping at the screen.
They loll and slop and lounge about,
And stare until their eyes pop out.
(Last week in someone's place we saw
A dozen eyeballs on the floor.)
They sit and stare and stare and sit
Until they're hypnotised by it,
Until they're absolutely drunk
With all that shocking ghastly junk.
Oh yes, we know it keeps them still,
They don't climb out the window sill,
They never fight or kick or punch,
They leave you free to cook the lunch
And wash the dishes in the sink --
But did you ever stop to think,
To wonder just exactly what
This does to your beloved tot?
IT ROTS THE SENSE IN THE HEAD!
IT KILLS IMAGINATION DEAD!
IT CLOGS AND CLUTTERS UP THE MIND!
IT MAKES A CHILD SO DULL AND BLIND
HE CAN NO LONGER UNDERSTAND
A FANTASY, A FAIRYLAND!
HIS BRAIN BECOMES AS SOFT AS CHEESE!
HIS POWERS OF THINKING RUST AND FREEZE!
HE CANNOT THINK -- HE ONLY SEES!
'All right!' you'll cry. 'All right!' you'll say,
'But if we take the set away,
What shall we do to entertain
Our darling children? Please explain!'
We'll answer this by asking you,
'What used the darling ones to do?
'How used they keep themselves contented
Before this monster was invented?'
Have you forgotten? Don't you know?
We'll say it very loud and slow:
THEY ... USED ... TO ... READ! They'd READ and READ,
AND READ and READ, and then proceed
To READ some more. Great Scott! Gadzooks!
One half their lives was reading books!
The nursery shelves held books galore!
Books cluttered up the nursery floor!
And in the bedroom, by the bed,
More books were waiting to be read!
Such wondrous, fine, fantastic tales
Of dragons, gypsies, queens, and whales
And treasure isles, and distant shores
Where smugglers rowed with muffled oars,
And pirates wearing purple pants,
And sailing ships and elephants,
And cannibals crouching 'round the pot,
Stirring away at something hot.
(It smells so good, what can it be?
Good gracious, it's Penelope.)
The younger ones had Beatrix Potter
With Mr. Tod, the dirty rotter,
And Squirrel Nutkin, Pigling Bland,
And Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle and-
Just How The Camel Got His Hump,
And How the Monkey Lost His Rump,
And Mr. Toad, and bless my soul,
There's Mr. Rat and Mr. Mole-
Oh, books, what books they used to know,
Those children living long ago!
So please, oh please, we beg, we pray,
Go throw your TV set away,
And in its place you can install
A lovely bookshelf on the wall.
Then fill the shelves with lots of books,
Ignoring all the dirty looks,
The screams and yells, the bites and kicks,
And children hitting you with sticks-
Fear not, because we promise you
That, in about a week or two
Of having nothing else to do,
They'll now begin to feel the need
Of having something to read.
And once they start -- oh boy, oh boy!
You watch the slowly growing joy
That fills their hearts. They'll grow so keen
They'll wonder what they'd ever seen
In that ridiculous machine,
That nauseating, foul, unclean,
Repulsive television screen!
And later, each and every kid
Will love you more for what you did. 

– Roald Dahl (1916-1990)

I came across this gem and thought we were due to have some fun. Mind you, I think Dahl was perfectly serious in his message; the fun is in the way he says it.

I don't know how justified he was in his fears. It seems to be agreed that excessive viewing is bad for children in various ways, particularly very young children. Whether it stops them from reading is open to question. 

I'm old enough to recall that when we first got television there were dire warnings to that effect. Perhaps this poem was written in that era. As things have turned out, it depends very much on the amount and kind of viewing any child does. Some TV shows actually create a wish to read, e.g. documentaries which inspire further exploration, or shows based on works of fiction which make some of us want to read the books. 

However I don't want to start a serious argument here. Whatever we think about TV, I'm sure poets are all very much in favour of reading!  Personally I'm not planning to give up either. Mainly I just thought it would be good to have a laugh, and to remember that poetry can be comical.

Roald Dahl, of course, was a prolific writer and best-selling author, probably best known for his children's stories. Wikipedia describes him as 'a British novelist, short story writer, poet, screenwriter, and fighter pilot' and adds that 'His books have sold more than 250 million copies worldwide.'

His writing, often humorous, has been described as 'darkly comic' and unsentimental. His children's stories include the well-known Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, James and the Giant Peach and Matilda, which have translated well to stage and screen. There are eight pages of books still available at his Amazon profile, including some Kindle editions.

I hope you enjoyed his anti-TV diatribe.

Material shared in 'The Living Dead' is presented for study and review. Poems, photos and other writings and images remain the property of the copyright owners, where applicable (older poems may be out of copyright). The photo of a young Roald Dahl 'is from the Carl Van Vechten Photographs collection at the Library of Congress. According to the library, there are no known copyright restrictions on the use of this work.'

Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Solitude

“The cure for loneliness is solitude”— Marianne Moore

SOURCE

“There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,

There is a rapture on the lonely shore,

There is a society, where none intrudes,

By the deep sea, and music in its roar;

I love not man the less, but Nature more”— Lord Byron

     Midweek Motif ~ Solitude

We all have an inner space within us to house our own thoughts, feelings. It’s wonderful to be lost there; to be alone; to find the ‘self’ and the ‘bliss of solitude’.

Solitude is an essential human need to replenish the soul. It does clear the weary mind of the clutter and gives élan to your existence.

No wonder poets and artists often choose to be solitary.

Our Motif today is Solitude:

Winter Solitude

by Matsuo Basho

Winter solitude--
in a world of one color
the sound of wind.

(Translated by Robert Hass) 

The Solitude of Night

by Li Po

It was at a wine party—

I lay in a drowse, knowing it not.

The blown flowers fell and filled my lap.

When I arose, still drunken,

The birds had all gone to their nests,

And there remained but few of my comrades.

I went along the river—alone in the moonlight.

   (Translated by Shigeyoshi Obata)

Solitude

by Harold Monro

WHEN you have tidied all things for the night,
And while your thoughts are fading to their sleep,
You'll pause a moment in the late firelight,
Too sorrowful to weep.

The large and gentle furniture has stood
In sympathetic silence all the day
With that old kindness of domestic wood;
Nevertheless the haunted room will say:
'Someone must be away.'

The little dog rolls over half awake,
Stretches his paws, yawns, looking up at you,
Wags his tail very slightly for your sake,
That you may feel he is unhappy too.

A distant engine whistles, or the floor
Creaks, or the wandering night-wind bangs a door

Silence is scattered like a broken glass.
The minutes prick their ears and run about,
Then one by one subside again and pass
Sedately in, monotonously out.

You bend your head and wipe away a tear.
Solitude walks one heavy step more near. 

Please share your new poem using Mr. Linky below and visit others in the spirit of the community—

                (Next week Susan’s Midweek Motif will be ~ Writing Poetry)

Poems of the Week ~ Three Poets on Poetry

Today we are sharing poems about poetry, written by Sanaa, Rajani and Sumana. Pour yourself a cup of tea, draw your chairs up close, and let's contemplate why we find playing with words so fascinating. I can't imagine what people do with their time, if they don't write!

POEM HOLDING ITS HEART IN ONE FIST*

And sometimes it’s better to counsel with our hearts
alone. 

I have found that pink buds are perfect within
and destined to open.
Perhaps it’s the inclusion of personal pronouns 
in daily life– 
of singular I, me
and plural we, us.
A few more days of warmth and it would bloom
one need only be patient.

Even cherries as luscious as lips bear secrets,
no matter how swift we wish to extract 
its nectar 
ease out carefully using a chopstick 
and the pit should fall through into the bottle.

As soon bathe in eucalyptus mineral bath salt
let go of the past 
it’s searing worries and pain augmented 
there are few things in this world that are better left
unsaid.

Yet, twilight disappeared over the horizon
the last vestiges of gutsy purple
robbing me of what little courage I had left 
I stand with my soul stripped for the perusal of night.

This poem after several years of growing up
and wisdom
shall laugh and ponder upon with unrestrained tears
cherishing every moment.

*A tribute response to Jane Hirsfield’s poem, 
“Poem Holding Its Heart In One Fist.”

 Sherry: This is a beautiful poem, Sanaa.

Sanaa: Sigh.. I remember this poem as if it was written yesterday. It was in response to Kerry's Challenge: Instructions for Living a Life ~ A Tribute to Poets of Our Time at Imaginary Garden with real toads. 

"Poem Holding Its Heart In One Fist," was inspired by JaneHirsfield's poem of the same name and is a glimpse of my subconscious. It's everything I believe about writing poetry and maturing as a person with time. 

These are lonely times we are living in, Sherry. An era where sorrow cannot name its friend. I personally feel that social media is somewhat responsible in disintegrating several aspects of life. People nowadays (especially the youth)  have no sense of regard for personal interaction other than spending a ludicrous amount of time chatting on the internet. Moreover, it's a rare thing if a person enjoys a simple meal at the dining table without being immersed in a smartphone.

Keeping that in mind I associate blooming of pink buds and personal growth with warmth and attention. One need only possess a kind heart and the rest is assured. 

As the poem progresses the words and their accompanying emotions become more personal, as I seek to explore my innermost feelings regarding growing up and life. There are moments of reflection and vulnerability, hence the reference to "soul stripped for the perusal of night."

Why do we write poetry? There are many answers to this question. But I, as a person who is young and has yet a lot to experience, believe that poetry is equivalent to therapy and healing. We write because we can no longer hold the words inside. I know for a fact that I will cherish and laugh heartily at my work ten years later. I will whisper in my heart; "every poem that you wrote blazed your path and instilled your faith in life which in turn just keeps getting better and better."

Sherry: So true, "we write because we can no longer hold the words inside." And our poems chart our path, for sure. Thank you, Sanaa.

Let's see what Sumana has to say about poets and the art of poetry.

THE POET HAS GONE

It’s comfortably cold here-
Winter birds have all come-
The pond is full
With water, tree-shadows and fish-
The blue sky seems dreamy,
So are the night stars-
Things of beauty,
Scattered everywhere
Like a Mary Oliver page-
Yet there’s an uncanny calm-
Where’s the ecstasy gone
With the “luminous fruits”,
“emerald eddies”, “lean owls”
“egrets”, “daisies” and all……
When I close my eyes
I see ‘red’
What’s burning, methinks-
A fire in a forest in a faraway land
Or a heart?
An ear of mine catches a note-
Is it a dirge in the woods?
May be-
A poet is gone-


*Words in inverted commas are from Mary Oliver’s Poems


Sherry: Sigh. Nature's beauty, spilling down the page. I love this, Sumana.

Sumana: Mary Oliver was one poet who asked us to be astonished, to stay amazed about life. She writes, in her poem “When Death Comes,” “I want to say all my life / I was a bride married to amazement”.  A nature lover, she has opened our eyes to the immensity of our surroundings. She helps us see the hidden pattern of the world in her simple language. Her critics sneered at her ‘simplistic’, ‘plain’ language and 'easy accessibility' to her poems by one and all. But she stuck to her own beautiful style and enriched poetry. When such a person dies the world seems bereft of beauty. My immediate reaction was an immense sadness. This little poem of mine is a kind of homage to this poet seer. I tried to include as many of her own words from her poems I could to embellish my own poem.

Sherry: It is a beautiful homage, Sumana. Mary Oliver's words will stand, long after the voices of her critics have been silenced. Thank you for this gorgeous poem.

I knew when Rajani penned the following poem that I must share it. Let's read.

JUST MATH

Even Rumi, who could fit the entire
universe inside his poem, was yearning
for the grace of the Beloved. The universe
is not enough. It cannot love us the way
we want love. Its miracles are just math.
What would language do, or poems, if
the poet did not suffer the anguish of
loving a sunset? The sky just is. The poem
reaches out to touch your cheek. The
words wipe your tears. The poet burns
in the orange light until he becomes the
darkness. The Beloved holds back the
wine. Love is only an empty tavern, the
sun has been extinguished and the stars
in the window will be gone by morning.

Sherry: Such a beautiful poem, Rajani! A poet does feel "the anguish of loving a sunset" and, through her words, the reader feels that ache too. I love that the poem dries our tears. 

Rajani: Thanks so much for featuring my poem, Sherry.  I wrote about 40 poems in what I called the “Universe Series”  around December-January. This was one of them.  They are all centred around the relationship of the individual with the universe– existential, spiritual or arbitrary. Rumi is probably more metaphor here than actual reference, but I’m not sure how the poem actually came about. I wasn’t really planning each poem, just going with the flow. I’ve posted a few poems on my blog and on Instagram but have no idea what to do with the rest!

Sherry:  We are very happy to be reading your work, Rajani. Thank you for this very wonderful poem. I love thinking of the poet burning in an orange light. 

Thank you, poet friends, for your wonderful words. We appreciate them very much.

We hope you enjoyed this feature, my friends. Do come back and see who we talk to next. Who knows? It might be you!

Poetry Pantry #444

Happy Sunday, fellow poets. We hope you're doing well.  I wanted to share with you the heartbreaking sweetness, hope and love of these Syrian children, singing, and still dreaming,  in their war-demolished country. For them, we wish a world of justice and peace.

On Friday, we featured Canadian poet activist Rita Wong, who is working hard to protect the Peace River valley, in northern B.C., under threat from the controversial Site C dam project. She is a wonderful poet; her poem about Site C is very stirring. She even stopped by and left us a comment!

Tomorrow we are featuring Poems of the Week by three of our most faithful members. And on Wednesday Sumana's prompt will be Solitude, which should bring some wonderful responses.

For now, with the last notes of these beautiful children's song echoing in our hearts, let's share some poetry and dream they may live into the tomorrow they deserve.

I WISH I'D WRITTEN THIS

Rita Wong

In protecting the Peace

Named for where the Cree and Dane-zaa ended their war
Where medicines and food grow
Where forests and farmlands are our best hope for a future
Where women like Helen Knott stand with her ancestors
Where we have the opportunity to stand with her,
                                                       even to sing together
Where the wise ones are dancing with decolonization

Conciliation is an invitation
For settlers to understand that the electricity we use 
in Vancouver
Comes from the sacrifices of the TseKehNay
Whose homes were destroyed so we could turn on the lights
An invitation
For settlers and unsettlers to understand what it means to be
a good neighbour, a better guest
For settlers and unsettlers to give back to the land
To have the opportunity for reciprocity
For dignity, for human care
For a better future than the history that haunts us

If there is an art to reconciliation
It will appear in voluntary simplicity, getting back to basics
Like earning trust through loving the river; loving the land
If there is an art to reconciliation
It will be when governments understand that
Violence on the land
Is violence on our bodies
When we all stand with Indigenous communities
                                        to end environmental

Violence
When people from all four directions come together
                                             for landbodydefense
When we understand how precious and priceless
                                      clean air and water are
When we understand what cannot be bought is what matters
May conciliation
Help us to see
Our lives as walking (prayer)
Camping (prayer)
Last ditch (prayer)
For with the flick of a light switch
                                       we see
The Peace River’s fate
                     is ours

The Peace - source

"To understand what it means to be a better guest." I so wish I had written this poem, but could not have aspired to such heights. It is so powerful in its truth, and its reminder that we are guests here - on traditional territory, and on Mother Earth. 

In northern B.C., and at rallies throughout the province, indigenous people and environmentalist allies are protesting the proposed flooding of Site C in the Peace River area for a controversial hydroelectric project that makes no economic or environmental sense. Over the opposition of a majority of B.C. voters, the powers-that-be are blindly determined to go ahead with it. (First Nations, the B.C. government and B.C. Hydro were in B.C. Supreme Court on February 28 to set a trial date of March 2022. Thus, a ruling will come before the proposed flooding of the dam reservoir area in 2023. The Peace may yet be saved.)

Rita Wong is a Canadian poet/activist, whose work reflects her concern about social and environmental issues. She grew up in Calgary, Alberta, and her first poem was published in the Calgary Sun when she was in grade five. Ms Wong says songs were important to her in her teens, and she studied song lyrics. She was an avid reader as well. Both activities likely led to her journey as a poet.

Ms Wong says a poet’s job is “to be curious, pay attention to the world around you and your feelings, and share what you feel, love and question. This includes speaking truth to power.”

Ms Wong has five previous books of poetry out: sybil unrest, forage, undercurrent, perpetual, and monkeypuzzle.  She has won the Asian Canadian Writers Workshop Emerging Writer award, and the Dorothy Livesay Poetry prize.

source

  

A notable poem, and Ms Wong's sixth book, (with Fred Wah), is “Beholden: A Poem as Long as the River”, a two-line inter-disciplinary image-poem that  flows along a 114-foot map of the Columbia River. The book is stunning, its concept inspired. The poem winds along the curves of the drawn map of the river, reflecting Ms Wong and fellow poet Fred Wah’s concern about the consequences of the hydroelectric manipulation of one of Canada’s largest river systems, which would devastate that northern area, and the lives of all beings who live there.

(Interestingly, today is World Water Day, perfect for contemplation of the life of rivers and all fresh-water sources. Water is life.)

Ms Wong now lives in Vancouver, B.C. She is an associate professor in critical and cultural studies at the Emily Carr University of Art and Design.

I so admire a poet who uses her platform to address social and environmental issues. This poet is one newly introduced to me, and one whose work I will follow with interest and admiration.

Sources: Poetry In Voice

Material shared in 'I Wish I'd Written This' is presented for study and review. Poems, photos and other writings remain the property of the copyright owners, usually their authors

Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Empowerment

“Don't be satisfied with stories, how things have gone with others. 
Unfold your own myth.” 

― Rumi

"Give a man a fish you feed him for a day, 
teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime."
 source

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be?”

― Marianne Williamson, "A Course in Miracles"

From Wikipedia:  

"The term empowerment refers to measures designed to increase the degree of autonomy and self-determination in people and in communities in order to enable them to represent their interests in a responsible and self-determined way, acting on their own authority. It is the process of becoming stronger and more confident, especially in controlling one's life and claiming one's rights. Empowerment as action refers both to the process of self-empowerment and to professional support of people, which enables them to overcome their sense of powerlessness and lack of influence, and to recognize and use their resources.  

"To do work with power."

Source

Midweek Motif ~  Empowerment

I developed this empowerment motif because it's women's history month. While researching it, I discovered that most places in the world have initiatives for the empowerment of social groups such as people of color, youth, women, gender and sexual diversities, and the aging, the disabled, etc. Empowerment is also a huge goal for individuals. Of course, initiatives exist because of ongoing dis-empowerment.  We seek solutions.

Source  
(Forgive me for using this without permission.)

At what are you empowered?  

What has contributed most to your empowerment?  

Where would you like to see more (or less) empowerment?

Your Challenge:  Write a new and strong empowerment poem. (Though I focus on women below, you need not focus on women in your poem.)

won't you celebrate with me

BY LUCILLE CLIFTON

Won't you celebrate with me

what i have shaped into

a kind of life? i had no model.

born in babylon

both nonwhite and woman

what did i see to be except myself?

i made it up

here on this bridge between

starshine and clay,

my one hand holding tight

my other hand; come celebrate

with me that everyday

something has tried to kill me

and has failed.

They shut me up in Prose – (445)

BY EMILY DICKINSON

They shut me up in Prose –

As when a little Girl

They put me in the Closet –

Because they liked me “still”   –

Still! Could themself have peeped –

And seen my Brain – go round –

They might as wise have lodged a Bird

For Treason – in the Pound –

Himself has but to will

And easy as a Star

Look down upon Captivity –

And laugh – No more have I –

Phenomenal Woman

BY MAYA ANGELOU

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.

I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size   

But when I start to tell them,

They think I’m telling lies.

I say,

It’s in the reach of my arms,

The span of my hips,   

The stride of my step,   

The curl of my lips.   

I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,   

That’s me.

I walk into a room

Just as cool as you please,   

And to a man,

The fellows stand or

Fall down on their knees.   

Then they swarm around me,

A hive of honey bees.   

I say,

It’s the fire in my eyes,   

And the flash of my teeth,   

The swing in my waist,   

And the joy in my feet.   

I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That’s me.

Men themselves have wondered   

What they see in me.

They try so much

But they can’t touch

My inner mystery.

When I try to show them,   

They say they still can’t see.   

I say,

It’s in the arch of my back,   

The sun of my smile,

The ride of my breasts,

The grace of my style.

I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That’s me.

Now you understand

Just why my head’s not bowed.   

I don’t shout or jump about

Or have to talk real loud.   

When you see me passing,

It ought to make you proud.

I say,

It’s in the click of my heels,   

The bend of my hair,   

the palm of my hand,   

The need for my care.   

’Cause I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That’s me.
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Please share your new poem using Mr. Linky below and visit others in the spirit of the community—

(Next week Sumana’s Midweek Motif will be ~ Solitude.)

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