Poem-a-Day, April 3: Samurai Song

Samurai Song

When I had no roof I made
Audacity my roof. When I had
No supper my eyes dined.

When I had no eyes I listened.
When I had no ears I thought.
When I had no thought I waited.

When I had no father I made
Care my father. When I had
No mother I embraced order.

When I had no friend I made
Quiet my friend. When I had no
Enemy I opposed my body.

When I had no temple I made
My voice my temple. I have
No priest, my tongue is my choir.

When I have no means fortune
Is my means. When I have
Nothing, death will be my fortune.

Needs is my tactic, detachment
Is my strategy. When I had
No lover I courted my sleep.


Hello Friends —

Today’s poem comes from tercet master Robert Pinsky, opening his 2000 collection Jersey Rain.

April is National Poetry Month, and I am celebrating by emailing out my own eclectic selection of one poem per day for the duration of the month. To learn more about National Poetry Month, or to subscribe to a more official-like Poem-a-Day list, visit www.poets.org.

Enjoy.
Ellen

“Samarai Song” by Robert Pinsky was also featured for Poem-a-Day April 10, 2007.
Poet Robert Pinsky was also featured for Poem-a-Day, March 25, 2011.

Poem-a-Day, April 2: Sharks & Roses

At the cemetery, I noticed how each rose
grew on a shark-infested stem.


This couplet comes from contemporary British poet Craig Raine’s first collection, The Onion, Memory (1978). Raine is perhaps best known for describing our everyday visual experience of the world from the point of view of a Martian trying to make sense of it all.

Poems shorter than haiku were also featured for Poem-a-Day April 20, 2007; Poem-a-Day April 5, 2008; and Poem-a-Day April 14, 2008.

Poem-a-Day, April 1: Is this a joke?

Dear Friends,

April is National Poetry Month. In April 2007 and April 2008, I celebrated by emailing friends and family my own selection of one poem per day for the duration of the month.

In response to overwhelming demand, I am conducting another poem-a-day email series for April 2009* — and you are invited to join! Email me, sign yourself up at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/poemaday_tgifreytag/, or just check back here at meetmein811.blogspot.com. Share with other friends and family, and feel free to nominate a poem for later in the month.

* Due to extenuating circumstances, I may for the first time occasionally dip into selections from previous years’ Poem-a-Day emails.

For April Fool’s Day, I feel it is only fitting to send you a poem with a sense of humor: “One-Word Poem” comes from David R. Slavitt, in his 2006 book William Henry Harrison and Other Poems. Please note that I did not write the discussion questions; they are supposed to be part of the poem.

To learn more about National Poetry Month, or to subscribe to a more official-like Poem-a-Day list, visit www.poets.org.

Enjoy.
Ellen


One-Word Poem

Motherless.

Discussion questions.

1. Is this a joke? And, if so, is it a joke of the poet in which the editor of the magazine (or, later, the book publisher or the textbook writers) has conspired? Or is it a joke on the editors and publishers? Is the reader the audience of the poem?

2. It is regrettable not to have a mother. Is the purpose of the poem to convey an emotion to the reader? Does the poet suppose that this is the saddest word in the language? Do you agree or disagree? Can you suggest a sadder word?

3. The Supplement to the Oxford English Dictionary gives an alternate meaning from nineteenth- and twentieth-century Australian slang as an intensifier, as in “stone motherless broke.” Can you assume that the poet knew this? Does this make for an ambiguity in the poem? Does this information change your emotional response?

4. If the assertion of the single word as a work of art is not a joke, then what could it mean? Is it a Dada-ist gesture, amusing and cheeky perhaps but with an underlying seriousness that the poet either invites or defies the reader to understand?

5. Even if the poet was merely fooling around, does that necessarily diminish the possible seriousness of the poem?

6. If we acknowledge that this is a work of art, can the author assert ownership? Is it possible to copyright a one-word poem?

7. In writing a one-word poem, the crucial decision must be which word to choose and to posit as a work of art. Do you think the poet spent a great deal of time picking this word? Or did he simply open a dictionary and let his fingers do the walking? Does that diminish the poem’s value? Or is it a kind of bibliomancy?

8. Should the word have been in quotes? Or is it quotes even without being in quotes? There is a period at the end of the poem. Would it change the meaning of the poem if there were an exclamation point? Or no punctuation at all? Would that be a different poem? Better or worse? Or would you like it more or less? (Are these different questions?)

9. You can almost certainly write—or “write”—a one-word poem. But it would be difficult for you to get it published—almost certainly more difficult now that this one has been published and staked its claim. Is the publication of a poem a part of the creative act? Had the poet written his poem and put it away in his desk drawer as Emily Dickinson used to do, would this make it a different poem?

10. Some poems we read and some that we particularly like, we memorize. You have already memorized this one. Do you like it better now? Or are the questions part of the poem, so that you have not yet memorized it? Will you, anyway? Do you need to memorize the questions verbatim, or is the idea enough?

“One-Word Poem” by David R. Slavitt was also featured for Poem-a-Day April 1, 2007.

POEM-A-DAY APRIL 2008

Poem-a-day, April 30: So.

“Out, Out —”

The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
And from there those that lifted eyes could count
Five mountain ranges one behind the other
Under the sunset far into Vermont.
And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
And nothing happened: day was all but done.
Call it a day, I wish they might have said
To please the boy by giving him the half hour
That a boy counts so much when saved from work.
His sister stood beside them in her apron
To tell them “Supper.” At the word, the saw,
As if to prove saws knew what supper meant,
Leaped out at the boy’s hand, or seemed to leap —
He must have given the hand. However it was,
Neither refused the meeting. But the hand!
The boy’s first outcry was a rueful laugh,
As he swung toward them holding up the hand
Half in appeal, but half as if to keep
The life from spilling. The boy saw all —
Since he was old enough to know, big boy
Doing a man’s work, though a child at heart —
He saw all spoiled. “Don’t let him cut my hand off —
The doctor, when he comes. Don’t let him, sister!”
So. But the hand was gone already.
The doctor put him in the dark of ether.
He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath.
And then — the watcher at his pulse took fright.
No one believed. They listened at his heart.
Little — less — nothing! — and that ended it.
No more to build on there. And they, since they
Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.

***

Hello Friends,

Today’s poem is by Robert Frost, in his collection Mountain Interval (1916). The poem’s title is a reference to one of the greatest monologues ever written, in Shakespeare’s Macbeth (see Poem-a-Day April 23, 2007).

And with that, I am Out. Thirty days. Thirty poets. Thirty poems. Today is the last day of April, and the last poem-a-day for 2008.

If a particular poem or two from this month has really stuck with you, I am so glad! And if you’re feeling inspired to continue reading some poetry beyond the month of April, here are some places to start.

Thank you for humoring me in this celebration of National Poetry Month. You may now return to your affairs.

– Ellen

P.S. If you missed a poem-a-day from earlier, or just want to revisit one, visit meetmein811.blogspot.com or http://groups.yahoo.com/group/poemaday_tgifreytag/.

Poem-a-day, April 29: dark chivalries

By Chivalries as tiny,
A Blossom, or a Book,
The seeds of smiles are planted —
Which blossom in the dark.

***

Hello friends,

Here’s something they probably neglected to mention in grade school: Many of Emily Dickinson‘s poems, like the above (circa 1858), doubled as notes or letters to her next door neighbor and sister-in-law Susan Huntington Dickinson. Emily and Susan shared a deep emotional, intellectual, and some would argue undeniably erotic connection — beginning several years before Susan married Emily’s brother Austin. For decades, the two exchanged favorite reading materials, small gifts, goods, and notes almost daily.

See also:
Open Me Carefully: Emily Dickinson’s Intimate Letters to Susan Huntington Dickinson (1998) by Ellen Louise Hart and Martha Nell Smith and “Hymn for Lota” by Elizabeth Bishop.

— Ellen

Poems by Emily Dickinson were also featured for Poem-a-Day April 25, 2009 and Poem-a-Day April 25, 2010.

Poem-a-day, April 28: kempt

Early in the Morning

While the long grain is softening
in the water, gurgling
over a low stove flame, before
the salted Winter Vegetable is sliced
for breakfast, before the birds,
my mother glides an ivory comb
through her hair, heavy
and black as calligrapher’s ink.

She sits at the foot of the bed.
My father watches, listens for
the music of comb
against hair.

My mother combs,
pulls her hair back
tight, rolls it
around two fingers, pins it
in a bun to the back of her head.
For half a hundred years she has done this.
My father likes to see it like this.
He says it is kempt.

But I know
it is because of the way
my mother’s hair falls
when he pulls the pins out.
Easily, like the curtains
when they untie them in the evening.

***

By Li-Young Lee, from his 1986 collection Rose.

Poet Li-Young Lee was also featured for Poem-a-Day April 14, 2011.

Poem-a-yesterday, April 27: lovely, dark and deep

She tells her love while half asleep,
In the dark hours,
With half-words whispered low:
As Earth stirs in her winter sleep
And puts out grass and flowers
Despite the snow,
Despite the falling snow.

***

Hello friends,

Yesterday’s much belated poem-a-day is an untitled work of Robert Graves, about which Ellen is known to have irreverently remarked: “It’s like ‘Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening’, if the narrator were in love with the horse.”

Enjoy.
Ellen

Poem-a-day, April 26: The kind you see

He watched me, still as a stone,
Speaking no more than an animal,
And I thought perhaps he had
No brain to speak with, nor a tongue.
So I got up my courage and I said:
     “You, tell me, what are you,
Good, or evil, or what?”
     And he answered: “I am a man.”
“What kind of man?” “The kind
You see. I’m nothing but myself.”
“And what are you doing?” “I’m here,
Guarding this herd near this wood.”
“Guarding them? By Saint Peter in Rome!
No one commands these beasts.
And how could you guard such savage
Creatures in an open field
Or a wood or anywhere else
If they’re neither tied nor shut in?”
“I guard them so carefully, and so well,
That they’d never leave this place.”
“Ridiculous! Tell me the truth!”
“Not one of them would move an inch
If he saw me coming …
But no one else could do this,
Just me. Anyone approaching
That herd would be killed at once.
And so I am the lord of my animals.”

***

When the storm had completely vanished
I saw so many birds
In that pine tree (could anyone believe me?)
That it looked as if every branch,
Every twig, was hidden by birds.
And the tree was even lovelier,
For the birds all sang at once,
In marvelous harmony, though each
Was singing its proper song
And not a note that belonged
To one was sung by another.
And I gloried in their happiness,
Listening as they sang their service
Through, unhurried: I’d never
Heard joy so complete,
And no one else will hear it,
I think, unless he goes there
And can hear what filled me with joy
And rapture so deep that I was carried
Away—

***

Hi Friends,

Today’s poem-a-day is a sampling from the first two sections of Yvain: The Knight of the Lion by the twelfth-century French poet Chrétien de Troyes, as translated by the twentieth-century poet and professor Burton Raffel. The original is in Old French, octosyllabic rhyming couplets, and 6,818 lines long.

Enjoy.
Ellen

Poem-a-day, April 25: dragged down deeper

Twenty-One Love Poems

XX

That conversation we were always on the edge
of having, runs on in my head,
at night the Hudson trembles in New Jersey light
polluted water yet reflecting even
Sometimes the moon
and I discern a woman
I loved, drowning in secrets, fear wound round her throat
and choking her like hair. And this is she
with whom I tried to speak, whose hurt, expressive head
turning aside from pain, is dragged down deeper
where it cannot hear me,
and soon I shall know I was talking to my own soul.

***

Hi Friends,

Yesterday’s poem-a-day is section XX of Adrienne Rich‘s “Twenty-One Love Poems” from her 1978 collection The Dream of A Common Language.

April is National Poetry Month, and I am celebrating by emailing out my own eclectic selection of one poem per day for the duration of the month. You can learn more about National Poetry Month at www.poets.org, the website of the Academy of American Poets.

Enjoy.
Ellen