Jean Lets the Texture of Saba's Poem Speak to Her

Here is my friend jean wall penland's ( www.penlandia.com) response to Saba's A Winter Noon. Jean always brings an artist's voice to her work. She was in a poetry workshop I led many years ago and every week astonished me with her offerings. This is no exception. Jean is on facebook, so you can visit her there.

starting with your lines (my lines):

today as i was limping to the mailbox, a grumpy man was complaining about a teenager

last week i wandered into a fabric shop where a mother was buying material for her daughter's wedding

fogiveness from . . . GOD god?

for happiness for happiness?

reduced nearly to tears damn god! heavy crap! dark -- happiness not dark!

a certain lovely creature sweet

you'll surely say NO

who smiled at you in passing pleasant and yellow-green-pale or condescention dark grey

but no oops, i flunked

a blue meandering balloon air-light blue -- floating fun

against an azure sky bright now

my native sky where is this native sky

never so clear ah, glass

and cold clear cold icicle -- dripping? noontime?

as then noon?

that dazzling winter day ah, clear AND bright

a few small clouds peaceful airy blue (and white) again

and upper windows flaming in the sun i am CAPTURED! -- in love -- happiness is here!

and faint smoke from the chimney, or two hmmm are we moving away from happiness? inner place

and over everything oh oh, ominous over everything

every divine thing uh oh again, i am already mad at god about the happiness thing

that globe the noon sun?

that had escaped a boy's incautious fingers hmm, maybe not the sun?

surely he was out there broadcasting through the crowded square his grief WHAM! i love the 'broadcasting' - and

the grief, has he lost something?

his immense grief oh, surely he must have! something of his heart

between the great facade of the Stock Exchange and the cafe large city

where i, behind a window hiding, resting, spying , being protected but not flaming now?

watched with shining eyes crying for his grief? yours? not smiling-shining surely

the rise and fall breathing, pulsating ?

of what he once posessed not a simple loss, a death?

not really what you asked for, just what happened with me -- and the reader, i suppose, brings along his own stuff just as in viewing paintings -- well, i sha'n't forget this poem soon jn -- lv

Waking Up in the Middle of the Night, or Texture in Poetry

I often wake up in the middle of the night, the demons scratching away in my mind---all the things I have to do, all the regrets, the fears, the memories. But two nights ago, I woke up after a dream in which I was teaching a poetry workshop again, trying to engage to the young students about "texture" in language. I remembered giving them a simple sentence, something like, "Today I walked to the post office and talked to Margie behind the counter about her teenage son."

What's the texture of that sentence, I asked. And then, how can you change the texture? Make it nubby or silky or tangled. What about each line of a poem? Or the whole poem?

What do you do with a snag? Is it a productive snag, one that stops the reader for a good reason and adds to the texture of the poem? Or one that stops the reader for good, confuses the reader and causes the poem to lose its flow?

And color? What color is this sentence I just gave you? Sort of beige? How can you change the color? How does syntax enable you to play with color and texture?

I was having a grand time, even wishing that I had a set of those little hot pad weaving toys that I loved as a child, with a lot of yarn on the table. Making it all tactile, as well as visual.

I woke up feeling excited about language, about poetry, and I remembered the Saba poem I posted just a day ago on this blog.

What, I wondered, would a reader have to say about the texture in this poem? Line by line? as an entirety? And color?

Give it a try, those of you who visit my blog. Look below this post at A Winter Noon. Leave a comment to tell me how you "feel" this poem. What is the syntax doing to weave its texture? The imagery?

Happiness? Well, I can say that waking up at 3 in the morning and feeling jazzed over a dream about poetry and the fabric of language comes pretty close, especially after the other dreams lately have been about endless searches for lost passports, letters, recipes, working an eternity to try to get a meal on the table, pack a suitcase, decide which poem to read, what clothes to wear, and finding none of what I need close by, nothing ever resolved, my heart pounding when I wake up. After waking up from this dream, I kept teaching the class in my head, thinking of ways to make poetry come alive. Who cares that it took me at least an hour to fall back asleep? I was having a blast.

So, let me continue the workshop. Tell me how A Winter Noon runs through your fingers like wool or silk or broadcloth, where the stitchery changes, becomes nubbier, or smoother. The cut of it as it falls to closure. How it hangs on the clothesline!

I will use your comments in a later post.

A WINTER NOON, BY UMBERTO SABA

A WINTER NOON

Who in the moment of my happiness

(God forgive my using a word so grand,

so terrible) reduced my brief delight

nearly to tears? "A certain lovely creature,"

you'll surely say, "who smiled at you in passing."

But no: a blue meandering balloon

against the azure air, my native sky

never so clear and cold as then, at noon

that dazzling winter day: a few small clouds,

and upper windows flaming in the sun,

and faint smoke from a chimney, maybe two--

and over everything, every divine

thing, that globe that had escaped a boy's

incautious fingers (surely he was out there,

broadcasting through the crowded square his grief,

his immense grief) between the great facade

of the Stock Exchange and the cafe where I,

behind a window, watched with shining eyes

the rise and fall of what he once possessed.

by Umberto Saba, --Translated by Geoffrey Brock

from The Alhambra Poetry Calendar, 2010

Poetry Anthology

KITCHEN MEDITATIONS #1: Happiness

(My kitchen window, New Year's Eve)

December 31, 2009, 10:36 am

So when redroom.com asks me to blog about happiness, I don't know what to say.

I don't know what "happiness" means. How to answer, if you are a poet?

Maybe you say, that day in November when I was sixteen and I ran through the fields and the sky gathered me up....

Ok, you're thinking cliche. I get it. So, let me try again.

I open a book in the college library and there I find a poem by James Dickey that pulls me in like a lasso. Friday night on campus, everyone else on dates, getting drunk at frat houses. I am what you might call happy to sit in silence, nobody else in the stacks, reading this poet named James Dickey.

But-- Oh, no, James Dickey is not politically correct. Sorry. He was a boozer, treated his women badly, his own gift shabbily.

So, instead I open another book and Federico Garcia Lorca pulls me into "verde, que te quiero verde," and I follow it all the way to the end and later declare my major in Spanish, only to change it to art because I have fallen in love with Kandinsky, only to change it to English because I have fallen in love with Beowulf, Wordsworth, Hopkins.

Let me tell you about the time I walked with a man in October, all the leaves burning, and thought I had entered a sacred wood......but that ended in marriage, and we all know, if we watch enough t.v. or read enough contemporary fiction, that marriage does not lead after nearly 40 years to real "happiness." Whatever happiness is.

So, I stand in my kitchen, this New Year's Eve and watch the trees, naked as I want my words to be right now, waiting for a a little light, a little green. And I wonder, am I happy? The sky is gray, the way I like it this time of year. There's soup on the stove, bread in the oven. I don't know if this makes me happy. But here in this cluttered kitchen, the girl running through the field, the young woman falling in love, the old dead grandmother smiling down at me from the photo over the counter come together in the scent of bread rising, soup simmering. They do not ask if I am happy. They ask if I am still alive.

One of 30 Best Poetry Blogs!

A TIP OF THE HAT TO MY BLOG!

HERE, WHERE I AM has been chosen as one of the 30 Best Poetry Blogs by Online Colleges and Universities! Here is the link to the site. Keep looking down the list below. This blog is # 30.

http://www.onlinecollegesanduniversities.com/2009/12/31/30-awesome-poetry-blogs-you-arent-reading-yet/

30 Awesome Poetry Blogs You Aren’t Reading Yet Posted by admin in Resources on Dec 31st, 2009. It’s time to update your bookmarks and check out these great sources of innovation and poetry. Many of these blogs are under the radar but it doesn’t mean their authors are any less reputable or exciting to read. In no particular order:

1. Poems and Poetics – Jerome posts his own texts as well as work that has influenced him throughout his life.

2. How a Poem Happens – Read up on poet interviews and learn how they go about making their art.

3. Amy King - Read up on excellent social commentary relating to poetry and also occasional poems by the author.

4. One Poet’s Notes

– Edward Byrne is a great blogger with many unique perspectives and commentary on contemporary literature.
5. Blogalicious – New Jersey poet Diane blogs about life and literature.
6. Out of the Woodwork – Brian speaks about his life, interests and of course poetry. 7. Wanderer Thoughts - Dragon blogger writes all types of poems. Updated frequently.
8. The Poetry Foundation – Fantastic resource which covers all things poetic including columns and news.
9. Poet Hound – Cozy little blog with open submissions.
10. The Poetry Resource – Patrick has been managing this site for well over a decade, full of resources.
11. Sherry Chandler - Sherry is an award winning poet who resides in Kentucky.
12. Indie Feed Performance Poetry – Don’t ever forget spoken poetry’s beauty. Listen to user submitted performances of great poems here!
13. Surroundings – Rob is a Scottish poet that also uses his blogs for literary reviews.
14. They Shoot Poets, Don’t They? – Nick is a lovable Canadian poet.
15. Chicks Dig Poetry – Sandra contributes to The Washington Post
16. Funny Rhymes and Poems – Puns, puns and more puns over here.
17. Jake Adam York – Jake is a professor from the University of Colorado Denver.
18. American Life in Poetry – Pulitzer Prize winner and former poet laureate Ted Kooser writes here.
19. Chicken Spaghetti – Amazing site for kids with a poetry section.
20. Mark Doty - Mark’s blog is a mix of online poems and his own personal work.
21. Rooted – The author’s slogan is to not worry about the inner meanings of their text, just enjoy it.
22. Robert Peake – Robert’s personal blog is a plentiful source of enjoyable poems and ideas
23. World Class Poetry – Allen provides insight and commentary in contemporary poetry.
24. Me Tronome – Larry is the curator of the Myopic Book reading series in Chicago.
25. Betsy Lerner – Betsy writes about the ups and downs of the publishing process (mainly the downs).
26. Poetry Chaikhana – Huge collection of poems from around the world.
27. The Amandzing Way – Source for vibrant South African poetry.
28. Read Write Poem – A large community for poets who wish to share, learn and discuss.
29. Mike Snider - Mike reviews, comments and speaks about poetry daily.
30. Here, Where I Am – North Carolina’s poet laureate Kathryn writes about poetry and her life.

Riding in Cars With Dogs

On my last trip home to SW Georgia for the Campbell Christmas reunion, we decided to take two of our dogs with us, Lord Byron (who wanders off the the Pizza Hut and laundromat if left outside) and Ace of Dogs. We knew the temps would fall into the teens while we were gone, and we were sure our big bear of a dog Bro and the smaller one, Pooja, would have the sense to sleep inside the garage. Byron and Ace were great traveling companions. Here are a couple of photos I took of them on the drive back to North Carolina.



Of course Byron expected to ride with me in the front passenger seat, on a pillow no less!

Ace had to make do with the back seat.

Once home, we built a fire in the woodstove and, you betcha, fed all the dogs.

BLUE MOON

New Year's Eve, and we aren't celebrating. I'm already garbed for bed. But outside the moon is rising, the "blue moon," and of course I have to go out in my bedclothes to see it, along with my digital camera, although I'm no good as yet in taking night photos.

Fog everywhere. Inside it, the lineaments of the trees beside our house fascinate me. I wish I could paint them. Instead I snap a not very good photo.

Then I find her, Mistress Blue Moon, hiding behind a tall pine.

Blue Moon

Why so blue,

the fog swirled

around you

atop the tree?

I try to snare

you with shutter

clicks, New Year’s

Eve having gone

to my head,

bubbles bursting

around me

as I roam

the backyard

in muddy scuffs

and gray nubby

bathrobe (on which

my dog sleeps

every night).

Why so blue,

I ask myself

looking up at you,

oh you moon

turning fog

into gauze into

silk into spider’s

web (choose

one) I'm trolling

through

as if I don't

want to go back

inside to the light

of a room

where I know

every shadow that

waits for me.

The fog as captured by my camera looked like bubbles! Champagne bubbles?

Inside, real champagne waited in the fridge. We would save it for New Year's Day when we felt more celebratory. Tonight I longed only to fall asleep, knowing the fog swaddled everything outside, erasing the rough edges. Easing us into another year, like a veil drifting before our eyes, one that would be gone when morning came.