Poem of the moment

[DWill]

So what did everyone think of Elizabeth Alexander's poem? One person with whom I watched the inagural speech said he found the poem more moving than the speech, and I'd have to agree while saying that Obama didn't seem to intend really to move us but to steel us for difficult work ahead. In that sense, the speech and poem were complementary. It must be extremely hard to write a good occasional poem. A lot of hackish poems have been written for occasions. I thought Alexander wrote very well indeed for this occasion.

[DWill]

I like the opening of the poem, but who in the right mind is out at daybreak on a frosty morn?!

Was that a pointed reference to someone?

[Saffron]

I like the opening of the poem, but who in the right mind is out at daybreak on a frosty morn?!

Was that a pointed reference to someone?

Oooops! Not intentionally, I had been gazing out the window, watching the sun begin to rise over the horizon and thought who would be standing outside at this hour, on a day like today -- I forgot all about you, commuting on your bike each morning -- which is truly more daunting than just standing in the frozen dawn.

[DWill]

I'm a wee bit paranoid.

[Saffron]

I'm a wee bit paranoid.

No need to be paranoid from this corner -- your mode of transport and dedication to it, is much admired from this seat.

[GentleReader9]

I'm out before daybreak pretty much every frosty morn myself, but then again, I've never claimed to be in my right mind and don't mind others saying so. There are worse forms of insanity. Also, while it is frosty recently, Eugene is probably not as cold as Virginia. I have the idea you must actually have snow there that is sticking now? We've just had the frost that goes away during the day, generally. The three or so times it's snowed all winter it hasn't stuck more than a couple of days, tops. If you haven't got snow tires or 4-wheel drive or anything I guess it's actually easier to ride a bike? Maybe not. I don't know, being most generally a walker to bus stops. You can't go wrong, walking to bus stops. It's about my speed, over ice.

[GentleReader9]

Oh, and on the topic, I loved Elizabeth Alexander's poem! I thought it held up its part of the weight beautifully in a ceremony that went quite a lot better than I had expected it to, on the whole. (Of course I am the kind of person who would recall the assasination of Indira Gandhi by her own Sikh guards and begin to fear a last minute coup by Bush the Younger minutes before the swearing in, so that's not a tough house to please by doing better...and you think DWill is paranoid.) On a snowier-themed, healthier note, was this already posted? I hope not. I think there was another Mary Oliver poem, though.

Snow Geese

by Mary Oliver

Oh, to love what is lovely, and will not last!
What a task
to ask
of anything, or anyone,
yet it is ours,
and not by the century or the year, but by the hours.
One fall day I heard
above me, and above the sting of the wind, a sound
I did not know, and my look shot upward; it was
a flock of snow geese, winging it
faster than the ones we usually see,
and, being the color of snow, catching the sun
so they were, in part at least, golden. I
held my breath
as we do
sometimes
to stop time
when something wonderful
has touched us
as with a match,
which is lit, and bright,
but does not hurt
in the common way,
but delightfully,
as if delight
were the most serious thing
you ever felt.
The geese
flew on,
I have never seen them again.
Maybe I will, someday, somewhere.
Maybe I won't.
It doesn't matter.
What matters
is that, when I saw them,
I saw them
as through the veil, secretly, joyfully, clearly.

[DWill]

GentleReader9: If you haven't got snow tires or 4-wheel drive or anything I guess it's actually easier to ride a bike? Maybe not. I don't know, being most generally a walker to bus stops. You can't go wrong, walking to bus stops. It's about my speed, over ice.
Snow usually doesn't amount to much here, either, at least lately. I'd prefer a lot more of it, even though it does stop me in my tracks. You can manage somewhat in certain types of snow, but in general, anything slippery on the road exposes the instability of a bicycle. A couple of hard falls will deter even someone with as hard a head as mine. So on the snowy days I rejoin the herded drivers.

Before I forget my first reason for clicking on this thread, this moment calls to mind a favorite poem by Milton. I and a few others (come join in) are making our way through Milton's epic, Paradise Lost. Book III begins with moving lines about the poet's blindness. In a sonnet, more restrainedly but also movingly, Milton speaks of the same subject.

On His Blindness

When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide,
"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts: who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait."

Note: "fondly" in l. 8 means "foolishly". This poem has such a soft, meditative tone, compsed of simple words, and is devout in an attractive way.

[Saffron]

I thought I'd post a John Updike poem as a way to honor his passing today. I'd never read any of his work until I read this poem.


Penumbrae
by John Updike

The shadows have their seasons, too.
The feathery web the budding maples
cast down upon the sullen lawn

bears but a faint relation to
high summer's umbrageous weight
and tunnellike continuum

[DWill]

This is in response to Saffron's request for a "hopeful" poem from me to cunteract the gloom I'm spreading around today. You have to look carefully to see the hopefulness, but I believe it's there. It's a little long, but easy reading. All of you Paradise Lost readers, note the handy reference to that poem in ll. 21-22. My motto (ll. 47-48): "I'd face it as a wise man would/And train for ill and not for good."

LXII. Terence, this is stupid stuff

'TERENCE, this is stupid stuff:
You eat your victuals fast enough;
There can't be much amiss, 'tis clear,
To see the rate you drink your beer.
But oh, good Lord, the verse you make, 5
It gives a chap the belly-ache.
The cow, the old cow, she is dead;
It sleeps well, the horned head:
We poor lads, 'tis our turn now
To hear such tunes as killed the cow. 10
Pretty friendship 'tis to rhyme
Your friends to death before their time
Moping melancholy mad:
Come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad.'

Why, if 'tis dancing you would be, 15
There's brisker pipes than poetry.
Say, for what were hop-yards meant,
Or why was Burton built on Trent?
Oh many a peer of England brews
Livelier liquor than the Muse, 20
And malt does more than Milton can
To justify God's ways to man.
Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink
For fellows whom it hurts to think:
Look into the pewter pot 25
To see the world as the world's not.
And faith, 'tis pleasant till 'tis past:
The mischief is that 'twill not last.
Oh I have been to Ludlow fair
And left my necktie God knows where, 30
And carried half way home, or near,
Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer:
Then the world seemed none so bad,
And I myself a sterling lad;
And down in lovely muck I've lain, 35
Happy till I woke again.
Then I saw the morning sky:
Heigho, the tale was all a lie;
The world, it was the old world yet,
I was I, my things were wet, 40
And nothing now remained to do
But begin the game anew.

Therefore, since the world has still
Much good, but much less good than ill,
And while the sun and moon endure 45
Luck's a chance, but trouble's sure,
I'd face it as a wise man would,
And train for ill and not for good.
'Tis true, the stuff I bring for sale
Is not so brisk a brew as ale: 50
Out of a stem that scored the hand
I wrung it in a weary land.
But take it: if the smack is sour,
The better for the embittered hour;
It should do good to heart and head 55
When your soul is in my soul's stead;
And I will friend you, if I may,
In the dark and cloudy day.

There was a king reigned in the East:
There, when kings will sit to feast, 60
They get their fill before they think
With poisoned meat and poisoned drink.
He gathered all the springs to birth
From the many-venomed earth;
First a little, thence to more, 65
He sampled all her killing store;
And easy, smiling, seasoned sound,
Sate the king when healths went round.
They put arsenic in his meat
And stared aghast to watch him eat; 70
They poured strychnine in his cup
And shook to see him drink it up:
They shook, they stared as white's their shirt:
Them it was their poison hurt.