Poetry
A friend of mine, Anne Killough, just recently published her first book of poems. They are all inspired by her thoughts about America post 9/11. It's called Beloved Idea, and I'll post an excerpt to give you a sense of what her style is like:
from [Statue of Liberty]
So now what if the Statue of Liberty has found out that she can move
and is only waiting for the right moment?
What if there are beginning to be words in her book, more and
more words on the coppery pages, the ones that do not turn, or not
yet?
What if she is beginning to feel the horror of her position, the way
she has no peers or even anyone who understands that she is in the
tradition of the enormous destroyer?
What is it she is becoming convinced she must destroy?
*
So now picture what you think the Statue of Liberty might destroy
and realize that you are not right.
That whatever you thought of is not it, or at least not quite it and
certainly not all of it.
That you have no idea what she is thinking, or at least not a complete
idea.
That the very nature of her body renders her susceptible not only to
alien transmissions but to all the other transmissions of the earth.
That she is a kind of Pole along with the North and South ones and
draws the magnetic fields of the earth toward herself like shiploads
of huddled immigrants and reads them like ticker tape inside her
spiky head.
That she feels what you feel but much more of it.
That she sees what you see but the backside of it as well, the side
you will never see.
That she has already begun to change something even in you, even
in me.
One of my favs
If everything happens that can't be done
~ e.e. cummings
Imperfection
I was going to post this on the Feminism thread 'cause it's similar to the Levertov poem ("In Mind") I posted there a long while back--but that was quite a long way's in so putting it here instead.
Imperfection
I am falling in love
with my imperfections
The way I never get the sink really clean,
forget to check my oil,
lose my car in parking lots,
miss appointments I have written down,
am just a little late.
I am learning to love
the small bumps on my face
the big bump of my nose,
my hairless scalp,
chipped nail polish,
toes that overlap.
Learning to love
the open-ended mystery
of not knowing why
I am learning to fail
to make lists,
use my time wisely,
read the books I should.
Instead I practice inconsistency,
irrationality, forgetfulness.
Probably I should
hang my clothes neatly in the closet
all the shirts together, then the pants,
send Christmas cards, or better yet
a letter telling of
my perfect family
But I'd rather waste time
listening to the rain,
or lying underneath my cat
learning to purr.
I used to fill every moment
with something I could
cross off later.
Perfect was
The laundry done and folded
all my papers graded
the whole truth and nothing but
Now the empty mind is what I seek
the formless shape
the strange off center
sometimes fictional
me.
—Elizabeth Carlson
Complementary thoughts on doubt and faith
Read one poem this morning that reminded me of another that is one of my favorites (the one by Herbert):
Ungrateful Sorrow by Rabindranath Tagore
The Collar by George Herbert