my soul's form bends

In this house, we post devotional poetry in multiple religions! I've alluded to this poem more than once over the years, but for various reasons I've never posted it; it seemed like it was time.

Let man's soul be a sphere, and then in this
The intelligence that moves, devotion is,
And as the other spheres, by being grown
Subject to foreign motion, lose their own,
And being by others hurried every day
Scarce in a year their natural form obey,
Pleasure or business so our souls admit
For their first mover, and are whirled by it.
Hence is't that I am carried towards the West
This day, when my soul's form bends towards the East.
There I should see a sun by rising set,
And by that setting endless day beget;
But that Christ on this cross did rise and fall,
Sin had eternally benighted all.
Yet dare I'almost be glad I do not see
That spectacle, of too much weight for me.
Who sees God's face, that is self life, must die:
What a death were it then to see God die!
It made his own lieutenant, Nature, shrink:
It made his footstool crack, and the sun wink.
Could I behold those hands which span the Poles,
And turn all spheres at once, pierced with those holes?
Could I behold that endless height which is
Zenith to us and our Antipodes,
Humbled below us? Or that blood, which is
The seat of all our souls, if not of his,
Make dirt of dust? Or that flesh, which was worn
By God for his apparel, rag'd and torn?
If on these things I durst not look, durst I
Upon his miserable mother cast mine eye,
Who was God's partner here, and furnish'd thus
Half of that sacrifice which ransom'd us?
Though these things as I ride be from mine eye,
They're present yet unto my memory,
For that looks towards them; and thou look'st towards me,
O Saviour, as though hang'st upon the tree.
I turn my back to thee but to receive
Corrections, till thy mercies bid thee leave.
O think me worth thine anger, punish me,
Burn off my rusts and my deformity;
Restore thine image so much by thy grace
That thou may'st know me, and I'll turn my face.

—John Donne (1572-1631), "Good Friday, 1613: Riding Westward," also known as "Good Friday: Made as I was Riding Westward that Day," "Good Friday," "Riding Westward," "A Meditation upon Good Friday, 1613" and several other variations; presumably written on April 2, 1613. The general consensus is that Donne was riding to visit Sir Edward Herbert in Wales. I had in my head the apocryphal theory that Donne was leaving London to get away from the plague when he wrote this poem, but I don't think that's actually true—1613 doesn't seem to have been a major plague year, even if it would make a good story, here in 2020. I slightly adapted the (modernized) orthography and punctuation from the massive Longman Complete Poems of John Donne, edited by Robin Robbins (2010), but with Donne you're always editing a little, even when you choose an edition. His poetry circulated so widely that there's no true standardized text, which personally I sort of like—e.g. line 22, which could be "tune all spheres" or "turn all spheres," both of which make sense in context and look pretty much exactly the same in secretary hand.

in the direction of your journey

This is another poem (it seems to be a theme this year) that I was shocked to discover I had not already posted. I first read it years and years ago, and I dug it back up again yesterday when I was looking for poems by Jewish poets for Passover. This is also not a Passover poem, but it is by a Jewish poet and translated from Hebrew, and it's beautiful.

In the middle of this century we turned to each other
With half faces and full eyes
like an ancient Egyptian picture
And for a short while.

I stroked your hair
In the opposite direction to your journey,
We called to each other,
Like calling out the names of towns
Where nobody stops
Along the route.

Lovely is the world rising early to evil,
Lovely is the world falling asleep to sin and pity,
In the mingling of ourselves, you and I,
Lovely is the world.

The earth drinks men and their loves
Like wine,
To forget.
It can't.
And like the contours of the Judean hills,
We shall never find peace.

In the middle of this century we turned to each other,
I saw your body, throwing shade, waiting for me,
The leather straps for a long journey
Already tightening across my chest.
I spoke in praise of your mortal hips,
You spoke in praise of my passing face,
I stroked your hair in the direction of your journey,
I touched your flesh, prophet of your end,
I touched your hand which has never slept,
I touched your mouth which may yet sing.

Dust from the desert covered the table
At which we did not eat
But with my finger I wrote on it
The letters of your name.

—Yehuda Amichai (1924-2000), "In the Middle of this Century," translated by Assia Gutmann, and in this case from the The Poetry of Yehuda Amichai (2015) by way of Poetry Foundation; I wasn't able to find a composition date for the poem.

breath-in-me

I went looking for Passover poems and got stuck on this one, which is not actually a Passover poem. It feels applicable, though—Passover, like all Jewish holidays, is always at least a little about finding faith and hope (and community, and God) in dark places. This poem also gave me many unexpected feelings about poetry in Muslim Spain, vis a vis The Lions of Al-Rassan, so it's a little bit for mistresscurvy.

I look for you early,
my rock and my refuge,
         offering you worship
    morning and night;
before your vastness
I come confused
         and afraid, for you see
    the thoughts of my heart.

What could the heart
and tongue compose,
         or spirit's strength
    within me to suit you?
But song soothes you
and so I'll give praise
          to your being as long
    as your breath-in-me moves.

—Solomon Ibn Gabirol (c. 1022 to 1058-70), "I Look for You," translated by Peter Cole, from The Dream of the Poem: Hebrew Poetry from Muslim and Christian Spain 950-1492 (Princeton University Press, 2007). According to the Poetry Foundation bio, Solomon Ibn Gabriel (Shelomoh ben Yehudah Ibn Gabirol in Hebrew and Abu Ayyub Sulaiman ibn Yahya Ibn Jubayrol in Arabic) was a poet and philosopher who lived in Spain in the middle of the 11th century, and was part of the Jewish intellectual culture in Saragossa. Says the bio: "His Hebrew poetry draws from Arabic verse traditions, borrowing metrics, rhyme schemes, and imagery." Gosh.

insufficient reason

It's time for a sonnet, don't you think? This is one of my favorites.

I, being born a woman and distressed
By all the needs and notions of my kind,
Am urged by your propinquity to find
Your person fair, and feel a certain zest
To bear your body’s weight upon my breast:
So subtly is the fume of life designed,
To clarify the pulse and cloud the mind,
And leave me once again undone, possessed.
Think not for this, however, the poor treason
Of my stout blood against my staggering brain,
I shall remember you with love, or season
My scorn with pity,—let me make it plain:
I find this frenzy insufficient reason
For conversation when we meet again.

—Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950), "I, being born a woman and distressed," which appears as Sonnet XVIII in The Harp-Weaver and Other Poems (1920).

that would be enough

I got to this poem via poets.org's Shelter in Poems. It made me feel some feelings, and not just because I started singing Hamilton to myself and then maybe cried a little.

Say tomorrow doesn't come.

Say the moon becomes an icy pit.

Say the sweet-gum tree is petrified.

Say the sun's a foul black tire fire.

Say the owl's eyes are pinpricks.

Say the raccoon's a hot tar stain.

Say the shirt's plastic ditch-litter.

Say the kitchen's a cow's corpse.

Say we never get to see it: bright

future, stuck like a bum star, never

coming close, never dazzling.

Say we never meet her. Never him.

Say we spend our last moments staring

at each other, hands knotted together,

clutching the dog, watching the sky burn.

Say, It doesn't matter. Say, That would be

enough. Say you'd still want this: us alive,

right here, feeling lucky.

—Ada Limón (b. 1976), "The Conditional," 2013.

a small unfocused blur, a standing chill

Today is poems about death day! "But Olivia," you may ask, "didn't you post a poem about death yesterday?" I did; did I mention that there might be more poems about death than usual, this year? I picked this one out in advance, though, because although it is depressing as hell, it's also a classic, and it's such a powerful, effective, brilliant kind of poem (the enjambment alone, good lord, and don't even get me started on the rhyme scheme) that I thought maybe it was time to post it. Warnings for anxiety, depression, drinking, and the terrifying awareness of mortality, which may feel especially close right now, as does, I think, this poem; please take care of yourselves.

I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what’s really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.

The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
—The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused—nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.

This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear—no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anaesthetic from which none come round.

And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.

Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can’t escape,
Yet can’t accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.

—Philip Larkin (1922-1985), "Aubade," originally published in the Times Literary Supplement, 23 December 1977, and written between 1974 and 1977; Larkin completed the poem after his mother's death in 1977. The Complete Poems of Philip Larkin, edited by Archie Burnett (New York, 2012), has phenomenal notes, and one of my favorites on this poem is from a letter where Larkin told a friend, "I get up at 6 when I can and try to add to a poem about DEATH. Not making much progress, but one can only hope—to finish the poem, I mean." Anyway, this poem resonates with me a lot, and so does the way he describes it, with delightfully morbid humor.

a breath of fresh air

Coincidentally (okay, not actually coincidentally; obviously I looked through all the other poems in his SoundCloud), Samuel West has also done a beautiful reading of this poem. This is really a March poem, but it's also a death poem, and a poem about change and beauty and facing the world unafraid.

I have a friend
At the end
Of the world.
His name is a breath

Of fresh air.
He is dressed in
Grey chiffon. At least
I think it is chiffon.
It has a
Peculiar look, like smoke.

It wraps him round
It blows out of place
It conceals him
I have not seen his face.

But I have seen his eyes, they are
As pretty and bright
As raindrops on black twigs
In March, and heard him say:

I am a breath
Of fresh air for you, a change
By and by.

Black March I call him
Because of his eyes
Being like March raindrops
On black twigs.

(Such a pretty time when the sky
Behind black twigs can be seen
Stretched out in one
Uninterrupted
Cambridge blue as cold as snow.)

But this friend
Whatever new names I give him
Is an old friend. He says:

Whatever names you give me
I am
A breath of fresh air,
A change for you.

—Stevie Smith (1902-1971), "Black March," written in 1971, shortly before she died, and originally published posthumously in Scorpion and Other Poems (1972).

the rest is decoration

This poem was a request from K, who said, "this is exactly how I feel about academia right now," and yeah, pretty much. I love this poem; I did not love this poem in my early 20s, but I sure do now.

When I was young I believed in intellectual conversation:
I thought the patterns we wove on stale smoke
floated off to the heaven of ideas.
To be certified worthy of high masculine discourse
like a potato on a grater I would rub on contempt,
suck snubs, wade proudly through the brown stuff on the floor.
They were talking of integrity and existential ennui
while the women ran out for six-packs and had abortions
in the kitchen and fed the children and were auctioned off.

Eventually of course I learned how their eyes perceived me:
when I bore to them cupped in my hands a new poem to nibble,
when I brought my aerial maps of Sartre or Marx,
they said, she is trying to attract our attention,
she is offering up her breasts and thighs.
I walked on eggs, their tremulous equal:
they saw a fish peddler hawking in the street.

Now I get coarse when the abstract nouns start flashing.
I go out to the kitchen to talk cabbages and habits.
I try hard to remember to watch what people do.
Yes, keep your eyes on the hands, let the voice go buzzing.
Economy is the bone, politics is the flesh,
watch who they beat and who they eat,
watch who they relieve themselves on, watch who they own.
The rest is decoration.

—Marge Piercy (b. 1936), "In the men's room(s)," 1972, originally published in To Be of Use (1973).

come into the peace of wild things

This poem was making the rounds last week, both because it is wonderful, and because of this very soothing and beautiful reading by Samuel West (thanks to Cat for drawing my attention to the reading). I love this poem, and the fact that I haven't posted any Wendell Berry in thirteen years (how?!) is honestly a crime.

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

—Wendell Berry (b. 1934), "The Peace of Wild Things," originally published in Openings: Poems, 1968.

on the day the world ends

Today is April 1, which seems pretty bizarre since time no longer has any meaning. Nevertheless, it's a beautiful spring day here in New York City, and it's the first day of National Poetry Month. For anybody new (is there anybody new? after thirteen years that seems sort of doubtful, but you're very welcome here), that means I try to post a poem a day for the month of April. I almost never manage all thirty days, but I do my best; I also try not to repeat poems I've posted before, except in special circumstances.

I think the challenge, in this year of global pandemic, is going to be variety—I am sure I will be posting some depressing poems, war poems and grief poems and loss poems, and probably quite a few poems about finding joy in small things and perseverance and triumphing against the odds. It just seems...likely. But I'll try to shake it up a little, as much as one can when living in a fairly constant state of intense anxiety. The good news, at least for me, is that I find poetry to be enormously helpful when dealing with complex emotions and hard times.

I've been doing this since 2007, when I was 21 and a senior in college. This April I turn 35, and it's kind of incredible to look back on all these years of Aprils as a chronicle of my life and the world I've lived in and what's changed and what's stayed the same; a lot of it is pretty crappy, but a lot of it is pretty beautiful, too. I don't mean to make it a bigger thing than it is, but I feel very aware, this year in particular, of what it can mean to keep that kind of record. I guess this is my quarantine journal, in its own way.

Let's start, this year, with Czeslaw Milosz:

On the day the world ends
A bee circles a clover,
A fisherman mends a glimmering net.
Happy porpoises jump in the sea,
By the rainspout young sparrows are playing
And the snake is gold-skinned as it should always be.
       
On the day the world ends
Women walk through the fields under their umbrellas,
A drunkard grows sleepy at the edge of a lawn,
Vegetable peddlers shout in the street
And a yellow-sailed boat comes nearer the island,
The voice of a violin lasts in the air
And leads into a starry night.

And those who expected lightning and thunder
Are disappointed.
And those who expected signs and archangels’ trumps
Do not believe it is happening now.
As long as the sun and the moon are above,
As long as the bumblebee visits a rose,
As long as rosy infants are born
No one believes it is happening now.

Only a white-haired old man, who would be a prophet
Yet is not a prophet, for he’s much too busy,
Repeats while he binds his tomatoes:
There will be no other end of the world,
There will be no other end of the world.

Warsaw, 1944

—Czeslaw Milosz (1911-2004), "A Song on the End of the World," translated by Anthony Milosz, and in this case from The Collected Poems: 1931-1987 by Czeslaw Milosz (Ecco Press, 1988).