There's Always Something...

Susanna...

Garrison Keillor adds so much to my daily life through listening and reading his wonderful blog.

Today's was especially poignant and I share a portion of the text with you.

Susanna by Anne Porter Nobody in the hospital Could tell the age Of the old woman who Was called Susanna I knew she spoke some English And that she was an immigrant Out of a little country  Trampled by armies Because she had no visitors I would stop by to see her But she was always sleeping All I could do  Was to get out her comb And carefully untangle The tangles in her hair One day I was beside her When she woke up Opening small dark eyes Of a surprising clearness She looked at me and said You want to know the truth? I answered Yes She said it's something that My mother told me There's not a single inch Of our whole body That the Lord does not love She then went back to sleep. "Susanna" by Anne Porter, from Living Things: Collected Poems. © Zoland Books, 2006. Reprinted with permission.

Last Night - Oh My!

Last night we watched Leonard Cohen's film, "I'm Your Man". I'd forgotten the earthy, gut-wrenching work he did back in the days of my highly modified hippy priesthood days. But he brought it back. Here's two versions of a record I once owned and loved of his _ "Suzanne".

It just may get to you as well. Sensuous. Earthy.

Ben...

Hey! I love this one from Garrison's blog. Makes a body think!

Ben

by David Budbill

You can see him in the village almost anytime.
He's always on the street.
At noon he ambles down to Jerry's
in case a trucker who's stopped by for lunch
might feel like buying him a sandwich.
Don't misunderstand, Ben's not starving;
he's there each noon because he's sociable,
not because he's hungry.
He is a friend to everyone except the haughty.

There are at least half a dozen families in the village
who make sure he always has enough to eat
and there are places
where he's welcome to come in and spend the night.

Ben is a cynic in the Greek and philosophic sense,
one who gives his life to simplicity
seeking only the necessities
so he can spend his days
in the presence of his dreams.

Ben is a vision of another way,
the vessel in this place for
ancient Christian mystic, Buddhist recluse, Taoist hermit.
Chuang Tzu, The Abbot Moses, Meister Eckhart,
Khamtul Rimpoche, Thomas Merton—
all these and all the others live in Ben, because

in America only a dog
can spend his days
on the street or by the river
in quiet contemplation
and be fed. 

"Ben" by David Budbill, from Judevine. © Chelsea Green Publishing Company, 1999. Reprinted with permission.

Common Ground...

Good old Garrison Keillor often comes up with wondrous stuff. Today's poem should provide a chuckle for fellow grumpy old men - (like me).

Common Ground

by Paul J. Willis

Today I dug an orange tree out of the damp, black earth.

My grandfather bought a grove near Anaheim

at just my age. Like me, he didn't know much.

"How'd you learn to grow oranges, Bill?"

friends said. "Well," he said, "I look at what

my neighbor does, and I just do the opposite." 

Up in Oregon, he and his brother discovered

the Willamette River. They were both asleep

on the front of the wagon, the horses stopped, 

his brother woke up. "Will," he said, "am it a river?"

My grandfather, he cooked for the army during the war,

the first one. He flipped the pancakes up the chimney, 

they came right back through the window onto the griddle.

In the Depression he worked in a laundry during the night,

struck it rich in pocketknives. My grandfather,

he liked to smoke in his orange grove, as far away on the property

as he could get from my grandmother,

who didn't approve of life in general, him in particular.

Smoking gave him something to feel disapproved for,

set the world back to rights. Like everyone else,

my grandfather sold his grove to make room 

for Disneyland. He laughed all the way to the bank,

bought in town, lived to see his grandsons born

and died of cancer before anyone wanted him to, absent

now in the rootless presence of damp, black earth. 

"Common Ground" by Paul J. Willis, from Visiting Home. © Pecan Grove Press, 2008. Reprinted with permission

Baseball's Painful Irony...

I played a lot of baseball and we live and die (mostly die) with our Arizona Diamondbacks on a regular basis. It was, therefore, with great joy and bittersweet pleasure that I opened Garrison Keillor's blog this morning and discovered a poem by John Updike that hits the ball right out of the park.

Here 'tis:

Baseball

by John Updike

It looks easy from a distance,
easy and lazy, even,
until you stand up to the plate
and see the fastball sailing inside,
an inch from your chin,
or circle in the outfield
straining to get a bead
on a small black dot
a city block or more high,
a dark star that could fall
on your head like a leaden meteor.

The grass, the dirt, the deadly hops
between your feet and overeager glove:
football can be learned,
and basketball finessed, but
there is no hiding from baseball
the fact that some are chosen
and some are not—those whose mitts
feel too left-handed,
who are scared at third base
of the pulled line drive,
and at first base are scared
of the shortstop's wild throw
that stretches you out like a gutted deer.

There is nowhere to hide when the ball's
spotlight swivels your way,
and the chatter around you falls still,
and the mothers on the sidelines,
your own among them, hold their breaths,
and you whiff on a terrible pitch
or in the infield achieve
something with the ball so
ridiculous you blush for years.
It's easy to do. Baseball was
invented in America, where beneath
the good cheer and sly jazz the chance
of failure is everybody's right,
beginning with baseball.

"Baseball" by John Updike, from Endpoint and Other Poems. © Alfred A. Knopf, 2009. Reprinted with permission

Nothing Could Be So Still...

I've been reading Dan Albergotti's new book of poetry, Boatloads.

It is one of those books that keeps right on pushing its way into one's heart and provoking memories long dormant. Here's one that wont let me go.

AFFIRMATION OF FAITH

I believe there is nothing to be done
for the squirrel that's been dying
all morning on my gravel driveway.

Yet he refuses to stop moving his tail.
I believe that if I try to say nothing
the slow, steady movement of this world

will still say something, like a squirrel falling
from a high limb with a graceless thud.
I believe in the father who could not feel

the world moving the day a sparrow
flew into the tall plate-glass window
of the living room. From his easy chair,

the father uttered the grunt of vague annoyance
and surprise he gives to all experience not routine.
I believe I stood and walked to the window

and watched the sparrow close her eyes
evenly over four minutes while her small head
became more and more perfectly framed

by an expanding halo of clear fluid. I believed then
that the halo would continue growing even
if a neighborhood cat were to spirit the carcass away,

that the night's forecast showers might spread the
bird's diluted life throughout the back yard.
"What are you doing?" my father finally blurted.

turning his annoyance on my silent vigil. "Nothing,"
I said to the back of his head and sat back down.
I do not believe my father can feel the movement.

I believe the squirrel's tail has stopped moving.
I do not believe a special providence
makes the world say anything. The squirrel is dead.

I believe nothing could be so still.

Things We Don't Deserve...

Among the Things He Does Not Deserve

by Dan Albergotti

Greek olives in oil, fine beer, the respect of colleagues,
the rapt attention of an audience, pressed white shirts,
just one last-second victory, sympathy, buttons made
to resemble pearls, a pale daughter, living wages, a father
with Italian blood, pity, the miraculous reversal of time,
a benevolent god, good health, another dog, nothing
cruel and unusual, spring, forgiveness, the benefit
of the doubt, the next line, cold fingers against his chest,
rich bass notes from walnut speakers, inebriation, more ink,
a hanging curve, great art, steady rain on Sunday, the purr
of a young cat, the crab cakes at their favorite little place,
the dull pain in his head, the soft gift of her parted lips.

"Among the Things He Does Not Deserve" by Dan Albergotti, from The Boatloads. © BOA Editions, 2008. Reprinted with permission.

Garrison Keilor's blog features this delightful poem this morning. And a happy Sunday to you all!

Death and its Stories...

I read the Writer's Almanac blog by Garrison Keillor each day. Today he has a poem by Jim Harrison that I found more than thoughtful.

Larson's Holstein Bull

by Jim Harrison

Death waits inside us for a door to open.
Death is patient as a dead cat.
Death is a doorknob made of flesh.
Death is that angelic farm girl
gored by the bull on her way home
from school, crossing the pasture
for a shortcut. In the seventh grade
she couldn't read or write. She wasn't a virgin.
She was "simpleminded," we all said.
It was May, a time of lilacs and shooting stars.
She's lived in my memory for sixty years.
Death steals everything except our stories.

"Larson's Holstein Bull" by Jim Harrison from In Search of Small Gods. © Copper Canyon Press, 2009. Reprinted with permission.

A Weekend Gift for You...

We Should Be Well Prepared

The way the plovers cry goodbye.
The way the dead fox keeps on looking down the hill
with open eyes.
The way the leaves fall, and then there's the long wait.
The way someone says: we must never meet again.
The way mold spots the cake,
the way sourness overtakes the cream.
The way the river rushes by, never to return.
The way the days go by, never to return.
The way somebody comes back, but only in a dream.

Red Bird: Poems
Mary Oliver

(Thanks to Richard Powell)

John Updike...

REQUIEM

It came to me the other day:
Were I to die, no one would say,
"Oh, what a shame! So young, so full
Of promise - depths unplumbable!"

Instead, a shrug and tearless eyes
Will greet my overdue demise;
The wide response will be,I know,
"I thought he died a while ago."

For life's a shabby subterfuge,
And death is real, and dark, and huge.
The shock of it will register
Nowhere but where it will occur.


John Updike