“Don’t be afraid”—Seamus Heaney’s “last words”

Language arts in the news this week: the news without which “men die miserably every day.” So here is to living happily today—hear-hear—as in the earliest poetry which was recited, stories told, and to aid the speakers’ memory, it was rhythmic, it rhymed, it used stock phrases while the speaker gathered her or his thoughts, yes, her, too—did you know that Samuel Butler in the late 1890s translated the Odyssey with the theory that Homer was a young woman?—I can see this, totally, but that is for another show, in fact, next week’s show is on the issue of translation of poetry, and I’ll tell you about that in a while, because it is a HUGE issue, that concerns you and me very much. But meanwhile, our news today is from newsy language happenings, maybe happiness:

“Don’t be afraid”—Seamus Heaney’s “last words” Continue reading

THIS POEM: POETS SLOW DOWN TO CONSIDER THE QUESTIONS THAT MAKE US THANKFULLY HUMAN; THEY HAVE “NO IDEA” BUT THEY WRITE THE POEM ANYWAY AND THAT IS THE POINT, by Rumi, Randall Mann, Archibald MacLeish, Robert Frost, Billy Collins, Muriel Rukeyser, Emily Dickinson, Baudelaire, Pablo Neruda, Walt Whitman, and Professor Higgins, and more

All day I think about it, then at night I say it.
Where did I come from, and what am I supposed to be doing?
I have no idea.
My soul is from elsewhere, I’m sure of that,
and I intend to end up there. 

This drunkenness began in some other tavern.
When I get back around to that place,
I’ll be completely sober. Meanwhile,
I’m like a bird from another continent, sitting in this aviary.
The day is coming when I fly off,
but who is it now in my ear who hears my voice?
Who says words with my mouth? 

Who looks out with my eyes? What is the soul? 
I cannot stop asking.
If I could taste one sip of an answer,
I could break out of this prison for drunks.
I didn’t come here of my own accord, and I can’t leave that way.
Whoever brought me here, will have to take me home. 

This poetry. I never know what I’m going to say.
I don’t plan it.
When I’m outside the saying of it,
I get very quiet and rarely speak at all. Continue reading

*SERMONS IN STONES, I AM A ROCK, YOU ARE A ROCK, HE/SHE/IT IS A ROCK, WE ARE A ROCK, YOU ARE A ROCK, THEY ARE A ROCK: THE CONJUGATION OF RIPRAP, A ROCKING SHOW*

The news we need, “without which men die miserably every day” (William
Carlos Williams)—in this case, news that we ALL came from Mars. From Kabir
to Shakespeare to John Muir to Gary Snyder, we’re celebrating what poets
make of science news, or rather poet’s sciency news, considering the recent
discoveries about our life roots in rocky Mars. We’ll hear bossy and
helplessly enthusiastic poems about what we should do on earth right now,
with reverence and joy in each other and all this world has always been and
has in store.

© Barbara Mossberg 2013

OLD DOGS: LEARNING LIFE TRICKS, GOOD NEWS, FROM THE POETS

Chuck Tripi’s poem
Janet’s poem Rumi she sent!

TODAY, like every other day, we wake up empty and frightened. Don’t open the door to the study and begin reading. Take down a musical instrument. Let the beauty we love be what we do. There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground. The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you. Don’t go back to sleep.

Continue reading

COMMANDO HOPE: POEMS ON TURNING 65

This is good news for all of us. Many of you know 65 and all of us hope to know. Some did not make it but lit the way of aging with commando* hope—going forth, being in the moment, unprepared, saying our lines anyway! We’ll hear poets writing in their late 60s, 70s, 80s, 90s, and 100+, and my sense, on turning 65, what’s old, what’s new, what’s borrowed, what’s blue, what matters, what’s the matter, what smatters, what shatters, what clatters, what spatters, what’s to enjoy, what’s to live for and against, what’s to say, who can say, who knows, what’s happening, some o’ that . . .
So in our days of hot messes in this month of August, poetry cools us down, sees us in our glory, a magic mirror in which you’re cool and beaming and lustrous. That’s how I see you, earnestly living this life, striving to do justice to the gift of consciousness, and as I reflect on my birthday with you, I am brimming with gratitude and honor at you being in my life, this gift of a poetry community to whom what we say and how we say it matters utterly to our world.
© Barbara Mossberg 2013