lenten journal: a friend I have yet to meet

One of the writers who has befriended me through her words is Naomi Shihab Nye. We have never met, though I imagine being in San Antonio sometime and knocking on her door as though we are both used to my doing that and having her answer and inviting me in for tamales and poetry. One of the things I love about her work is the way in which she infuses meaning into words we think we already know. She polishes them softly and then offers back what seemed mundane and pedantic and sparkling and vital. On this night, as my allergies are taking me down, I offer the words of this friend I have never met with hopes that will not always be the case.

Kindness

Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.

Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to mail letters and
purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
it is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you every where
like a shadow or a friend.

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 you 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 odd sock
in your drawer, the person you almost like, but not quite.
And let me know.

Thanks, Naomi.

Peace,
Milton

lenten journal: blessed are the skunks . . .

As I drove to work this morning, I heard a story on NPR about advances in 3-D technology that would make it possible to watch without “those ridiculous glasses.” They interviewed an ophthalmologist, Dr. Samuel Marsh, who has pioneered a surgical procedure that alters the eye so glasses are no longer needed to watch TV. They interviewed a woman who said the surgery was life-changing and then mentioned some people had their complaints. Marsh responded, “Some patients have complained of blurred vision when they are not looking at 3D screens. So we're actually working now on some special corrective lenses that will allow our patients to see real life normally.”

It was then I remembered it was April Fools’ Day and NPR had done it again.

As much fun as the pranks are, April 1 sticks in my mind for another reason: it marks the beginning of National Poetry Month. I think it’s worth noting that the month kicks off on April Fools’ Day as if some might wonder if a month-long emphasis on poetry is not some kind of joke. My response would be to quote lines from William Carlos Williams’ poem, “Asphodel, That Greeny Flower”:

It is difficult
to get the news from poems
yet men die miserably every day
for lack
of what is found there.

A poem and a joke share something in common: neither benefits greatly from explanation. We laugh hardest at the jokes we get instinctively; as comics often say, if you have to explain them then they aren’t funny. We might finally understand the joke, but there’s little chance we will fall over laughing. A poem is doing its best work when it evokes a visceral response, whatever the emotion. An explanation may bring understanding but won’t bring anyone to tears or laughter. Trust me. I’ve done my share of explaining, and have had poems explained to me. None of the poems whom I have met by way of explanation have remained favorites. The ones I carry with me enticed me with metaphors, evoked spiritual connections, and challenged me to invest time and effort in unpacking their treasures. Working to understand is different than having it explained.

The more I read the Gospels, the more I see Jesus as a poet, yet we keep trying to explain him.

The lectionary passage for this Sunday tells the story of the blind man whom Jesus healed by making mud from dirt and spit, rubbing it on the man’s eyes, and telling him to go wash it off. The formula was not the key; Jesus had healed others with a word or a touch. Jesus also healed the man on the Sabbath. When the man went to the synagogue to have his healing verified, the folks there wanted explanations. All the man could see was poetry. They kept pushing for rationality, and he kept pointing out that he could see. They wanted an explanation and he wanted to tell them the story of how he came to see a world for the first time that he had only heard about.

In “Valentine for Ernest Mann,” Naomi Shihab Nye responds to a young student who asked her to write a poem for him.

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 you 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 odd 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 find poems.” I find myself carrying that line back to my reading of the Beatitudes for a study at church. And I think about the once blind man trying to get those around him to see. What poems are curled up in my eyes, in the eyes of my students, in the hearts and lives of those I meet and pass on a daily basis?

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, those that mourn, the meek” – and the list goes on, each statement a poem that both defies explanation and yearns for a story. Instead of breaking down the phrases and beating them into submission, we could start by sitting together and waiting to see what skunks come crawling out of scripture with stories to tell.

Blessed are the skunks for they shall be called poets.

Peace,
Milton

words among friends

I was reading this morning in a small volume of poetry I have had for years called Poems to Live By: In Uncertain Times and found some words worth sharing today.

First, from Robert Bly:

Things to Think

Think in ways you've never thought before.
If the phone rings, think of it as carrying a message
Larger than anything you've ever heard,
Vaster than a hundred lines of Yeats.

Think that someone may bring a bear to your door,
Maybe wounded and deranged; or think that a moose
Has risen out of the lake, and he's carrying on his antlers
A child of your own whom you've never seen.

When someone knocks on the door,
Think that he's about
To give you something large: tell you you're forgiven,
Or that it's not necessary to work all the time,
Or that it's been decided that if you lie down no one will die.

And this one by W. H. Auden:

Leap Before You Look

The sense of danger must not disappear:
The way is certainly both short and steep,
However gradual it looks from here;
Look if you like, but you will have to leap.

Tough-minded men get mushy in their sleep
And break the by-laws any fool can keep;
It is not the convention but the fear
That has a tendency to disappear.

The worried efforts of the busy heap,
The dirt, the imprecision, and the beer
Produce a few smart wisecracks every year;
Laugh if you can, but you will have to leap.

The clothes that are considered right to wear
Will not be either sensible or cheap,
So long as we consent to live like sheep
And never mention those who disappear.

Much can be said for social savoir-faire,
But to rejoice when no one else is there
Is even harder than it is to weep;
No one is watching, but you have to leap.

A solitude ten thousand fathoms deep
Sustains the bed on which we lie, my dear;
Although I love you, you will have to leap;
Our dream of safety has to disappear.

And, lastly, from Naomi Shihab Nye:

So Much Happiness

It is difficult to know what to do with so much happiness.
With sadness there is something to rub against,
a wound to tend with lotion and cloth.
When the world falls in around you, you have pieces to pick up,
something to hold in your hands, like ticket stubs or change.

But happiness floats.
It doesn't need you to hold it down.
It doesn't need anything.
Happiness lands on the roof of the next house, singing,
and disappears when it wants to.
You are happy either way.
Even the fact that you once lived in a peaceful tree house
and now live over a quarry of noise and dust
cannot make you unhappy.
Everything has a life of its own,
it too could wake up filled with possibilities
of coffee cake and ripe peaches,
and love even the floor which needs to be swept,
the soiled linens and scratched records…..

Since there is no place large enough
to contain so much happiness,
you shrug, you raise your hands, and it flows out of you
into everything you touch. You are not responsible.
You take no credit, as the night sky takes no credit
for the moon, but continues to hold it, and share it,
and in that way, be known.

Peace,
Milton