Poem-A-Day April 5: torn green dress

     See how the budding flower,
Emerging fair from out her torn green dress,
Is beauteous in the garden for her hour,
As Yusuf in his youthful loveliness.

     Go, breeze of spring,
Haste to tell Yakub, blinded by his tears,
The tidings that shall end his sorrowing
And lift the darkness from his troubled years.



Hello Friends,

Could you tell that today’s poem excerpt was a translation as you were reading it? We have very few translations of the princess and poet Zeb-un-Nissa’s work from Persian to English; this 1913 translation is by Magan Lal and Jessica Duncan Westbrook, and the style of the translation has a lot more in common with 1900s English poetry than the 1600s Persian poetry of the original. To give you an example of how translations can differ, the same excerpt has also more recently been translated by Lisa Sarasohn as:


Budding, the flower tears through her dress of green.
Blooming, her beauty makes the garden beautiful.
Like Joseph, her loveliness perfumes the air.

Spring breezes, go. Take the news to Jacob, end his sorrow
for the loss of son, wipe darkness from his eyes,
lift the troubles that have weighed upon his spine.



As you can see, it’s very difficult to capture both the poetic form and a poem’s meaning from another language. But key images, like the flower bud tearing through a green dress, persist from the original author. (I’ll let you in on a little secret: Sometimes one image is so good I will pick a poem to share with you just for that one image — today’s torn green dress is one of those.)

What you are largely missing here in translation is Zeb-un-Nissa’s use of form. The ghazal is a difficult poetic form with roots in seventh-century Arabia. Each couplet in a traditional ghazal is its own self-contained poem. The first couplet establishes an end-rhyme, and the second lines of all the succeeding couplets continue this rhyme. The last couplet traditionally contains a reference to the poet’s name — it’s a signature of sorts; Zeb-un-Nissa used the pen name Makhfi or “Hidden One” to reference herself.

As if the ghazal form weren’t difficult enough, a diwan is a sequence of ghazals, ordered according to their rhyme. Sarasohn explains, “The first group of ghazals rhymes with the first letter of the alphabet, the second group rhymes with the alphabet’s second letter, and on down the line.” The excerpt above, ghazal XIV, is from The Diwan of Zeb-un-Nissa.

One of the sad facts of literature is that you pretty much have to have been a princess or a queen for your writing to have survived from the 1600s if you were female. Zeb-un-Nissa is one of those figures whose words have made it to us — a princess from a time when the Mughal or Mogul Empire ruled the Indian subcontinent. A few details from her biography that may be relevant to understanding her as a poet: Zeb-un-Nissa became a Hafiza — meaning “guardian” or “memorizer” — at age seven, meaning at seven years old she had memorized and could recite the entire Quran (114 chapters made up of over 6,000 verses). She was deeply influenced by Islam and the Quran, and nearly all her poetry is religious in content. She never married — some say because she was married to Allah, some say she had affairs with mortal men. Lastly, for reasons that are still debated, Zeb-un-Nissa’s own father (the emperor) imprisoned her for the last 20 years of her life. It is believed that these ghazal were written during those years of imprisonment.

That was a lot of me writing for just a little bit of Zeb-un-Nissa! Apologies if I got a little too carried away in explanations here. But I hope you maybe still got something out of it.

— Ellen

P.S. For a very different interpretation of the ghazal form (in contemporary English, rather than seventeenth century Persian) — and one of my favorite poems of all time — see “Ghazal” by Emily Moore.

Poem-A-Day April 4: On the edge of tomorrow

Rhapsody

I am glad daylong for the gift of song,
     For time and change and sorrow;
For the sunset wings and the world-end things
     Which hang on the edge of to-morrow.
I am glad for my heart whose gates apart
     Are the entrance-place of wonders,
Where dreams come in from the rush and din
     Like sheep from the rains and thunders.



Hello Friends,

I apologize for falling a little behind on the poem-a-days! The trip back from Austin really wore me out. But I’m back in DC now and catching up.

Our poem-a-day for April 4 comes from William Stanley Braithwaite, a self-educated African-American writer who self-published his first poetry collection Lyrics of Love and Life (containing this poem) in 1904. Among his many accomplishments, Braithwaite was a well-known literary critic, founded his own publishing firm, and was a professor of creative writing at Atlanta University.

For me, one of the important things about this poem is that Braithwaite is ‘glad’ not only for more traditionally happy things like “song” and “sunset” but also gives equal weight to “sorrow” and “world-end things.” The second quatrain could be read as showing that we only really experience “wonders” when a heart and dreams have experienced “rush and din” or “rains and thunders.”

Did you notice “Rhapsody” is not only about “the gift of song” but has a sing-song rhythm? This poem also makes me wonder how far back the literary association between sleep and sheep goes — does anyone know? I’m not convinced by any of the initial Wikipedia-type answers. Anyway, I love this image of sheep as dreams, and sleep as the shelter for those sheep; I’ve never heard that expressed quite how Braithwaite puts it in this poem.

— Ellen

Poem-A-Day April 3: On the last day of the world

Hello Friends!

We lost several giants of the poetry world in the past few months, one of whom was the remarkable and prolific W.S. Merwin. One of the most striking features of Merwin’s work is that he has written volumes and volumes of poetry using no punctuation whatsoever — it’s hard for me to even fathom or convey to you the mastery of language it takes to achieve that.

The poem below, “Place,” appears in his 1988 collection The Rain in the Trees.


Place

On the last day of the world
I would want to plant a tree

What for
not the fruit

the tree that bears the fruit
is not the one that was planted

I want the tree that stands
in the earth for the first time

with the sun already
going down

and the water
touching its roots

in the earth full of the dead
and the clouds passing

one by one
over its leaves





W.S. Merwin was a person of both quality and quantity — publishing an astounding more than 20 books of his own poetry; translating nearly another 20 books of poetry from multiple languages into English; and publishing some plays, prose, and memoirs for a total of more than 50 books in his lifetime. Among a bizillion other awards, he won the Pulitzer Prize in Poetry twice and served as Poet Laureate of the United States twice. Well-known as an anti-war and environmental activist, he was also a longtime resident of Maui and a practicing Buddhist. When he wasn’t writing one of his 50 books, Merwin managed to raise more than 2,000 trees at his Maui home, a former pineapple plantation restored as a rainforest, which is set aside as The Merwin Conservancy.

If you’re interested in reading more Merwin, he has been featured for many poem-a-days in previous years that you can visit here.

Enjoy.
Ellen

Poem-A-Day April 2: Derrida ate my homework.

Hello Friends!

I am in Austin, Texas for work, so we’re going to feature the poet Carrie Fountain today — who is the 2019 Poet Laureate of Texas, resides in Austin, and received her MFA from the amazing program at UT Austin.

This is not actually a particularly Texas poem, just a favorite of mine by Fountain.

One thing to think about when reading any poem — but which may be particularly pronounced when the poet has chosen couplets (groups of two lines each) — is how the line breaks and stanza breaks affect the flow and meaning of the poem as it is read. It may also be helpful to remember that poetry’s origins are oral, not written, so line breaks can be about how a poem sounds when it’s read as much as what it looks like on a page.

The Student

I wish I were as talented
at anything as he is

at pulling Derrida into
a conversation, any

conversation, no matter
what we’re discussing:

Derrida. Even once
when he was telling me

why he didn’t have
the assignment, even then

after a long and aerobic
journey we arrived

at Derrida, his white
hair and elegant European

ideas, and it felt good—
I admit in felt good to finally

arrive there—ah bonjour
Monsieur Derrida!—

because at least I knew
then where I was, even

if it wasn’t where
I wanted to be. To pretend,

Derrida said, I actually
do the thing: I have therefore

only pretended to pretend.
I pretend sometimes. Other

times all I do is pretend.
I’ve created gods this way

and on occasion I’ve tied
those gods together

like they do bed sheets
in a movie, and I’ve escaped

the high tower of myself
this way, I’ve made it

to solid ground this way,
landed on the earth.

And each time I’ve been sure
I’ve actually done the thing,

but then I look up
and the gods are gone.



If you’re interested in a deeper dive on line breaks, check out an excerpt by the poet Alberto Ríos from A Broken Thing: Poets on the Line (2011) here.

A special shout-out to all the teachers out there who have dealt with this student, and a Happy Tuesday to all!

— Ellen

P.S. You may have noticed today’s poem-a-day came from ellen@meetmein811.org instead of meetmein811@gmail.com. It’s still me, I promise! I’m just having a little email deliverability problem, and MailChimp strongly prefers non-Gmail type domains for “from” email addresses, so I’ve upgraded to an email address on the domain I already own for the poem-a-day blog. That is all!

Happy National Poetry Month 2019!

Hello Friends!

Each April, I celebrate National Poetry Month by sharing with you all some of what I love about poetry — through 30 poems from 30 poets delivered to your inboxes over 30 days.

Email open rates for the past twelve(!) Aprils tell me that more people read this April 1 message than any other message I’ll send out all month (alas, no matter how good my subject lines are) — so if you’re going to read only one poem this month, let’s make it a love poem:




Haiku [for you]

love between us is
speech and breath. loving you is
a long river running.






Sonia Sanchez’s “Haiku [for you]” from her 1998 collection Like the Singing Coming Off the Drums is somewhat unusual in that haiku is a poetic form that is not typically about love. You may have learned in grade school that haiku is a very old Japanese poetic form that follows a 5 syllable, 7 syllable, 5 syllable format. But did you know the logo of National Haiku Writing Month is actually a 5-7-5 with a big red X over it? For those fluent in Japanese, 5-7-5 is a problematic English approximation of what is actually going on in Japanese haiku. If you adore 5-7-5 (I’m looking at you, Jeremy Bratt), this is not to say that you can’t write a haiku in English in 5-7-5; it’s just that 5-7-5 is not the essence of what makes a haiku a haiku.

What is arguably more important than the syllable count or line breaks in a haiku is that it captures one tableau-like image or idea, often invoking nature in a particular season or element of time, and containing a moment of pivot or juxtaposition. If you’d like to really get into the nitty gritty, you can read more about the haiku form here.

Do you have a favorite haiku or other poem you’d like to see featured? Send it my way! And once again, Happy National Poetry Month!

— Ellen

The haiku form has previously been featured for Poem-A-Day April 24, 2018, Poem-A-Day April 13, 2015, and Poem-A-Day April 29, 2011 (which includes the shirt I am wearing today!).

If you’re a fan of short, also check out this selection of previously featured poems shorter than haiku.

Happy (Almost) National Poetry Month!

Hello Friends!

For those of you who don’t know, I have been running a poem-a-day email list for the past twelve Aprils (I can’t believe it’s been that long, but it has!) to celebrate National Poetry Month — which starts tomorrow!

I would like to invite you to join my poem-a-day list (it’s only 30 days long!) — Just reply to this email, or sign up through my blog meetmein811.org — where you can also find an archive of the past eleven years of poem-a-days.

No prior poetry experience is required to enjoy this poem-a-day list! I’m not going to send you some obtuse obscure long ode that’s impossible to understand (hopefully). What will I send you? Well, last April we read poems from the 1600s, 1700s, 1800s, 1900s, and 2000s. We read poems by Black poets, Latinx poets, API poets, Native poets, mixed race poets, and white poets. We read poems by women, men, genderqueer and non-binary poets, gay poets, lesbian poets, and bisexual poets. We read pantoum, ode, haiku, spoken word, sonnets, quatrains, quintets, and sestets. Somehow I didn’t really send any tercets last year — so I’m definitely going to have to include some tercets this year! (I should probably hyperlink what each of these poetry words mean; I promise I explain them as each comes up.)

My selections do skew heavily, but not exclusively, to American poets writing in English — hence the name “Meet Me in 811,” the Dewey Decimal Code for American Poetry (and my favorite part of the library to wander around picking random books off the shelves). This poem-a-day series is strictly for personal use only; in almost all cases, I do not have poets’ nor poetry publishers’ permission to reproduce their work — this gives me a freedom other poem-a-day lists do not have to choose whichever poems I want to include, as well as the freedom to include commentary, analysis, personal stories, and other tidbits that I hope make poetry more accessible. I also frequently refer my audience the Academy of American Poets (poets.org), the creators and sponsors of National Poetry Month, for a more official poem-a-day email list.

Are you in? Sign up here.

Thanks, and Happy (Almost) National Poetry Month!

Love,
Ellen

POEM-A-DAY APRIL 2018


No clocks

End

There are
No clocks on the wall,
And no time,
No shadows that move
From dawn to dusk
Across the floor.

There is neither light
Nor dark
Outside the door.

There is no door!


Hello Friends,

"End" by Langston Hughes (1902 - 1967) concludes this April's poem-a-day series. One of my favorite things about living in DC so far is that we have a series of restaurant bookstores named after Langston Hughes — Busboys and Poets. (Langston Hughes was a busboy when he was "discovered" as a poet.)

It's been quite a month! You've read poems from the 1600s, 1700s, 1800s, 1900s, and 2000s. You've read poems by Black poets, Latinx poets, API poets, Native poets, mixed race poets, and white poets. You've read poems by women, men, genderqueer poets, gay poets, lesbian poets, and bisexual poets. You've digested pantoum, ode, haiku, spoken word, sonnets, quatrains, quintets, and sestets. Somehow I didn't really send you any tercets this year; I guess you'll just have to come back next year!

A recap of the month in poems can be found here, including sources for each day’s poem — in case you're interested in reading more from a particular poet or two whose words may have stuck with you this month (I hope).

Thank you again for partaking in my own little celebration of National Poetry Month. And if you're ever looking for a recommendation or advice on a poem or poet during some other the month of the year, you know where to find me...

In 811,
Ellen

Bent to the Earth

Bent to the Earth

They had hit Ruben
with the high beams, had blinded
him so that the van
he was driving, full of Mexicans
going to pick tomatoes,
would have to stop. Ruben spun

the van into an irrigation ditch,
spun the five-year-old me awake
to immigration officers,
their batons already out,
already looking for the soft spots on the body,
to my mother being handcuffed
and dragged to a van, to my father
trying to show them our green cards.

They let us go. But Alvaro
was going back.
So was his brother Fernando.
So was their sister Sonia. Their mother
did not escape,
and so was going back. Their father
was somewhere in the field,
and was free. There were no great truths

revealed to me then. No wisdom
given to me by anyone. I was a child
who has seen what a piece of polished wood
could do to a face, who had seen his father
about to lose the one he loved, who had lost
some friends who would never return,
who, later that morning, bent
to the earth and went to work.

— Blas Manuel De Luna, Bent to the Earth (2006)

not an elegy

not an elegy for Mike Brown

I am sick of writing this poem
but bring the boy. his new name

his same old body. ordinary, black
dead thing. bring him & we will mourn
until we forget what we are mourning

& isn't that what being black is about?
not the joy of it, but the feeling

you get when you are looking
at your child, turn your head,
then, poof, no more child.

that feeling. that's black.

\\

think: once, a white girl

was kidnapped & that's the Trojan war.

later, up the block, Troy got shot
& that was Tuesday. are we not worthy

of a city of ash? of 1000 ships
launched because we are missed?

always, something deserves to be burned.
it's never the right thing now a days.

I demand a war to bring the dead boy back
no matter what his name is this time.

I at least demand a song. a song will do just fine.

\\

look at what the lord has made.
above Missouri, sweet smoke.


Danez Smith is a Black, queer, poz writer & performer from St. Paul, MN. Some favorite lines from Danez's interview with the Rumpus:

"I think every poem is for a somebody and the worst poems are for everybody."

"It's uncomfortable as shit, but I think that's exactly what poetry is supposed to do. Things I'd never tell my mom are now sitting on her bookshelf."

Speaking of moms, Michael Brown's mother, Lezley McSpadden, may be running for Ferguson City Council. Read more here.

"not an elegy for Mike Brown" can be found in The Quarry: A Social Justice Poetry Database, maintained by the DC-based poetry org Split This Rock.