Patience

Patience is
wider than one
once envisioned,
with ribbons
of rivers
and distant
ranges and
tasks undertaken
and finished
with modest
relish by
natives in their
native dress.
Who would
have guessed
it possible
that waiting
is sustainable—
a place with
its own harvests.
Or that in
time’s fullness
the diamonds
of patience
couldn’t be
distinguished
from the genuine
in brilliance
or hardness.

– Kay Ryan

*****

One of these days I will again post my own thoughts, but Ms. Ryan says lots of great things.

If my mind is space, and time is time, the exact location of my mind cannot be determined at any point in time, not without that location occurring in the past. When I want desperately to be in the now.

This is my uncertainty principle. That’s what I’m feeling.

Rest assured, there’s lots to be said about school (SO. MUCH. SCHOOL) and boys and friends I don’t see nearly enough of. And meeting poets. And autographs. And food. And boys and church. And some boys that aren’t smart. And new friends. And the cooling weather. And swearing at school, though not by me. And running into former seminary students who are so very tall. And staying up until 4am or waking up at 3am and either way letting the silence soothe me. And seeing those people in my life that make me feel like all is right with the world.

Eventually, the past will catch up to now.

Thanks for your patience.

BEFORE THE AIR BECAME THE JOURNEY

It is Good Friday
and I am seven.
I don’t understand the priest
who speaks in Latin
or in Polish,
but I like the hopeful smell of
candles burning.

Inching forward
on our knees,
we sway and shuffle towards
the giant crucifix
propped at the railing.
The men’s heads are bare.
The women wear bubushkas.
Everywhere I look
there are soles of shoes.

My turn. I stand
and stretch to reach
the bleeding instep.
An altar boy
wipes away my kiss
with a white handkerchief.

I bow my head
to imitate the old man
who on Sundays stays
for all the Masses,
locked in place
at the altar rail, face
buried in his hands,
hunched over and sad
as if, like me,
he’d done everything wrong.

Someone like him, I think,
could stop the nails
from going in.

-Elisabeth Murawski


Discipline


I lie in bed at 3am
trying to write a poem.
My light is on
and I try not to disturb the crickets.
Their hearts have reached a resting state
and they are saving their songs for tomorrow.
They have discipline.
The loudest thing this morning
is my pen
The most impetuous thing this morning
is my mind
conspiring against the pen
haphazard on the page
scrawling into illegibility
which isn’t like me.

“Swept Up Whole”

You aren’t swept up whole,
however it feels. You’re
atomized. The wind passes.
You recongeal. It’s
a surprise.

Kay Ryan

And, an excerpt from the linked interview:


What do you think about the state of poetry and the reading of poetry in our country?

I never, ever worry about poetry or its survival because it’s the very nature of a poem to be that language that does survive. Poems are even better than tweets – they don’t require any electronic equipment. They can lodge right in your brain. They are by nature short. You don’t even have to remember all of them — you can remember just a phrase. That can be something you can turn to in any emergency, good or bad. You’ll pluck out a little group of words, just maybe a phrase, and that’s exactly what poetry is for. It’s for the things that really last. Because it lasts.

I found your letter the other day
My eyes a-round at the words it said
Did your heart pound as you wrote “Dear May”
As mine wound before it dead?

Your sure and steady manuscript
And pen full of ink equipped
Flowed into words of none clipped
While my soul into two, ripped.

Tears plunged onto the folded page
My mind lunged back to a fonder age
Our lives have ranged, as we bask in sage
The wage you won. Are we done?

Are we?

En Français 202, nous étudions les Moyens Ages. Aujourd’hui, nous avons discuté Charles d’Orléans et sa poésie. Son poème, “Le Printemps”, est un rondeau. Ils sont faciles à identifier, parce que il y a un refrain, et le première et dernière lignes répètent.

Le temps a laissié son manteau
De vent, de froidure et de pluye,
Et s’est vestu de brouderie,
De soleil luyant, cler et beau.

Il n’y a beste, ne oyseau,
Qu’en son jargon ne chante ou crie :
Le temps a laissié son manteau
De vent, de froidure et de pluye.

Riviere, fontaine et ruisseau
Portent, en livrée jolie,
Gouttes d’argent d’orfaverie,
Chacun s’habille de nouveau :
Le temps a laissié son manteau.

De tout façon, en groupes, notre classe a écrit des rondeaus d’une saison. C’est ce que notre groupe a créé. Ils m’ont fait écrire et lire à haute voix. J’étais très nerveuse:

Les arbres se déshabillent
Les feuilles tombent lentement
Le terre accepte les vêtements des arbres

Les enfants jouent dans les feuilles
Il pleut avec rouge, orange, et jaune
Leurs joues deviennent rouge

Le soleil se couche
Tout le monde est tranquille
Les arbres se déshabillent

La classe a applaudit, parce que nous sommes génieux. Bien sûr.

silver rind hangs from a sparkle
suspended in dark blue gloaming
that bleeds onto imposing indigo shadows
casting upon glowing pinkish silence
that will progress to a crunchy white
and reflect clarity
amidst brown bright noise
drowning frosted sighs
that wait
and dissipate
to answer to
the pallid pendulum
of that eternal
chromatic clock

OVE bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
If I lack’d anything.
‘A guest,’ I answer’d, ‘worthy to be here:’
Love said, ‘You shall be he.’
‘I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear,
I cannot look on Thee.’
Love took my hand and smiling did reply,
‘Who made the eyes but I?’
‘Truth, Lord; but I have marr’d them: let my shame
Go where it doth deserve.’
‘And know you not,’ says Love, ‘Who bore the blame?’
‘My dear, then I will serve.’
‘You must sit down,’ says Love, ‘and taste my meat.’
So I did sit and eat.

“Love” – George Herbert


I just sat at a table and feasted until I could feast no more. I’m always a little shy around strangers, but they didn’t turn me away. There was comfortable conversation and laughter, and while I wasn’t with any relatives, I felt like I was with family. Though I may have inwardly resisted, because this family’s brand of crazy is a little bit different than to what I am accustomed, I accepted the invitation. The host gave me grace, and I sat down.


So hopefully goes the time when I come to Love’s table. (Except after feasting at Love’s table, I don’t get merciless heartburn and my host has to give me medicine to relieve the pressure. I feel a lot better after a couple hours.)


Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. I am so very grateful for all of you. I have my reasons, which I’m also grateful for. :)

at 2:48 am
this dark valley hears
fingers tapping upon
this keyboard and
my breathing

then John Donne’s wispy
pages turn
slitting the air
dripping
metaphysical blood

I inhale deeply
this ether
unsedated
cutting neatly
another psychic gill

I didn’t want to disturb you
You looked so peaceful
Full of dreams and eyes half-smiling
Smiling as if nothing mattered
Matters dissolved and cares without
Without staring I watched you nod
Nod at someone no one could see
Seeing is knowing
Knowing without seeing
You wake,
Because Sunday School is over.

Next Page »

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.