Alexandersmap

    Category: Poetry

    • 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?

    • Something New

      Above the mountains
      the geese turn into
      the light again

      Painting their
      black silhouettes
      on an open sky.

      Sometimes everything
      has to be
      inscribed across
      the heavens

      so you can find
      the one line
      already written
      inside you.

      Sometimes it takes
      a great sky
      to find that

      first, bright
      and indescribable
      wedge of freedom
      in your own heart.

      Sometimes with
      the bones of the black
      sticks left when the fire
      has gone out

      someone has written
      something new
      in the ashes of your life.

      You are not leaving.
      Even as the light fades quickly now,
      you are arriving
      — David Whyte, The Journey

      On the 4th of July I walked out onto the deck, stepped down the first stair and noticed a sag in the decking. You know exactly what the story is in such moments, the question was the extent of wood rot in the joists under the decking. It turned out to be not all that much and a quick trip to the home improvement box store for some new pressure treated lumber solved the issue. Time had crept up on the joist, which I distinctly remember building beyond the code at the time. Time is indifferent to such things.

      Life is change. We know this. Sometimes the change is more apparent than at other times. Sometimes it’s thrust upon us by circumstance, sometimes it creeps over us so slowly that we don’t notice it until we look around and everything is different. We may choose how to react in such moments, but we may agree it’s far better to be surfing the edge of the wave than washed over by it.

      The thing is, walking down that step on that day felt different already. Because I’m different, and the people who have used those steps are all different too. Too many have moved on forever. We may mourn the passing of time and the changes it brings or work our way up to the edge and surf it. We choose how we react to the changes in our lives. Something new may be debilitating or exhilarating, depending on how we interact with the wave. Be inclined to embrace the thrill of change for the duration, for it’s rolling either way.

    • What Emerges

      “To love someone long-term is to attend a thousand funerals of the people they used to be. The people they’re too exhausted to be any longer. The people they don’t recognise inside themselves anymore. The people they grew out of, the people they never ended up growing into. We so badly want the people we love to get their spark back when it burns out; to become speedily found when they are lost.
      But it is not our job to hold anyone accountable to the people they used to be. It is our job to travel with them between each version and to honour what emerges along the way. Sometimes it will be an even more luminescent flame. Sometimes it will be a flicker that disappears and temporarily floods the room with a perfect and necessary darkness.” ― Heidi Priebe

      I’ve been thinking about relationships lately. I’m in a 30-year relationship myself, which is a jumble of highs and lows and left turns made right, but generally going about as good as one could hope for when we envision a lifetime coexisting with any one person. The part they don’t tell you is that it isn’t one person at all, but a person who is changing all the time, just as we are. The trick to a long term relationship is waiting out the parts of each other that aren’t delighting us in anticipation of the person we see them becoming. Hopefully they’re doing that with us.

      The thing is, that couple who were so enthralled with each other once upon a time is still around, just weighed down by all the things that life throws at us along the way. We like to think that we’ll always be at the same place in life, but we learn quickly that each of us goes at our own pace. Sometimes we’re ahead, sometimes behind, but always committed for the long haul. Perhaps our wedding song showed us the way, all those years ago:

      Now everyone dreams of a love lasting and true
      But you and I know what this world can do
      So let’s make our steps clear that the other may see
      And I’ll wait for you
      If I should fall behind
      Wait for me
      — Bruce Springsteen, If I Should Fall Behind

      We all need to live a little before we’re really prepared for something as impactful as finding our partner for life, because life will surely wash over both people over and over again. We meet a few people along the way who may feel like the right one, only to develop into absolutely not the right one. I find myself grateful for having gotten it right, when we see so many that go wrong. What emerges from a rich life is the perspective to see that life partners are human, with all the complexity that comes with it. To find the right one, and then to grow together is to live a profoundly more meaningful life.

    • The Linen of Words

      All day I work
      with the linen of words

      and the pins of punctuation
      all day I hang out
      over the desk

      grinding my teeth
      staring.
      Then I sleep.
      — Mary Oliver, Work

      Life is change, and our why pivots with it. We may channel this into creative work and find out something about ourselves in the process. One more day blessed with the opportunity to dance with our why to produce a what before we sleep.

      I track the journey from here to there and publish it free for all to see. Some days our journey takes us to faraway, sometimes the journey has us turning inward from a familiar place. We have the luxury of time some days, and the urgency of just a few minutes to spare other days. They all add up to the catalog of work published—our contribution to the Great Conversation.

      This blog post feels incomplete to me, like there’s far more to wrestle with before it’s fully fleshed out. And yet I’m about to publish it anyway. In a way that’s a good metaphor for our lives. We’re all just incomplete souls trying to reach some conclusion that makes sense before we reach ship this work and move on to the next.

      The work will end one day, but [apparently] not today. This linen of words is strung together in a streak of days; breadcrumbs of a life. Words are the glue that holds our collective history together, binding you and I together just as surely as it binds the generations before and after us. That feels more salient than just another blog post.

    • Emergency Room Poetry

      “I don’t know if I will ever write another poem. I don’t know if I am going to live for a long time yet, or even for a while.
      But I am going to spend my life wisely. I’m going to be happy, and frivolous, and useful….
      To rise like a slow and beautiful poem. To live a long time.”
      — Mary Oliver, Fletcher Oak

      Hours waiting quietly in an emergency room, alongside the patient dozing on a bed nearby, her husband dozing in a chair next to me, and a constant stream of activity feet away as the frailty of humans is displayed in one example after another. But not just frailty—resiliency is also on display. So many people fighting for better health and another day. We have only to see the staff in an emergency room in action to know that the best of humanity lingers among us.

      It’s unspoken, but acknowledged. You assess the people around you and the suffering they’re dealing with in this particular moment in our collective history. They do the same with you. What brought us all here? Most often not how we expected this day to go. Yet here we are. Amor fati.

      The waiting rooms in hospitals usually have televisions broadcasting something uncontroversial, like cooking shows. There’s already enough tension in such places without pouring gas on the fire. But inside the locked door where treatment happens (or where you await it) there are no such distractions as cooking shows. It’s here that people learn to listen to themselves again, or glance at others, or most often, text and scroll with the outside world, far from this place.

      I chose Mary Oliver. Poetry in the quiet moments awaiting answers, awaiting treatment for those I support, those who have supported me on my own down days. Here I sat in awe of doctors and nurses doing what is routine for them. Asking questions and texting updates when there were any, feeding crackers to the patient and joking about sneaking gin and tonics in. Whatever it took to make the moment better. To be useful in a challenging moment is all we can ask of ourselves.

    • Proper Work

      “How important it is to walk along, not in haste but slowly, looking at everything and calling out Yes! No! … Imagination is better than a sharp instrument. To pay attention, this is our endless and proper work.” — Mary Oliver, Yes! No!

      I saw some pictures of friends off on some beautiful hike over the weekend, and other friends reawakening their sailboat before setting off for adventure. My own activity this weekend was less inspiring. Instead of adventure, I found some new soreness this weekend, earned with a pressure washer and a tall stepladder navigated to high places to make the house shine a little brighter. Sometimes our proper work is doing chores that have been nagging us for awhile, that we may return our focus to the universe yet again.

      The thing is, when I walked the pup later in the afternoon when the sun was shining just so, the house smiled back at me. We become what we put into the world, and a bit of housework does the body and soul good. It may sound silly, but I can look at a sparkling clean house and say “I did that” just as proudly as if I’d hiked up Mount Washington. The memories are different, but every journey set out upon that is completed counts for something.

      Proper work is highly subjective, but in the end it’s the things that we apply focus to that moves us forward. Writing this blog—to me—is proper work. So is tending the garden and washing the dishes and calling the customer you know is angry because it’s the right thing to do to hear them out and help them move to a better place. To be present and engaged in each thing that we do matters a great deal, for it’s the stuff of life and we only have the one go at it.

      What we say yes and no to in our days becomes our identity. When this day is complete, what will it say about us? We ought to slow down just enough to see the path we’re on, that we may know where we’ve been, and perhaps, where we’re going next. And so if you’ll excuse me the blog is now complete for the day, and it seems I have even more work to do.