Alexandersmap

    Category: Poetry

    • Bundles of Rain

      Are the clouds glad to unburden their bundles of rain?
      Most of the world says no, no, it’s not possible. I refuse to think to such a conclusion.
      Too terrible it would be, to be wrong.
      — Mary Oliver, Do Stones Feel?

      After a month of no rain, it’s rained at the most inconvenient time, at least for the outdoor projects I’ve had planned for the last few days. But so what? Rain is to be celebrated just as much as sunshine. At least in moderation. This hasn’t been moderation, but I loved it nonetheless.

      People who wish for sunny days all the time ought to live in the desert. The rest of us quietly yearn for change. We’d be ungrateful if we complained about it when it arrived. And so it is that we ought to dress for the occasion and worked with the gift the universe presents to us.

      I’ve learn that I’m not lazy when it rains. Instead of sitting quietly with a book and a steaming mug of tea, I do bundles of projects that have been postponed too long. Indoor projects, surely, but also outdoor projects that want for a bit of watering anyway. The garden is as grateful for the rain as I am in such moments.

      Rainy day projects are beneficial, but sometimes the best answer to a soggy day is to immerse ourselves in the solitude it offers. Soon the productivity will concede to completion. To celebrate the rain for all it brings to the day is just as essential as any project might be. And those books, and that solitude, call to me, reminding me that I must return to them soon.

    • Cradled in Custom

      They have cradled you in custom,
      they have primed you with their preaching,
      They have soaked you in convention through and through;
      They have put you in a showcase; you’re a credit to their teaching —
      But can’t you hear the Wild? — it’s calling you.
      Let us probe the silent places, let us seek what luck betide us;
      Let us journey to a lonely land I know.
      There’s a whisper on the night-wind,
      there’s a star agleam to guide us,
      And the Wild is calling, calling. . .let us go.
      — Robert Service, The Call of the Wild

      We all know the stories we’ve been told all our lives: Do well in school, go to a great college, get a great job and work hard to climb the corporate ladder, meet a mate who aligns with the story, have children and teach them to believe the same story and retire to do all the things we’ve skipped following our assigned script. Most people who struggle in this world are following someone else’s script instead of their own, or feeling the crush of expectations from those who want the best for us, believing the best for us is the story. But all along, and often unheard in the chorus of good intentions, is that the best stories are the ones we write ourselves.

      We each have our call of the wild, but do we heed it? There’s a time and a place for everything, we often remind ourselves, deferring to tomorrow what calls to us today. Perhaps today is a day to step off the chosen path and chase what calls to us. Perhaps this is the time to see what luck betide us. The only certainty is that the call will fade away with our vitality if deferred too long. Heed the call while there is still time to rewrite the story.

    • Thou Hast Thy Music Too

      “Give me books, fruit, French wine, fine weather and a little music.” — John Keats

      Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?
      Think not of them, thou hast thy music too
      — John Keats, To Autumn

      Keats only lived to 25, but his life was memorable because he had productive energy and talent and used it to churn out enough poetry to capture the world’s attention. Had he lived another few decades, I wonder where his voice might have taken him. Perhaps less flowery and more pointed? Our voices change with time, having lived beyond the illusions of our youth to a place more… earthbound.

      I’ve long ago abandoned any idea that writing a blog post every day would net a million followers. That’s Seth Godin territory. Blogging is a daily practice in writing, and thinking more deeply about consequential things. The idea of advertisements and diligently churning other platforms for clicks is not my game. Frankly, it’s not a game at all anymore, it’s simply the practice of writing every day. A steady climb to a better place.

      If life is short, but hopefully not as short as Keats’ life was, then to live it with joie de vivre seems vital. Ah, the poet has joie de vivre—but does the blogger? I think so, friend, but taking oneself less seriously and learning to enjoy the discoveries one makes about the universe along the way would surely carry us to a more joyful place than overanalyzing one’s key performance indicators (KPI’s) ever would. We don’t always have to know where we’re going or even why, but we ought to feel something stir deep within us when we move through our days. For ’tis true, thou hast thy music too.

    • The Hidden Bond

      My memories of him
      are the ones
      of which I am
      most fond.
      And I’m fearful they
      will fade away
      like ripples
      on a pond.
      But then…
      if I’m the pond
      and he’s the stone
      then we share
      a hidden bond.
      For he’s there
      beneath the surface
      if I dare
      to look beyond.
      — Ranata Suzuki, Reflections

      Within each interaction of consequence with another, there is connection hidden in plain sight. We scarcely think of it in the moment, but when we recall the person, the interaction floods back over us in a wave of memory. Life is a series of such interactions, formed with characters in our life play representing long term relationships, the briefest of transactional conversations and those who fall somewhere in between. The key is the bond made in the moment.

      We transcend the physical body through those we leave behind who remember us. How do we scrap together something to fill the void left behind in the absence of those we care deeply for? I think about people who are very much alive but no longer in my life. They remain a part of me even as they fade as the touchstones grounding me to place and time. Those who have passed occupy a similar place in memory, without the possibility of reunion one day. And that’s where we feel the loss—in the absence of future possibility.

      Someday, when I leave this lifetime, perhaps those I leave behind will leave this small poem on the memorial cards given out on such occasions. A reminder that while I may no longer be there I’m very much at the party, buying them a drink and prompting a story about that time when, examples of looking beyond the surface and finding that we’re still there, if only in spirit and those blessed memories. Hidden bonds continue on for as long as those who remember them do. Questions of whether this is our only pond together are meant to be answered beyond this surface.

    • Someone New

      The new world is as yet
      behind the veil of destiny
      In my eyes, however
      its dawn has been unveiled
      ― Allama Iqbal

      I’m reading a comprehensive history of the European theater of World War II at the moment, which describes in unblinking clarity the horrific reality that millions of people had imposed upon them. When we know history, we understand that luck plays a big part in the quality of our lives. If you’re reading this you likely hit the same birth lottery I did of living in a place and time where we may control much of our lives. To know how lucky we are and not take full advantage of the opportunity seems disrespectful.

      We know that we actualize our destiny through action, but it all begins with a dream. We’re molding the future version of us as we navigate the developing current version. Character is layered upon us by the universe and how we react to it. The path we choose to navigate towards shapes our future self. Our new world awaits our arrival.

      Some days the changes roll through us at a dizzying pace. Other days it feels like we’re never going to do anything but daydream about a better tomorrow. Try to be patient, I tell myself, for this character will get to that place one day. Everything will change again and again, as it must, and we grow into someone new with every turn. The trick is to be grateful for the opportunity and make the most of our days on our journey to becoming.

    • The Present Hour

      “I follow you whoever you are from the present hour.” — Walt Whitman, Song of Myself

      As small as we are in the vastness of the universe, we each nonetheless leave our mark on history. Every interaction stays with us, every poem read, every sideways glance, every hint of fragrance in the air are a sum of our whole. We may make a big splash or a minor ripple, but we all have our verse to contribute. The magic in writing is carrying that verse across time.

      We are a collection of hours arranged as a lifetime. We whittle them away as if they were unlimited. We learn as we grow older that each had value, but some shine brighter than others. Applying this realization to the next becomes ever more essential. Whoever we are in this moment, whatever we make of it in the now, will indeed follow us for the rest of our days. Our ripple, through those we encounter, is carried further still. What will we lay upon the shoulders of those who will carry us with them from this moment on?

      Autumn is in the air. Harvest time is well underway already. The seasons signal that time is flying along, with us in tow, ready or not. What will we remember of this time in our lives? What will people we encounter remember of us? May we smile recalling the gift we gave in this present hour.

    • The Gods Wait

      your life is your life
      don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
      be on the watch.
      there are ways out.
      there is a light somewhere.
      it may not be much light but
      it beats the darkness.
      be on the watch.
      the gods will offer you chances.
      know them.
      take them.
      you can’t beat death but
      you can beat death in life, sometimes.
      and the more often you learn to do it,
      the more light there will be.
      your life is your life.
      know it while you have it.
      you are marvelous
      the gods wait to delight
      in you.
      — Charles Bukowski, The Laughing Heart

      I revisited some old characters this week. Some were people I hadn’t seen in some time, met with lunch in between us and life’s hurdles to compare. Some were characters invented in my head and tapped into flesh on the keyboard. Like the people I had lunch with, I haven’t visited with them in some time and there’s a chance I might not see them again anytime soon. We live the life we invest ourselves into. The gods wait to delight in you.

      I’ve become my father in some ways. I don’t check in with the kids as much, but I’m there for them when they wish to reconnect. I recognize the folly in this through the distance between my father and me before he finally slipped into dementia. Where is the light in our lives but in our children and the person we share our days with? I stay connected in small ways, to let them know I’m thinking of them. My bride has entire text conversations with them that I only hear about as an executive summary. We spend 90% of our time with our children before they leave the house. We must hold on to that remaining 10% for dear life.

      We dance with light in our days or we are wrestled into darkness. We must choose light, and be a source of it for the people in our lives who need it the most. Connection is so hard to maintain when we all have so much to do in our brief time, but it’s the essence of a joyful and meaningful life. When these days are well behind us and all we have are fragile memories of our time together, will we smile at the recollection of the light between us or see the gap? The gods will offer us chances.

    • Let it Mingle

      “You must not ever stop being whimsical. And you must not, ever, give anyone else the responsibility for your life.” — Mary Oliver, Staying Alive

      I woke up to find it another Monday. I’m ambivalent about the day of the week most times, but this Monday feels tinged with changes in the air that only Tuesday may tell. Every day is an opportunity to dance with boldness and truth. Especially this one.

      Leave it to a poet to point the way. Saying more with less (as they do). Grasping the timeless in the fragile present (as they must). Having the generosity to share with others (as we so desperately need them to do). To live as a poet is to move through the world like a sophist and reveal the naked truth hidden in plain site. We might all be poets, but for the languid inefficiency with words and an inclination to look the other way.

      To truly live in this world is to frolic through the days, not in a nihilistic way, but in a knowing the truth and choosing to dance anyway kind of way. We only have this one. What kind of spell might we stir up in the hours before us? To live with purpose and urgency and generosity and yes, a bit of whimsy, is the magic potion of the poet. We must not defer to others in our march through time, simply bring our best to each moment and let it mingle.

    • Too Present to Imagine

      Age saw two quiet children
      Go loving by at twilight,
      He knew not whether homeward,
      Or outward from the village,
      Or (chimes were ringing) churchward,
      He waited, (they were strangers)
      Till they were out of hearing
      To bid them both be happy.
      “Be happy, happy, happy,
      And seize the day of pleasure.”
      The age-long theme is Age’s.
      ‘Twas Age imposed on poems
      Their gather-roses burden
      To warn against the danger
      That overtaken lovers
      From being overflooded
      With happiness should have it.
      And yet not know they have it.
      But bid life seize the present?
      It lives less in the present
      Than in the future always,
      And less in both together
      Than in the past. The present
      Is too much for the senses,
      Too crowding, too confusing-
      Too present to imagine.
      —Robert Frost, Carpe Diem

      Nothing brings you to the present like taking a leap. You’ve left your familiar, solid footing behind, are airborne for an instant and sure to land somewhere new any moment now. We don’t have to imagine the landing in such moments of leaping, we need only prepare ourselves for its inevitability.

      I begin most mornings with a leap into the pool to shake off the cobwebs, and the sensation of leaping never gets old. I recognize the privilege of having a pool in the first place, for it’s a relic of the past that lingers like old soccer balls and scooters. The difference is that it still brings joyful moments even as the life it was built for has changed. Empty nests make for still water most all of the time. Still, I leap.

      We can’t mourn the past that has left us, simply acknowledge that it is a part of who we are now. It’s like the library of books read and placed on the shelf to be referred to now and then. We are the sum of all of our experience, yet forever leaping into the future. In these moments I come back to seizing the present. Carpe diem is that airborne moment we scarcely think of in the midst of leaping, but it’s everything too present to imagine.

      We must remember we’re standing on the bridge to our future, but not obsess over it to the point of being seized by it. Happiness is bliss in the leap with optimism for the landing. The joei de vivre we fold into the present is one more book on tomorrow’s shelf. We are building a meaningful life as our library grows by the day. Each a present to reflect on, even as we leap for the next.

    • A Unique Wonder

      I read somewhere that meteor showers
      are almost alwavs named after the constellation from which
      they originate. It’s funny, I think, how even the universe is telling us
      that we can never get too far
      from the place that created us.
      How there is always a streak of our past
      trailing closely behind us
      like a smattering of obstinate memories. Even when we enter a new atmosphere,
      become subsumed in flames, turn to dust, lose ourselves in the wind, and scatter
      the surface of all that rest beneath us, we bring a part of where we are from
      to every place we go.
      — Clint Smith, Meteor Shower

      Walking the pup the other night, I saw a shooting star far brighter and more colorful than the norm, with a very definite tail and distinct blues, greens and yellows in the burn. I thought for a moment that it might have been a stray firework but for the direction it was falling and the distinct shooting star vibe. Was it an elusive fireball or simply a particularly passionate meteor? I think the latter, but it was the brightest and most colorful I’d ever seen. This particular shooting star apparently contained enough copper, magnesium and iron to treat me to that display of blue, green and yellow I’d witnessed. Throw enough science at anything and the magic evaporates. Let’s just call it a unique wonder in a sky full of beautiful.

      I don’t write about the stars so much nowadays, but I still look up most every night and marvel at the universe. If we are indeed stardust then we are staring at our distant cousins out there. Some of us dwell on where we came from, some chalk it up to a Creator and dismiss any talk of science as sacrilege. None of us is really in the know on such things, and the people who shout the loudest are usually the ones who know the least. We all crave answers, don’t we? It’s just that some settle on the answer someone else tells them is true instead of remaining open to other possibilities. Where we come from, if we go back far enough, is infinity. We’ll return there someday soon. What we choose to call that infinity is up for discussion.

      The thing is, we all accept some version of where we came from, it’s where we’re going that we can’t quite understand. We are all shooting stars streaking across the sky to our final days, memento mori and all that. But we may add enough color to our lives to make our journey wonderful, and perhaps inspire others on their own journey too. In our dance with infinity, this brief time is unique to us. Shouldn’t we aspire to as much as we may fit in along the way?