When Death Comes -- Mary Oliver

Guest poem sent in by Katherine E. Hudson

(Poem #1376) When Death Comes When death comes like the hungry bear in autumn; when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse to buy me, and snaps the purse shut; when death comes like the measle-pox: when death comes like an iceberg between the shoulder blades, I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness? And therefore I look upon everything as a brotherhood and a sisterhood, and I look upon time as no more than an idea, and I consider eternity as another possibility, and I think of each life as a flower, as common as a field daisy, and as singular, and each name a comfortable music in the mouth, tending, as all music does, toward silence, and each body a lion of courage, and something precious to the earth. When it's over, I want to say: all my life I was a bride married to amazement. I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms. When it's over, I don't want to wonder if I have made of my life something particular, and real. I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened, or full of argument. I don't want to end up simply having visited this world. -- Mary Oliver

I've been somewhat surprised so few of Mary Oliver's poems have been
included in the Minstrels' archive, as I have found her a revelation and a
delight among contemporary poets.  I suppose that's because she addresses
matters that engage my interest and does so with language that is both
ordinary and imaginative.

She has a unique ability to convey the wonder and awe the natural world and
its denizens can evoke, usually using rather simple language to do it,
though this poem doesn't really illustrate that ability.  Nonetheless, "the
bride married to amazement" and "the bridegroom, taking the world into [his]
arms," firmly link this poem to others in which Oliver more obviously
celebrates the natural world.

The catalog of images at the beginning of this poem reminds me of the
various forms of death identified by Gerard Manley Hopkins at the beginning
of "Part the Second" of The Wreck of the Deutschland:  "'Some find me a
sword; some/The flange and the rail; flame,/Fang, or flood,' goes Death on a
drum/And storms bugle his fame."  But Hopkins' list is rather flatly
concrete, while Oliver's imagery is forceful and evocative, suggesting the
suddenness with which death may come (the snapping shut of the purse), its
implacability (the hungry bear), the pain and disgust (the measle-pox), and
fear (the iceberg between the shoulders--oooh, I like that one!) that may
accompany it.   [By the way, don't anybody think I'm dissing Hopkins, who is
one of my favorite poets; and The Deutschland is a powerful poem, I think--a
pity it's probably too long for the Minstrels' archive.]

But my fondness for Oliver's poetry isn't based in analysis--she moves me,
consistently and deeply.  And my desire for that kind of experience is why I
signed up for the Minstrels' list.  Only a few poems I've seen so far have
given me the charge only good poetry can (The Icelandic Language was
one)--but that's not a problem: how many highs a week can a person stand,
anyway?  And I'm seeing poems I would otherwise never encounter.  I thank
you very much indeed for your service and thank my fellow list-members for
their contributions and insights.

Katherine Hudson

Dream Song 14 -- John Berryman

Guest poem sent in by Howard Weinberg

(Poem #1368) Dream Song 14 Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so. After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns, we ourselves flash and yearn, and moreover my mother told me as a boy (repeatingly) "Ever to confess you're bored means you have no Inner Resources." I conclude now I have no inner resources, because I am heavy bored. Peoples bore me, literature bores me, especially great literature, Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes as bad as Achilles, who loves people and valiant art, which bores me. And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag and somehow a dog has taken itself & its tail considerably away into the mountains or sea or sky, leaving behind: me, wag. -- John Berryman

There are many things to love about this poem-- here are a few. The wonderful
turn of "we ourselves flash and yearn". The great pun at the end. The way the
poem aspire to both irony and kindness, without ever choosing sides. How daring
to say "life, friends, is boring", to make it stick, to be a poet, for crying
out loud, and still make it stick. And yet to undercut itself with "as bad as
Achilles" knowing only someone who loves literature could be so shocked not to
find rewards in it-- and so we know that there is some deeper underlying
tragedy, perhaps as fully formed as the Illiad, yet otherwise unspoken.

Howard Weinberg

The Bangle Sellers -- Sarojini Naidu

Guest poem submitted by Avni Rambhia:

(Poem #1375) The Bangle Sellers Bangle sellers are we who bear Our shining loads to the temple fair... Who will buy these delicate, bright Rainbow-tinted circles of light? Lustrous tokens of radiant lives, For happy daughters and happy wives. Some are meet for a maiden's wrist, Silver and blue as the mountain mist, Some are flushed like the buds that dream On the tranquil brow of a woodland stream, Some are aglow wth the bloom that cleaves To the limpid glory of new born leaves Some are like fields of sunlit corn, Meet for a bride on her bridal morn, Some, like the flame of her marriage fire, Or, rich with the hue of her heart's desire, Tinkling, luminous, tender, and clear, Like her bridal laughter and bridal tear. Some are purple and gold flecked grey For she who has journeyed through life midway, Whose hands have cherished, whose love has blest, And cradled fair sons on her faithful breast, And serves her household in fruitful pride, And worships the gods at her husband's side. -- Sarojini Naidu

Sarojini Naidu is a rather unique phenomenon in Indian literature - she
seems to be one of its few poet(esse)s who is an English writer in
language, style and meter. Yet her works are so Indian, it almost seems
as if they emanated out of the monsoon-damped ground and hung in a
shimmering veil for her to capture and pen.

We studied this poem in 10th grade, and it has stayed with me ever
since. It played in the back of my mind as I bought my own bangles on
festivals, and as I picked out my wedding trousseau several years ago.
Recently while packing my stuff to prepare for a move, I came across my
bangle box and was reminded of the poem again. Google searching didn't
yield much of its text [1] so my sister dug out my old textbook for the
full poem (thanks, kid!).

Not being part of the Golden Threshold, arguably Sarojini Naidu's most
widely known work, has perhaps contributed to the Bangle Seller's
limited recognition and availability. However, this is my hands-down
favorite Naidu poem. As much for its capture of the moods and events in
her Indian woman's lifetime, as for the sheer extravagance and
_rightness_, so to speak, of imagery and comparison.

[1] It did bring up, though, an illuminating discussion on the
significance of Indian Jewelry -
http://www.exoticindiaart.com/article/jewelry

-Avni.

A Cranefly in September -- Ted Hughes

Guest poem submitted by David McKelvie:

(Poem #1306) A Cranefly in September She is struggling through grass-mesh - not flying, Her wide-winged, stiff, weightless basket-work of limbs Rocking, like an antique wain, a top-heavy ceremonial cart Across mountain summits (Not planing over water, dipping her tail) But blundering with long strides, long reachings, reelings And ginger-glistening wings From collision to collision. Aimless in no particular direction, Just exerting her last to escape out of the overwhelming Of whatever it is, legs, grass, The garden, the county, the country, the world - Sometimes she rests long minutes in the grass forest Like a fairytale hero, only a marvel can help her. She cannot fathom the mystery of this forest In which, for instance, this giant watches - The giant who knows she cannot be helped in any way. Her jointed bamboo fuselage, Her lobster shoulders, and her face Like a pinhead dragon, with its tender moustache, And the simple colourless church windows of her wings Will come to an end, in mid-search, quite soon. Everything about her, every perfected vestment Is already superfluous. The monstrous excess of her legs and curly feet Are a problem beyond her. The calculus of glucose and chitin inadequate To plot her through the infinities of the stems. The frayed apple leaves, the grunting raven, the defunct tractor Sunk in nettles, wait with their multiplications Like other galaxies. The sky's Northward September procession, the vast soft armistice, Like an Empire on the move, Abandons her, tinily embattled With her cumbering limbs and cumbered brain. -- Ted Hughes

This is from "Season Songs", one of Hughes' books for children. It's
hardly the best poem he wrote, but I really like it. The first time I
read it, I was leafing through a copy of it in a library in Australia. I
had been travelling there for some time and had met so many other
backpackers like me. But when sitting in the library reading it, one
line jumped out at me: "aimless in no particular direction". I
automatically knew that that line describes all backpackers despite
their reasons and regardless of how well they've planned their
itinerary. But I never told anyone, they'd have objected. Backpackers
can be very touchy. :)

In Hughes' poem, the cranefly is a wanderer for no reason. She blunders
"with long strides". The whole poem seems to me a description of my life
as a backpacker in Australia and my need to move on, and this need to
"escape out of the overwhelming / Of whatever it is, legs, grass, / The
garden, the county, the country, the world". All backpackers have their
reason to escape their comfortable Westernised world. Some travel to see
something new, some for 'spiritual' reasons, some because their friends
are doing it, some for life experiences, others to escape a difficult
situation at home. Whatever...

The poem also reminded me a friend I travelled with for a while. She
*was* running from the world, her whole life *was* aimless not just her
feet.  The last five lines sum up her situation perfectly.

David.

[Minstrels Links]

Poems by Ted Hughes:
Poem #42, Hawk Roosting
Poem #98, The Thought Fox
Poem #417, Thistles
Poem #671, Lineage
Poem #723, Full Moon and Little Frieda
Poem #768, Theology
Poem #882, Wind

The Weight -- Jaime 'Robbie' Robertson

(Poem #1374) The Weight I pulled into Nazareth, I was feeling about half past dead; I just needed some place where I can lay my head. "Hey, mister, can you tell me where a man might find a bed?" He just grinned and shook my hand, and 'No' was all he said. Take a load off Fanny, Take a load for free; Take a load off Fanny, And (and) (and) you put the load right on me. I picked up my bag, I went looking for a place to hide; When I saw Carmen and the Devil walking side by side. I said, "Hey, Carmen, come on, let's go downtown." She said, "I gotta go, but my friend can stick around." Take a load off Fanny (etc.) Go down, Miss Moses, there's nothing you can say It's just ol' Luke, and Luke's waiting on the Judgement Day. "Well, Luke, my friend, what about young Anna Lee?" He said, "Do me a favor, son, won't you stay and keep Anna Lee company?" Take a load off Fanny (etc.) Crazy Chester followed me, and he caught me in the fog. He said, "I will fix your rack, if you'll take Jack, my dog." I said, "Wait a minute, Chester, you know I'm a peaceful man." He said, "That's okay, boy, won't you feed him when you can." Take a load off Fanny (etc.) Catch a cannonball now, to take me down the line My bag is sinking low and I do believe it's time. To get back to Miss Fanny, you know she's the only one. Who sent me here with her regards for everyone. Take a load off Fanny (etc.) -- Jaime 'Robbie' Robertson

 From the album "Music from Big Pink", by 'The Band', released in 1968.

 First, there's the music. The Band's music, while generally classed
under 'folk rock', was in reality a wonderfully diverse mix of styles.
The foundation was built on folk tunes and jug music, but these roots
were overlaid with rock flourishes, blues rhythms and gospel harmonies,
and tinged with soul, bluegrass and swing.

 Next, there are the arrangements. The Band started out as a tight-knit
rock and roll outfit, but under Dylan's influence they sprawled out into
a more 'relaxed' group, experimenting with different instrumental and
vocal lineups (the fact that each member was proficient on multiple
instruments, and that there were three excellent vocalists on the
roster, helped). As a result their music often sounded like a work in
progress, a group of musicians searching for a common goal. This
potentially untidy approach worked surprisingly well; at any rate it
proved perfect for the kind of music (eclectic, rough-hewn,
down-to-earth) they generally performed. (Their harmonies, especially,
are remarkable: they're distinctly non-traditional, and nowhere near as
'pretty' as Simon & Garfunkel's, but they have a power all their own).

 And finally, there are the lyrics. In keeping with the diversity of
musical styles and the multiplicity of instrumental approaches, the
Band's lyrics reflect various strains of a mythologized Americana. And
nowhere is this more evident than in the centrepiece of their first
album, 'The Weight'. The theme is not hard to grasp -- it's about the
burdens that come to weigh on a man who's simply trying to do "what's
right" -- but the handling is subtle. Allusions to religion (Nazareth,
the Devil, Judgement Day) mingle with references to American culture
('Go Down Moses' is the title of a short story by Faulkner; the 'Wabash
Cannonball' is a mythical train that has visited every small-town
station in America [1]) and The Band's personal history (Crazy Chester,
Anna Lee and Old Luke are all supposedly based on real people). The
whole is an intensely visual, almost Impressionistic tapestry, where
form, content and execution meet to lovely effect.

thomas.

[1] See [broken link] http://www.utahphillips.org/songbook/wabashcannonball.html, and
also http://ingeb.org/songs/wabashca.html, and also (especially) Robert
Bloch's excellent short story "That Hell-Bound Train".

PS. Here's a fairly detailed essay on today's song, somewhat rambling
and disorganized, but a good read nonetheless:
        http://theband.hiof.no/articles/the_weight_viney.html