And now for a surprising poem by John Updike

This was featured in The Writer's Almanac this morning (thanks, Annie, for introducing the Almanac to me!), and I was interested in this poem by Updike. I guess I haven't read enough of his work to know whether the theme is typical. Meanwhile (and wholly unrelated to Updike) Jimmer the Fish is still alive.

Religious Consolation

by John Updike

One size fits all. The shape or coloration
of the god or high heaven matters less
than that there is one, somehow, somewhere, hearing
the hasty prayer and chalking up the mite
the widow brings to the temple, A child
alone with horrid verities cries out
for there to be a limit, a warm wall
whose stones give back an answer, however faint.

Strange, the extravagance of it—who needs
those eighteen-armed black Kalis, those musty saints
whose bones and bleeding wounds appall good taste,
those joss sticks, houris, gilded Buddhas, books
Moroni etched in tedious detail?
We do; we need more worlds. This one will fail.

"Religious Consolation" by John Updike, from Americana and Other Poems. © Alfred A. Knopf, 2001.

Poems and other matters

Last night in my book group we reviewed Garrison Keillor's anthology GOOD POEMS and there were a few people in the group who just were not feeling the poetry love. Which is fine. We all have our individual tastes. Like I was saying to Sara Z the other day, I feel like the last American standing who has NOT read THE HUNGER GAMES. Why? Because I'm just not a fan of dystopian fantasy. So there you have it.

Still. What I realized last night is how much I love poetry, how nourishing I find it, how happy I am that people write and share it. My world would be a more dimly lit place without it. So carry on, my poet friends. You make me glad.

Meanwhile, the fish still lives. Oh yes. The fish lives on.

A poem for the day

I found this in GOOD POEMS, selected by Garrison Keillor. (Love that volume btw. It's a collection of poems Keillor has read on air, so by necessity the selections are accessible, musical, and image-driven.) Anyhoo! This seemed to be a good poem to share on an arctic day like this. When Kathy and I went on our walk at 5:30 this morning, we said how our world looked like a photo negative with bare lawns and streets skimmed with a fine drifted snow. I ask you. How beautiful is this world?

The Sixth of January
by David Budbill

The cat sits on the back of the sofa looking
out the window through the softly falling snow
at the last bit of gray light.

I can't say the sun is going down.
We haven't seen the sun for two months.
Who cares?

I am sitting in the blue chair listening to this stillness.
The only sound: the occasional gurgle of tea
coming out of the pot and into the cup.

How can this be?
Such calm, such peace, such solitude
in this world of woe.

Well played, WJHS

Spent part of the day at West Jordan High judging a poetry slam, and may I say I think that school has a really nice vibe? And may I also say students who get up and read their poems in front of fellow students are brave and fabulous? I would have marched into the nearest bathroom and given myself a swirly before doing that in high school.

On a related note, walking through the cafeteria on the way to the auditorium reminded me again of how terrifying adolescence can be. I felt fourteen again. Except that now I have stretch marks.

Congratulations to Amy and Andria and the English faculty at WJHS for sponsoring such a terrific event.

Words to live by

For Christmas Sara Zarr gave me a lovely, inspiring little book called THE POCKET MUSE by Monica Wood. The bit below really speaks to me because I think it's so wise--and also because I love poetry, although I don't write it. I especially love the poems of my friend of many fabulous years, Lisa Bickmore. I always tell her she's my favorite poet in the history of the universe, along with W. B. Yeats. (She's cuter, though. Funnier, too.)

"There is a special throne in heaven for poets, who labor in obscurity. The rest of us harbor an unexpressed hope for fame and glory. You might be tempted to write for a market. You might be tempted to ride the crest of a trend. That kind of writing is about as stable and fulfilling as day trading. Write what interests you. Write what frightens you. Write what thrills you. Take a cue from the poets, bless their underfunded little hearts."

Hello again

I don't know why I didn't blog at all this week. Apparently I lost my will to blog. Also live. Also eat cupcakes. It was a bad week in some ways, but I'm better now.

I was listening to (cliche alert!) NPR this morning on my way to (cliche alert!) the Farmer's Market this morning to watch fellow Salt Lakers (cliche alert!) sip coffee and parade their rescue dogs around Pioneer Park. ANYWAY. I was interested in the interview with a writer whose name I missed (but his British-type accent was dead sexy) who called the reading and writing of poetry a Slow Word Movement--not unlike the Slow Food Movement. His point, of course, was that to read poems, you have to slow down and savor what's there in order to have a meaningful experience.

I loved this little analogy and wanted to say one of the pleasures of this otherwise disappointing week was to read some poems by my friend Lisa Bickmore, who often posts here. She's all about the Slow Word Movement, and I feel nourished because she shared her work with me. She used to be my second favorite poet after W. B. Yeats. But now she is officially my favorite poet.

And actually now that I think about it--I saw and heard from several friends this past week and that was all good, too. Thank you, friends.

Yes. In my happy place now.

Poems for Mother's Day

Just got back from the inspirational lesson session. While I was there, a guest performed a Mother's Day song that was a leetle over-the-top in terms of sentiment. The residents enjoyed the performance, so that's all that matters. But it did put me in mind of bad Mother's Day poems like the following by the very earnest Rev. E. E. Bradford (1860-1944).

"His Mother Drinks"

Within a London hospital there lies,
Tucked in his cot,
A child with golden curls and big blue eyes.
The night is hot,
And though the windows in the long low ward
are open wide,
No breath of air comes from the sun-baked yard
That lies outside.

A kindly nurse who sees his wistful smile,
To cheer him cries;
"The doctor says that in a little while
He'll let you rise,
And send you home again!" His eyes grow dim.
She little thinks
What since his father died home means to him--
His mother drinks!

Feel free to get into the spirit of the holiday by posting Bad Mother's Day poems yourself.