Alexandersmap

    Category: Poetry

    • Better Than Perfection

      As certain as rain
      will make you wet,
      perfection will do you
      in.
      — Kilian McDonnell, Perfection, Perfection

      I write a lot about arete, or personal excellence. It’s a quest for improvement, one step forward and two steps back occasionally, but generally moving upwards and to the right. We know when we’re getting better, even as most of us without an ego problem know that we aren’t or ever will be perfect.

      This blog post is number 3000 published. That means something and nothing, all at once. Anyone can publish a blog—especially now with AI so ubiquitous. This very post will be scrubbed by AI countless times and mined of anything of value to spit out someone else’s “work” for the day. Copying or iteration has always been with us since humans began putting their brains to work. That it’s infinitely more efficient now than it was when this blog began should be anticipated. We ought to do the work worthy of someone else coveting.

      I’ve aspired to greatness in writing like every other writer has and ever will. That the writing hints at potential now and then is small consolation for the perfectionist in me, but years of effort have largely stifled that particular voice in my head. This post, after 3000 attempts at something better than average, will probably be close to my average. Call me a consistent voice if you will. That may or may not be a compliment, but there’s something to be said for giving it a go every day, just to see where we end up.

      I might have titled this blog post “What I’ve learned after 3000 blog posts” for the extra clicks and views it might have garnered. An earlier version of me would certainly have done it. I’m not that person anymore. I’m better (in some ways), and definitely not perfect, and will move through my day today working to make myself better still. Leave perfection to the gods, for that’s where arete was always meant to be. The moment we believe we’ve reached perfection is the moment we stop getting better.

    • Offered Back

      What is my name,
      o what is my name
      that I may offer it back
      to the beautiful world?

      Have I walked
      long enough
      where the sea breaks raspingly
      all day and all night upon the pale sand?
      — Mary Oliver, From the Book of Time

      To be out in the world every day, aware and alive, that’s the thing. To write about it is no longer the point, to be present with it is. The words simply look for a place to call home afterwards.

      Do we understand the whispered potential of another day? Shun the belief that it will always be so. Our mission is to capture its essence as best we can and to accept the invitation to dance with life.

      To realize magic just as it ripens on the vine this very moment seems more imperative than ever in a world full of other people’s hysteria. What’s real is what brushes up on us this very moment. Slow down, have a look around, breathe and take the next step.

    • Love Again the Stranger

      The time will come
      when, with elation,
      you will greet yourself arriving
      at your own door, in your own mirror,
      and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

      and say, sit here. Eat.
      You will love again the stranger who was your self.
      Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
      to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

      all your life, whom you ignored
      for another, who knows you by heart.
      Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

      the photographs, the desperate notes,
      peel your own image from the mirror.
      Sit. Feast on your life.
      — Derek Walcott, Love After Love

      Life will change soon enough. It’s always changed, as we learn, as we also learn that some years bring more changes than others. Through it all, there is us. We are the main actor in our lifetime drama (or comedy, if you like), and we are the only one in the audience who sees the entirety of our acutely aware presence amongst the living. That ought to count for something.

      I’m approaching a milestone with this blog, and it may be a great point to call this project done. At what point do you feel like you’ve said enough? At what point do you look for a new way beyond blogging to say what ought to be said?

      The thing is, planning to savor all that we’ve done and have become is a fool’s game. We ought to feast on our life today, while there’s life to savor. Tomorrow is too late and always has been. Pour the wine, break the bread, let’s enjoy this time together now. Rest assured that there are a few more pages in this long love letter, if fate allows.

    • Taut Boldness

      “I don’t care about spending much time with people who haven’t a definite personality. I am that kind of an equalitarian. I like to mix with my equals, people who have as much personality as I have… but the great thing is taut boldness… People… will tell you that freedom lies in being cautious… Freedom lies in being bold.” — Robert Frost

      Robert Frost’s take on boldness is surprising if we think of productive poets as disciplined, but less so if we think of them as audacious. Don’t we have to be a little audacious to publish our work expecting the world to take notice? I think this is especially true of poets. What fascinates me is the company he kept. To be at that table with those bold characters, talking of bigger things than the average. Am I so bold as to believe I could hold my own?

      I’ve long believed that boldness offers opportunities seldom available with timidity. Maybe mothers don’t like to hear bold talk, but free spirits are stirred by it. For all the structured discipline in my life, there’s still a wild child hiding within. Now and then he sees the light of day.

      The world is full of exceptional people, each bold in their own way to reach the higher stratosphere in which they fly. Each day builds or erodes personal excellence. Boldness plays as much a role as grit or resolve do. We choose who we will become, how high we might fly, and yes, the company we will ultimately keep.

    • Purpose Coming to a Head

      The Universe is but the Thing of things,
      The things but balls all going round in rings,
      Some of them mighty huge, some mighty tiny,
      All of them radiant and mighty shiny.

      They mean to tell us all was rolling blind
      Till accidentally it hit on mind
      In an albino monkey in a jungle
      And even then it had to grope and bungle

      Till Darwin came to earth upon a year
      To show the evolution how to steer.
      They mean to tell us, though, the Omnibus
      Had no real purpose till it got to us.

      Don’t you believe it. At the very worst
      It must have had the purpose from the first
      To produce purpose as the fitter bred:
      We were just purpose coming to a head.

      Whose purpose was it? His or Hers or Its?
      Let’s leave that to the scientific wits.
      Grant me intention, purpose, and design —
      That’s near enough for me to the Divine.

      And yet for all this help of head and brain
      How happily instinctive we remain,
      Our best guide upward further to the light,
      Passionate preference such as love at sight.
      — Robert Frost, Accidentally on Purpose

      A hard frost last night had me thinking about Mr. Frost, which had me looking through some poems and quotes, that delivered this delightful nugget. The poem above was published in the March 1961 edition of The Atlantic, well before my time on earth began. But the universe opens up for those who seek more, or at the very least for those who have a subscription to a magazine that offers its entire archive online simply for the asking. We ought to support independent voices for all they offer, not just in complicated times such as these. As we are reminded of when chaos rules, consistency matters a great deal in our march through a great life.

      I spent entirely too much time ignoring poetry as a younger man. I was simply too busy with clever pursuits—or maybe foolish pursuits, it hardly matters. It was when I began writing every day when I was instinctively drawn to poetry. Call it an aspiration for brevity, or a delight in the dance of words, or simply a logical turn towards that which awes. Whatever it is, I saw what I’d been missing and decided to miss as little as possible.

      What is our purpose? We spend too much time dwelling on it, and not nearly enough time pursuing it. Sure, we ought to think about the heading of the compass, but we must set the sails and get moving before the wind dies and we’re left adrift on a cold, dark sea. Sure, that’s a well-worn analogy tossed deliberately into the mix, but heck, what are analogies for but to use in the most obvious moments?

      That digression aside, the question lingers about intention, purpose and design. Poetry prompts such questions, just as art and prose and science do. Humans reaching for some greater truth than what to should have for lunch today naturally evolves over time to form some philosophical core that snowballs into something approaching sublime.

      We might look around and see that the majority isn’t exactly inspiring awe, they’re simply following the easiest path to get through their days. We all fall into that trap now and then, we just can’t allow it to become habitual. Reaching towards our greatest potential is also habitual. It demands that we transcend the limitations of self and strive for a level of perfection and beauty far beyond the limits of our lifetime. That’s on each of us in our time.

    • Something Tangible

      It ill becomes me: that I’m older,
      Time I should be more sensible…
      And yet the frivolous disorder
      Fills every jitter of my soul.
      — Alexander Pushkin, Confession

      I had the house power washed a couple of days ago. I say this with some chagrin, for I own a pressure washer and generally do such things myself (fancying myself a homeowner for some time now). But I will acknowledge that things fall through the cracks when we get busy living under the robe of identity we weave for ourselves. It was easier to simply pay someone to do what I could well have done myself.

      My job was to remove the screens from the windows. Let me confess that some of those screens haven’t been removed in twenty years. We thought we had clean windows because we could see out of the glass. It turned out we did not have clean windows. But now that we do, the revelation of all that we’d been missing is a little embarrassing. That we can see clearly now makes the time not seeing clearly all the more surprising. There are of course analogies to be drawn between those windows and the current state of things in the world, but really, why go there yet again? Most of us can see it now, but there are still too many blissfully unaware of what they cannot see.

      We all get busy and focused on things that make us not see other things that whisper for attention. Sometimes we have to be jolted into awareness by a check engine light, or the sudden passing of a friend we thought was doing okay because they simply said they were. We ought to dig deeper, we ought to be more rigid in maintaining order in our own lives, that nothing escapes us. But this is folly; the very act of focusing on one thing means that we inevitably take our focus off of something else. We can’t be everywhere at once, we have to trust that some things will take care of themselves.

      So it is that things slip through those cracks. Dirty windows aren’t the worst of things, and I’m pleased that they’re now clean again. It’s prompted me to look at other things that have whispered for attention and to knock off a few other things before the long, cold winter calls. I’m older now, even if I’m not yet old. There are things that must be done to keep order with myself, and not just this house. Disorder is an acceptable condition of youth because there always seems to be more time left to get back on track. In time we either learn to see clearly or have our light dim for want of attention.

      The opposite of frivolous disorder is focused discipline. That may not sound fun at all on the surface, until we put one foot in front of the other and make meaningful progress in our lives. I used to love that line from The Beatles’ song, “Oh that magic feeling, nowhere to go”. But I’m older now, and it turns out that I’m quite fond of having someplace to go, and something to do when I get there. We’ll never have it all figured out, but we ought to find something tangible to call our life.

    • Your Needs Answered

      And let your best be for your friend.
      If he must know the ebb of your tide, let him know its flood also.
      For what is your friend that you should seek him with hours to kill?
      Seek him always with hours to live.
      — Kahlil Gibran, On Friendship

      A long conversation about friendship last night has me thinking about it again this morning. I once reminded people in a wedding speech that there are two kinds of friends—friends of convenience and friends by choice. We learn over time who will stay the course with us, and who will fade away. It’s up to each of us to put in the work needed to keep any relationship of consequence going.

      Those who would use us to fill their own needs without reciprocating are not friends, they’re emotional leeches. Too harsh? Perhaps, but isn’t it fair to our emotional health to step back and ask ourselves, are they filling or sapping my spirit? The thing about a leech is they will hold on for dear life, making it hard to dislodge them from our lives without a little pain. But once separated, they no longer have the power to sap our life force.

      My favorite line of Gibran’s poem is not included in the excerpt above. It’s this little wisdom nugget: “Your friend is your needs answered.” What is a friend but another soul who fills a void in our lives? Be aware of who is filling us with joy and purpose, and spend more time with those who amplify our lives in positive ways. For they, friend, are truly friends worthy of our precious time.


    • Declaration

      My declaration
      will be
      absolute.

      An arrival
      in the here
      and the now.

      Then
      there will
      be little else to do.

      I will have become like
      the madman running
      to see the moon
      in the window,
      the hawk
      I saw tracing the cliff edge
      above the river.

      I will be the man
      I have pursued all along
      and finally caught.
      — David Whyte, Mortality My Mistress

      Declarations are nothing without action executed to conclusion. We must learn to keep our promises to ourselves and others, and to back up our words with results. We are where we are because of our actions, not because of some declaration.

      There is a growing awareness that may reveal itself through the accumulation of years. We grow wealthy given time and compounding interest. Call it wisdom or call it experience, it’s collected through deliberate action and an inclination to be present with life as it unfolds before us.

      Not all who grow old grow wise, any more than gathering years mean that we have gathered experience. Gathering is itself a deliberate act.

      Not all who age grow old. Youthful vigor is derived from receptivity multiplied by energy. We are as alive as we allow ourselves to be, no matter our age.

      If an arrival infers place, a declaration suggests direction towards something more. We may savor place while aspiring for more. At least that’s the mindset I have as I arrive at this place with an eye towards the next. Today, we are as fit and wise and wealthy as yesterday has made us. This is nothing but currency to spend as an investment in the present and future person we wish to be.

    • Something Beyond

      What did the tree learn from the earth
      to be able to talk with the sky?
      — Pablo Neruba, The Book of Questions

      I ought to stop while I’m ahead. Quote a couple of breathtaking lines from a poet and leave well enough alone. But this isn’t a quote repository, it’s a blog, so onward already.

      As I wrote this earlier today, a neighbor had an oak tree limbed up. It seems that they’ve had enough of the tree’s relentless elbowing for more room. An oak tree can be a tough neighbor, but we moved into a neighborhood that was once a forest, with a developer who took great pains to keep it as much a forest as he could. The trees act like they own the place, and we mostly let them. Still, I understand the need to preserve the house from bombardment; the acorns are bountiful this year. We do what we must to keep order in the places we call home.

      Living in a valley amongst the trees is an implied agreement. We coexist as best we can. The trees offer beauty and shade and a sense of place literally rooted in decades watching over the land. The implication of being a good neighbor is to simply do no harm while maintaining a tidy yard. We all have done our part in this respect.

      Sure, I may write about trees more than I ought to. I may also quote poems with a frequency that either inspires or repels. I follow the suggestion Cheryl Strayed’s mother once gave her to put myself in the way of beauty. Why then keep it to myself, where it will suffocate and die? Learning was never the point, it’s using what we learn to do something beyond our previous norm. If we reach far enough beyond, we may even reach extraordinary.

    • Last Chance

      Look, I want to love this world
      as though it’s the last chance I’m ever going to get
      to be alive
      and know it.
      — Mary Oliver, October

      A hot air balloon landed just down the street this morning. The pup growled slowly, deciding whether to bark or to let it go. I spoke to her soothingly, suggesting now was not the time to bark. She generally goes the way I go on such things (a fact that I’ve abused for sophomoric pleasure). Indeed, it would be a lovely morning for a balloon ride, but I used the morning to browse online for houses or boats instead. One day the world will align on the perfect example of each, but alas, not today.

      Perhaps October was an easy choice to quote from, yet I don’t believe I’ve ever used it in any of the eight Octobers that I’ve been writing this blog, nor in the countless Mary Oliver poems that I’ve sampled from. As its name infers, October was originally the eighth month of the year, and the eighth year of writing this blog ought to inspire me to do something memorable with it. Like new homes and new boats, the chances are good that things will remain the same for a while longer.

      The pup sighs and looks at me again, wondering when we’re going to go for a walk. The balloon people have packed up and moved on to mimosas in some parking lot somewhere. The morning’s browsing has done nothing to move the needle on progressing towards change, so I guess we’ll just need to settle in for another October in New Hampshire. That’s not such a bad consolation, is it? We only have so many magical months to savor. Might as well reward the pup’s patience and have a look about.