True Love at Last -- D H Lawrence

Guest poem sent in by Sarah Korah

(Poem #1805) True Love at Last The handsome and self-absorbed young man looked at the lovely and self-absorbed girl and thrilled. The lovely and self-absorbed girl looked back at the handsome and self-absorbed young man and thrilled. And in that thrill he felt: Her self-absorption is even as strong as mine. I must see if I can't break through it And absorb her in me. And in that thrill she felt: His self-absorption is even stronger than mine! What fun, stronger than mine! I must see if I can't absorb this Samson of self-absorption. So they simply adored one another and in the end they were both nervous wrecks, because in self-absorption and self-interest they were equally matched. -- D H Lawrence

Here comes D.H.Lawrence's take on true love... in the land of the self
obsessed :) This quirky, irreverent counterpoint to True Love makes the case
that there is something essentially selfless about love; or it is not the
real thing.

Sarah Korah

[Martin adds]

In a lighter - or, at least, friendler - vein, I was reminded of Lawrence's
playfully romantic "Intimates" [Poem #110] - it is interesting to note the
superficial similarity of theme, but wide disparity of intent, between the
two poems.

[Links]

Wislawa Szymborska's beautiful True Love poem can be read at
http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/694.html

Minstrels has more D.H.Lawrence poems at
http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/1282.html
http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/77.html

Flying at Night -- Ted Kooser

Guest poem sent in by Sarah Korah

My favourite Ted Kooser poem is already on Minstrels [Poem #1667]. Here's
another nice poem:

(Poem #1796) Flying at Night Above us, stars. Beneath us, constellations. Five billion miles away, a galaxy dies like a snowflake falling on water. Below us, some farmer, feeling the chill of that distant death, snaps on his yard light, drawing his sheds and barn back into the little system of his care. All night, the cities, like shimmering novas, tug with bright streets at lonely lights like his. -- Ted Kooser

A galaxy dies.. Not with a bang, and not with a whimper.. but like a
snowflake falling on water.  And far away, a nameless shepherd, feeling the
sudden nip in the air, snaps on his porch light - bringing all that is
precious into the warmth of his care.

There's something very comforting about that yard light. It reminds me of
hot chocolate fondue.. and Christmas at home. And doesn't the image of death
as a snowflake falling on water sound more hopeful, and meaningful, than the
usual "Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust" ?

Sarah Korah

Stray Birds -- Rabindranath Tagore

Guest poem sent in by Sarah Korah

I was reminded of this poem when I recently read Keats 'To Autumn' on
minstrels:

(Poem #1785) Stray Birds Stray birds of summer come to my window to sing and fly away. And yellow leaves of autumn, which have no songs, flutter and fall there with a sigh. -- Rabindranath Tagore

In this season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, when night comes early and
remains long, this poem reminds me of summer days which fly away all too
soon. It also made me realise that while there is beauty in fall colors and
a certain poignancy in falling leaves, there's little music in them.

Tagore through and through, simple and beautiful.

Sarah Korah

Foolish, not Social -- Sankha Ghosh

Guest poem sent in by Sarah Korah

(Poem #1765) Foolish, not Social Returning home do you feel you talked too much? Cleverness, do you feel very tired? Do you feel like sitting quiet in the blue cottage Burning incense, after a bath, on return? Do you feel like wearing a human body at last After taking off the demon's dress? Liquid time carries moisture into the room. Do you feel like an ananta-shayana on her floating raft? If you feel like that, come back. Cleverness, go away. Does it really matter? Let them say foolish, let them say unsocial. -- Sankha Ghosh

Note: ananta-shayana: Vishnu sleeping on the cosmic serpent Ananta.

I like people, and enjoy being outdoors. But on some weekends, I just long
to curl up with a book.. and have a cup of tea. Very antisocial and very
foolish - but quite enjoyable :-)

Sarah Korah

A brief bio of Sankha Ghosh can be found at
http://www.loc.gov/acq/ovop/delhi/salrp/sankhaghosh.html

Eyes -- Czeslaw Milosz

Guest poem submitted by Sarah Korah :

(Poem #1758) Eyes My most honorable eyes, you are not in the best of shape. I receive from you an image less than sharp, And if a color, then it's dimmed. And you were a pack of royal greyhounds once, With whom I would set out in the early mornings. My wondrously quick eyes, you saw many things, Lands and cities, islands and oceans. Together we greeted immense sunrises When the fresh air set us running on the trails Where the dew had just begun to dry. Now what you have seen is hidden inside me And changed into memories or dreams. I am slowly moving away from the fairgrounds of the world And I notice in myself a distaste For the monkeyish dress, the screams and drumbeats. What a relief. To be alone with my meditation On the basic similarity in humans And their tiny grain of dissimilarity. Without eyes, my gaze is fixed on one bright point, That grows large and takes me in. -- Czeslaw Milosz

I was reminded of this poem when my hardy 93 year old grandfather complained
of a slight loss of hearing. He was also rather upset about the fact that he
can *only* walk a couple of kilometers these days.

I confess we grandchildren shared smiles while thinking 'Hey, we'd be lucky
to be half as fit as you when we're in our 70's.'... But then it occurred to
me that sights, sounds and memories, mobility and independence - these are
important at any age.

Few poets have inhabited the land of old age as long or as energetically as
Milosz [1911-2003]. A self proclaimed "one day's master", Milosz had a great
capacity to both confront the world's suffering and embrace its joys.

Wistfulness, acceptance, even a little humour - this short poem has it all.

Sarah Korah.

Minstrels has write-ups on Milosz, so I'm spared the trouble. And yes, my
grandfather seems quite happy with his new hearing aid :-)

Nonadaptation -- Czeslaw Milosz

Guest poem submitted by Sarah Korah :

(Poem #1731) Nonadaptation I was not made to live anywhere except in Paradise. Such, simply, was my genetic inadaptation. Here on earth every prick of a rose-thorn changed into a wound. whenever the sun hid behind a cloud, I grieved. I pretended to work like others from morning to evening, but I was absent, dedicated to invisible countries. For solace I escaped to city parks, there to observe and faithfully describe flowers and trees, but they changed, under my hand, into the gardens of Paradise. I have not loved a woman with my five senses. I only wanted from her my sister, from before the banishment. And I respected religion, for on this earth of pain it was a funereal and a propitiatory song. -- Czeslaw Milosz

As a statement of intent, and as a memorable first line, Milosz makes things
very clear by saying "I was not made to live anywhere except in Paradise".
Yet in typical Milosz style, what follows is NOT a funny, escapist take on
life. Instead we're treated to 13 lines of intelligent, memorable poetry.

It amuses me that whenever I quote from this poem, I tend to choose the
light hearted lines ("I pretended to work like others from morning to
evening, but I was absent, dedicated to invisible countries.").. and people
naturally assume that it's from a funny poem. Talk of taking a quote out of
context !

Czeslaw Milosz's bio, and more of his poems, can be found on minstrels at
  http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/1599.html

Sarah Korah.

The Stories -- Stephen Dunn

Guest poem sent in by Sarah Korah

(Poem #1728) The Stories I was unfaithful to you last week. Thought I tried to be true to the beautiful vagaries of our unauthorized love, I told a stranger our story, arranging and rearranging us until we were orderly, reduced. I didn't want to sleep with this stranger. I wanted, I think, to see her yield, to sense her body's musculature, her history of sane resistance become pliable, as yours had twenty-two years ago. I told her we met in parks and rest stops along highways. Once, deep in the woods, a blanket over stones and dirt. I said that you were, finally, my failure of nerve, made to the contours of my body, so wrongly good for me I had to give you up. Listening to myself, it seemed as if I were still inconsolable, and I knew the seductiveness in that, knew when she'd try to console me I'd allow her the tiniest of victories. I told her about Laguna, the ruins we made of each other. To be undone -- I said I learned that's what I'd always wanted. We were on a train from Boston to New York, this stanger and I, the compartment to ourselves. I don't have to point out to you the erotics of such a space. We'd been speaking of our marriages, the odd triumphs of their durations. "Once....," I said, and my betrayal began, and did not end. She had a story, too. Mine seemed to coax hers out. There was this man she'd meet every workday Thursday at noon. For three years, every Thursday except Thanksgiving. She couldn't bear it anymore, she said, the lies, the coming home. Ended, she said. Happiest years of my life, she said. At that moment (you understand) we had to hug, but that's all we did. It hardly matters. We were in each other's sanctums, among the keepsakes, we'd gone where most sex cannot go. I could say that telling her our story was a way of bringing you back to life, and for a while it was, a memorial made of memory and its words. But here's what I knew: Watching her react, I was sure I'd tell our story again, to others. I understood how it could be taken to the bank, and I feared I might not ever again feel enough to know when to stop. -- Stephen Dunn

I once watched in stunned silence as a girl in our bus gave the driver a
detailed account of what was going wrong in her life. It made me wince.. and
also wonder if it's somehow easier for people to reveal their innermost
thoughts and fears to absolute strangers ?

Do public dissemblers feel embarrassed later on? Does talking in public
help them gain a new perspective.. or is it merely addictive? Trust Stephen
Dunn to come up with a beautiful poem on the topic.

The day a cherished memory becomes an 'orderly, reduced' story, something
has slowly, but surely, changed..

Sarah Korah

Fine Days -- Orhan Veli

Guest poem submitted by Sarah Korah:

How about starting a collection of poems on Monday morning blues? Here's a
poem which makes me wonder if going going to work is the best way to spend a
fine day..

(Poem #1534) Fine Days These fine days have been my ruin. On this kind of day I resigned My job in 'Pious Foundations'. On this kind of day I started to smoke On this kind of day I fell in love On this kind of day I forgot To bring home bread and salt On this kind of day I had a relapse In my versifying disease. These fine days have been my ruin. -- Orhan Veli

        Translated by Bernard Lewis.

Prose and practicality win over the whimsical, and I get to work. But the
poet's description of his versifying disease and gleefully ruined life make
me smile. Yes, even on a Monday morning :-)

For the incorrigible, here's the original in Turkish:

 "Guzel Havalar

 Beni bu guzel havalar mahvetti,
 Boyle havada istifa ettim
 Evkaftaki memuriyetimden.
 Tutune boyle havafa alistim,
 Boyle havada asik oldum;
 Eve ekmekle tuz goturmeyi
 Boyle havalarda unuttum;
 Siir yazma hastaligim
 Hep boyle havalarda nuksetti;
 Beni bu guzel havalar mahvetti.

[Bio]

Turkish poet; born, 1914, Istanbul; died, November 14, 1950, Istanbul.

Orhan Veli Kanik was one of the founders of the Garip movement in Turkish
poetry. In 1941, he and two of his close friends -- Melih Cevdet Anday and
Oktay Rifat --burst on the scene with a joint book of poems entitled "Garip"
(Strange). Amid much vehement criticism from the traditionalists, the three
Garip poets vowed, in a manifesto that appeared in their book, to
revolutionize Turkish poetry. They sought, in their own words, "to alter the
whole structure from the foundation up. In order to rescue ourselves from
the stifling effects of the literatures which have dictated and shaped our
tastes and judgements for too many years, we must dump overboard everything
that those literatures have taught us. We wish it were possible to dump even
language itself, because it threatens our creative efforts by forcing its
vocabulary on us when we write poetry."

The Garip movement eliminated not only rigid forms and meters but also
metaphors, rhymes, conventional diction and stock epithets. Soon free verse
and an unlimited range of themes became the rule, while 'aruz' meter and
'the rose and the nightingale' became anachronisms.

Orhan Veli was more influenced by the sketch image of the Japanese haiku
than by Turkish or conventional Western poetic sources.

The Sudden Light And The Trees -- Stephen Dunn

Guest poem submitted by Sarah Korah:

I've seen just one poem by Stephen Dunn on Minstrels. Here's an attempt to
change the status quo :).

(Poem #1533) The Sudden Light And The Trees My neighbor was a biker, a pusher, a dog and wife beater. In bad dreams I killed him and once, in the consequential light of day, I called the Humane Society about Blue, his dog. They took her away and I readied myself, a baseball bat inside my door. That night I hear his wife scream and I couldn't help it, that pathetic relief; her again, not me. It would be years before I'd understand why victims cling and forgive. I plugged in the Sleep-Sound and it crashed like the ocean all the way to sleep. One afternoon I found him on the stoop, a pistol in his hand, waiting, he said, for me. A sparrow had gotten in to our common basement. Could he have permission to shoot it? The bullets, he explained, might go through the floor. I said I'd catch it, wait, give me a few minutes and, clear-eyed, brilliantly afraid, I trapped it with a pillow. I remember how it felt when I got my hand, and how it burst that hand open when I took it outside, a strength that must have come out of hopelessness and the sudden light and the trees. And I remember the way he slapped the gun against his open palm, kept slapping it, and wouldn't speak. -- Stephen Dunn

This is a grim poem. There's something ominously menacing in the image of a
man slapping a gun against his open palm.

I felt an almost palpable sense of relief towards the end of the poem. A
doomed sparrow finds strength in its hopelessness, the 'clear-eyed,
brilliantly afraid' poet nevertheless faces the sullen protagonist. Bird and
beast have already escaped. Something tells me that there's hope in the
sudden light and trees.

I was poignantly, and somewhat pointlessly, reminded of the lines 'All the
history of grief, An empty doorway and a maple leaf' when I read this poem.

About Stephen Dunn :

Stephen Dunn won the 2001 Pulitzer Prize for Poetry for his collection
titled Different Hours. Dunn is currently a Distinguished Professor of
Creative Writing at the Richard Stockton College of New Jersey. He lives in
Port Republic, New Jersey.

Stephen Dunn was born in New York City in 1939. He earned a B.A. in history
and English from Hofstra University, attended the New School Writing
Workshops, and finished his M.A. in creative writing at Syracuse University.
Dunn has worked as a professional basketball player, an advertising
copywriter, and an editor, as well as a professor of creative writing.

Dunn's books of poetry include Loosestrife: New and Selected Poems,
1974-1994; Landscape at the End of the Century; and Between Angels.

Minstrels has run one of Dunn's poems before.
http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/1063.html