Category: Blogspot

Everything’s been said
But one last thing about the desert,
And it’s awful: During brush fires in the Sonoran desert,
Brush fires that happen before the monsoon and in the great,
Deep, wide, and smothering heat of the hottest months,
The longest months,
The hypnotic, immeasurable lulls of August and July—
During these summer fires, jackrabbits—
Jackrabbits and everything else
That lives in the brush of the rolling hills,
But jackrabbits especially—
Jackrabbits can get caught in the flames,
No matter how fast and big and strong and sleek they are.
And when they’re caught,
Cornered in and against the thick
Trunks and thin spines of the cactus,
When they can’t back up any more,
When they can’t move, the flame—
It touches them,
And their fur catches fire.
Of course, they run away from the flame,
Finding movement even when there is none to be found,
Jumping big and high over the wave of fire, or backing
Even harder through the impenetrable
Tangle of hardened saguaro
And prickly pear and cholla and barrel,
But whichever way they find,
What happens is what happens: They catch fire
And then bring the fire with them when they run.
They don’t know they’re on fire at first,
Running so fast as to make the fire
Shoot like rocket engines and smoke behind them,
But then the rabbits tire
And the fire catches up,
Stuck on them like the needles of the cactus,
Which at first must be what they think they feel on their skins.
They’ve felt this before, every rabbit.
But this time the feeling keeps on.
And of course, they ignite the brush and dried weeds
All over again, making more fire, all around them.
I’m sorry for the rabbits.
And I’m sorry for us
To know this.

Today is Earth Day, and the Earth’s report-back to us this year is Not Good.

Right here in California, we’re having possibly our worst drought in more than 500 years (there’s a great little “Beyond A Reasonable Drought” quiz at www.californiaquiz.org), and yet I keep coming across people who very casually “don’t know” or “forgot” that we’re having any kind of drought at all; who actually frown and complain on the 2 out of 365 days it’s overcast in Southern California from something other than smog or massive wildfire smoke, or heaven forbid it actually rains here.

And here’s the thing: that is a 100% totally natural reaction. It’s an adaptive survival trait for the human mind to suppress thoughts that are just too massive and too depressing to comprehend — like drought. Or climate change. Or “we’re all gonna die.” Those may be true thoughts, but they’re not useful thoughts for a human just trying to get through one day and into the next day.

But if we’re going to survive not just day-to-day, but year-to-year, decade-to-decade, humans have to break through that adaptive suppression of some of those Big Dark Thoughts. And that’s where the poets (those “Touched with Fire”) come in and start hurtling rabbit-fireballs.

I would argue that the scientists have (more or less) done, and continue to do, their part — they’ve used reason and logic and numbers to try to convince the other humans of what we need to do to save ourselves. We (more or less) have the science to clean up the Pacific Garbage Patch, re-freeze glaciers, re-plant rainforests, maybe even repair the hole in the ozone and temper human population growth. We (more or less) have fiscal and governmental entities massive enough to implement that kind of global project. What we don’t have are the hearts and minds of the ever-growing masses.

I would argue it’s the poets (and I use “poets” loosely, for all those engaged in the arts of winning hearts and minds) who still have the most work to do if we are going to save ourselves from ourselves — and those poets, we poets, are running out of time.

I have a lot more to say about today’s poem by Alberto Ríos, the inaugural state poet laureate of Arizona, his choice of rabbits, and fire, the location of humans in the poem, the science behind what makes for a memorable poetic image, the fine line between depressing messages and messages that motivate action — but this is all getting quite long. So, let’s skip ahead to the single most hope-inducing, optimistic thing I have heard said about our chances, as a species, of not killing the entire planet right out from under our own feet. It comes from a prominent ecologist in the area of climate change impact on species’ survival, Chris Thomas:

“If nature can bounce back from an asteroid hit, it can probably bounce back from us.”

Happy Earth Day, and here’s to many more.

Love,
Ellen

To the dragon
any loss is
total. His rest
is disrupted
if a single
jewel encrusted
goblet has
been stolen.
The circle
of himself
in the nest
of his gold
has been
broken. No
loss is token.

Hello Friends—

I must confess I strongly considered just sending you all This Llama Frolicking to DMX instead of a poem today. And then I thought perhaps I’d send you Denise Levertov’s “Come into Animal Presence” and secretly hyperlink to the frolicking every time the world “llama” appears in that poem. But then I worried I’d already sent a disproportionate number of animal-related poems this April, what with all the birds and the whale and such, so: that’s how we arrived back at a poem about people — specifically today: grandmothers, and the men who flirt with them. Poet Mary Moore Easter is a professor of Dance emerita who I am going to guess is enjoying her retirement to the fullest.

“Mama Said …” appeared in the April 2013 issue of Poetry magazine and was also selected for the New York Times Poetry-News Pairings series (to complement the article “Oldest Woman in New York Celebrates Birthday No. 114.”)

Enjoy.
Ellen

branch

Hello Friends—

There’s a bit of Ezra Pound’s “In a Station of the Metro” in today’s untitled poem by Lorine Niedecker — another selection coming to you because of a gift given to me: a new friend Christie introduced me to the Wisconsin poet Lorine Niedecker (Thanks, Christie!). Niedecker’s biographer calls her “America’s Greatest Unknown Poet,” an impossible claim. But I can say this: Niedecker’s The Granite Pail: Selected Poems may have claim to the single greatest “blurb” I have ever encountered on the back cover of a poetry collection:

I’m not sure if you have to have read a lot of blurbs on the backs of poetry books, and/or a lot of William Carlos Williams, to appreciate this gem, or if it’ll come across even if you just have a sense of what the blurbs on the backs of books are like more generally — you’ll have to write back and let me know. I wish that Jake Adam York were alive for me to share this blurb with — he wrote a little piece for the Kenyon Review called “A Field Guide to North American Blurbs” and I just know that he would love it.

Happy National Poetry Month!
Ellen

Yours is a system of slow.

There is you, the pulley
and there is you, the weight.

Your eyes wide on a hymn.

Your deep song like the turn
of that first,

that earliest of wheels.

Known, little drum machine, you
to tease out food from the drink.

Little thimble of chalk and hard water.

You could be a callus of whiter skin.

You could be a knucklebone. You
who hang on me,

like a conscience.

There were so many cetacean visitors breaking the surface of my dreams last night — gray whales, great blue whales, humpbacks, orcas, a pair of Dall’s porpoises, belugas, sperm whales, right whales, wrong whales, some whales I don’t think exist, some whales I definitely know don’t exist. Perhaps something was weighing on my mind… Which weighs more, several dozen whales, all floating freely, swimming, dancing, leaping about, or one tiny nagging barnacle in a spot you can neither see nor reach?

Today’s imagined dialogue between a whale and a barnacle is the work of Cecilia Llompart, first published earlier this year as part of the Academy of American Poets‘ more official-like poem-a-day list.

For another take on whales, weight, the pulley, see poem-a-day April 2, 2007 “Weight, In Passing” by Andrea Haslanger.

Cheers,
Ellen

The mountain that remains when the universe is destroyed
is not big and is not small.
Big and small are

comparative categories, and to what
could the mountain that remains when the universe is destroyed
be compared?

Consciousness observes and is appeased.
The soul scrambles across the screes.
The soul,

like the square root of minus 1,
is an impossibility that has its uses.

P.S. Blogspot informs me that my Gorgeous Nothings post yesterday was a bit of a milestone: my 200th poem-a-day!*

A hummingbird flies into a window
that looks like the sky. Everything around here

looks like the sky. The sky looks tiger striped.
They call that kind of cloud

something. I know somebody
who knows about clouds. I could find

out the name. Everything around here
has a name.

2.

The hummingbird fell to the deck. My husband picked it up.

—What did it feel like in your hand?
—Nothing. It felt like nothing.
—Where is it now?
—Gone.
—Dead?
—Not dead. It flew away. It disappeared and it disappeared again.

3.

I’ll tell you a joke. A hummingbird flew into a window…

I’ll tell you another joke. Treachery,
we were friends once.

4.

In dreams the bird
weighs more, so you can feel it

when you pick it up. So when
it dies it seems

like something actually happened.
It’s a word

bound
around your hand and a sign

at the stripped road.
A mylar star on a plastic stick

tied to the sign.
Blacktop. Post. A fat star’s

wrinkles taut. It’s stuffed.

It’s shining.
There’s going

to be a party around here somewhere.
The bird weighs nothing waits nowhere.

The sky looks like a window and it flies right through.

A hummingbird got trapped in the castle stairwell today. Dead or nearly dead, we took it to a sheltered spot outside, and Bethany covered it with flowers.

A literal hummingbird flying into a window is just one reading of Melissa Ginsburg’s 2013 poem. Ginsburg highlights the briefness of a fellow poet’s life by including the years of his birth and death in her dedication “for Erik Lemke (1979 – 2012)” — a suggestion to the reader, along with the vastness of the sky, that this poem is bigger than one bird. The hummingbird seems to represent the kind of death that is so sudden and nonsensical, it doesn’t seem entirely real — even as you grasp it, it seems to have no weight.

Readers have puzzled over Ginsburg’s choice of “Tigers” for the title of this poem — I think it’s a title that’s not entirely for us; it’s in part something meaningful to Melissa Ginsburg and Erik Lemke on a personal level. But to my ear, there is also something of “tigers in red weather” in it — a line from a famous poem by Wallace Stevens, “Disillusionment of Ten O’Clock.” To me, there’s also something of Craig Arnold in this poem — a poet whose death in 2009 was also so sudden and nonsensical, it doesn’t seem entirely real: he disappeared into a volcano in Japan, leaving no body, but a great deal of weight, behind.

— Ellen