Poetry Corner
One afternoon my imagination was subpoenaed to focus only on poetry.
I see it as a spiritual directive from my muse to be at my computer every day until this onerous task is completed. I am summoned to finish the final draft of a hundred or so new poems for publication. Not an easy task. And the short of it is this—either fulfill that request by the muse or be subject to her scolding. I’ve learned something that has stayed with me for many years. We need to respond when the muse comes calling. I once composed a poem under the title,
Why Write Poetry?
This evening I crochet
a poem, like a grandmother
with her hooks
an involuntary urge
an addiction
a discriminating lover
jealous of all flirtation
waving away all other
regard or employment
How to meet this solitary fix
to prosper this habitual need
to quiet this wagging tongue
that will not stop talking
even when other loves come calling
Brenda Ueland writes, “Your soul is frightfully sterile and dry because you are so quick, snappy and efficient about doing one thing after another that you have no time for your own ideas to come in and develop and gently shine.”
That may be why the muse to us seems so narcissistic, impatient and demanding. She is “jealous of all other flirtations/waving away all other regard or employment.”
She needs dreamy idleness before she will inspire. So take long solitary walks. Go fishing. Fly a kite. The muse needs you all to herself or she is useless to you and will not inspire or teach you anything if you insist on being busy and duty driven.
Andrew Marvell, the 17th century poet composed a poem called,
The Garden
How well that skillful Gardener drew
of herbs and flowers
this dial new
where from above the milder sun
does through a fragrant zodiac run
and as it works the Industrious bee
computes its time as well as we
How could such sweet and wholesome hours
be reckoned but with herbs and flowers.
I love that phrase: “…and as it works the industrious bee/computes its time as well as we...” Why does that sound more inviting than our driven, dutiful lives? Indeed, “How could such sweet and wholesome hours/be reckoned but with herbs and flowers.”
Ann Boaden is a retired English teacher from the Augustana English Department. When Ann submitted this poem, which was read at Saint John’s Lutheran Church, accompanied by cello music…it was well received.
Allemande to Charlie on his baptism
by Ann Boaden
You danced in your mother’s heart
and in the body of her love
to voices far away and dear
you’d come some day to know in your new world.
You danced into July,
to a sudden swoop of light,
like a bright ribbon blowing
and to arcs and dips of sound,
and to things, so may things
You lay your fingertips
like petals on the world
and hold. Yet soon you’ll dance beyond today
beyond the arms and eyes that hold you now.
And there will be mountains and valleys,
and there will be seas rising and falling
and there will be sun and rain
and the slim moon coming
to its sad bright face;
and the leaves will turn to fire
and the rivers to ice,
and you will step on the heartbeat of the earth.
And it will all seem very different.
Then, you will remember this day;
and you will watch the new leaves rising
In green flames, and the Easter promenade
Of apple blossoms, and the leap of grass.
And you will hear the laughter of the water,
and all the voices of the generations
whose love dances in you. And you will feel the great Love
that makes the dance. And then you will remember
the day a little boy learned
that he will dance and dance and dance forever.