I do love me some W.H. Auden

I've been enjoying the opportunity to explore more of Auden's poetry.  Today: "September 1, 1939," "In Memory of Sigmund Freud," and "In Memory of W.B. Yeats."  These are three very specific, very personal poems.  While I enjoyed them all, the first really hit home.  It is Auden's reaction to the news that Germany has invaded Poland.  Auden chooses not to attack Hitler and the Nazis specifically.  Instead he addresses the false and common belief that the masses must follow authority - that the Fuhrer, or the President, or the Prime Minister knows best and will protect us.  Auden acknowledges that each individual ultimately only acts in his or her own best interest and warns that without love we will perish (an idea that he later recanted, cutting the poem from future printings).  Of course we won't die, we'll just live a bit more miserably than we would without love.  But, as I posted on our class discussion board, without respect, we will die.  If I cannot respect those with whom I disagree, how can I expect them to respect me?  And more importantly, how can we then coexist peacefully?  I wonder where wars come from, huh?

Love, War, Alienation, and Inanity

Today I read "Lullaby" (not "A Lullaby" - took me a few to figure out I'd read the wrong poem) and "Refugee Blues" by W.H. Auden and "Not Waving But Drowning"" and "Pretty" by Stevie Smith.  I loved them all.  (I did enjoy "A Lullaby" as well, but it was a bit difficult to answer questions about romantic love based on this poem.)  It's funny.  We started out with T.S. Eliot's "The Waste Land."  Eliot seems to have crammed every bleak, confusing, contradictory thing about life into that poem.  Now, we're looking at several of these issues individually.  Life in modern society can be overwhelming.  We can't fix everything.  Personally, I've tried to stake out one or two little corners where I might be able to make a small difference.  I did enjoy each of these poems, as I have enjoyed everything I've read so far.  I just find it depressing sometimes, focusing on problems for which I suspect no solution will be forthcoming in my lifetime.

Are we really connected?

I've been in some discussions lately about just how connected we really are these days. The internet, email, cell phones, texting . . . In theory, all these things should allow us to remain "close" to those from whom we are geographically separated. I just don't know if that's really the case.

Signal Interrupted

Connected not
connected
Broadcasting

receiving

nothing.
Signal interrupted.

How many terminals?
How many channels?
How many decrypters?
How many keys?
How many codes?

Exponentially exponential..
Line upon line
filtered and
refiltered.

Code degradation.

Internal software error.

Static on the line.
Nothing on the line.
Dead air.

Where do the unwritten poems go?

Blowing in the wind
Originally uploaded by dotlyc

I was thinking lately about the ideas that come to me at just the wrong time - when I can't or won't write them down. Where do they go?

A slip of an idea
barely formed
so fragile
so delicate
able to be whispered away,
scattered with a breath.

Forced Wallowing

I try not to wallow in the past, try not to have any regrets. But sometimes, something triggers a flashback.

Time Warp

It creeps up when least expected
And – BAM! – a sucker-punch to the brain.
Cringing, pulling away.
Unh! Where did this come from?
Unrelated to the now
A sudden fracture in time.
Dragged through the portal to act it out again
There, in that when, as surely as she is here now.
One second a woman,
The next, a teen in a moment of utter humiliation
Or a five-year-old crying in shame
Or a twenty-year-old biting her tongue too late.
Then sucked back into the present, shuddering.
Safe harbor after time-travel.

P.S. The fibromyalgia study didn't pan out.

Things to Do: Be More Socially Relevant

I am feeling a bit guilty that my blog has turned out to be more of a personal journal, self-analyzing, home-therapy type than a socio-political commentary on the state of our world. This is what comes from using my poetry as a springboard for my comments, I suppose.

However, recent events - specifically the possibility of having an African American candidate for President in the general election - have me thinking about ethnic conflict in America. I mean, sad as it is, it still exists. Some people still hold on to the notion that different means inferior. Get it through your heads people: each of us is different, but we are all human! The thought that some people cannot grasp this sometimes sends me to the brink of despair. I, however, still have hope that we (humanity) can get beyond this. I doubt that I'll live to see it, but I do believe it will happen. Can't say the same for everyone else, though.

Never Say Never

I refuse
I reject
The brick wall of never.

Never
Word of terrible weight
Depressing, strangling
Barrier to possibilities.
Never brings tears to eyes
Hopelessness to hearts
Shrivels belief
Kills promise.

I prefer
I embrace
Not in my lifetime
or
Not in the foreseeable future
or
Not until human hearts can be open.

Never is eternal
Guilt and regret
The sins of the parents
Visited on the sons and daughters
The nation
In perpetuity.

Give me a someday
A brilliant future
Of hope, light, and harmony.

But I will never accept never.

The Pain Remains the Same

So, no fibromyalgia study yet. Had to stay home with my sick kid. I'll make it through okay; I always do. As I've said, my body is falling apart. I guess part of it is just aging. And those pounds don't come off as easily as they used to. It's funny. I've always claimed to be comfortable in my body, to happy with the weight I am. But now, after thinking that I had gotten over the terrible years of self-loathing and low self-esteem, I'm finding that my looks do matter to me - more than I thought. Hopefully I can pull myself back up and not let it rub off on my daughter. I've tried so hard to make sure she knows that the exterior is not important. I'd hate to ruin all my work now.

That brave former
Miss America
on television just now
said she visited the White House
once.
Met Eleanor Roosevelt.
But poor Eleanor . . .
that woman said
she would never win
a beauty contest.
Poor Eleanor.
She was saddled with
intelligence, courage,
and compassion.
How many points for those?

Anticipation . . .

I suppose that title could be intriguing, but this is the anticipation of an old body waiting for relief. See, I'm falling apart at 38. Been diagnosed with osteoarthritis, IBS (if you don't know, you probably don't want to), had bunyon surgery, get the occasional severe headache (haven't bothered to find out if these are really migraines), etc . . . Turns out that these are all symptoms of something called fibromyalgia. I've known this for a while but have never talked to my doctor about it. Tuesday, I'm going in to see if I get a diagnosis and can qualify for a study. This is positive either way, as I will know what I'm truly dealing with.


While I was reading about fibromyalgia at the Mayo Clinic website, I learned that moodiness, anxiety, and depression, which I have been experiencing with increasing frequency over the years, are also symptoms.


So, this leads to another poem. When I started writing it, it was kind of a joke. I've mentioned before my desire to hide under things when I get stressed out. I'm not kidding. Whether it's a school desk, my desk at home, or the bed, if I'm feeling stressed, I imagine myself climbing underneath and hiding. I haven't done it yet. I guess the day it actually happens will be the day I know I have to get help. I've been trying to write about it for a while. I tried a short story, then a poem. The poem did not have the wry humorous tone I was shooting for. It was the first time I realized there actually might something serious beneath (no pun intended) my strange pre-occupation.

letting go

i did it –
finally stopped struggling
gravity got me after all –
pulled me right under

finally stopped struggling
i’d held my ground so many times
pulled me right under
the dragging weight – at last

i’d held my ground so many times
voices clamored from every corner
the dragging weight – at last
comes the call, irresistible

voices clamored from every corner
this time I let go
comes the call, irresistible,
and I find myself sliding, sliding

this time I let go
i did it
i find myself sliding, sliding –
gravity got me after all

How Did This Turn Into My Poetry Blog?

Not that I mind, really. I enjoy writing it and Lord knows I could use some feedback.

One person’s cheese (product)

With thanks to Linda McDonald

Someone once said:
“One person’s cheese
is another person’s salvation.”
Well, my sights are set a little lower.
So lay off.
This cheese (product) is mine.
I’ll melt it and drizzle it
all over the page if I want.
You can use the Brie or Camembert
and save the world,
but I’ll stick with the cheese (product).
It may be smooth and bland,
but I find it comforting.
So while you’re out worshipping the Gruyere,
I’ll be curled up on the couch with a margarita,
some chips and salsa,
and my cheese (product).

Thought I'd better lighten up a little. Believe it or not, some of my stuff is mighty depressing. But the thought that what might be cheesy to one person might actually touch someone else helps me to be a bit less contained when I write.

Obsessing Over My Children

Glad you all got it and enjoyed it. My craziness may also show in my obsession with my (fantastic) children. That picture on my first post was of my (crazy) daughter. Here's another question: Am I crazy if I anticipate problems with my children, when there are none evident?

Turnaround

Here she comes.
Sticky with popsicle residue – human flypaper
Filthy feet fly, legs pump their scabby knees closer
Fingers coated with dirt and God-knows-what
Pure sensation wrapped in slime, dust, and bacteria
And what is that smell?
Joyful sparkle in the eye
Running toward mother’s love

Wash up before you jump on me!

There she goes.
Painstakingly coiffed tresses
Lean, tanned arm terminating in manicured nails
Healthy, scrubbed cheeks
Tinted lips
Each lovely toe tipped with sapphire
Seen in profile, gliding out the door into the night
A last cool glance, wave of the hand

Wait! If I let you roll in mud, will you sit on my lap?

Does anyone else dread the day when their kids won't hug them anymore?

Am I Crazy?

Am I Crazy?

If my interior monologue leaks out from time to time
If I was embarrassed yesterday for something I did a decade ago
If I occasionally get the urge to run away from home
If I wonder how people will feel when I die
If I feel 20 even though I'm pushing 40
If I still lie to my mother to avoid conflict
If I get the urge to crawl under something when I'm stressed
Am I crazy or brilliantly eccentric?

Obviously this blog could be about a lot of things - the approach of middle age, family relationships, fair-to-middling poetry, or insecurity, to name a few. Actually, in my family, we're pretty proud of our craziness. I've even taught my kids that it's okay. Craziness or brilliant eccentricity, whatever you want to call it, seems like a pretty decent topic to me.