Ithaka

As you set out for Ithaka

hope your road is a long one,

full of adventure, full of discovery.

Laistrygonians, Cyclops,

angry Poseidon—don’t be afraid of them:

you’ll never find things like that on your way

as long as you keep your thoughts raised high,

as long as a rare excitement

stirs your spirit and your body.

Laistrygonians, Cyclops,

wild Poseidon—you won’t encounter them

unless you bring them along inside your soul,

unless your soul sets them up in front of you.

Hope your road is a long one.

May there be many summer mornings when,

with what pleasure, what joy,

you enter harbors you’re seeing for the first time;

may you stop at Phoenician trading stations

to buy fine things,

mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,

sensual perfume of every kind—

as many sensual perfumes as you can;

and may you visit many Egyptian cities

to learn and go on learning from their scholars.

Keep Ithaka always in your mind.

Arriving there is what you’re destined for.

But don’t hurry the journey at all.

Better if it lasts for years,

so you’re old by the time you reach the island,

wealthy with all you’ve gained on the way,

not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.

Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey.

Without her you wouldn't have set out.

She has nothing left to give you now.

And if you find her poor, Ithaka won’t have fooled you.

Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,

you’ll have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.

Storm, passing

All kinds of things are happening to me.

Skin’s becoming scaly, forehead a terrain of anthills,

and my feet are stiffening as though belonging to a corpse.

Hair’s falling out of course. And there’s my mind.

I try to read, but words swirl

in little whirlwinds on the page;

even when they’re behaving, I feel

I’m gazing at some complicated log of random numbers.

Enough of this I say aloud, take to the beach –

perhaps it’s distance my eyes are seeking.

But there I find fish tumbling from the sky,

myself face up in a clump of seaweed

foamy wavelets eddying about me.

Almost blinding,

the light is different from what I’m used to.

and I wonder if I’m dreaming,

back in the southern hemisphere,

if this sinking will have a rising too.

The next cat out the bag’s

a female, fifteen or so,

standing, mouth ajar,

saying nothing.

A mackerel on my belly, flapping.

I see her stare,

want to reach a hand, see if I can touch her

but suddenly she’s not there, and I come to,

still lying in damp sand like a heavy log.

There’s nothing for it but to roll over,

watch the water gouge

a groove where my body’s been.

Back home, I make a cup of tea.

The kettle boils. I lift  a green mug from a hook

pour, and squeeze a lemon in.

So far, so good. I wash pots and plates, utensils.

Stare out at laundry, ponder.

The light is dimming and a rush of heat comes over me.

A massive bank of thunderclouds controls the sky.

I put on my headphones, turn up the volume,

dance until my body feels fifteen.

Rain pounds against the window. I close the blinds.

Digging

Jerry kicked off the poetry with this one. You can also hear Seamus Heaney read it here.

Between my finger and my thumb   

The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound   

When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:   

My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds   

Bends low, comes up twenty years away   

Stooping in rhythm through potato drills   

Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft   

Against the inside knee was levered firmly.

He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep

To scatter new potatoes that we picked,

Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.   

Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day

Than any other man on Toner’s bog.

Once I carried him milk in a bottle

Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up

To drink it, then fell to right away

Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods

Over his shoulder, going down and down

For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap

Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge

Through living roots awaken in my head.

But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests.

I’ll dig with it.

House Carpenter

Well met, well met, my own true love

Well met, well met, cried she

I've just returned from the salt, salt sea

And it's all for the love of thee

I could have married a King's daughter there

She would have married me

But I have forsaken my King's daughter there

It's all for the love of thee

Well, if you could have married a King's daughter there

I'm sure you're the one to blame

For I am married to a house carpenter

And I'm sure he's a fine young man

Forsake, forsake your house carpenter

And come away with me

I'll take you where the green grass grows

On the shores of sunny Italy

So up she picked her babies three

And gave them kisses, one, two, three

Saying "take good care of your daddy while I'm gone

And keep him good company."

Well, they were sailin' about two weeks

I'm sure it was not three

When the younger of the girls, she came on deck

Sayin' she wants company

"Well, are you weepin' for your house and home?

Or are you weepin' for your babies three?"

"Well, I'm not weepin' for my house carpenter

I'm weepin' for my babies three."

Oh what are those hills yonder, my love

They look as white as snow

Those are the hill of heaven, my love

You and I'll never know

Oh what are those hills yonder, my love

They look as dark as night

Those are the hills of hell-fire my love

Where you and I will unite

Oh twice around went the gallant ship

I'm sure it was not three

When the ship all of a sudden, it sprung a leak

And it drifted to the bottom of the sea

-- Anonymous [Phil Nichols]

Tonight @ the MFA!  

http://www.masspoetry.org/mfa

The Lake Isle of Innisfree

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.

--- W. B. Yeats [Jerry O]

Thoughts for March 11, 2017

What a joy that it is time for Poetry and Stout

T’would be good if I worked on a poem, no doubt

This party comes at a perfect time during the year

When a long winter is enough to bring this Californian a tear

“Genius” is what I call this noble tradition

I’d come even if it were considered sedition

Snow and temperatures that threaten to go below zero

for a plant to merely survive it should be considered a hero

The ground is inhospitable, hard and unforgiving

Thank heaven I don’t photosynthesize for a living

If you haven’t gotten the hint, I’m ready for spring

Unfortunately, patience is not part of the game I bring

So why not find something good to do with my indoor time?

Maybe I could do the investigative work to uncover a great crime

Maybe I could make a great contribution toward world peace

Maybe solve the problems between Turkey and Greece

Maybe I could do something to slow climate change

Somehow help our priorities to rearrange

Maybe these are a bit ambitious for a cold winter day

Cold or not, these are a tough bunch, anyway

Maybe I should embrace the bitter cold

Find something outside to do that is inspiring and bold

Maybe climb to some mountain top, or at least Spofford Gap

After giving it much though, I decided just to take a nap

-- Curtis Woodcock