heritage

PRO FEMINA – FOR THE WOMAN

 

woman1

Feminism: The advocacy of equal rights for women.  Or, if you prefer, the social, political and economic equality of the sexes, that definition was coined by novelist Chimananda Ngozi Adichie, as famous nowadays for being a feminist as a writer. Referenced by Beyonce on her recent album and by Dior, their 2017 spring/summer white t-shirt displaying the words We Should All Be Feminists is commercialising the matter, but it is also creating a mass movement of support for gender equality. Equality: an eight letter word that seems reasonable, achievable and simple enough, but why isn’t it? Because it’s not simple. It involves changing the world as we know it, the hetero-normative, patriarchal, intolerant, capitalist world. Until that happens, for most of us, equity is a castle in the sky.

Some men I know love to quote Plato: At the touch of love everyone becomes a poet. Wise men talk because they have something to say; fools, because they have to say something. Only the dead have seen the end of war. But I never hear them quote from Book V of The Republic: Plato’s philosophical dialogue with Socrates where, in his ideal state, he says women should work alongside men, receive equal education and share equally in all aspects of the state. This was ancient Greece. BC! In Islam, Matrilineality – that’s the tracing of descent through the female line – existed before Muhammad. Even in 12th century Islam, women in business were the norm, they studied and were equal to men in all respects.
Men and women were created equally. However, throughout history, decisions about whether women will be revered in this century or reviled in the next have been taken by men. Why?

Biology aside, the differences between men and women are cultural and societal. And if people create society and culture then it must mean that there is capacity for change. That is, if we use our reason and logic and not blindly submit to the way things have always been. We’ve been traversing this uneven pathway of injustice and inequality for hundreds of years. In 15th century Europe, there began what was called The Quarrel About Women and smart men like the Italian diplomat Baldassare Castiglione wrote that everything a man can understand, a woman can too. Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa, the German scholar and theologian said that God endowed both male and female with the same soul, the woman with no less faculties of mind, reason and speech than the man. Female voices such as French princess Marguerite de Navarre and Marie de Gournay, writer and editor of Montaigne added to The Quarrel and before them, Catherine of Aragon, the queen of England, commissioned the controversial book, The Education of Christian Women by Juan Luis Vives. Claiming that women had the right to an education, Catherine fought for that during her time as Henry VIII’s wife, earning much admiration from subject and enemy alike.

Last year, I wanted to write a poem for my mother. I’d planned to trace her strength, grace, courage and selflessness through all the great women of history and before I knew it I’d written two pages of names!  From Sappho, the poet who pretty much founded western literature to Simone de Beauvoir, the French philosopher whose 1949 book The Second Sex, highlighted women’s oppression and was banned by the Vatican for doing so. Cleopatra, the last pharaoh of ancient Egypt; Harriet Beecher-Stowe, anti-slavery campaigner; Amelia Earhart, pioneering aviator; Benazir Bhutto, Rosa Parks, Indira Gandhi, Nina Simone, Mary Robinson, Malala Yousafzai – we are inventors, scientists, scholars, theologians, presidents, activists, aviators, philosophers, women count for 52% of the worlds population – why are we still being treated like a minority group? And why is it necessary to conduct research to find out who all these incredible women are? Women are either written out of history or are ineffectually recorded in it. For example: after the death of former deputy first Minister of Northern Ireland, Martin McGuinness, all the powers that be praised him and his colleagues Tony Blair, Bertie Ahern, Gerry Adams, David Trimble, Bill Clinton, John Hume, George Mitchell for brokering peace, but no mention of the contribution made by British Secretary of State for Northern Ireland, Mo Mowlam, who continued in politics until 2001 despite being diagnosed with a brain tumour in 1997. It’s as if she never existed. And she’s not the first woman to be overlooked. I could fill a

woman 3

Mary Jackson – Aeronautical engineer

library, but what about NASA’s mathematicians? The hundreds of African/American women employed as computers at the Langley Research Centre whose calculations sent man to the moon!  William Wordsworth’s sister Dorothy, whose journal entries were the inspiration for much of his poetry! Out of all the roads in Paris named after public figures, only 2.6% are named after women. One night in 2015 a feminist group known as Osez Le Feminisme (Dare to be Feminist) decided to celebrate all ignored women by covering all the blue plaques with their own versions which included Rue Simone de Beauvoir & Quai de Nina Simone!

Even with the gains made by first, second and third wave feminists, women are still struggling for recognition in every sphere. Equality, respect, or the full humanity of women: this is what feminism is all about. Basically, fairness. It’s not about misandry and it’s not about bringing men down; it’s about bringing women up. And feminists, I think, would like men to help them. At its heart it’s that simple. But equality challenges patriarchy (mechanisms that exert male dominance over women) and is dismissed as radical. Nobody wants to be cast out as a radical, so hence the negative sounding F word. And this is where I’m taking you today people! We’re venturing into the minefield that is Feminism. Protectively clothed in poetry we’ll be finding out why this loaded word, embroiled in so much controversy is more necessary now than ever. We’ll be making our voices heard with Radmilla Lazic and Carlyn Kizer; re-writing history with Anne Sexton and Adrienne Rich; celebrating womanhood with Lucille Clifton and throwing a light on the Irish situation with Eavan Boland.

Mary Wollstonecraft’s groundbreaking book A vindication of the Rights of Women published in 1792, proposed that women were the equal of men. Years ahead of her time, it was one of the first pieces of feminist writing and preceded the first wave suffrage movements of the mid 19th century, which sought access to education, property rights, suffrage, reproductive and economic rights for women. The second wave feminists of the 60’s were more concerned with ending gender discrimination, the third wave began to consider race related subjectivities, because not every woman is white and middleclass and we are now in what some would call forth wave feminism, propelled by technology and inclusive of diverse voices whose goal is a society unrestricted by gender. Whatever wave we’re riding, it’s about having a voice and we can hear that voice loud and clear in the feminist poetry of Serbian poet Radmilla Lazic, in particular A Woman’s Letter from her collection A Wake For The Living. Lazić, a respected editor, critic and activist is the founder and managing editor of a Serbian journal of women’s studies, ProFemina. As a feminist with a sense of humour, her honesty is compelling. Rather than fit into patriarchy’s idea of what a woman should be, the speaker here wants to make her own choices, express her femininity and live her life according to her own rules. Translated from the Serbian by Charles Simic, Lazic first tells us what she doesn’t want and then what she does:

I don’t want to be obedient and tame.
Coddled like a cat. Faithful like a dog.
With a belly to my teeth, hands in the dough,
Face covered with flour, my heart a cinder
And his hand on my ass.

I don’t want to be a welcome flag at his door,
Nor the guardian snake under his threshold,
Neither the snake nor Eve from Genesis.

I don’t want to pace between the door and the window,
To listen hard and be able to distinguish
Footsteps from night-sounds.
I don’t want to follow the leaden movement of the watch-hands,
Nor see falling stars
For him to gore me drunkenly like an elephant.

I don’t want to be sewn with needlepoint
To the family portrait
Next to the fireplace with balled up children,
In the garden with puppy children,
And I the shade tree,
And I the winter landscape,
A statue under the snow.
In a pleated wedding dress
I’ll fly to heaven.

Alleluia! Alleluia!
I don’t want a bridegroom.

I want gray hair, a hump and a basket
To go roaming in the woods,
Picking strawberries and dry twigs.

With my whole life behind me,
The smile of that boy,
So dear and irreplaceable.

 

 

Feminism has tried to make a space for women in a world that has always privileged men and masculinity. Women are underrepresented in politics, science, architecture and the arts. During the French renaissance period, Salons were unwelcoming to women. By the 17th century, they began running their own cultural gatherings and though their writing went unpublished they were, according to writer and philosopher Jean Jacques Rousseau, considered a threat to the natural dominance of men. In her 1929 essay A Room Of Ones Own, Virgina Woolf argues for a space for women in a literary world dominated by men. A woman must have money and a room of her own to write fiction. In other words, the same civil liberties as men. In the mid 19th century women used male pen names in order to see their work published. The Bronte sisters became Currer, Ellis & Acton Bell, Mary Ann Evans was George Elliot and how much has changed? JK Rowling, since her Harry Potter series, has published as Robert Galbraith. Women in the arts are continually overlooked. In Ireland, a grassroots campaign, Waking the Feminists, calling for equality for women across the Irish theatre sector, ran from November 2015 to 2016. Plays by women generally have shorter runs, smaller venues and are less reviewed and publicised. We never hear about the success of playwrights such as Stacy Gregg, Ailis Ni Rian, Stella Feehily or Nancy Harris, playwright in residence at The Bush theatre in London and whose plays No Romance & Love in a Glass Jar are highly acclaimed, running in Dublin, London and New York. womanAmerican poet Carolyn Kizer studied with Theodore Roethke, the only woman in a class that included poets James Wright and Jack Gilbert. According to her, they were all chauvinists and treated her like wallpaper. Being a highly gifted academic her poetry eclipsed theirs, but she still felt ignored. A Muse On Water is her response to an incident with one of her fellow poets who suggested one night, that women ought not to try to be artists and should stick to the kitchen:

We who must act as handmaidens
To our own goddess, turn too fast,
Trip on our hems, to glimpse the muse
Gliding below her lake or sea,
Are left, long-staring after her,
Narcissists by necessity;

Or water-carriers of our young
Till waters burst, and white streams flow
Artesian, from the lifted breast:
Cupbearers then, to tiny gods,
Imperious table-pounders, who
Are final arbiters of thirst.

This abridged version of the poem is from the collection Cool, Calm and Collected and in it she connects women to water and man’s abuse of it and her. He pollutes it, diverts its course, seeks to impede a woman’s progress in every way. He tunnels her underground out of sight, dries up what could have brimmed and in realising she is necessary to life, still doesn’t deign himself to recognise her:

And yet these buccaneers still kneel
Trembling at the water’s verge:
“Cool River-Goddess, sweet ravine,
Spirit of pool and shade, inspire!”
So he needs poultice for his flesh.
So he needs water for his fire.

We rose in mists and died in clouds
Or sank below the trammelled soil
To silent conduits underground,
Joining the blindfish, and the mole.
A gleam of silver in the shale:
Lost murmur! Subterranean moan!

So flows in dark caves, dries away,
What would have brimmed from bank to bank,
Kissing the fields you turned to stone,
Under the boughs your axes broke.
And you blame streams for thinning out,
plundered by man’s insatiate want?

You know, Kizer had a difficult relationship with her father, he was remote, indifferent and demanded academic excellence. She was radicalised to feminism by her highly educated mother, who turned down a job with Eleanor Roosevelt saying ’who would get your fathers breakfast?’ As it turned out, after she died, he got his own breakfast for the woman 2next thirty years! Outspoken against injustice throughout her life and in her work, her most famous poem is a five part prose piece Profemina, in which she addresses all women, highlighting their vulnerabilities and strengths – many encouraged by men and often reinforced by women themselves. It’s a call for women to do better. I guess feminism is something that must keep happening, it must be a constant process of renewal. The final stanza from part three reads:

But we’re emerging from all that, more or less,
Except for some ladylike laggards and Quarterly priestesses
Who flog men for fun, and kick women to maim competition.
Now, if we struggle abnormally, we may almost seem normal;
If we submerge our self-pity in disciplined industry;
If we stand up and be hated, and swear not to sleep with editors;
If we regard ourselves formally, respecting our true limitations
Without making an unseemly show of trying to unfreeze our assets;
Keeping our heads and our pride while remaining unmarried;
And if wedded, kill guilt in its tracks when we stack up the dishes
And defect to the typewriter. And if mothers, believe in the luck of our children,
Whom we forbid to devour us, whom we shall not devour,
And the luck of our husbands and lovers, who keep free women.

Adrienne Rich was another intelligent and influential poet active in feminism and movements for LGBT rights and reproductive freedom. Her poem Diving Into The Wreck, seeks to explore the truth behind the myths of difference and inequality. To write the future we must first read the past, so Rich is taking the plunge on our behalf; diving into the patriarchal sea to better understand what has happened to the men and women submerged by it – our assigned gender stereotypes and specifics; how men are raised to be aggressive and women are taught to submit to that hostility:

First having read the book of myths,
and loaded the camera,
and checked the edge of the knife-blade,
I put on
the body-armour of black rubber
the absurd flippers
the grave and awkward mask.
I am having to do this
not like Cousteau with his
assiduous team
aboard the sun-flooded schooner
but here alone.

There is a ladder.
The ladder is always there
hanging innocently
close to the side of the schooner.
We know what it is for,
we who have used it.
Otherwise
it is a piece of maritime floss
some sundry equipment.

I go down.
Rung after rung and still
the oxygen immerses me
the blue light
the clear atoms
of our human air.
I go down.
My flippers cripple me,
I crawl like an insect down the ladder
and there is no one
to tell me when the ocean
will begin.

First the air is blue and then
it is bluer and then green and then
black I am blacking out and yet
my mask is powerful
it pumps my blood with power
the sea is another story
the sea is not a question of power
I have to learn alone
to turn my body without force
in the deep element.

And now: it is easy to forget
what I came for
among so many who have always
lived here
swaying their crenellated fans
between the reefs
and besides
you breathe differently down here.

I came to explore the wreck.
The words are purposes.
The words are maps.
I came to see the damage that was done
and the treasures that prevail.
I stroke the beam of my lamp
slowly along the flank
of something more permanent
than fish or weed

the thing I came for:
the wreck and not the story of the wreck
the thing itself and not the myth
the drowned face always staring
toward the sun
the evidence of damage
worn by salt and sway into this threadbare beauty
the ribs of the disaster
curving their assertion
among the tentative haunters.

Rich’s own personal conflict and sexual alienation (first as a wife and later a gay woman with three children) were mirrored in the wider social and political events of the 1960’s and she developed a poetic voice that spoke for all women; the same way she collected her National Book Award – on behalf of all women. In the poem she manages to achieve a degree of equality, albeit of the poetic sort, in the form of an androgynous being who circles the depths of history searching for answers, tasked with salvaging what remains of a disappearing, water-eaten book of mythology. The idea of androgyny is interesting. Not only does patriarchy serve to subordinate women, it defines masculinity in narrow ways too. A man must be hard, fearless and invulnerable, when really, men and women should be free to be both strong and sensitive. English actress Emma Watson, in her capacity as UN global goodwill ambassador is heading up a campaign called #HeforShe which is about freedom from the prejudice of gender; because gender is unjust – we are all imprisoned by it. Maybe we need to stop linking education, career, salary and position with masculinity and femininity and align them more with intelligence, aptitude and creativity. The poem concludes:

This is the place.
And I am here, the mermaid whose dark hair
streams black, the merman in his armoured body.
We circle silently
about the wreck
we dive into the hold.
I am she: I am he

whose drowned face sleeps with open eyes
whose breasts still bear the stress
whose silver, copper, vermeil cargo lies
obscurely inside barrels
half-wedged and left to rot
we are the half-destroyed instruments
that once held to a course
the water-eaten log
the fouled compass

We are, I am, you are
by cowardice or courage
the one who find our way
back to this scene
carrying a knife, a camera
a book of myths
in which
our names do not appear.

I recently posted a topic for discussion on a facebook book-club page. It was an article about publishers hiring sensitivity readers to flag offensive content before going to print. It kind of sounded like censorship to me, so I put the question to the group. Within minutes, I was under attack, there was a barrage of posts about: minority groups being misrepresented/abused/vilified in fiction; the value of sensitivity readers; that thinly veiled homophobia must be highlighted; that it’s not censorship, it’s about protecting people’s feelings. Everything from size to age seemed to be an issue; everything that is, except for how women and children are written about. It would appear that it’s okay to rape, murder, torture and abuse women and children, but people draw the line at a homophobic remark or the misrepresentation of a small person. (Fault finders will find fault in paradise – Thoreau) Before taking her own life, the American poet Anne Sexton pretty much gave convention the two fingers. As a 1960’s suburban housewife, a mother, a woman 5woman battling depression and a poet, she was out of sync with what society expected of her and felt the pain of the disapproval and isolation that ensued. In her poem, Her Kind, from the collection To Bedlam and Partway Back, apropos her experiences of madness, she speaks on behalf of the marginalised about what it’s like to be ostracised by society. There’s a puritanical strain in society that sees a woman as either a slut or saint; this isn’t right, a woman needs to be everything. Maybe for some women, marriage and kids is not the fairytale they were expecting and that should be okay. But in an oppressive society, Sexton feels condemned, a witch:.

I have gone out, a possessed witch,
haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light:
lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
A woman like that is not a woman, quite.
I have been her kind.

In the middle ages, women who spoke out about religion or challenged the patriarchal order were burned as witches. It was a form of societal regulation. But despite her vilification, Sexton’s speaker is not giving up on what she believes, she’s creating a new place in the woods, where everyone is welcome. She’s riding the cart to the pyre affronting society with her nude arms waving. Like Rich, in the previous poem, had to search unfathomable depths, Sexton embarks on some kind of night-time reconnaissance mission above the houses, in order to first, express her true nature and second, find some definition of womanhood she can relate to; because reality isn’t reflective of her truth:

I have found the warm caves in the woods,
filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,
closets, silks, innumerable goods;
fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves:
whining, rearranging the disaligned.
A woman like that is misunderstood.
I have been her kind.

I have ridden in your cart, driver,
waved my nude arms at villages going by,
learning the last bright routes, survivor
where your flames still bite my thigh
and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
A woman like that is not ashamed to die.
I have been her kind.

Feminism has evolved over the years to encompass not just women’s rights but rights for all marginalised groups, the disabled, LGBT, ethnic minorities and minority religions but I’m not certain that the intersectional nature of the movement is working. It’s proven difficult to establish a feminist world view to suit everyone. Feminists of course acknowledge the discrimination faced by others and can offer support, advice and share information but can feminism successfully advocate for the rights of all without risking taking the focus off women’s issues specifically? Gender discrimination applies to all genders of which there are many. Cis, bi, Non-binary, Trans, and the fifty-four other gender options recognised by some social media sites. Gender diversity is new ground for many of us, and incorporating the language into mainstream vocabulary will take time, we‘re all learning. American poet Rebecca Foust in Abeyance, a letter to my transgender daughter is a poem about a parents love for a child. A child who happens to be transgender. Not a pariah, just someone whose gender identity differs from the sex assigned to them at birth. TENI, the Transgender Equality Network Ireland seeks to advance the rights and equality of trans people and their families, who often feel isolated, misunderstood and excluded from society. In the same way the speaker in Anne Sexton’s poem feels like an outcast, transgender people too, live on the periphery of society, at risk of violence and discrimination:
letter to my transgender daughter

I made soup tonight, with cabbage, chard
and thyme picked outside our back door.
For this moment the room is warm and light,
and I can presume you safe somewhere.
I know the night lives inside you. I know grave,
sad errors were made, dividing you, and hiding
you from you inside. I know a girl like you
was knifed last week, another set aflame.

It’s normal for parents to blame themselves when something about their child is considered an issue: ill-health, mental/physical disability, behavioural problems, learning difficulties. The same is true for parents of non gender-conforming children. Some parents learn the hard way that doing what they think is best, may not be the best option. In 1970 the mother of Kirk Murphy took her 4yr old to a gender identity clinic where doctors claimed they could cure pre-homosexuality.  After years of invasive treatment to correct his effeminate nature, he remained gay, ashamed, mentally damaged and died by suicide at 38. David Remer, born male but reassigned after a bungled circumcision also took his life at the age of 38, prompting transgender advocates to suggest you either accept a child, or lose them. Why is difference always seen as dangerous? Will there ever be a time when every human being is understood, accepted, respected and welcome to participate fully in all aspects of society?
Rebecca Foust might not have the words but she wants her daughter to know how much she was/is and will always be loved. In her own notes on the poem she recalls watching cabbages in her garden nearly turn themselves inside out to take in as much sun as possible and she compares this to the love a parent has for a child; it goes deep:

I know I lack the words, or all the words I say
are wrong. I know I’ll call and you won’t answer,
and still I’ll call. I want to tell you
you were loved with all I had, recklessly,
and with abandon, loved the way the cabbage
in my garden near-inverts itself, splayed
to catch each last ray of sun. And how
the feeling furling-in only makes the heart
more dense and green. Tonight it seems like
something one could bear.

When parents feel a child may be disadvantaged in some way they automatically fear for their future. In a article I was reading, the mother of one transgender teen who transitioned from female-to-male, said the fear she felt dissipated because her son was so joyful after the breasts that tortured him had been removed. The most important lesson she learned was hope – knowing her child could be happy and productive. And hope is what Foust leaves us with also. Parents brought together by mutual love for their daughter. Hope fills the air and their hearts, because parents love heart and soul, not gender:

Guess what, Dad and I finally figured out Pandora,
and after all those years of silence, our old music
fills the air. It fills the air, and somehow, here,
at this instant and for this instant only
—perhaps three bars—what I recall
equals all I feel, and I remember all the words.
So how do women in Ireland fair and what’s the gender situation here? Well, not great to be honest. Notwithstanding the gender pay gap which sees women earn at least a quarter less than men; patriarchy in Ireland has ensured the following: that women are underrepresented on boards (about 36%), in politics (35 dail seats out of 158!), academia and the arts; that 1 in 5 women experience domestic violence; that access to basic healthcare for women is denied, forcing thousands to travel overseas to obtain an abortion. Women don’t have autonomy over their own bodies. Ireland was the last country in the world to legalise contraception and is the only country affording equal rights to life to both woman and foetus. The UN has repeatedly criticised Ireland for failing short of its obligations under international law to protect the human rights of women. The state and church have consistently blocked the advancement of women. For forty years there was a marriage ban for female teachers! Up until the 1960’s the church considered that childbirth made women unholy or unclean because it resulted from sexual activity and they were often ostracised and forbidden from going to mass until they had been ‘churched’, that is: had the sin of childbirth washed away! Thousands of unmarried pregnant women, vilified and banished from their families and communities, were sent to live and die in secret, in state funded mother-and-baby homes or laundries. The gruesome and harrowing truth of one such place came to light recently with the discovery of the remains of hundreds of babies in a disused septic tank on the site of the Bons Secour woman 7sisters home in Tuam, Co. Galway. Child trafficking and illegal adoption were state policy and the government, according to Susan Lohan of the Adoption Rights Alliance, are terrified of opening an investigation, fearing it will dwarf anything that has gone before. At Mary Robinsons inauguration speech in 1990, she called for an open, tolerant and inclusive Ireland, and with the strains of Mna Na H’eireann ringing in the countries hopeful ears, the poet Eavan Boland read her poem The Singers:

The women who were singers in the West
lived on an unforgiving coast.
I want to ask was there ever one
moment when all of it relented–
when rain and ocean and their own
sense of home were revealed to them
as one and the same?
After which
every day was still shaped by weather,
but every night their mouths filled with
Atlantic storms and clouded-over stars
and exhausted birds?
And only when the danger
was plain in the music could you know
their true measure of rejoicing in

finding a voice where they found a vision.

Eavan Boland, like many Irish women, has struggled to find her place in a society hell-bent on silencing the voices of women. Over the years she has located herself centre stage in a habitually male dominated poetic tradition. Myth is a huge feature in her poetry, myth and the lost history of women. Her work focuses on the troubled role of women in times past and like Adrienne Rich diving into the wreck to find our names were never written, Boland combines domesticity and myth and focuses on the exclusion of women from the history books. What we read/have been told is at odds with what actually happened. For example, this years centenary celebrations acknowledged for the first time in decades, the roles played by over three hundred women in the Easter Rising. Boland’s poem Domestic Violence reflects the social and political shifts in Ireland as she equates the disharmony between a couple with that of a country:

It was winter, lunar, wet. At dusk
Pewter seedlings became moonlight orphans.
Pleased to meet you meat to please you
said the butcher’s sign in the window in the village.

Everything changed the year that we got married.
And after that we moved out to the suburbs.
How young we were, how ignorant, how ready
to think the only history was our own.

And there was a couple who quarrelled into the night,
Their voices high, sharp:
nothing is ever entirely
right in the lives of those who love each other.

2.

In that season suddenly our island
Broke out its old sores for all to see.
We saw them too.
We stood there wondering how

the salt horizons and the Dublin hills,
the rivers, table mountains, Viking marshes
we thought we knew
had been made to shiver

into our ancient twelve by fifteen television
which gave them back as gray and grayer tears
and killings, killings, killings,
then moonlight-coloured funerals:

nothing we said
not then, not later,
fathomed what it is
is wrong in the lives of those who hate each other.

It’s a poem about conflict: within a country and within a relationship. Thinking again about the misrepresentation of women in history, it’s not surprising that she’s the victim here because that’s how women have always been portrayed. I mentioned Mo Mowlam’s disappearance from the roll-call of names associated with 1998 Good Friday Agreement (Why? Because she was brave, clever?) but why do politicians make constant referrals to the disappeared mothers of Northern Ireland (Because they were victims?) In Domestic Violence, we hear the silent voices of ordinary people howled down, by a country tearing itself apart:

3.

And if the provenance of memory is
only that—remember, not atone—
and if I can be safe in
the weak spring light in that kitchen, then

why is there another kitchen, spring light
always darkening in it and
a woman whispering to a man
over and over what else could we have done?
4.

We failed our moment or our moment failed us.
The times were grand in size and we were small.
Why do I write that
when I don’t believe it?

We lived our lives, were happy, stayed as one.
Children were born and raised here
and are gone,
including ours.

As for that couple did we ever
find out who they were
and did we want to?
I think we know. I think we always knew.
wombOur final three poems today are a celebration of womanhood or two aspects, at least, of womanhood that are rarely praised – menstruation and menopause. Lucille Clifton was born in New York. The first in her family to graduate, she was poet laureate of Maryland in the 1980’s. Like Rich and Sexton, her poetry reflects the upheavals of the 60’s and 70’s, and she writes about relationships, child abuse, black heritage and slavery. In her Poem in Praise of Menstruation she compares the menstrual flow to a river, the river of life. Traditional odes to women compliment their eyes, hair, lips, etc., here Clifton sings the praises of the fertility of women, the monthly cycle that is beautiful and faithful and ancient and female and brave:

if there is a river
more beautiful than this
bright as the blood
red edge of the moon if

there is a river
more faithful than this
returning each month
to the same delta if there

is a river
braver than this
coming and coming in a surge
of passion, of pain if there is

a river
more ancient than this
daughter of eve
mother of cain and of abel if there is in

the universe such a river if
there is some where water
more powerful than this wild
water
pray that it flows also
through animals
beautiful and faithful and ancient
and female and brave

It’s such a liberating poem about the truth and beauty of menstruation.  Fertility is something to be celebrated not condemned as it has been in patriarchal societies. Menstruation gives rise to gender inequality and is a taboo in many cultures and religions. In Asian countries menstruating women are considered unclean and are forbidden from cooking, praying or even sitting with the family at mealtimes. A haemorrhaging woman is seen as a pollutant. Organisations such as Binti UK, work to empower women in disadvantaged communities, by promoting awareness about menstrual health and providing dignity and practical guidance. In her collection Quilting, published in 1991, Clifton offers two companion poems that address the menopause. That wonderful time when, as the Chinese say, the body’s energy moves from the womb to the heart, to a place of wisdom and self discovery, away from caring for others and into, to use Virginia Woolf’s phrase, a room of her own. To My Last Period is both a tribute and a measured goodbye, not to womanhood but to the girl who never arrived:

well, girl, goodbye,
after thirty-eight years.
thirty-eight years and you
never arrived
splendid in your red dress
without trouble for me
somewhere, somehow.

now it is done,
and i feel just like
the grandmothers who,
after the hussy has gone,
sit holding her photograph
and sighing, wasn’t she
beautiful? wasn’t she beautiful?

Clifton’s poems are clean as bones. Insightful and unflinching, her language is casual as she most sincerely addresses her womb in Poem to my Uterus and wonders where she can go without it, her black bag of desire. You know, the way something is described to you can have a huge impact on how you perceive it. Women have always been fed the same line – that once they enter menopause it’s game over, they are no longer of any use to society, they become undesirable, invisible. This is another one of those myths Adrienne Rich was talking about; we perceive menopause as bad. Clifton doesn’t view the loss of her uterus as the end; she might not know yet where she’s going but she’s going somewhere, she’s still a woman. Her femininity will be changed but not lost. Echoing Rich who alone, dove into the wreck of womanhood and Sexton, who alone rode into the fires of ignorance, Clifton must now walk alone and barefoot into a new future beyond roles and stereotypes and without her old girl – beyond sexuality:

you uterus
you have been patient
as a sock
while i have slippered into you
my dead and living children
now
they want to cut you out
stocking i will not need
where i am going
where am i going
old girl
without you
uterus
my bloody print
my oestrogen kitchen
my black bag of desire
where can i go
barefoot
without you
where can you go
without me

So there you have it, a whistle-stop tour of feminism!  When I was younger, anytime any woman appeared on TV talking about women’s rights, the males in my household would roll their eyes and change the channel and being an impressionable child, I found myself doing the same thing! But the lonely voices for gender equality: Bell Hooks, Coreta Scott King (wife of Martin Luther who devoted her life to civil rights work), Betty Friedan, Yoko Ono, Gloria Steinham and Germaine Greer have now become a symphony of millions of men and women fighting to change our oppressive society from the inside. Members of the Men’s Rights Movement, which originated as a backlash against feminism have become the Pro-Feminist Men’s Rights Movement, because they too see that patriarchy reinforces unequal gender relations. Pro-feminist men are involved in anti-violence work with boys; counselling male perpetuators of violence and supporting anti-pornography legislation. Social media, has been instrumental in highlighting the sexism, discrimination and injustice faced by women on a daily basis. #yesallwomen was set up in response to #notallmen (asserting not all men are sexist) because all women are subject to sexism, and it’s used by women throughout social media to share experiences of sexism and harassment. Sexism and misogyny are so normalised, so insidious in our society that we sometimes fail to notice it or we question, when we feel uncomfortable about something, whether it‘s really happening. The everyday feminism project, set up by feminist writer Laura Bates, raises awareness of women’s experiences by cataloguing instances of sexism faced by women around the world on a daily basis. Notwithstanding the over-sexualisation of women in music and cinema; the fact that Women’s fiction is a sub-genre (Men’s fiction is simply fiction); the gender pay-gap; educational, occupational, political and social inequalities;  there are thankfully, a plethora of groups out there empowering young women today. The National Women’s Council Of Ireland provide workshops for young women on leadership, public speaking, media training, body image, self-esteem building. Free To Run is a charity that uses outdoor activities to empower women. Girls Brigade Scotland challenges patriarchal traditions and Hockey Club teaches girls to get up when they fall down, to play fair, to push themselves but help their team-mates. The girls themselves found playing team sports with other girls to be more inclusive, whereas the boys were too aggressive and never passed the ball! We could take that as a clear metaphor for inequality – men refusing to pass the ball.

Our lives aren’t one-dimensional and being a woman isn’t the only identity she possesses. She may be black, Asian, disabled, Islamic, Christian, short, etc and so face many forms of discrimination. Intersectional feminism seeks to understand how sexism relates to race, religion, size, age, appearance. So for example, as well as advocating for the white woman who makes 77c to the man’s Euro, intersectional feminism includes the black woman’s 60c and Hispanic woman’s 54c! But is intersectional feminism broadening the movement too much? Is it creating more labels, separating, classifying, perpetuating the idea of ‘other’, ‘difference’ – which are patriarchal constructs – and creating more confusion and room for disagreement? Actually, this is the problem I have with feminism. It’s become so fractured leaving many women afraid to identify as feminist for fear of being scorned by whichever brand of feminism they are not aligned with. For instance, are you a liberal feminist or a radical one? Do you want a seat at the patriarchal table or would you rather smash it to pieces? Are you an eco-feminist or a theological one? Do you believe pornography is exploitative or see it as a way for women to express themselves sexually? Do you believe that transgender women, having enjoyed the privileges of men, should now be recognised as female? There are over 100million women living with the consequences of Female Genital Mutilation (cutting of female genitalia) does feminism fight this human rights abuse or would that be an attack on cultural identity? The latter, according to Germaine Greer who has always been critical of the imposition of Western attitudes on the rest of the world.

Can feminism advocate for all marginalised groups? If the answer is yes, then I believe that women will always be seen as a sub-category, a minority group and will always experience sexism.  Maybe I’m wrong, but feminism started out as advocating for the equal woman 4rights of women, ALL women. We’re not there yet. Just look at how much ground has been lost since the recent Trump presidency. His Global Gag Rule –that’s the withdrawing of funding for NGO’s providing information, counselling or abortion services – will wipe out any assistance to women in countries like India where the US invests $16m in health programmes, or Latin American where 13% of maternal deaths are the result of botched back-street abortions. On a more positive note, before I conclude, on International Women’s day last month, Iceland announced it will be the first country in the world to make employers prove they offer equal pay regardless of gender, ethnicity, sexuality or nationality. You have to hand it to Social Affairs Minister Thorsteinn Viglundsson who said ‘you have to be bold in the fight against injustice.’

I think feminism, as a movement, needs to stick to the plan. Then, going forward as equals, men and women can work together on securing a greater equality for all of humanity, through another movement, something akin to Humanism. Is it foolish to envisage a world within which every gender, race, religion, physicality is equal, a world without minorities, where markers of difference are opportunities for unity? Is humanism a castle in the sky?  If it is, then maybe feminism could be the foundation we put underneath it.

 

You might enjoy reading work from other feminist poets such as: Alice Walker, Carol Ann Duffy, Margaret Atwood, Susan Howe, Muriel Rukeyser, Medbh McGuckian and Louise Gluck.

Music today from: Nina Simone, Kate Bush, Patti Smith, Anthony & The Johnsons, The Gloaming, Aretha Franklin, Caged Bird Sings, John Spillane & Eric Serra.

 

https://etudesirlandaises.revues.org/3183http://d.lib.rochester.edu/teams/text/shuffelton-codex-ashmole-61-how-the-good-wife-taught-her-daughter-introductionhttp://wordsnquotes.com/post/99722793438/carolyn-kizer-a-pioneer-in-feminist-poetry-dieshttp://www.boxturtlebulletin.com/tag/kirk-murphyhttps://www.morganmckinley.ie/article/irish-gender-pay-gap-stands-20-according-morgan-mckinley-studyhttp://www.thejournal.ie/women-talent-bank-gender-balance-state-boards-1588110-Jul2014/http://www.telegraph.co.uk/women/womens-life/11830018/French-feminists-hijack-Paris-street-signs-to-celebrate-women.html

The Guardian – Jessa Crispin 2017

http://www.biography.com/news/hidden-figures-movie-real-women

http://www.ecstatic-awakenings.com/womb-awakening/

The World is Yours for the Reading!

The Poetry and Music of Books and Readingbooks-1

 

All of human life can be found in books. We’ve been carving clay, bone, stone, silk and wood for millennia and began printing books over five hundred years ago. We read to broaden our comprehension of the world and ourselves. We read to relax, gain wisdom and be entertained. And that’s not all, being able to connect with the world’s greatest minds and writers, is a marvel, a gift.

So today we’re going to look at the theme of BOOKS in poetry and music. Emily Dickinson will be transporting us to all sorts of imaginary places with Rae Armantrout and Tony Hoagland. We return to the world before the web in the company of James Arthur and his encyclopedia. We meet Charles Simic and Nikki Giovanni in the library, Ralph Besse in the bathroom (more about that later) and conclude with Czeslaw Milosz on the spirit and resilience of books; conversing all the while with the greats who have laid themselves out for us.

Books are the ultimate mode of transport. They can take us into ourselves and out of this world faster than a frigate, as Emily Dickinson wrote:

There is no Frigate like a Book
To take us Lands away
Nor any Coursers like a Page
Of prancing Poetry –
This Traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of Toll –
How frugal is the Chariot
That bears a Human soul.

Really what she’s talking about is escape. Reading a book is travelling first class without putting your hand in your pocket. Faster than the swiftest steeds or the chariots of the Greek hippodromes, a book can transport your soul to extraordinary places. Dickinson rarely left her house and in her seclusion wrote the poetry that became a wormhole, through which future generations could access or try to interpret her unreachable presence. So I suppose you could construe the poem as her way of validating her reclusive nature. Living her life vicariously and using literature as a substitute for living; knowing life by reading life. Then you have the Chilean poet Pablo Neruda who knows life by living life and in his Ode to the Book it is the first thing he says:

When I close a book
I open life.

Through Neruda’s eyes, the world is a very different place. In his poetry, onions and tomatoes even socks are exalted to reverential heights and he praises the mundane and ordinary, with all the epicurean pleasure of a poet in love with the world:

I hear
faltering cries
among harbours.
Copper ingots
slide down sand-pits
to Tocopilla.
Night time.
Among the islands
our ocean
throbs with fish,
touches the feet, the thighs,
the chalk ribs
of my country.
The whole of night
clings to its shores, by dawn
it wakes up singing
as if it had excited a guitar.

This wonderful life lures him with excitement and experience, that he may discern for himself the smoked beef and burning metals of his reality. He praises the book as a source for continued self-improvement, but there has got to be time for both. Books have inspired him to live and if books are life distilled, then Neruda wants to be a part of the process.

Book, let me go.
I won’t go clothed
in volumes,
I don’t come out
of collected works,
my poems
have not eaten poems–
they devour
exciting happenings,
feed on rough weather,
and dig their food
out of earth and men.
I’m on my way
with dust in my shoes
free of mythology:
send books back to their shelves,
I’m going down into the streets.

Neruda’s poetry is not born of books but feeds on the rough weather and rich soil of the human race; he secretes poetry from life. Dickinson in effect, extracts life from poetry in order to create her own literature. We are all in a sense formed and informed by the books we read and the lives we lead and both Neruda and Dickinson portray a consciousness illuminated by their individual interpretations of art and life.

I learned about life
from life itself,
love I learned in a single kiss
and could teach no one anything
except that I have lived

When I was a teenager, I could find just about anything in a collection of reference books my mother bought one Christmas. Prior to the internet, World Books were our very own in-house library. They contained everything we needed to know about the world: from cattle ranching in Houston, to dog pedigrees and the teachings of the Dalai Lama – my school essays must have been astonishing! I have a very clear image of my brother sitting at the dining-room table, studying for his Leaving Certificate with volumes spread open in front of him.
The poet James Arthur in his poem Ode To An Encyclopedia not only celebrates the hefty hard-covers on the built-in shelf in my parents’ living room but commemorates all that they represent: the innocence and sureness of childhood, the confidence we had that our lives like the alphabet, would fall into place and that the world at our fingertips would be ours forever:

you were my companion
on beige afternoons that came slanting through the curtains
behind the rough upholstered chair. You knew how to trim a
sail
and how the hornet builds a hive. You had a topographical map

of the mountain ranges on the far side of the moon
and could name the man who shot down the man
who murdered Jesse James. At forty, I tell myself

that boyhood was all enchantment: hanging around the railway,
getting plastered on cartoons;

 

The curious phenomena between the covers of the encyclopedia can take us just as far into our imagination as any piece of fiction. Every word a writer pulls into existence conjures all sorts of images for a reader, so opening a book can be a risky business.   In her prose poem Imaginary Places, from her 2004 collection Up To Speed, American poet Rae Armantrout intrudes on the privacy within which a book is written, to investigate the complex relationships between the reader and the writer, the reader and the words, the book and the environment.   Each brings something to the process.  We follow language into a book and find ourselves persuaded by it.  As readers, we allow someone else to take the lead and between the lines discover how brave and curious we are to follow – we cast our nets into the sea of the writer’s imagination.

Reading, we are allowed to follow someone elses train of thought as it starts off for an imaginary place. This train has been produced for usor rather materialized and extended until it is almost nothing like the ephemeral realizations with which were familiar. To see words pulled one by one into existence is to intrude on a privacy of sorts.

booksAnd yet a book is an invitation to trespass, to absorb and be absorbed. Reading, as a spiritual activity (because there are few relationships more beatific than a reader and her book) is beautifully rendered by American poet, philosopher and art collector Wallace Stevens. In The House Was Quiet And The World Was Calm, Stevens’ 2-line stanzas focus on the ‘transaction between the reader, the book, the house, the night and the world’; the holy communion and the ultimate transcendence of each by the act of reading:

The house was quiet and the world was calm.
The reader became the book; and summer night

Was like the conscious being of the book.
The house was quiet and the world was calm.

The words were spoken as if there was no book,
Except that the reader leaned above the page,

Wanted to lean, wanted much most to be
The scholar to whom his book is true, to whom

The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
The house was quiet because it had to be.

There’s something so magical about reading in the stillness of the night. The world is hushed, distractions quieted, the book and reader become one. Reading itself is a form of meditation, where all divisions disappear and everything becomes interconnected.

For Stevens, The words were spoken as if there was no book and similarly, I think the house was quiet because it didn’t exist anymore either, the reader had transcended it. It’s a perfect example of the importance of creating that private reading space for ourselves; out of distraction and into solitude. We’re left with the ideal image of the reader naturally reflective, leaning late and reading there. It’s an image that appears passive but is it?

In Reading Moby Dick At 30,000 Feet, Tony Hoagland creates what Rilke called outer standstill and inner movement. He might look relaxed leaning back into his seat on an airplane over Kansas, but in his mind he’s fighting whales aboard the Pequod. It further demonstrates how a book can take you to anywhere, from anywhere. Faster than Emily Dickinson’s frigate and before Hoagland’s plane arrives in New York, he can fire a harpoon or round the Cape of Good Hope simply by turning a page:

but now my eyes flicker

from the in-flight movie
to the stewardess’s panty line,
then back into my book,
where men throw harpoons at something
much bigger and probably
better than themselves,

wanting to kill it,
wanting to see great clouds of blood erupt
to prove that they exist.

He further echoes Pablo Neruda’s assertion that in order for life to be known, it must be experienced wholly and fully.

Imagine a century like a room so large,
a corridor so long
you could travel for a lifetime
and never find the door,
until you had forgotten
that such a thing as doors exist.

Better to be on board the Pequod,
with a mad one-legged captain
living for revenge.

Better to feel the salt wind
spitting in your face,
to hold your sharpened weapon high,

to see the glisten
of the beast beneath the waves.

 

Again, books help us make connections; with different cultures and societies; points in history; our imaginations; with ourselves and the world in general. Just as Steven’s book connects the reader to the house and the night, reading Moby Dick at 30,000 feet closes the gap between Hoagland and his own feelings; connecting him to the past through Melville’s imagination; his present as a passenger aboard a flight learning something about himself that’s likely to influence his future. It’s a good example also of how books can help reduce stress. I’m not completely comfortable with air travel but I can often transcend the steel tube by losing myself in a novel or engaging article.

Ralph M Besse, a trustee of Ohio’s Ursuline College wrote an article for the Foundation of Economic Education in 1956 entitled The Philosophy of Reading. In it, he advocates for making more time in our lives for reading, by creating the desire and establishing the habit. Besse suggests having reading material always close to hand, reading everything and reading it everywhere – bed, the commute the work and interestingly, the bathroom – which is where he read Moby Dick! Award winning Serbian-American poet Charles Simic just goes to the library:

There’s a book called
“A Dictionary of Angels.”
No one has opened it in fifty years,
I know, because when I did,
The covers creaked, the pages
Crumbled. There I discovered

The angels were once as plentiful
As species of flies.
The sky at dusk
Used to be thick with them.
You had to wave both arms
Just to keep them away.

Now the sun is shining
Through the tall windows.
The library is a quiet place.
Angels and gods huddled
In dark unopened books.
The great secret lies
On some shelf Miss Jones
Passes every day on her rounds.

She’s very tall, so she keeps
Her head tipped as if listening.
The books are whispering.
I hear nothing, but she does.

 

I love that poem. It’s a beautiful idea. That in the magical quiet of a library, forgotten books-antiquevolumes of antiquarian books replete with enchanting wisdom, whisper to one another of the magnificent secrets locked within their creaking covers. Books share their riches and the conversations are overheard by the librarian, who’s also seen as a magical figure and an inspiration to many young people frequenting their local libraries. African-American poet Nikki Giovanni wrote very movingly about Mrs. Long in A Poem for My Librarian, saying:

She would go to the big library uptown and I now know
Hat in hand to ask to borrow so that I might borrow

Probably they said something humiliating since southern
Whites like to humiliate southern blacks
But she nonetheless brought the books
Back and I held them to my chest
Close to my heart

Simic also credits his librarian with spawning his eclectic interests and owes much of his knowledge to the thousands of books he withdrew, on his regular visits to the library. Another American, Maya Angelou, credits the library as having saved her life as a youngster. She was abused and didn’t utter a word for six years, but God put a rainbow in the sky and she was taken to a library. For Angelou, a library is a rainbow in the clouds.

If a library is a rainbow, then a book is a crock of gold. We are surrounded by them and can converse with the greats at any time. Sometimes those conversations are life-saving. Reading as an anti-dote to isolation was espoused by former professor of English at Yale University, William Lyon Phelps, in a speech he gave in 1933 about the pleasure of books. He said that “in a roomful of books you are surrounded by intimate friends.” Friends that are always accessible.

Books are our mentors and role models and whether we’re seeking an escape, self-knowledge or emotional support: they ward off loneliness, connecting us to other people, worlds and discoveries. Phelps advocates collecting a private library “One should have one’s own bookshelves, which should not have doors, glass windows, or keys”. He also says that owning your own books is preferable to the “guest in the house” that a borrowed one is: “Books are for use, not for show; you should own no book that you are afraid to battered-bookmark up, or afraid to place on the table, wide open and face down”. I love this speech. This is exactly how I feel about books. I break their spines, bend pages and mark poetic lines and phrases, because, I agree with Phelps: books are for use. My friends don’t appreciate it but I think books are like comfortable shoes, you need to break them in, walk around for a while until you’re no longer aware you’re even wearing shoes. An unused book is like an untold story. My books are lined with insoles and my friends no longer loan me theirs.

No matter how over-used my books are, I’ve never managed to destroy one completely. This brings me onto my final point about books. They will outlive us all. There’s a story# about the Polish poet Csezlaw Milosz, that on a return visit to his birthplace he walked up to an oak tree and embraced it. Affirming his connection to the earth, but also to the book. Because the English for book derives from the German Beech and the French inner bark of trees. In his poem And Yet The Books, Milosz describes them as separate beings …. still wet as shining chestnuts under a tree in autumn.

“We are,” they said, even as their pages
were being torn out, or a buzzing flame
licked away their letters. So much more durable
than we are, whose frail warmth
cools down, with memory, disperses, perishes.

I imagine the earth when I am no more:
Nothing happens, no loss, it’s still a strange pageant,
Women’s dresses, dewy lilacs, a song in the valley,
Yet the books will be there on the shelves, well born,
Derived from people, but also from radiance, heights.

 

Books are so much more durable than we are; Milosz’s own books were banned in Poland until the 1980’s and one month after Phelps gave his speech on the pleasure of books, the Nazi’s oversaw the burning of books with “un-German ideas”. Yet books persist and whatever happens in life, they will be there to gather the evidence. They are guardians of memory, the Dictionaries Of Angels, whispering their secrets, derived from people and overheard by all who tilt their heads to listen.

As for me, well before I really knew books, I loved them. The musty yellowed paper of old volumes of poetry, the magical cover designs, the crisp-feel and fresh-smell of newly printed novels. I wanted books on the bookshelf. I wanted them near. Then one afternoon, I chose one and sat down on the armchair to read. I’ll let Dylan Thomas tell you what happened next:

I could never have dreamt that there were such goings-on
In the world between the covers of books,
Such sandstorms and ice blasts of words,
Such staggering peace, such enormous laughter,
Such and so many blinding bright lights,
Splashing all over the pages
In a million bits and pieces
All of which were words, words, words,
And each of which were alive forever
In its own delights and glory and oddity and light.

books-2

Music today from Fionn Regan; Mark Knopfler & James Taylor; Loreena McKennitt; Sting & Anoushka Shankar; Gregory Alan Isakov; Susanne Vega; Sean Harkness and John Williams.

 

‘Ever Since Happiness Heard Your Name, It Has Been Running Through The Streets Trying To Find You’ – Hafez

From positive psychology, to human flourishing, freedom, success, happiness – natural orhappy-2 synthetic – there’s no room for negative nellies on today’s show, oh no! (Well maybe a few but only for reference). Thomas Jefferson gave us the universal right to pursue it; 40% of it is determined by what we do all day; scientists have an index for it; and the UN have dedicated a whole day to it – yes, 20th March is now International Happiness Day, where we recognise the relevance of HAPPINESS as a universal goal. Actually that index I was talking about is the Happiness index and it measures how successful we are at creating happy and healthy lives for our citizens based on the resources we put in. The happiest nation on the planet is not Denmark, despite what they tell you, it’s actually Costa Rica! Amazing place – in 1949 they abolished the army and invested in health and education; they have the highest literacy rate in Latin America; 99% of their electricity comes from renewable resources and they were the first government to commit to being carbon neutral by 2021! I like the way the Greeks view happiness, they see is as living your life in a full and deeply satisfying way. They have word for it – Eudaimonia, which means human flourishing – making happiness an activity rather than a state. So I put it to the poets and they came back with a few pointers. Rumi gives us the secret to happiness, Jane Hirshfield accepts that it comes and goes, Naomi Shihab Nye floats away with it when it does come and AE Stallings doesn’t do herself any favours by being afraid of it. Musically, Jimmy Durante, Hoagy Carmichael and Saint Motel will be keeping us in high spirits, so turn that frown upside down now as we take a balanced look at the highs and lows of happiness.

 
The psychologist Martin Seligman, asserts that humans seem happiest when they have each of these five things. Pleasure, I’m guessing hot-baths, nice food; engagement, like a task or hobby we can lose ourselves in; meaning in our lives; accomplishments or achievements and relationships, so strong social connections or someone to confide in. Now there are pro’s and con’s to married life, it can affect your personal freedom, having to make compromises, dealing with somebody else’s family as well as your own, but there’s no denying the paired life makes some things so much easier.  Sharing good-times, bearing half the weight of a problem, forming deep bonds and having someone to bear witness to your life, someone that can confirm that you have passed through here, also the word on the street is that couples who stay together live longer, healthier, happier lives in general. But it’s hard work. So what is the secret to a happy marriage. Well, we only have to skip back about 800 years through history for this gem of a poem from the popular Sufi mystic and poet Jalal Ad-Din Muhammad Rumi, he was a Persian scholar and we in the West have been enthralled by his wisdom since his works were first translated in the early part of the nineteenth century. On the show he tells us what the secret to a happy marriage is, and it only takes an hour a day.

Also on the show, American poet William Stanley Merwin.  He wrote a collection of poetry happy-1in 2016 called Garden Time. The title itself suggests patience and he looks back over his life reflecting on loss and love, memory and time. And in this poem the Laughing Child, Merwin recalls something his mother told him, that when he was a baby lying in his pram beneath the kitchen window, she noticed that the pram was shaking and when she looked inside she saw that he was laughing, giggling to himself and laughing. And this simple occurrence sustained his mother then and throughout her life, as she tried to come to terms with the stillbirth of Merwin’s brother Hanson. Even the shape of this lyric poem on the page, the lack of punctuation kind of makes it almost float like a memory and it’s so unrestrained in its expression. And Merwin is a happy guy, heading into his nineties now, with two Pulitzer prizes and numerous awards to his name. He was a happy child too, in an interview I read, he said that his sister remembered that as a child, he just delighted in everything. So maybe the scientists are right when they reason that 50% of our happiness is determined by our genes. The rest, 10% on life circumstances and 40% on our daily activities, if true, then what we spend our days doing really determines how happy we’re going to be.  We have an amount of control over it and this is good because we know then that by putting time into building relationships, practising kindness, giving thanks and paying attention to each moment can all contribute to us feeling better about ourselves and laying the ground-work for future happiness.

 
be-positiveContrary to what you might think Cheraphobia is not a fear of the American singer and actress, but a fear of being happy. Aversion to happiness is more prevalent in non-western cultures, where the pursuit of happiness is seen almost as immoral, they believe that being happy will trigger a disaster or calamity. In the west we’re mostly interested in maximising our happiness but some people do have this irrational fear of being happy, often born out of a distorted perception of past experiences where they remember being really jubilant about something when almost immediately something negative or disappointing happened to spoil it. So with the threat of misfortune hanging over their heads they’d rather avoid happiness altogether. Now I don’t take to kindly to small spaces and we are all of us, afraid of something, heights, water, spiders, flying, flying spiders! In Fear Of Happiness, for American poet and translator AE Stallings it’s a glass-floored elevator, high-dive at the pool, ferris-wheels, the merest thought of airplanes. She takes the fear of heights as a starting point from which to analyse the risks involved in full immersion in life, that maybe what we really fear is fear itself, like she says it’s not the falling, but that the ledge invents the leap.  It’s a poem about failure avoidance, instability, in ourselves and our beliefs and that you don’t get the rewards without first taking the risks. It’s like the Sufi philosophy of being taught lessons through opposites – no pleasure without pain, no joy without sorrow and vice versa – or like Jane Hirshfield says, you were happy you were sad then happy again, so that we are turned from one feeling to another so that we have two wings to fly, not one!

One sure fire way to catapult yourself into instant happiness is to make someone else happy-3happy. Conversely one sure fire way to sadness is waiting for someone else to make you happy. That’ll be for another day. But like Naomi just told us, happiness can come floating in from anywhere, you’ve just got to open your eyes to it. It might be watching a robin pick crumbs from a wooden bench in your garden, or horses breathing in the cold dawn of a winter morning or your husbands eyebrows twitching across the table from you as you sip your coffee! Alberto Rios is a Mexican/American surrealist writer who grew up in the border town of Nogales, Arizona, in fact he became the states first poet laureate in 2013. The character in his poem Teodora Luna’s Two Kisses, uses his eyebrows in the most endearing way as he tries to cheer his wife. As I read I had an image of comedian Groucho Marx in my head. He would lift his eyebrows …. Across tables, through doorways, sometimes in photographs …. This was his passion, he says. The tone is so magical and engaging and it’s about selflessness, generosity and love, actually someone said that, I don’t remember who, that love is when the happiness of another is essential to your own. It’s about nurturing our relationships and putting others before ourselves. It’s an adorable poem and reminds me of something that wise old sage Winnie The Pooh once said Nobody can be uncheered with a balloon.  Listen here.

So that’s HAPPINESS for you. At the top of the show I was talking about happiness being an activity rather than a condition and in those terms it means that it’s possible to cultivate happiness by learning some happiness skills. With a bit of research I found of list of activities we can do everyday to help increase our happiness levels 🙂 The top five:

Savour – to linger longer in the pleasurable experiences of our lives

Thank – you know, what we take for granted, somebody else is praying for so be grateful for what we have

Aspire – be optimistic and create meaning or a sense of purpose in our lives

Give – when we give, especially of ourselves, we increase our own wellbeing

Empathise – care for others, be compassionate – like the Roman philosopher Seneca said Where-ever there is a human being, there is an opportunity for kindness.

Also on the show: It’s like this:You were happy by Jane Hirshfield, So Much Happiness by Naomi Shihab Nye along with music from Jimmy Durante, Nouvelle Vague, Joni Mitchell, Saint Motel and more.

A table, a chair, a bowl of fruit and a violin; what else does a person need to be happy?
Einstein

 

 

He who sleeps in the raw, is in for a nude awakening! The Poetry Of Clothes.

 

“Clothes make the man”, Mark Twain said, “Naked people have little or no influence on clothesbuilding05society.”

So does what we wear define who we are? Well the fashion industry want us to believe so, for this 1.7 Trillion Dollar industry, it’s well within their interest to keep us up all night worrying about what we’re going to wear tomorrow. Intense consumerism and disposable fashion have changed how we dress, but it’s also created a monster polluter: the clothing industry leaves a huge carbon footprint. Now, most of us would consider ourselves fairly environmentally aware, we recycle, turn out the lights, leave the car at home, but get this: 3 kilos of chemicals, 3,625 litres of water and 400mj of energy, the equivalent of leaving a light bulb on for 116 days, that‘s what went into producing the this pair of jeans I have on today! One pair of jeans. Shocking isn’t it? I should remove them immediately!  But it is what it is, it’s the nature of the beast and every industry has it’s pro’s and con’s, whether we like it or not, we are tied to this industry by the fabric that we wear.

 
And what are we wearing? What, apart from the seasons, are our poets wearing? Well Robert Pinsky is wearing a Shirt, whose history is longer than it’s sleeves.  Pablo Neruda praises the virtues of his woollen socks.  Actually, you can always rely on Pablo to cut through the snobbery of poetry and gift it’s beauty back to where it belongs – with us. Pablo Neruda was the greatest Latin American writer of the 20th Century. Politically he was a socialist, so his focus was on ordinary people, community and equality and through his poems, he dispelled that myth that poetry is out of reach, confined only to academics or to the elite in our society. In his poem, Ode To My Socks, from his three books of Elemental Odes, in which he praises the things of ordinary life – lemons, dictionaries, sea-gulls – he shows us that we can find poetry everywhere, in everything, even in a pair of socks! He receives a pair as a gift, compares them to fish, birds, fire, bestows almost mystical qualities on them, and like any beautiful gift you feel unworthy of, you’re tempted to put it away in a drawer, keep it safe, and out of reach, like the way many of us treat poetry, with great deference, as something set apart, but he resisted he says, ‘the mad impulse to put his socks in a golden cage and each day give them birdseed and pieces of pink melon.’ He tells us that goodness, or poetry, is not out of reach, that the very definition of beauty is a pair of woollen socks in winter. So you heard it here first, Pablo Neruda said it’s okay to give socks as Christmas gifts again this year!

 

Now for the cost-conscious and ethically minded, shopping for second-hand clothes is a clothing-quotes-8fashionable alternative to larger retail chains. By thrift-shopping, you get to look unique for half cost, to your purse and the environment, and your money usually goes to a good cause too!  But have you ever wondered about who the person was who wore the coat, the blouse, the black leather pants before you? Well, after American poet Ruth Stone, brought her second-hand coat home, she began to embody it’s previous owners life. Finding in it’s pockets, all the random things we retain and forget about on a daily basis, like ticket stubs and tissues. Stone wrote poetry her whole life, referring to it as a stream that ran along beside her, talking to her and she just wrote down what it said. Much of it, however, was marked by her husbands suicide, so she broaches themes such as death, grief and loss with a double-edged dose of tragedy and humour.   That pre-loved clothes though, can inspire such philosophical thinking, is surely what makes purchasing them twice as nice

 

Kim Addonizio is looking fabulous, in a tight and flimsy, backless red dress.  Her poetry is clothing-2known for its grit and wit and here she asks   What Do Women Want? from her collection Tell Me. I don’t know Kim, is it thicker materials? Real pockets?  How about full length sleeves or actual breast room? (yes, I’m looking at you high-street retailers!) ‘I want a red dress’ she says, ‘flimsy, cheap and too tight.’ It’s a poem about the negative stereotypes we must endure as women, how we are viewed as bodies first and women later. There’s a feminist v’s femininity interplay going on here, women want to look and feel attractive for themselves, not necessarily for the opposite sex. The speaker is a confident, independent and sassy woman, body, mind and spirit, and as she ‘walks down the street past Thrifty’s and the hardware store with all those keys glittering in the window’, she wants to do it freely, looking how and wearing what she chooses, without fear of being labelled or stereotyped. I don’t have a red dress but I want one now!

 

You know, I think what all our poets have shown us today is that clothes are more than just clothes. They have a huge emotional value, and an association with experiences, people and important times in our lives. Brides keep their wedding dresses, we hold on to a child’s first pair of shoes, there’s your first-loves cardigan (oops) Clothes tell stories, like the Shoes that are the face of Charles Simic’s inner life, Ruth Stones Second-hand Coat and Robert Pinsky’s Shirt with decades of manufacturing history. I wonder if the cloth we wear preserve the dreams of the hands who cut it?  And I wonder what the future holds for the world of clothing? Fashion is always changing and science and design firms are constantly developing new fabrics, some that can even generate electricity, change colour, adjust temperature and charge phones! Apparently, fibre-scientists over at Lacoste are researching self-lengthening pants and dresses, so who knows maybe our hemming days are behind us 🙂

Also featured today: Maxine Kumin How It Is and Charles Simic My Shoes, along with music from Gregory Porter, Suede, George Ezra and The Irrepressibles.

“If most of us are ashamed of shabby clothes and shoddy furniture let us be more ashamed of shabby ideas and shoddy philosophies…. It would be a sad situation if the wrapper were better than the meat wrapped inside it.” – Albert Einstein

 

 

 

 

 

Poetry and Politics

So where does dreamy poetry meet gritty politics? Well according to English poet Percy politicsShelley in his essay In Defence Of Poetry ’Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world’ , what does he mean? That poets have some sort of moral power or influence? I think what he means is that poets are not just writing poems, just like politicians are not just making laws, but they’re both engaged in imagining new ways of perceiving and being in this world of ours.
So in this way, passion and emotion run deep in both poetry and politics, appealing to the sense that things could be otherwise.  Both are concerned with values, rights and nationhood. Rhetoric is a big deal, the basic purpose of political rhetoric is to move men to action or alliance, poetry moves us in emotional, individualistic and immeasurable ways.
Poets are in the business of communication and expression, and have always invoked controversy for their social and political commentary. Politicians use poetry to their advantage too, in terms of speech-writing say. A little bit of flair can make any speech artistic and create lines that will be remembered for generations. Think of JFK’s inaugural speech “Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country”. Style is substance in political speech writing and poetry with it’s imagery and rhythm can strike the right chord. Poetry has always been read at Presidential inaugurations, JFK had Robert Frost; Bill Clinton had Maya Angelou and Obama had Elizabeth Alexander and here in Ireland we went a step further, and got a two-for-one offer in our poet-president Michael D Higgins!

Political poetry is a poetry of social concern and conscience, a way to exercise ones right to freedom of expression, which is what today’s poets have done.

In his poem Negro, Langston Hughes gives us a gripping account of the African-American experience through history. Hughes confronted racial stereotypes and his African-American themes made him a primary contributor to the Harlem renaissance of the 1920’s. He wrote the poem around the time of the birth of the civil rights movement, a time of racial pride. It is a direct and comprehensible lesson in black history, violent and oppressive yes, but this is a vital culture, central to the development of the world as we know it, the sense of pride is palpable, I am a negro, black like the depths of my Africa, powerful, there’s a huge freedom there and still a hope for that oft elusive future.

From his prison cell, the romantic communist poet Nazim Hikmet urges us to live life as if there’s nothing named death. Hikmet was a Turkish poet, playwright, novelist and memoirist.  He was repeatedly arrested for his political beliefs and spent much of his adult life either in prison or in exile in Russia. Why did I choose him? Well he was a rebel, a romantic and he stood up for his beliefs, whatever the consequence – which was usually incarceration. His poem On Living, informed in part by his communist leanings, and the length of time he spent behind bars, is concerned with the politics of living; working at ones life as one would an occupation; making it as passionate and fulfilling as possible – living is no laughing matter he says, whatever our circumstances we must live as if we will never die.
Jean-Paul Satre once said ‘Everything has been figured out, except how to live’, but here Hikmet urges us to be happy, achieve our potential, never let our fears or societal expectations hold us back. Our purpose, as is sees it, is to live life, not just look for the meaning in it. For one day this world will grow cold.

We also read The Mother, today, recollecting the emotions aroused by the Easter rising, from Irish revolutionary poet Patrick Pearse. The Rising was an insurrection in Dublin of about 1,200 men and women from the Irish Volunteers, Irish Citizen Army and the women’s group, Cuman na mBan. They were fighting for independence from the UK and although the rebellion failed, it did pave the way for the creation of a free state six years later. The rising was led by intellectuals and artists – sixteen of them were executed including the teacher & poet Patrick Pearse whose poem The Mother, written the night before he died, describes a mother’s thoughts on the death of her two sons (both Patrick and his younger brother Willie were executed). Why this poem above other rebel poems of the rising?  Well it’s intensely emotional, it’s the Irish the mother thing, we all know they live for their children.

Political poetry does more than just arouse feeling, it can take us right into the heart of society, it will always be there to remind us where we are, who we are, to move us, to offer solace, to carry news, sometimes that news inspires, sometimes it enrages – ‘Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry’ Auden wrote in his elegy for Yeats and as we’ve seen from Hikmet and communism to Chinese revolution and Irish rebellion, from Shelley after Peterloo in 1819 who said ‘ye are many and they are few’, Gil Scot Heron ‘the revolution will not be televised’ it seems that politics has hurt a lot of poets into poetical response.

One of the penalties for refusing to participate in politics, is that you end up being governed by your inferiors.
Plato

Also on the show: Adrienne Rich, Li Young Lee, Muriel Rukeyser along with music from The WaterBoys, Sam Cooke, Billie Holiday & John Grant.

 

Letters Mingle Souls

letters

The world is full of paper.
Write to me.
Agha Shahid Ali 

 

I found a box of old letters in my attic. It was full to the brim of all sorts of messages from school friends, work colleagues, letters from family letting me know they’re still alive!  Notes of thanks, beautiful love-letters from Berlin, postcards from Amsterdam, Basil, Hawaii, even a telegram from New York wishing me well in my college exams, this was the Golden Age, long before the dawn of emails or mobile phones and I’ll tell you some of them had me in tears. My goodness what a treasure trove and you know when it comes to memorabilia I am quite the hoarder so finding the bundles of memories wasn’t too surprising but what did catch me off-guard though was the over-whelming sense of nostalgia, how emotional I found re-reading about myself, my past, the people I knew, places I’d been and how in letters everything is so much more intense, more profound than talking face to face or on the telephone. You can really get to the heart of somebody through their letters, in fact I think it was the columnist Phyllis Theroux who said writing letters is a way of going somewhere without moving anything but your heart. And it just got me wondering about how the great poets, writers and thinkers of our time tackle the art of letter writing, what letters mean to them, how in their written world, relationships can evolve and deepen through correspondence. So I’ve chosen a couple of poems on the theme, poems that moved me or spoke to me in some way and I’d like to juxtapose these with actual love letters, maybe not mine but the most heartfelt words written by some very famous people including Beethoven, Albert Einstein and Mexican artist Frida Kahlo. We’ll have music too from Robert Plant and Alison Krauss, Nick Cave and more….

So it’s not nosey to steal a look what the Austrian composer Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart had to say, we’re just curious okay!

 

 

 

When he was a little known musician he fell in love with a girl named Aloysia Weber, a successful singer from a musical family. She didn’t feel the same however but in 1782 when Aloysia’s father died the Weber’s rented rooms in their house to cover the bills, Mozart, now a promising musician moved in, and soon fell in love with Constanze — the third Weber daughter. In August of that year the two were married and remained together, very much in love, until Mozart’s death nine years later.
Shortly before his sudden death, Mozart wrote to Constanze from Frankfurt, where he had gone to find work to ease the family‘s debt burden. He starts off explaining a few things then he’s unable to mask the depth of his feeling and his playful nature spills onto the page. He writes:

Dearest little Wife of my heart!

I get all excited like a child when I think about being with you again — If people could see into my heart I should almost feel ashamed. Everything is cold to me — ice-cold. — If you were here with me, maybe I would find the courtesies people are showing me more enjoyable, — but as it is, it’s all so empty — adieu — my dear — I am Forever

your Mozart who loves you
with his entire soul.

Sometimes it’s difficult to hold yourself back when you’re in love and I suppose when you’re writing a love letter you imagine it will only ever be read by it’s recipient, but happily for us some of the greatest minds were prudent with their correspondence. I wonder if people would be interested in my love letters a hundred years from now? I wonder if the people I sent them to kept them like me or tore them up and threw them away? Who knows J Someone who held onto his was German born Physicist Albert Einstein. His correspondence with his fellow student and future wife Mileva Maric began in 1897. His family totally disapproved, not least because Einstein was only 21 and they felt that settling down so young would compromise his career prospects. She was his intellectual equal however and based on these letters, he felt that in Mileva he had found his soul mate. When I think of Einstein I think of the philosophy of science, physics, that most famous equation but thinking about him in terms of relationships and love makes him so much more normal.
He and Mileva spent many summer’s apart holidaying with their respective families and during one such absence, he writes:

When I’m not with you I feel as if I’m not whole. When I sit, I want to walk; when I walk, I’m looking forward to going home; when I’m amusing myself, I want to study; when I study, I can’t sit still and concentrate; and when I go to sleep, I’m not satisfied with how I spent the day. No matter what happens, we’ll have the most wonderful life in the world. Pleasant work and being together.

Kissing you from the bottom of my heart,
Your Albert

Leafing through a book called the 50 Greatest Love Letters Of All Time by David Lowenherz I was struck by the missives of Ludwig Von Beethoven, the worlds most beloved composer, who never married but in his forties fell in love with a mystery woman referred to only as his immortal beloved. Again when I think of Beethoven I think of the symphonies or the great mass Missa Solemnis but reading his love letters is something completely new. They are breath-taking and what makes this story even more tragic is that they were found among his personal possessions, they were never mailed. One reads:
Even when I am in bed my thoughts rush to you, my immortal beloved, now and then joyfully, then again sadly, waiting to know whether Fate will hear our prayer — To face life I must live altogether with you or never see you… Oh God, why must one be separated from her who is so dear. Be calm; for only by calmly considering our lives can we achieve our purpose to live together — be calm — love me — Today — yesterday — what tearful longing for you — for you — you — my life — my all — all good wishes to you — Oh, do continue to love me — never misjudge your lover’s most faithful heart.
ever yours
Ever mine
ever ours
Imagine receiving a letter like that? Words can be irresistible can’t they?

 

Finally, James Joyce was one of Ireland’s most celebrated writers. Famous of course for his work Ulysses which brought us Leopold and Molly Bloom and also for his unconventional,  yet loving relationship with Galway woman, Nora Barnacle. Well she loved him enough to leave Ireland for him in 1904, living in Europe for most of the rest of their lives. Around 1909 however when Nora was in Trieste raising their two children and Joyce working in Dublin there began a period of quite explicit correspondence, actually one of these letters set a Sotheby’s world record in London in 2004 when it was sold to an anonymous buyer for an astonishing £240,000!  So whatever you do don’t destroy any of those old love letters you never know who’ll be interested in them in a few years. So I’ve some extracts here from the Selected Letters of James Joyce by Richard Ellman. Sometimes Joyce wrote to Nora in the third person as a way of further conveying his depth of feeling for her, then he tackles the thorny issue of a false infidelity before completely breaking out the poetry. He writes:
Twice while I was writing these sentences tonight the sobs gathered quickly in my throat and broke from my lips.
I have loved in her the image of the beauty of the world, the mystery and beauty of life itself, the beauty and doom of the race of whom I am a child, the images of spiritual purity and pity which I believed in as a boy.
Her soul! Her name! Her eyes! They seem to me like strange beautiful blue wild-flowers growing in some tangled, rain-drenched hedge. And I have felt her soul tremble beside mine, and have spoken her name softly to the night, and have wept to see the beauty of the world passing like a dream behind her eyes.
I love you deeply and truly, Nora. I feel worthy of you now. There is not a particle of my love that is not yours. In spite of these things which blacken my mind against you I think of you always at your best… Nora, I love you. I cannot live without you. I would like to give you everything that is mine, any knowledge I have (little as it is), any emotions I myself feel or have felt, any likes or dislikes I have, any hopes I have or remorse. I would like to go through life side by side with you, telling you more and more until we grew to be one being together until the hour should come for us to die. Even now the tears rush to my eyes and sobs choke my throat as I write this. Nora, we have only one short life in which to love. O my darling be only a little kinder to me, bear with me a little even if I am inconsiderate and unmanageable and believe me we will be happy together. Let me love you in my own way. Let me have your heart always close to mine to hear every throb of my life, every sorrow, every joy.
So there you have it, Letters – of love, of tragedy, of truth, they may change our lives, some may take us our whole lives to write but there’s a magic and intensity to the written word, an enchantment from one warm hand across an ocean to another that cannot be replicated by texts or emails or phone-calls. So go write …. write for your life!

 

Also on the show today, Frida Kahlo, Diane Wakoski, Yusef Komunyaaka, Diane Thiel.

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#PoetryDayIRL

 

magic book

Today is Poetry Day in Ireland! What a great day to lose yourself in the rhythmic alchemy of language.  Even if you’re not into poetry, just take the time, think of a topic that interests you and search for a poem on it: Love, Twilight, Death, Happiness, Thought, Paris, History – everything can be distilled into poetry and I guarantee you’ll find a poem on every imaginable theme.  If you enjoy a sunset, the sound of the sea or the smell of rain – that makes you a poet.  Listen to your heartbeat – poetry, as I’m writing I’m watching my Willow tree bend in the April breeze – more poetry, it’s everywhere!

I started reading and writing poetry in my final year in Secondary school.  I studied all the usual suspects (mostly old angry men) but I persevered because something about the medium grabbed my attention more than anything else I was studying in those days.  I remember reading Siegfried Sassoon Base Details a sarcastic poem about the indifference to front-line soldiers displayed by their officers, and tried to recreate my own version about life in the classroom! It probably sucked, but I enjoyed the word-play and the difficult search for descriptions.  In college, I discovered Sylvia Plath, Emily Dickinson and Dorothy Parker and I was off.  Writing about myself, my feelings and desires, my heartbreak’s and fixes, everything from the ridiculous to the sublime. In later years Walt Whitman, Mary Oliver, Michael Hartnett, James Tate, Sharon Olds, Jane Hirshfield, Naomi Shihab Nye and many  many more, became my companions.  Poetry was a constant in my life, a second shadow, and it still is, almost 30yrs later!

I knocked at her doors for so long before realising she’d left a key under the pot!  That’s the thing about poetry, if you want her she’s yours, you don’t even have to ask.  If you’re lost, she’ll find you.  So don’t be put off by academics who make out that poetry is only for the lofty, the high-brow or uber intelligent.  Wrong, wrong, wrong. Instead listen to what Pablo Neruda, one of the great Latin American poets, had to say about poetry (and he knew a thing or two):

 “On our earth, before writing was invented, before the printing press was invented, poetry flourished.  That is why we know that poetry is like bread; it should be shared by all, by scholars and by peasants, by all our vast, incredible, extraordinary family of humanity”.

So, drop your guard, open a book of poetry and walk into your heart 🙂  This is one of my favourites, it’s Neruda, it’s his honest-to-goodness, wonderfully descriptive, personal poetic discovery, the moment poetry held him in her embrace. Translated by Alastair Reid from Mark Eisner’s Essential Neruda. it’s:

POETRY

And it was at that age … poetry arrived
In search of me. I don’t know, I don’t know where
It came from, from winter or a river
I don’t know how of when,
No, they weren’t voices, they were not
Words, nor silence,
But from a street it called me,
From the branches of the night,
Abruptly from the others,
Among raging fires
Or returning alone,
There it was, without a face,
And it touched me.

I didn’t know what to say, my mouth
Had no way
With names,
My eyes were blind,
Something kicked in my soul,
Fever or forgotten wings,
And I made my own way,
Deciphering that fire,
And I wrote the first, faint line,
Faint, without substance, pure
Nonsense,
Pure wisdom
Of one who knows nothing,
And suddenly I saw the heavens
Unfastened
And open,
Planets,
Palpitating plantations,
The darkness perforated,
Riddled
With arrows, fire and flowers,
The overpowering night, the universe.

And I, tiny being,
Drunk with the great starry
Void,
Likeness, image of
Mystery,
Felt myself a pure part
Of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars.
My heart broke loose with the wind.

 

 

Photo Credit: http://science-all.com/image.php?pic=/images/magic/magic-03.jpg