Is that a poem in your pocket?


Hello Friends,

April 26 is officially Poem in Your Pocket Day, brought to you by the Academy of American Poets — the same folks who bring you National Poetry Month.

Those of you who have been on this list for nine years or more may have seen today's poem before, but I hope it lends itself to re-reading as one of my very favorite pocket-sized (or any-sized) poems of all time.

Enjoy.
Ellen


Hymn for Lota

Close, close all night
the lovers keep.
They turn together,
in their sleep,

close as two pages
in a book
that read each other
in the dark.

Each knows all
the other knows,
learned by heart
from head to toes.

"Hymn for Lota" comes from the unpublished works of Elizabeth Bishop (1911-1979) — published in the 2006 collection Edgar Allan Poe & The Juke-Box: Uncollected Poems, Drafts, and Fragments by Elizabeth Bishop, edited by Alice Quinn. This poem is also featured in Marta Góes’s one-woman play A Safe Harbor for Elizabeth Bishop.

"Hymn to Lota" by Elizabeth Bishop was also featured for Poem-a-Day April 5, 2009 and Poem-a-Day April 3, 2007.
Poems by Elizabeth Bishop were also featured for Poem-a-Day April 6, 2008 and Poem-a-Day April 13, 2010.

Poem-a-Day April 2: Train Tracks

Trying to Name What Doesn’t Change

Roselva says the only thing that doesn’t change
is train tracks. She’s sure of it.
The train changes, or the weeds that grow up spidery
by the side, but not the tracks.
I’ve watched one for three years, she says,
and it doesn’t curve, doesn’t break, doesn’t grow.

Peter isn’t sure. He saw an abandoned track
near Sabinas, Mexico, and says a track without a train
is a changed track. The metal wasn’t shiny anymore.
The wood was split and some of the ties were gone.

Every Tuesday on Morales Street
butchers crack the necks of a hundred hens.
The widow in the tilted house
spices her soup with cinnamon.
Ask her what doesn’t change.

Stars explode.
The rose curls up as if there is fire in the petals.
The cat who knew me is buried under the bush.

The train whistle still wails its ancient sound
but when it goes away, shrinking back
from the walls of the brain,
it takes something different with it every time.


Hello Friends,

It’s a nearly universal experience to read or hear the same words over again, and have them mean something different to us, isn’t it? How human of us!

Something we didn’t touch directly on with yesterday’s “Vocabulary” poem is how the meaning of even a single word changes over time and in different contexts — context in sentence, in a room, in the mouth of a particular speaker, in the walls of the brain it reverberates in. You could make an argument that a word signifies something slightly different every single time it’s used — as Humpty Dumpty* argues in Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking Glass when he says (in a rather scornful tone), “When I use a word, it means just what I choose it to mean — neither more nor less.”

Today’s poem, from the Palestinian-American poet Naomi Shihab Nye in her 1995 collection Words Under the Words: Selected Poems, is in part about how much of a poem’s, a word’s, a sound’s, a train’s meaning — at the very least half — belongs to the listener, the reader, the audience.

You know that saying about the tree falling in the woods, whether it makes a sound or not if nobody hears it? Is it any less mysterious when the tree falls and people do hear the sound — how much the tree determines what the sound it makes sounds like, and how much the people listening determine that sound? And how much something so much bigger.

You think about that tree, or the train whistle, and don’t ever let anyone tell you that you got the meaning of a poem “wrong,” ok? It’s entirely possible for a poem to mean something to you that the poet never intended — you could argue it’s not only possible, but inevitable. But that doesn’t make the meaning you read wrong; it just makes it yours.

For what Edna St. Vincent Millay hears in the train whistle, see “Traveling.” And for another take on what doesn’t change when stars explode, see Elizabeth Bishop’s “The Shampoo.”

April is National Poetry Month, and I am celebrating with my own eclectic selection of 30 poems by 30 poets, and some of what they mean to me. Thank you again for letting me share this month with you.

— Ellen

* This is the same Humpty Dumpty who, when Alice asks him, “Would you kindly tell me the meaning of the poem ‘Jabberwocky’?”, replies, “I can explain all the poems that ever were invented—and a good many that haven’t been invented just yet.” One of the amusing things about Humpty Dumpty’s character is that when he’s the speaker, he attributes 100% of the control over language’s meaning to the speaker (or writer). But when Humpty Dumpty is the listener, he attributes 100% of the control over language’s meaning to the listener (or reader).

Poem-a-Day, April 13: concentric shocks

The Shampoo
By Elizabeth Bishop

The still explosions on the rocks,
the lichens, grow
by spreading, gray, concentric shocks.
They have arranged
to meet the rings around the moon, although
within our memories they have not changed.

And since the heavens will attend
as long on us,
you’ve been, dear friend,
precipitate and pragmatical;
and look what happens. For Time is
nothing if not amenable.

The shooting stars in your black hair
in bright formation
are flocking where,
so straight, so soon?
—Come, let me wash it in this big tin basin,
battered and shiny like the moon.


Poems by Elizabeth Bishop were also featured for Poem-a-Day April 3, 2007; Poem-a-Day April 6, 2008; and Poem-a-Day April 5, 2009.

Poem-a-Day, April 16: Some rift between

MYTH

I was asleep while you were dying.
It’s as if you slipped through some rift, a hollow
I make between my slumber and my waking,

the Erebus I keep you in, still trying
not to let go. You’ll be dead again tomorrow,
but in dreams you live. So I try taking

you back into morning. Sleep-heavy, turning,
my eyes open, I find you do not follow.
Again and again, this constant forsaking.

Again and again, this constant forsaking:
my eyes open, I find you do not follow.
You back into morning, sleep-heavy, turning.

But in dreams you live. So I try taking,
not to let go. You’ll be dead again tomorrow.
The Erebus I keep you in — still, trying —

I make between my slumber and my waking.
It’s as if you slipped through some rift, a hollow.
I was asleep while you were dying.


Hello Friends,

Much like Elizabeth Bishop’s villanelle “One Art,” Natasha Trethewey’s “Myth” conveys the impossible enormity of loss through the tightness of the form employed to contain it — as strict or stricter than any villanelle or pantoum. The structure of “Myth” evokes ancient myths of reflection — Narcissus, Echo — and also gestures toward the perfect symmetry and circularity of 11th-14th century courtly love epics (wherein moral outcomes are determined by simple formulas, codes… the good guy always wins, and nobody dies in his sleep).

I had a hard time choosing which poem from Natasha Trethewey‘s 2006 collection Native Guard to send to you; if you like this one, you won’t be disappointed by checking out the whole book.

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

Best,
Ellen

Poet Natasha Trethewey was also featured for Poem-a-Day April 18, 2010.

Poem-a-Day, April 5: reading in the dark

Hymn for Lota

Close, close all night
the lovers keep.
They turn together,
in their sleep,

close as two pages
in a book
that read each other
in the dark.

Each knows all
the other knows,
learned by heart
from head to toes.


Hello Friends,

Today’s untitled poem comes from the unpublished works of Elizabeth Bishop (1911-1979) — published in the 2006 collection Edgar Allan Poe & The Juke-Box: Uncollected Poems, Drafts, and Fragments by Elizabeth Bishop, edited by Alice Quinn. This poem is also featured in Marta Góes’s one-woman play A Safe Harbor for Elizabeth Bishop.

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

“Hymn to Lota” by Elizabeth Bishop was also featured for Poem-a-Day April 3, 2007.
Poems by Elizabeth Bishop were also featured for Poem-a-Day April 6, 2008 and Poem-a-Day April 13, 2010.

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 6: the art of losing

One Art

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

***

Hello Friends,

Elizabeth Bishop‘s “One Art” is an example of a villanelle, a difficult poetic form to master. You can read more about the villanelle form here. There’s also an excellent analysis of this poem in Chapter 2 of Edward Hirsch’s How To Read A Poem.

Today’s poem is dedicated to Nishat and to my grandmother.

Love,
Ellen

Poems by Elizabeth Bishop were also featured for Poem-a-Day April 3, 2007; Poem-a-Day April 5, 2009; and Poem-a-Day April 13, 2010.

Poem-a-Day, April 3: reading in the dark

Hymn to Lota

Close, close all night
the lovers keep.
They turn together,
in their sleep,

close as two pages
in a book
that read each other
in the dark.

Each knows all
the other knows,
learned by heart
from head to toes.

*

Hello Friends —

Today’s poem comes from the published unpublished works of Elizabeth Bishop (1911-1979).

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. If you wish to be unsubscribed from this Poem-a-Day email list at any time, please reply to this email with a friendly unsubscribe request (preferably in heroic couplet form). You may also request to add a consenting friend to the list, or even nominate a 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

P.S. Happy Birthday, Dara!

“Hymn to Lota” by Elizabeth Bishop was featured again for Poem-a-Day April 5, 2009.
Poems by Elizabeth Bishop were also featured for Poem-a-Day April 6, 2008 and Poem-a-Day April 13, 2010.