Happy New Year all over again, am I right? I'm pretty sure none of us is able to release ourselves fully into the glorious dawning of a new America, knowing as we do that all THAT really is Who We Are--but at least maybe it won't be quite so draining every day. Maybe we can relax a little.
But how about that Amanda Gorman, friends?! The future looks bright.
In my off-hours, I've been looking selfishly towards a time when I will not be a full-time classroom teacher and can become a full-time poet-teacher-writer. To this end I hired a local poet to coach me in the ways of adult poetry publishing--journals, chapbooks, full-length collections--and how to start submitting in earnest Her name is Sarah Ann Winn and we get along very well, not least because she spent 15 years as an elementary school librarian. I HAVE LEARNED SO MUCH.
One thing I have learned is that the 12 years' worth of original poetry published here for you, friends, is unfortunately not available to submit. Most adult journals consider work posted on a blog as "previously published" and will not accept it for publication. So I have to start keeping my InstadraftTM poems to myself until I know what they are, which represents a pretty radical change to the way I blog.
So I have an idea, which I will approach in rather a different way than the younger me, which is to say, "Let's see how this goes." I (like you?) have shelves full of adult poetry books that have never received my full attention. Each Friday I'll pull one down and find a poem that I like and post it here. If I can, I'll find a poem for young readers that goes with it in some way, and add that. Welcome to my Self-Taught Poetry Survey: the STPS.
Let's see what Mark McMorris has for us in his book ENTREPOT (Coffee House Press, 2010). [Disambiguation: not the Canadian professional snowboarder.] From the ToC I choose one that might have bearing on our current moment...and I am right.
Auditions for Utopia--for Donald | Mark McMorris
Say then that there is a room with large windows.
Sunlight filters in from the sky’s reservoir.
One wall holds a scene of naked olive bodies
and giant ferns, bodies like ferns and ferns
with the aplomb of the forest, and I am indoors.
Not that they vanish but that the mind which drew
inward to disclose the forms of one happiness
found what it did not gestate--on the island
whistle and seaside refrain, blades of sunlight
peeling automata from the senses--and chose
to be its province with its own star-apple trees.
The mind is an emperor. Or the mind is subject
to decree from obscure parliaments of language.
And if the latter, the leafy bodies motionless
in the heat intimate a turn from ordinary sickness
draft a pledge to labor to liberate the faculty
from grammars beholden to icy winds and freezing
waterways winding down to the naval port.
Antidote to tyranny and serfdom, beauty is a face
alive with secrets but no designs on the soul.
The other wall of the sun-dazzled room shows
the polis in smoky industrial affray, the emblems
of feudal lord and banker and sea captain
in stately parade underneath the parchment heaven.
Stevedores load gigantic ship holds with cotton.
A locomotive circles the stockyards like a cheetah.
Somewhere else, counter-posed to labial orchids,
the estates of sugar and coffee transact menace.
Unless the muralist desire the comity of slave
and feudal lord, or captain and bulky stevedore
the earlier scene must altogether disappear
to become the prehistory of advertising perfume:
langorous beaches kissed by a glittering sun
where industrialists repose in the elbow of a cove.
The mind is bottomless. The mind is a membrane
of nothing where beam of light falls toward
a gravity well, curving into the fall, a fragment
of expanding cracks in a stable law ante bellum
center-most oleander and the shade it gives.
Only images to keep a body quiet. Little wishes.
**********************
Phew...the density, the vocabulary, the transportation. We have been sold a bill of goods, people, and it is time to open the box, take out all the bubble wrap and packing peanuts and see what's really inside.
As it happens this poem reminds me of one for young readers which is quite familiar. 😊
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by me, from SQUEEZE: Poems from a Juicy Universe (WordSong, 2005) |
I don't have time this morning to pull a
Pádraig Ó Tuama on these poems, but I do wonder from what place inside that box I wrote "Throwing the Roads."Our host this Poetry Friday is my neighbor and friend Laura Shovan, who, as I hoped, is properly shining the spotlight on that Amanda Gorman. Let's spend more attention on the battered and less on the beautiful now, okay?