• ‘To The New Year’

    New Year’s Eve holds a lot of promises. Whether you’re hoping to complete your resolutions and hoping for big changes, or just going about business as usual, January 1st marks the beginning of something. The start of a new calendar year, new bills, new paychecks, another school year, birthdays to celebrate.

    We are hopeful on December 31, but there is no magic in the clock striking 12. We wake up in the morning the same as we were the day before—with our own bodies, our experiences and our thoughts. There’s no harm in seeing January 1 with fresh eyes, but we must be the agents of change in our lives.

    The holidays are a busy for me, between family events and eating leftover food, it’s difficult to find a time to write. But writers learn sooner or later that we can improve by simply reading more. If you’ve seen my “Tranquil Tuesday” posts in the past, you won’t be surprised that I found a poem to bring in the new year. “To the new year” by W.S. Merwin embodies that beautiful feeling of hope that reminds us what is possible, despite what happened the day or year before.

    Happy New Year!

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    to the new year merwin
    You can find all of the New Year’s images on Pinterest and Facebook.

    To the New Year

    by W.S. Merwin

    With what stillness at last
    you appear in the valley
    your first sunlight reaching down
    to touch the tips of a few
    high leaves that do not stir
    as though they had not noticed
    and did not know you at all
    then the voice of a dove calls
    from far away in itself
    to the hush of the morning

    so this is the sound of you
    here and now whether or not
    anyone hears it this is
    where we have come with our age
    our knowledge such as it is
    and our hopes such as they are
    invisible before us
    untouched and still possible

  • poem about nature

    On defining yourself: ‘Throw Things to the Flood’

    What makes you, you?

    poem about nature

    People tend to compare themselves to others at different stages of their lives. Sometimes these comparisons can help us set goals and find confidence in our identity. You might have seen yourself in a parental figure or a celebrity. But have you ever felt like lion at heart or a graceful fish in the water? Has your soul felt as one with a leaf falling slowly from its tree in autumn or have you found yourself ingrained in the cobblestones of a city?

    That’s the spirit of Paean to Place by Lorine Niedecker: We see ourselves in others, like family, and also in our surroundings. I read Niedecker’s work for the first time as a college freshman, and sometime during that class I copied some of my favorite lines into a notebook. Unfortunately after almost a decade after “discovering” this writer, I’ve never seen anyone share her work. You can read the entire poem here.

    —————

    Fish
          fowl
                flood
          Water lily mud
    My life
    in the leaves and on water
    My mother and I
                          born
    in swale and swamp and sworn
    to water
    My father
    thru marsh fog
          sculled down
                from high ground
    saw her face

    —————

    Looking back to the past for help

    “Paean to Place” centers around a woman who we learn several things about almost immediately. She was from an area constantly flooded by water. She grew up poor. Her parents are dead.

    It is written in the past tense so I always read it as the narrator looking back at her life. She is not only remembering things, but recounting her story in order to accept who she is. I’m pretty sure of this as I get to the last stanza. Read it on your own and let me know if you agree.

    poem about birds

    So she’s a product of her surroundings? Yes, but more than that. She finds that herself and her parents can be described in reference to the water or the creatures living around it. Things that help her construct an identity and figure out what’s important.

    Up in the sky and in the water, she was surrounded by birds that she knew by their official names: Plovers, sora rails, canvasbacks, woodcocks. She remembered all of their sounds (even wishing in one line, that her mother could hear them). At one point the girl considers herself a “solitary plover”. Like the marsh birds, she had a unique song and one outfit. She wore it as long as the birds kept their feathers. (Apparently seven years). But as much as the girl wants to be like them, ultimately it’s the wings that really set them apart. Her feathered neighbors had more freedom to leave the marsh in which they resided. This is pretty sad, given that within the first few stanzas she reveals her parents dreams: “that their daughter/ might go high/ on land/ to learn.

    Niedecker’s narrator does not have feathers but “a pencil/for a wing-bone.” Words are what carry her out of her difficult world. This is the line that really resonated with me. (Please leave your sarcastic gasps for the end of the show. I’m sure that other writers and lovers of words will feel the same.)

    —————

    You with sea water running
    in your veins sit down in water
          Expect the long-stemmed blue
                speedwell to renew
    itself

    ————— Jamaica Bay Wildlife Reserve

    It seems that the girl, now a woman, left her home in an effort to escape the water and the flooding. She’s different now. But when she returns to visit her parents’ graves, the narrator finds herself a part of it all again.
    Though she tried to be a bird and fly away, it’s not the wings that were missing. Her identity was shaped like the water lillies, irises and speedwells that spread around her. Ordinary flowers grew toward light and pleasant conditions, but these survived flooding and grow on top of graves. She had just grown roots in one place for so long, but that was okay.
    The water haunted her but it also renewed her, and gave her life.
    ————–
    O my floating life
    Do not save love
          for things
                Throw things
    to the flood
    ————–
    It’s not easy to figure out what defines us. For me, like in Niedecker’s poem, there’s always been a small battle going on to accept things that have shaped me for better or worse. Those things can feed us and help us grow instead of keeping us down.

    So what would you say has shaped you? Is it something that holds you back or helps you forward?

  • Tranquil Tuesday: Dawn

    dawn campbell mcgrath
    Original photo  here.

    During the week, some of you get an early start for work or whatever else you have in store for the day. A poem like this one by Campbell McGrath reminds me that there’s someone — whether human or animal — who’s up at the same time, getting ready for another day. It makes me feel better, but of course a large cup of coffee helps as well.

    You can also read the poem and find out about the author here.

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    On a side note: Tranquil Tuesday has become a project for me to discover new poems, so I would love to hear suggestions for poems that you enjoy. If you’ve written something you think would be a good fit, I’d love to feature it as well.

    Feel free to share your suggestions in a comment below or on Facebook.

    Hope everyone’s week is off to a good start.

  • Salute James Schuyler

    Tranquil Tuesday: James Schuyler

    Salute James Schuyler

    James Schuyler, ‘Past is Past’

    Imagine this poem as a self-contained moment — like pretending time is still when you gaze at an old photo. “Salute” freezes you for several lines and then pushes you right out of the memory . You realize the past is gone. You cherish it and you move on.
    If you flip through the works of James Schuyler, you may get the sense that you are reading an artist’s diary. The lines jump around and the poems have different degrees of length and power. “Salute” is the first poem in an post-humously arranged anthology of the lifelong New Yorker’s work.

    Much of Schuyler’s work is reflective. There are themes of life and death, the passage of time, and many times he mixes pastoral images with city settings. He writes candidly about pain, loss and dealing with mental illness.

    This poem frequently pops into my mind, especially when I reminisce. I stop to smell the flowers and remind myself to move on with a literary “salute.” I think that James Schuyler (considered an original “New York School poet”) is highly underrated and not read enough. Luckily, I was introduced to his work in a college class dedicated to New York City’s poets.

    If you have some time, he is worth a read (I have this anthology, with an intro by poet John Ashbery). If you have a lot more time, I’d suggest reading a bit about New York School poets and Schuyler’s life. It should only add layers of history and emotion to his words.

    What did you think of “Salute”? What poem would you have featured? Your thoughts, suggestions and comments are welcome!

  • Treading water

    “The Great Wave” by Japanese artist Katsushika Hokusai

    The ocean’s waves pulse
    pulse against my body.
    The water is cold and unapologetic.

    You sit on the sand and gaze
    gaze at shells that might be treasure.
    You are sure that they are gold.

    I try to float
    float over the waves and back to shore.
    (I don’t know how to swim).

    With each move I sink
    sink under ages of salt.
    I’ll collect your oysters on the way down.
    You let the water carry
    carry broken shells to your feet.
    The tide pulls me away.
    My voice is silence
    silence when you finally notice the expanse.

  • Lorca’s corazon

    Cancionilla del primer deseo

    En la mañana verde,

    quería ser corazón.
    Corazón.
    Y en la tarde madura
    quería ser ruiseñor.
    Ruiseñor.
    Alma,
    ponte color de naranja.
    Alma,
    ponte color de amor
    En la mañana viva,
    yo quería ser yo.
    Corazón.
    Y en la tarde caída
    quería ser mi voz.
    Ruiseñor.
    ¡Alma,
    ponte color naranja!
    ¡Alma,
    ponte color de amor!
    ———————————-
    Ditty of the First Wish
    (translated by The Line Break blog)

    In the green morning,
    I want to be a heart.
    A heart.
    And in the mature afternoon,
    I want to be a nightingale.
    A nightingale.
       (Soul,
    transform to orange.
    Soul,
    become the color of love.)
    In the ripe morning
    I want to be me.
    A heart.
    And in the late night,
    I want to be my voice.
    A nightingale.
       Soul,
    [transform] to orange!
    Soul,

    become the color of love!

    Federico García Lorca