poetry

Remembering to Fall a Little Bit in Love Today

| Betsy

there is a river

The book was on my coffeetable because I was using it to hold up my iPad so I could watch a CreativeLive video. The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry. I hadn’t flipped through it in years, this book that was given to me by someone at the press, because that’s what happens when you know people in the book trade, you get books. (And it’s awesome.)

I flipped through the table of contents and the whole giant tome looking for something to grab me for just a minute. Something to tussle me awake from wondering about the future. And how human it is. So human that we don’t admit it for fear of seeming normal, not the unique snowflake-like butterflies that we all think we just might be… when in reality it is internalizing and digesting this fact that gives us depth and space to grow.

And for a second I fell in love with a Hettie Jones poem, the more beautiful than beautiful poem, Words:

Words

are keys
or stanchions
or stones

I give you my word
You pocket it
and keep the change

Here is a word on
the tip of my tongue: love

I hold it close
though it dreams of leaving.

I sat with it and remembered how when I was at college, in a 2-year program run by hippies in a dorm basement and we had classes like “Jack Kerouac and the Beats,” instead of “English Literature 101,” I wanted to be a poet. When I thought that running away from life, in its varying incarnations, was actually living life. When being like Hunter S. Thompson seemed cool instead of hollow and empty. When I took the wrong lessons from the Beats instead of heeding the right one, which was to fall a little in love each day.

And I flipped some more and came across There is a River by S.A. Griffin:

There is a cheerful ignorance
a chance meeting and
luck like gold that cannot be
mined or
stolen

a common atom

a dance

and stars that trick the
water with their
certain
magic

do not wash your wars in it
take your holy rituals to the
precious fountains built by your
agencies of fear

press your
wine from the fallout
and drink your
bitter victory

for yes

there is a river
a giving river that will
sing you safely

a river of
light

final
fast
and free

where you can
disrobe
and leave your casual sadness
walking sideways at the
shore

meet me there
whoever you are
and we will agree to
swim it
together

And along with the photo above in Instagram I wrote, “Oh, nothing, just falling a little in love with this poem (this is just the scrumptious beginning) by S.A. Griffin, revisiting my deep dark roots, when I was convinced I would be a poet and drink wine from the bottle at readings like the Beats and go on road trips where we would always stop to look at the stars every night, just because we could and they were beautiful. Re-remembering what it feels like to fall a little in love with something new every day. Recalling that tingle in my toes and half smile on my face, which feels both delicious and delightful(l). Have you fallen a little in love yet today? ❤️

And then realized that falling a little bit in love with something each day is my future. Taking the time to sit and feel how gorgeous it feels to have your breath be taken from you when you have a moment or a conversation or a feeling that seems almost too exquisite to exist. And that is my job, my purpose, my everything. And yours, too.

Maybe it’s a button you find on the ground, or the way someone you love exhales, or the effortless flight of a tiny bird from tree to tree. It’s to stop and notice that this, this is living. Noticing. Feeling. Digesting. So, I hope that you fall a little bit in love today and have the presence to notice that you’re falling. That this moment, this thing is happening. And that you continue to feel this and “hold it close” like Hettie says, “though it dreams of leaving.”

That you have moments that “cannot be mined or stolen” because they are yours alone to take and transform into new and better and braver moments. Because “there is a river / a giving river that will” show up if you just remember to let it.

War and Knitting. In Verse.

| Betsy

Many of you who know about knitting for soldiers overseas during the World Wars have seen the poster below. Cool, but nothing new. But about a poem about knitting for war? The poem below is by “The People’s Poet” Edgar Guest, published in 1918.

To a Lady Knitting
Little woman, hourly sitting,
Something for a soldier knitting,
What in fancy can you see?
Many pictured come to me
Through the stitch that now you’re making:
I behold a bullet breaking;
I can see some soldier lying
In that garment slowly dying,
And that very bit of thread
In your fingers, turns to red.
Gray to-day; perhaps to-morrow
Crimsoned by the blood of sorrow.

It may be some hero daring
Shall that very thing be wearing
When he ventures forth to give
Life that other men may live.
He may braver wield the saber
As a tribute to your labor
And for that, which you have knitted,
Better for his task be fitted.
When the thread has left your finger,
Something of yourself my linger,
Something of your lovely beauty
May sustain him in his duty.

Some one’s boy that was a baby
Soon shall wear it, and it may be
He will write and tell his mother
Of the kindness of another,
And her spirit shall caress you,
And her prayers at night shall bless you.
You may never know its story,
Cannot know the grief or glory
That are destined now and hover
Over him your wool shall cover,
Nor what spirit shall invade it
Once your gentle hands have made it.

Little woman, hourly sitting,
Something for a soldier knitting,
‘Tis no common garb you’re making,
These, no common pains you’re taking.
Something lovely, holy, lingers
O’er the needles in your fingers
And with every stitch you’re weaving
Something of yourself you’re leaving.
From your gentle hands and tender
There may come a nation’s splendor,
And from this, your simple duty,
Life may win a fairer beauty.

Also, check out this awesome article about green knitting!

Why “60 Yard Pass” Lives on my Desktop

| Betsy

A long time ago, my always intrepid friend Muffy Bolding wrote her favorite poem was “60 Yard Pass,” by Charles Bukowski. Bukowski not being one of my favorite poets, I was at the time, unfamiliar with his work.

Ever since then, “60 Yard Pass,” has been on a desktop sticky just within a second’s reach. Today I came across it after not reading it for awhile… Given the new year, found it especially poignant. Perhaps this poem is just the medicine you need today, too.

It reminded me of the astounding feats, adventures, failures, confusion, joy we all face. How we all carry them stoically and hold them inside. How we all house so many stories within us. How we walk around town as a container of our defeats and triumphs, silently hoping someone would ask us to share.

60 yard pass
by Charles Bukowski

most people don’t do very well and I get discouraged with
their existence, it’s such a waste:
all those bodies, all those lives
malfunctioning: lousy quarterbacks, bad waitresses,
in-competent carwash boys and presidents,
cowardly goal-keepers inept garage mechanics
bumbling tax accountants
and so forth

yet

now and then

I see a single performer doing something with a
natural excellence

it can be
a waitress in some cheap cafe or a 3rd string
quarterback
coming off the bench with 24 seconds on the clock
and completing that winning
60 yard pass

which lets me believe that
the possibility of the miracle is here with us
almost every day

and I’m glad that now and then
some 3rd string quarterback
shows me the truth of that belief
whether it be in science, art, philosophy,
medicine, politics, and/or etc.

else I’d shoot all the lights out of
this fucking city
right now

Projects and Poems.

| Betsy

Okay, just one poem. A poem that was mentioned an another project, The Creative Life, which I started with Kim Werker, to explore, well, the creative life. It came via a recommended link* posted in a comment by Carol Browne. Carol’s comment was in response to my post about how the creative life, to me, means more than worrying about if others post more than me or comment more than me or what have you. Living a creative life means reminding yourself that life is meant to be lived and that if you don’t live it, how can you write about it? Quality will forever mean more to me than quantity, even though current technology begs to differ. Stopping to really see the sunset is always more beautiful than constantly moving around to get the best shot. Thanks for reminding me of that, Carol.

The poem below is “Desiderata” written by Max Ehrmann in 1927.


Desiderata

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.

*Clicking this link will take you to a very lovely photo of a very lovely tattoo someone had done of the first line of this poem. It’s copyrighted. So, you have to click on through… it’s worth it.