Join Dr. B for a poem reading at “An Evening in Paris” on Sunday, August 1st at the Pacific Grove Art Center, 568 Lighthouse Ave, from 5:30 p.m. tp 7:30 p.m.
First of all, welcome to our PoetrySlowDownâ€”youâ€™re slowing down with me, Professor Mossberg, aka Dr. B, with our Producer Zappa Johns, and the idea for the show is from Simon and Garfunkleâ€™s 59th Street Bridge Songâ€”slow down, you move too fast, youâ€™ve got to make the morning last. This show began as AM Talk Radio on 540AM, KRXA, and people called in from all over the U.S. and from several countries, and it was very ironicâ€”it was at noon, and so I thought that we would make the morning last, literally, by slowing down with poetry . . . There was news â€œat the top of the hour,â€ and I thought of time that way, as a shape, as a space, as a ball, and it was 54 minutes in diameter, although in my head it was an hour. I had three breaks for commercials, and it had to be exactly scheduled. So here I was, providing a time and place for people to slow down in their daily lives, and make the morning last, literally, and metaphorically for those on the east coast and Midwest and overseas, and I was hurrying, panting, a mile-a-minute trying to fit all the words in by the time it would go silent and the news, the late-breaking, heartbreaking news go on, eclipsing our heart-shaking news WITHOUT WHICH MEN DIE MISERABLY EVERY DAY (William Carlos Williams), so it was kind of paradoxical. Slowing down at breakneck speed. It was funny, too, because Paul Simonâ€™s lyrics about slowing down were specifically about being a poet, engaging with the world that way: Hello, lamppost, whatcha knowin? Iâ€™ve come to watch your flowers growin, ainâ€™t ya got no rhymes for me . . . So heâ€™s looking around his world, totally relaxed and chill, counting on rhymes, on the prowl and amble for poetry around every corner.
I was thinking about rhymes . . . they are sort of a miracle! How words that seemingly have nothing to do with each other sound alike, and thus call each other to mindâ€”as if they are actually connected. And so the brain thereby connects them. And each carries a meaning, something we can visualize–an object, an experience, a feeling, an idea, and to see such words rhyme, we instantly are connecting them, seeing how they relate. I was just reciting e.e. cummingsâ€™ â€œi thank You God for this amazingâ€ for my eco literature class, and by saying it out loud, you apprehend rhymes you might not notice by sight on the page. Iâ€™ll say it for us, since it is definitely a New Yearsâ€™ Poem, a new day, new decade, new life, waking up poem.
Since itâ€™s a sonnet, it has a formal rhyme scheme; every other lineâ€™s last word rhymes, in theory . . . thus, we have amazing and everything; trees and yes; earth and birth; day and gay; no and You; awake and, and opened. These rhymes make us understand the message, cummingsâ€™ gospel, that everything is amazing. This is a fairly not subversive, but radical proposition for the mind: a human responsibility to experience wonder, awe, reverence, astonishment, without boundaries, unconditionally. The final couplet almost gets by us: awake and/opened. It took me a few years to notice this, reading it and reciting it. I know! And so you think how brilliant, how clever cummings is, in his physics ministry, to make us get this connection between being awake and opened, in the sense of Henry David Thoreau and Diane Ackermanâ€™s A Natural History of the Senses–do you know this book? She has a slew of books on the neuroscience of consciousness from the point of view of poetryâ€”she is as lyric as they comeâ€”a Pablo Nerudaâ€”a sensual visualist; she is earthy, she smacks of earth-smells, of moss and rain and honeysuckle; she is intenseâ€”and her point is that if we open ourselves to our world, we experience the beauty, the reverence.
We hear Dolly Partonâ€™s song, sung with Willie Nelson, â€œEverything Is Beautiful In Its Own Way.â€
And there is a method I am learning from an artist at the University of Madrid, Rosalinda Ruiz-Scarfuto, the Flaneur method, which publisher and earth celebrator/plant genius Patricia Hamilton of Park Place Publications has been talking to me about, and I will be sharing this with you, this intersection of poetry and art and consciousness in our world, in which we walk more consciously if we touch, just as Ackerman asks us to look and sniff and touch and tasteâ€”and I have a slew of poems on this to share with you today, on a lemon and bear and whale and fox and fish and moose and crab, by people who walk through this world awakeâ€”Pablo Neruda, Galway Kinnell, Elizabeth Bishop, Ted Hughes, D.H. Lawrence, Mark Doty . . . who tell someone about it in the way Mary Oliver gives â€œInstructions for Life: Pay Attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.â€
It is a kind of revelation that rhyme provides us, a revealing of the inner workings and outer manifestations of our world, of how things connect. Einstein is a poet when he says e=mc2. Poets have their hand on the pulse of this mystery of the world, exploring the meanings of how things connect: Only connect, says E.M. Forster. Live in fragments no longer.
â€• E.M. Forster, Howards End
Itâ€™s so mysterious, how words rhyme, how sounds connect us . . . and make us see, and hear, whatâ€™s there. The sound of words and how we put them together can add up to insights . . . and rhymes can be at the end of the line, like roses are red, violets are blue, sugar is sweet, and so are you . . .or they can be slant, as we hear in e.e. cummings, or Emily Dickinson (â€œa little madness in the springâ€), or internal rhymes, like Dolly Partonâ€™s, and I found myself working with this in a poem in which I was writing about a difficult subject, my motherâ€™s failing health, her misery in an assisted living center hardly able to walk or eat or speak, and it was a what-do-you-wear-to-your-motherâ€™s-bedside poem, but somehow, rhyme became important:
After Pindar, Bon Chic Bon Genre: Ode to My BCBG Holy Inappropriate Dress
First, the strophic dress TURN Then me the antistrophe TURN Then you tell me.
It was on sale. Shopping with my teen-aged daughter. MOM! Itâ€™s two layers, almost see-through. Beneath is flesh-colored gauzeâ€”sewn into the bodice, and then flows free from the neck and arm seams. Thatâ€™s it! Thatâ€™s whatâ€™s going on with this dressâ€”Free. Flow. The top is bright soft red with white flowers. It is so transparent, so skimpy, so flimsy: like a cloud manifests, weightless, this dress flutters when I turn as if there is a breeze. It has its own weather system, eddies of wind, currents, squalls as I move, or even breathe. Even the sleeves, little flaps, bunched at the shoulder, then draping down, flutedâ€” the whole thing loose, wavy, rippling, the V-neck gathered, edged with ripples. Ladies, you know, help me out here. Then the empire waist, ruffles, thatâ€™s it: ruffles, all along my bodice, then, a ribbon sloping down into a bow; material so light, so translucent, so fluttery, it rides my curves lightly; and the dress descends, loosely, to a ten-inch ruffle, bordered by more tiny ruffles. So youâ€™ve got the dress, and now youâ€™re thinking of me, what, am I four? Or, nine? Or Audrey Hepburn at sixteen, or Maria from Sound of Music? Iâ€™m dating myself here. Iâ€™ve turned sixty. So they say. My arms: you know orangutans, the scope and heft of their feathered arms, enormous, hang prodigiously. Now think of flesh: soft white floppy, arms so heavy with soft flesh they dangle when I walk. My breasts are hanging, too, filling nicely a 34-G, and they sway; youâ€™ve seen me and dismissed me as a comic turn in a thousand films, the stout giggling aunt in the background, shaking to the music. My belly sags and sways. My jowls, you see gravity at work, erosion, fault lines exposed. Agingâ€™s geology.
So now, you have me turning, counter-turning. Now the epode.
Why? Why do I wear this dress? Well isnâ€™t it obvious? I wore it in Rome, and the children rolled their eyes to one another, and gave advice on how to wear the bow, my husband shook his head without shaking it. I peed in the plaza (they fled)â€”Okay! It happens! But the stains came out nicely. And I wear it today, with pearls, to visit my mother, in her outpost in the assisted living place, where we have hired twenty-four seven care since her two falls and perhaps one stroke three weeks ago. She has not spoken since. Last night I lay my hand on her trembling hand. Together like that, they looked so similarâ€”hers a little more wrinklyâ€”a few more brown spots– red from cumedin bruising, my own hand in twenty-eight years–twenty-eight years which once seemed enormousâ€” my mother of such size and heft to me, now a flutter in timeâ€”a ruffle, ripples on the surface, like stone dropped in pond, her ripples becoming my wrinkles, as pond absorbs our energy. Eighty-eight does not seem so far, and twenty-eight years a heartbeat, this morning at her bed with the rails we installed last week, so she doesnâ€™t fall out and hit her headâ€”hospice, which she does not know about, or she does, and none of us knows, either, how something like this is read. Is it clear to you this is my perkiest dress, so light it flutters when I walkâ€”you would swear I was in the Carpenteria afternoon breeze; if it had any more ruffles I would fly; I am a flag of some weightless nation, like a cloud manifests. My arms are bare. I flutter, and flap, and sag. It is so light. It billows and sways and caresses each curve. I have plans for tonightâ€” freedom and hope and time to finesse. I kiss her goodbye. She speaks: you. look. pretty. Thatâ€™s why. I wear this dress to face, face to face, heaviness, all gravityâ€™s laws, weighted with sorrow, and loss, and fear, in hospice, I bear it, I wear it, this buoyant excess, this innocence. Good style, good class: tell me itâ€™s an inappropriate dress.
c Barbara Mossberg 2018 (New Millennium Writings)
I wonder if when we meet each other, and connect in some chemical mysterious way, if that is a rhyme–if we realize that we rhyme with each other, in obvious ways, and in internal ways . . .if nature rhymes in its shapes and patterns and forms . . . if rhyme is a way that nature speaks . . . .
The slew of poems I have for us actually donâ€™t have many obvious rhymes, by some coincidence . . . yet key concepts are rhymed for impact; in looking at our world and connecting to its creatures; I think they rhyme the human heart with the soul of earth creatures the poet is connecting us to . . .
After our show today, when people say, how did you spend this hour, you can say, oh, I slowed down rhyming with a whale.
But I have taken us on a detour down a rabbit hole, today, because todayâ€™s show is built around the theme of recent books, What Would Alice Do?, and the great Alain de Bottonâ€™s How Proust Can Change Your Lifeâ€”the idea that we can learn practical things for our most quotidian challenges of life from ponderous, pondering, curious, and remarkable literature, that people think has nothing to do with our actual lives. I thought of this, speaking of our actual lives, sitting in my kitchen nook, with a book, What Would Alice Do? Extracting the wisdom of Alice, I was thinking about our show, drinking coffee, surrounded by books, and I noticed that the books I have there DO NOT RYHME, that is, they do not seem to get along, much less have to do with the kitchen. Well, of course there is The Joy of Cooking, but next to it is Emily Dickinson, and then Anthony Bourdain, and I was thinking, oh I shouldnâ€™t have them even next to each other, but then I realized Emily can take care of herself with the likes of Bourdain– they are equally lusty about earthly pleasures, whether oysters or puddings, and then I have books on chaos and cosmology, and Eugenides, his brilliant Middlesexâ€”and Lucille Clifton, and books by my friends: it frankly is a hodgepodge. No one belongs. No one gets along. It is the opposite of rhyme. Yet it is my kitchen nook booky companions I take up when I drink coffee, or water in a wine bottle I keep there because the label says Merry and Kind, I love that. So on the topic of what would Alice do? Just like How Proust Can Change Your Life by Alain de Botton, or the Tao of Pooh, these works that extract the wisdom of a poet and translate it into a practical how to, to do, for the affairs and difficulties of our lives, the etiquette, the manners, of as Joseph Conrad said, how to be. So I thought I would try this as an experiment with Pablo Neruda, whose lemon poem I read as an example of his spirit rhyming with earth.
|Well, I am not sure: what would Neruda do? He would slice that lemon, for sure . . . and he would be enthralled. What about Rumi? This being human is a guest house.|
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice.
meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.
Be grateful for whatever comes.
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
â€” Jellaludin Rumi,
So here is our chance to know What Would Rumi Say? WWRS? What Would Rumi Do? WWRD?
First, the doorbell rings. We should answer it, for sure. The people outside look strange and evenâ€”dangerous. But we should let them in. Yes, they may be robbing the house, sweeping us clean, but that is a good thing! That is what Rumi would do! He would say, bring it on!
Dear Mr. Rumi, I have been having very distressing thoughts lately. It is hard to get out of bed.
Dear Distressed: laugh, and welcome them. This could be a good thing.
It may seem, dear Listener of our Poetry Slow Down, that invoking Rumi for hard times, with his bring-it-on, welcome it in, philosophy, is not that practical, because unlike Rumi, who lived in the 1200s, our world today is challenging beyond his imagination. But consider: Rumi was born on September 30, 1207, present-day Afghanistan. His family had to flee the massacre of Genghis Khanâ€™s army all the way to southern Turkey. Despite the violence surrounding him, Rumi was a poet of compassion, kindness, faith, spiritual insight and enlightened living. He did not write about military revenge or political power, but advocated love.
In 1244 AD he came across a wandering dervish named Shamsuddin of Tabriz. Shamsuddin and Rumi were friends. Shams Rumi expressed his love for Shamsuddin. After Shams died, had great grief; out of that pain he wrote nearly 70,000 verses of poetryâ€”and music and dance. What we really can learn from Rumi is how to manage grief: write 70,000 poems. Dance. Promote love and gratitude. â€œThe horse of love has brought us here from a grand Mystery.â€ â€œPlant seeds of compassion in this pure land,â€ he urges us.
It seems the message is that love and forgiveness saves the day: it turns out that Einstein practices, WWRD? What would Rumi do? But that is for another podcast, if e=mc2, what then, and what does love have to do with it? You have slowed down with the Poetry Slow Down, and Iâ€™m thanking the Eugene Team, Ashley Kim, the Oak Knoll Team and sound engineer set up Nico Moss, our producer Zappa Johns, our Engineer O. Really, the Pacific Grove Poetry Collective, Park Place Publications with Patricia Hamilton, and Rosalinda Ruiz-Scarfuto, for the Flaneur methodology which is coming to us soon, and Iâ€™m your host, Professor Barbara Mossberg, Dr. B, and youâ€™ve been slowing downâ€”you know you move too fast . . . youâ€™ve been rhyming!
What is in your kitchen bookshelf? Letâ€™s noodle that . . . Write me at Barbara.firstname.lastname@example.org, and I remain yours truly, with the news you need, the news you need, the news without which men die miserably every day! Not you, not you . . . thank you for joining me on this life journey! We definitely rhyme!
Â© Barbara Mossberg 2020
As we consider Emerson (whom the late Harold Bloom called â€œGodâ€) and Einstein, and Astra theology, and what is known about the universe in ancient and emergent minds, considering human and civil rights,Â Â peace, and the environment (Peace! Love! Freedom! Happiness!) in which we hear (Hear! Hear!) fromÂ Listen, John Steinbeck, Rumi, John Lennon, Elvis, and â€œHair,â€ as well as Leonard Bernstein, as well as Ian Chillagâ€™s Radiotopiaâ€™s â€œEverything is Alive.â€ And moreâ€”thoughts with the University of Oregonâ€™s Insight Seminar and Clark Honors Collegeâ€™s â€œThinking Like the Sun: Travel in Ancient and Emergent Minds.â€ This is Professor Barbara Mossberg with our Producer Zappa Johns.Â
Who understands e=mc2? It takes a genius, right?Â Do we think genius is beyond us? That genius is Einstein maybe, but not you? Do we think Einstein is in his own orbit, far removed from us? We may think knowledge of the world is far from what we can grasp in our everyday life–and thus let it go as an intellectual luxury we cannot afford, and turn back to our daily reality, the shoelace and the biscuit, the diagnosis, the wine, the tomato harvested from the garden. Loveâ€”worry, trying so hard to do the right thingâ€”these are our joys and work. And as for Emerson, well, is he just impossible to understand to the point of irrelevance?
â€œMy heart rouses thinking to bring you news of something that concerns you and concerns many men. Look at what passes for the new. You will not find it there but in despised poems. It is difficult to get the news from poems yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there.â€
William Carlos Williams gives both a diagnosis and Rx in poetry, as difficult and despised as it may be. Together with the idea of irrelevance to our stressed responsible lives, these ideas of literature, and genius as something we donâ€™t have to worry about, are contested and exuberantly and earnestly interrogated by two of the greatest minds of the 19thand 20thcenturies, who sought to convince us that WE are what the doctor ordered. In fact, that we are geniuses the world needs now. And they are going to define just what they think this means, as wise, enlightened citizenry.Â
Â© Barbara Mossberg 2019
Who understands e=mcÂ²? It takes a genius, right? Do we think genius is beyond us? That genius is Einstein maybe, but not you? Do we think Einstein is in his own orbit, far removed from us? We may think knowledge of the world is far from what we can grasp in our everyday life–and thus let it go as an intellectual luxury we cannot afford, and turn back to our daily reality, the shoelace and the biscuit, the diagnosis, the wine, the tomato harvested from the garden. Loveâ€”worry, trying so hard to do the right thingâ€”these are our joys and work. And as for Emerson, well, is he just impossible to understand to the point of irrelevance?
Â© Barbara Mossberg 2019
Let us consider poetry as necessary for life as soil. Just because nutritious soil is necessary to life, all our lives on earth, does not mean it is not downright miraculous. A little clay here, rock there, dust, remains, odds and ends of minerals, a hodgepodge of organic and inorganic grow beanstalks for giants. And so poetry, remarkable makings of new life and old life, what is mud and what shines, the quotidian reality revealed as utterly remarkable. It turns out nursery rhymes are literal. People live in shoes. The dish runs away with the spoon. When we figure out dark energy, phantom energy, weâ€™ll know this was right. Weâ€™ll know it is violin music that makes the chemicals in soil come to life, the spirit, Godâ€™s breath. As we consider harvest days, and pumpkins in the fields, itâ€™s not the pumpkin spice we love in all the products now flavored with pumpkin, itâ€™s the orange, the roundness we want, that we taste, itâ€™s the goodness of its soil that makes the orange and the round, the remarkable of everything we see, everything we are. This is the dust of our minds, of our spirits, this not taking for granted what is here, this is the spin, the miracle of it.c Barbara Mossberg 2019
Food is on my mind, as you see, but on your mind as well. I know this, because you have written me about our â€œhelpful banana breadâ€ series on the poetry of food and hunger. So Iâ€™m in. This show does include an original recipe for pumpkin soup, so keep your pens handyâ€”you remember pensâ€”you remember handsâ€”you remember handsâ€”of course you doâ€”youâ€™re the POETRY SLOW DOWN, youâ€™re evolved, youâ€™re ancient wisdom on which so much depends, your ears are what the doctor ordered, the earth needs now: so HEARâ€™s the skinny (alas) on food from the point of view of your radio host, Iâ€™m your Professor Barbara Mossberg, aka Dr. B, produced by our faithful Zappa Johns, yes THAT Zappa, a West Coast commitment along the tectonic plates, and speaking of plates, and plating it, letâ€™s begin, letâ€™s gather at the table, for the Contents! The Tableof Contents! Ah, I get it, Dr. B! Of course you doâ€”youâ€™re the POETRY SLOW DOWN.
Â© Barbara Mossberg 2019