Each Little World

Life after COVID

Late at night, I often find myself reading the Vows section in the NYTimes, which is how I discovered this poem. It perfectly encapsulates my feelings after being locked down. We didn't miss travel, big parties, dining out or meetings of the various groups we belong to.

We missed the small things: the joys of talking with friends — in person — over coffee. Nowdays, when friends come over I tell them my post-COVID mantra: The bathroom is clean, the food is safe to eat and no dust bunnies were disturbed in preparation of their visit. 

 

“Dust If You Must

“Dust if you must, but wouldn’t it be better

To paint a picture, or write a letter,

Bake a cake, or plant a seed;

Ponder the difference between want and need?

Dust if you must, but there’s not much time,

With rivers to swim, and mountains to climb;

Music to hear, and books to read;

Friends to cherish, and life to lead.”

— Rose Milligan

Another Katrin Talbot poem

Australian-born Katrin Talbot, a violist, photographer, and poet, who is well-known in Madison and the wider world as well, has been responding to the COVID-19 pandemic with poetry. I find her words make it easier to think about our new normal where so much is suddenly unthinkable. Shared with permission.

. . .

Your Calendar on Pandemia

You watch each day’s 

commitments float by

 

Cancelled rehearsals, meetings

postponed concerts, readings

 

All now just words on

days

 

And you begin to realize 

there are two of you now:

 

the calendar you and

you, here, not there

 

and you can’t figure out

which could be the revenant, 

 

which

the ghost

 

— Katrin Talbot

Gather

I dreamt we could all

stand together

Nothing grand, like a rally,

fireworks, a graduation

 

Just watching something,

a concert,

a politician,

a sunset

 

And then I woke to

the calling of the crows

 

Today, I will wave to

you from my tree and

maybe we can

sing

Everywhere I look friends are emailing poetry or posting it on FB or writing it themselves. "Gather" is another poem by Madison poet, photographer and musician Katrin Talbot. Though I don't know Katrin well, her work always resonates with me.

When I first started gardening, I used to worry that a crow would land on me; on my head to be exact. Now I've leaned to appreciate what smart and social creatures they are. Their presence in the garden at this moment is definitely joyful and much appreciated. 

Poem by Katrin Talbot; drawing by Linda Brazill

The poetic side to this perilous moment

Australian-born Katrin Talbot, a violist, photographer, and poet, who is well-known in Madison and the wider world as well, has been responding to the COVID-19 pandemic with poetry. I find her words make it easier to think about our new normal where so much is suddenly unthinkable.  Shared with permission.

. . . 

Between

Here,

we’re all walking

 

No lockdown yet, . . .

gyms are closed,

swimmers drowning on dry land,

everyone planking

 

The circling buzzards are 

interested in the sudden increase

in population beneath

 

And we're getting it down,

the Sidewalk Arc —

oncoming tight smile and wave,

sidestep to measure 

six feet between 

 

We’re following the rules

suggested by thousands of experts

 

And now I say to all,

as an expert in matters of the heart,

send not worry in the passing,

just light —

arrows, vectors, flattening curves of it,

imaginary orbs

 

but no matter what,

to your neighbors,

a certain kind of

 

radiance

Winter solitude

Winter solitude —

In a world of one color

the sound of wind.

— Matsuo Basho, translated by Robert Haas

Another glittering spring

Who tossed those golden coins,

The dandelions glittering

on my lawn?

— Kazue Mizumura

The lawn is covered with yellow coins but I liked the look of these two. Each one found a location where they did not have to share the stage with others of their ilk!

Concrete poetry

One of Madison's main thoroughfares, Monroe Street, has been mostly closed to traffic in one direction for months for a much-needed update. It is one of the rare streets with a huge proportion of local stores, restaurants and assorted businesses. You could still get to all of them but it was not always easy. So everyone was thrilled when the street re-opened not long ago.

One of the changes that resulted from all the work is the inclusion of poems written in the wet concrete when the sidewalks were repaved. This one was written right outside the Monroe Street Library by the bus stop where one could not fail to miss it. While I was standing there reading the poem and taking a picture, another pedestrian came along and stopped to read it as well. A wonderful poetic moment by one of the city's literary grande dames, Fabu. 

Lightening Girl

Struck with power

standing wet under a solitary tree

in a wide green pasture.

Even electric bolts

didn't scare her, slow her down none

just bothered her some.

Flashing out of her mouth

for the rest of her life

were words that shocked and stunned.

— Fabu

NOTE: I could not resist using "Concrete poetry" as the title for this post. But I should point out that that term has a very specific meaning and, in fact, Fabu's wonderful poem does not fit the description. According to Wikipedia, "Concrete poetry" is an "arrangement of linguistic elements in which the typographical effect is more important in conveying meaning than verbal significance."

Fabu Phillis Carter is a former Madison Poet Laureate (2008-11). 

Poetry month

I went to school in the days when teachers often had us memorize and recite poetry. It was an exercise I always enjoyed. I often worked on memorizing text — poems, the Gettysburg Address, JFK's Inaugural Address — while walking over to my best friend's house in high school. It was a long walk!

Years later, when I was an editorial writer, my boss sometimes began edits and opinion columns with poetry. That habit spurred me to keep an anthology of poetry at my desk. I would read it when I could not think of how I wanted to begin whatever I was writing or just need a break from my own words crowding my head. It got me used to reading and enjoying poetry as something that was part of my daily life rather than an elite and rare endeavor.

I've never gotten into using my phone or whatever to listen to music, books or podcasts while walking at the gym. Instead I use the time to learn poems. I print them out on paper which I fold up and put in my pocket. I take it out and look at a line or two and then keep reciting it as I walk. I recite out loud, though not loudly. You learn better that way and you can put some oomph into how you declaim. I figure if anybody notices me talking to myself, they may see I am holding a piece of paper and realize I am practicing something — perhaps my speech for a major award!

One day, a woman asked me what I was doing. When I told her I was memorizing poetry, we had a long talk on the subject. From then on she would check on what I was learning and we would talk poetry. Most people don't bother with poetry which made me wonder about Sandy Stark (above) and her interest in the subject. So I "googled" her and discovered she was a published poet! I immediately went looking for her books: The Toolbox Poems and Counting on Birds. Found them at Mystery To Me Bookstore on Monroe St. where I bought them, brought them home and dove in.

Given that Sandy is a Midwesterner, birder, prairie enthusiast and woman of a certain age, almost every subject she addressed in her poems resonated with me. Her work displays a keen eye and ear and an ability to engage with the world at both its most amusing and deeply poignant moments. I've kept these poems on the table next to my reading chair so I can delve into them at random. Not when I need a break from life, but as a way to engage more deeply with it. How wonderful to discover a poet in the last place where I'd have gone looking for one. 

You can order Sandy's book from your local independent bookstore as well as on Amazon.

I've memorized poems that have resonated with me in the past as well as some I've recently discovered. In the midst of struggling to learn Tennyson's "Ulysses," it occurred to me that song lyrics qualified as poetry so I took a break and memorized a couple of tunes. Here's what I've learned so far:

To His Coy Mistress, Andrew Marvell, 1681

End of Summer, Stanley Kunitz, 1953

Postscript, Seamus Heaney, 1996

Last Before America, Louis MacNiece, 1940s

Three from Shakespeare:

    O Mistress Mine (one of Feste's songs from "Twelfth Night"),

    Prologue from "Romeo and Juliet,"

    Fear No More the Heat of the Sun (a song from "Cymbeline")

You're the Top, lyrics by Cole Porter, 1934

The Parting Glass, Scottish traditional song

If you have a favorite poem that you think is worth committing to memory, do put its title and author in a comment and I will consider adding it to my repertoire.

A poem for St. Pat's Day

Last Before America 

A spiral of green hay on the end of a rake:

The moment is sweat and sun-prick — children and old women

Big in a tiny field, midgets against the mountain,

So toy-like yet so purposed you could

Take this for the Middle Ages.

 

At night the accordian melts in the wind from the sea

From the bourne of emirgrant uncle and son, a defeated

Music that yearns and abdicates; chimney-smoke and spindrift

Mingle and parts as ghosts do. The decree

Of the sea’s divorce is final.

 

Pennsylvania or Boston? It was another name,

A land of a better because an impossible promise

Which split these families; it was to be a journey

Away from death — yet the travelers died the same

As those who stayed in Ireland.

 

Both myth and seismic history have been long suppressed

Which made and unmade Hy Brasil — now an image

For those who despise charts but find their dream’s endorsement

In certain long low islets snouting towards the west

Like cubs that have lost their mother.

— Louis MacNeice

 

 

The "Hy Brasil" mentioned in this poem is a mythical island off the coast of western Ireland. It was on navigation charts until the middle of the 19th century. You can see it at the center bottom of the map at the top.

My sisters and I all have framed copies of this equally mythical stamp celebrating the island. Our family name — Brazill — is derived from the island. A very Irish name that only those who know their Irish history and mythology recognize — on St. Patrick's Day or any other day.

IVOM: Seasonal shift

All the browns and oranges and gourds and pods that were starring in this space for the last month or two are back in their hiding places until next year. I decided to go for a completely different look this year for my holiday decor that I display on this pair of Chinese wine tables. I wanted something warm, elegant and glowing without glitter. So I brought together all the myriad gold-toned items that lurk in corners and china cupboards the rest of the year. The first image below gives you an overview. The following pictures look at the items in more detail going from left to right.

I've had this gold rimmed bowl longer than I can remember. I originally bought it because I thought it would go well with my grandmother's stemware that is similarly edged. Over the years I've made orange and lemon pomanders as gifts and to spice up my own closets. 

This heavy brass vase has a different design on each side and a wooden stand that raises its stature. The greens and Hellebore leaf are from the garden.

The black lacquer tray holds a brass box from WWI that was given to UK soldiers that first Christmas of the War. There's also a needle case, a puffy pillow-shaped box, a reproduction antique Egyptian mirror and a brass tea strainer filled with stars. On the right side is a piece of hand-painted jewelry with a gold-colored frame. It's meant to be worn as a brooch but I am always worried about losing it so it never leaves home. I think of all the items on this tray as toys for grown-ups.

Moving down the table is a gold plate that my sisters and I bought for our mom on her 50th wedding anniversary as it matched a vase that was one of her wedding gifts. On the plate are tiny accordion poetry books with gold-leaf covers. The pair of British brass candlesticks were one of the last things we bought when one of our favorite local antique stores closed. The picture frame holds two photos of Mark at an early childhood Christmas. At the far right are a Japanese tea container and a bowl with gold-wrapped candies.

Baby Mark celebrates in 1948!

To see what other gardeners have put in a vase or around their homes this holiday season, visit Cathy at Rambling in the Garden who hosts this meme.