The yard is all shadowed this morning, the overcast is marked by huge territories of white cloud, undifferentiated and fading the blue out until it's hard to say where one leaves off. There is wind, more than I first thought, the cane ripples with it but not enough to make the heavier canes dance, just a lot of movement of the long leaves. The white stalks that are now more than half green begin to blend with the older ones, just lightening up the whole mass of it for awhile. Cut down several days ago, already there are shoots a foot tall, and I can hear them whispering "Nanny, nanny, boo, boo" to my husband as he leaves this morning for the shooting range. He ignores them.
It's quiet out this morning, only the wind making music, an ocean of air, restless and full of itself, seems the birds are otherwise occupied. Even the cat is not in evidence, nor the dog, and it's a little late for school buses or people leaving for work. With no one but me home, it will be an odd morning, perhaps too quiet, except for the wind, and the lawnmowers, and the jets, and the leaf blowers. All right . . . not so quiet after all <smile>.
This poem was one of the ones that Poets.org had on their Tumblr blog for poetry month, last month. I saved it because it talked about being called a poet in the first line. I think how many years I wrote before I would even use that word, and how still, after many more years, it feels odd, like a stranger's coat you mistakenly put on leaving some important function, a coat much fancier and more expensive, in a style more lofty and chic than any you own. Somehow it's just not comfortable, it says things that don't seem to apply to me, an ordinary "nearly old" woman sitting in a middle class house, surrounded by a daily life that seems far removed from the academic, or the rarified atmosphere of . . . poetry. Yet, after almost 35 years what the work means to me is a big part of my life, the shape of who I have become, the voice of things I want to remember, things I want to say. And here is a poem that says something about that, that seems to know how so many memories and ideas can come together to be written down in ordinary ways to hold on to things both ordinary and not.
Who even said I was a poet. Because I write
this down. I want bullet-like speed and precision
to show that this mind connects in ways of delight, and
also says truth way beyond the individual voice.
Thus I speak from the holy story, the ordinary story.
Thus I am married to the household gods, thus I aspire
to be the consort of heaven. Thus I am sad when the earth
is from me. We sleep together again. In no way will I
part from this union. And the sky who is my father
opens the world of the golden kingdom.
Even if I repeat what others say,
it becomes mine.
The famous Utah mountains embroidered in gold, russet
& pink.
LET YOURSELF GO.
One thinks ‘the obvious’. You say it sounds so obvious.
I wanted to do something I called writing.
I think you have done it
It’s finished now.
It’s a new map
in a delicate space
For what once was growing there.
Joanne Kyger
It's a new map in a delicate space . . . a new map. Perhaps that is what poetry means to me, a new map, a map is not the territory, but it can help you find your way through it. It can point out landmarks, and rivers, towns full of people, and long stretches of empty road, it can recall old places and bring you to new ones. I, too, am married to household gods, the ones I understand, the ones that understand the daily life, food, and home, and love, and maybe me. I want to do something called writing, the only difference is I am not done yet, my holy story, or my ordinary story continues, and so does the writing of it.
This post speaks to me today. Thank you.
ReplyDeleteThanks . . . it's the writing that is important, saving things, noticing them keeps the writing going, but being noticed helps too!
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