Trying to Remember Something

I once drove 200 miles over bumpy back roads to get to the place where poet Naomi Shihab Nye was speaking, and it was worth every pothole. This was at Smith College some five or six years ago.That day she told those of us in her audience that everyone should all make time for the writing of poetry because doing so keeps a person  ‘in a very distinct relationship with language.’Her relationship with language seems so natural I sometimes feel like she’s standing right beside me when I read her. Take the poem “The Art of Disappearing”:

When they say Don't I know you?say no.When they invite you to the partyremember what parties are like before answering.Someone telling you in a loud voicethey once wrote a poem.Greasy sausage balls on a paper plate.Then reply.If they say We should get togethersay why?It's not that you don't love them anymore.You're trying to remember somethingtoo important to forget.Trees. The monastery bell at twilight.Tell them you have a new project.It will never be finished.When someone recognizes you in a grocery storenod briefly and become a cabbage.When someone you haven't seen in ten yearsappears at the door,don't start singing him all your new songs.You will never catch up.Walk around feeling like a leaf.Know you could tumble any second.Then decide what to do with your time.

I thought of this poem on waking today with the pressing jobs of the week all crowding in shouting “Pick ME first!”  “No, I’M the important one!” I really take to heart that line about thinking of yourself as a leaf and knowing you could tumble any second. I like that a lot.The poet told us that a young man once came up to her after a talk and said “Here’s my address, write me a poem.” And so she wrote him this one, called  "A Valentine for Ernest Mann":

You can’t order a poem like you order a taco.

Walk up to the counter, say, “I’ll take two”

and expect it to be handed back to you

on a shiny plate.

 

Still, I like your spirit.

Anyone who says, “Here’s my address,

write me a poem,” deserves something in reply.

So I’ll tell a secret instead:

poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes,

they are sleeping. They are the shadows

drifting across our ceilings the moment 

before we wake up. What we have to do

is live in a way that lets us find them.

 

Once I knew a man who gave his wife

two skunks for a valentine.

He couldn’t understand why she was crying.

“I thought they had such beautiful eyes.”

And he was serious. He was a serious man

who lived in a serious way. Nothing was ugly

just because the world said so. He really

liked those skunks. So, he re-invented them

as valentines and they became beautiful.

At least, to him. And the poems that had been hiding

in the eyes of skunks for centuries 

crawled out and curled up at his feet.

 

Maybe if we re-invent whatever our lives give us, we find poems. Check your garage, the off sock in your drawer, the person you almost like, but not quite.

And let me know.

Maybe if we re-invent whatever our lives give us we'll find peace of mind too. Peace of mind and maybe even poems. I’m all for trying to do that.https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aZX7ZJ0wzCQ  

As True in May as it Was in April

I once drove 200 miles over bumpy back roads to get to the place Naomi Shihab Nye was speaking and it was worth every pothole. That day she told her audience that we should all make time for the writing of poetry because doing so would keep us in a very distinct relationship with language. Her  own relationship with language seems so natural I sometimes feel like she's standing right beside me when I read her. Take the poem “The Art of Disappearing,” which I distort slightly by quoting only in part and  as if were prose:“When they say 'Don’t I know you?' Say No…   If they say 'We should get together' say Why?.. It’s not that you don’t love them anymore. You’re trying to remember something too important to forget. Trees. The Monastery bell at twilight. Tell them you have a new project. It will never be finished… Walk around feeling like a leaf. Know you can tumble at any second. Then decide what to do with your time.”I sure hear that, waking today in this perplexing weather, torrents in Tennessee and Mississippi and hot and muggy here in the precincts north of Boston, even at 6am, not at all like our typical early May morning which is  normally moist, sure but as as cool as a corsage. As for our time it sure is limited, though only the real truth-tellers dare say so. It's kind of a forbidden topic in the perpetual adolescence of this age-denying culture.Nye says a  a young man once said to her, “Here’s my address, write me a poem.” And she responded this way:

Once I knew a man who gave his wifetwo skunks for a valentine.He couldn’t understand why she was crying.“I thought they had such beautiful eyes.”And he was serious. He was a serious manwho lived in a serious way. Nothing was uglyjust because the world said so. He reallyliked those skunks. So, he re-invented themas valentines and they became beautiful.At least, to him. And the poems that had been hidingin the eyes of skunks for centuriescrawled out and curled up at his feet.Maybe if we re-invent whatever our lives give uswe find poems.

In the name of National Poetry Month just past I'd sure like to try doing that. And wait, is that a passing train I hear? Or is it the monastery bell?  I'm feeling more like a leaf every second  here.....muggy May morning in the precincts North of Boston