It’s a dreaded procedure, and mostly age related. As inelegant as it may be, it has saved lives. I shouldn’t complain, having the privilege to undergo such an examination.
This conversation has been moved
This colon has been drained
This hot little poem is making its rounds
a parasite, a sycophant,
in the gurgling, muddy mind.
The young woman sang some English pieces at her graduate voice recital. When it came to her selection of German lieder she gave an introduction, “I have no idea what these songs are about.”
Dore, who is a music DJ, says when he auditions a CD, the music comes first and foremost. With music coming from all over the world, it is nearly impossible to know the meaning of each song that he favors, even when the lyrics are printed on a separate pamphlet. Rightly so, Tangents is a music program, not a poetry reading. But as a singer it is imperative to understand the text. Music is not just notes but story-telling and we can’t tell a story without knowing what it is about. I wonder if the young woman was graduated.
I saw poetry butchered on a stage, chopped into pieces and tossed to the audience. I heard it gasped and struggled for breaths but no one came to its rescue. The onslaught trampled down century by century, smearing the names of poets, destroying the pleasure, the intrigue, the wonder, the art that is poetry.
The butcher asked for audience participation. The audience participated. The butcher asked for sing-along. The audience sang along. The butcher bowed humbly, thanked everyone for their undivided attention. The audience clapped as the lifeblood of poetry spilled onto the floor as red as the carpet.
It is finished. The stain on the butcher’s sleeve is all but noticeable. The stain on poetry is spreading.
How do we remember? I carry a pocket size diary. I use Google’s reminder. I join facebook. But despite of the writing down and typing out and electronic prompts, I still forget. Things are not “with me” unless I talk about them. When I talk about them often enough, I don’t forget.
As we age we tend to repeat what we want to say over and over again. My daughter is beginning to notice such trait in me,”Mom, you’ve said that already.” And although I don’t say that to my father, I also wish that he would stop “nagging” me.
But maybe we don’t repeat to annoy others. Before writing was invented, recitation of poetry and songs were the means of remembering. It is not so odd that we repeat ourselves, but we should repeat often, and rely less on the hosts of artificial reminders out there.
On the postcard, “Kereru” the Wood Pigeon nestles in the bush. It came as a surprise, from a New Zealand friend who took care of me and Julia when we went for a visit a few years ago. We landed in Auckland, a sprawling city with little character. Our friend took us to a park where sheep grazed on the slopes and baby ferns curled up like question marks. His companion was an old dog. They both looked sad.
“I remember what you said to me, something like, ‘why don’t you open your heart?'” he wrote, “I just finished reading your poems. Don’t ask me,’what took you so long?'” The dog had died soon after we left.
An urban hermit, he jogs in the park every morning just before sunrise. “Quiet and peaceful,” he continued. But is it really?
There’s nothing like a page-turner. It gets the adrenaline going. It takes me on a journey and makes me forget about a lot of things, like meals, chores, and appointments, etc.. For once, there is no lingering on a sentence or trying to make sense of what is on the page. I am suddenly a reader who understands every word I read and that makes me feel good. Furthermore, it is POETRY! How can that be possible? Poetry, a page-turner?
It is entirely possible when reading Seamus Heaney’s translation of the Anglo-Saxon poem, Beowulf. It is like a Dan Brown novel, action packed with the hero slaying a menacing troll, the hero slaying the troll’s mother, the hero battling with a dragon, etc.. The story unfolds, line by line, quickly and seamlessly. But is that why I read poetry?
In the original Old English text, each line has a clear pause in the middle. This text is placed side by side with Heaney’s translation so the archaic structure is apparent. Heaney mostly ignored the pause except for an occasional song or poem within the poem. He tells the story in poetic prose and indeed has created a page-turner. But the value of Beowulf is in the movement of the poem—the rhythms, and how stories were told in the 7th Century. The plot is only a story. The movement is life.
“Hwæt” —the first word of the Anglo-Saxon poem Beowulf, is to be spoken with great intensity. Wake up! Listen!
An attention-getter, it might be quite effective to speak such a word at the beginning of a class, or for that matter, during the middle of a lecture, to rein in the wandering minds.
Especially in spring, when the weather turned warm and the eyelids grew heavy, and I was seated in a room with many others and there was no escape. The droning voice only encouraged sleep and all my defenses were melting away. Had my teachers used this word, they could have saved a lot of souls. But no, salvation came when the school bell rang, and by that time all was lost.
It’s beautiful, round, golden and plump to the touch. When peeled, the skin is even thin. “It’s a good one,” I exclaim.
God knows what has happened to oranges? It was never an issue before—the touch, the taste, the texture, etc. But in the last two years in particular, I have come across so many surprises that a new awareness is beginning to develop: oranges are not what they used to be. The first impression is that the skin has become much thicker. (A protective layer against what?) Second is the taste, or the lack of it. Often, the pulp is dry. Now I am neurotic about buying oranges, and more often than not, my purchase is disappointing.
But here, finally, I have an exception in my hand. The pulp seems to be bursting with juice. But cutting open the segments shows that it is all a deception. Again. The middle of the orange has shriveled like old skin. The taste? —–
Is it because of genetic modification? Pesticide? What makes an orange die at the heart?
What poets want is to be heard. As Owen Dunkel said, “I love my poetry.” Most poets will read at the open mike forever if they are not stopped by the clock. Sometimes even the clock cannot stop them. This phenomenon, however, is not unique to poets. Artists and musicians have the same craving. “Such exhibitionists,” commented Joseph Flummerfelt, choir conductor. To meld all the voices into one without the singers trying to outdo each other is a tough job. Deep down inside every choir member wants to be the soloist.
When it comes to sharing our arts we have little self control. Time is for others to keep.
Night now, but it’s Earth Day tomorrow. As if it is a birthday, the Earth is being recognized and celebrated. Will we be kind to it for at least one day, think about the ground we tread on and the air we breathe, the water that is running from our faucets and the food that we put in our mouths? What will we conserve, recycle, compost? Do we think of these things like gifts, that we may “give back” to show our appreciation?
And would it be just like a birthday, that our attention will turn away to something else the day after?