Uncategorized

In Sickness and in Health – Poets in Pain

 

Pain has an element of blank, wrote Emily Dickinson:

PainofLove William Adolphe Bouguereau 1899

Douleur D’amour – William Adolphe Bouguereau

It cannot recollect
When it began, or if there was
A time when it was not.
It has no future but itself,
Its infinite realms contain
Its past, enlightened to perceive
New periods of pain.

Pain is inevitable. It is a symptom and a disease. It is transitory for some, persistent for others. Whatever the cause, pain and sickness can stop you in your tracks, causing upset at a minimum but can lead to despair, depression and sometimes death.

Sickness and ill-health are like sailing vessels adrift in the clear water of your body. If you’re lucky, a sudden breeze will whip up and steer the bow seaward, if you’re not, the captain drops anchor and you find yourself confined to your cabin. Illness can strike at any time and you either recover swiftly or you don’t. That’s when I turn to poetry for succour because on the subject of pain and sickness writers are voluble. Poets with the use of sensitive, graceful and eloquent language can express so intimately what it feels like to be sick. They invariably inhabit the sickness, reach inside the jaws of pain and feel its teeth, reporting back lyrically what it is, was and will be like for the rest of us. After enjoying more than forty years of good health, the last three or four have been difficult for me.  I’ve been unwell on and off, with bouts lasting anywhere from a couple of weeks to months at a time and like anyone, sometimes my resolve is low and I’ve got to dig deep to find the strength to make it through the day. I’ve read books on ill-health, many inspiring and motivational in their own way, but personally, I have never found anything more uplifting than a poem. Poets distil sickness and their poems are remedies for healing. Can a poem cure a physical or mental complaint? Well it wont make it worse! I think poetry operates along the same lines as faith, belief and conviction. Ancient physicians used to talk about the poetics of illness and were concerned with the rhythms of the body and soul. In fact, fifteenth century medicine viewed the body as a manifestation of the soul and considered emotions, desires, thoughts and personal history when administering to patients. It seems we’re much less imaginative nowadays; the passionate heart is just a pump, the meditative mind merely a muscle, the body reduced to a soulless machine. Poetry, I believe, helps the body reclaim the soul and opens the door to healing which can come in all forms and at varying speeds. Maybe today I won’t be pain free but I might experience less pain than yesterday; maybe I just need to believe that tomorrow will be better but if it isn’t then it’s still going to be okay – poetry helps. Read these heartening words from Northern Irish poet, Derek Mahon:

Everything is Going to be All Right

How should I not be glad to contemplate
the clouds clearing beyond the dormer window
and a high tide reflected on the ceiling?
There will be dying, there will be dying,
but there is no need to go into that.
The poems flow from the hand unbidden
and the hidden source is the watchful heart.
The sun rises in spite of everything
and the far cities are beautiful and bright.
I lie here in a riot of sunlight
watching the day break and the clouds flying.
Everything is going to be all right.

donal hall & jane kenyon

Donald Hall & Jane Kenyon

American poets Donald Hall and Jane Kenyon were no strangers to illness. They met in in the 60’s at Michigan University where Kenyon was a student and Hall an assistant professor of English. ‘Poetry,’ he once said in an interview, ‘was the great commonness between us.’ For twenty years they lived and wrote in rustic peacefulness on Halls’ ancestral New Hampshire farm. He battled Colon cancer in the late 1980’s and shortly afterwards Kenyon was diagnosed with the Leukaemia that would kill her a mere fifteen months later. She was only 47. They both lost their mothers during this time also. Compassionately, generously they documented their suffering in their collections of poetry. Jane Kenyon, who also battled depression for much of her life, published four collections and a translated volume of the work of Russian poet Anna Ahkmatova. Rural domestic life, relationships, nature and the unremarkable yet wonderfully messy realities of life were her themes; her style plain and uncomplicated, overflowing with humanity. Her posthumous collection Otherwise – containing some new and selected poems arranged by herself and Hall before her death – annals her life’s work. Spirituality, illness, everyday life, faith, love and resilience pervade the poetry that is more honest and resonant with each new reading. The Sick Wife was added with an afterward by Hall who included it as her last word, written weeks before her death. It’s about the life-transforming impact of illness:

The Sick Wife
by Jane Kenyon

The sick wife stayed in the car
while he bought a few groceries.
Not yet fifty,
she had learned what it’s like
not to be able to button a button.

It was the middle of the day—
and so only mothers with small children
and retired couples
stepped through the muddy parking lot.

Dry cleaning swung and gleamed on hangers
in the cars of the prosperous.
How easily they moved—
with such freedom,
even the old and relatively infirm.

The windows began to steam up.
The cars on either side of her
pulled away so briskly
that it made her sick at heart.

One day you’re out walking the dog, planning the dinner, collecting the kids and the next you can’t get out of the car, can’t button a button. Last time I was laid up I couldn’t walk for three weeks and suddenly, in the normally wet, grey and gloomy west of Ireland each day burst forth with sunlight and long evenings, blossoms everywhere and everyone out walking! It was like a new addiction, a plague; all along the highways and byways of my locality people were walk-walkedy-walking and I found it infuriating. Imagine how Kenyon felt? Loosing her independence, too weak to get out of the car, enviously observing the young and the elderly who are almost complacent in their health and mobility.

During his wife’s illness, Hall wrote the poetry she couldn’t, about what she was going through. He also wrote plays, prose and children’s books and was of the 1950’s vintage, attending university alongside Frank O’Hara and Adrienne Rich. Like all writers and poets he has the gift of being able to transform torment into something else, something more, something other; a healing perhaps for himself and for us who see our own pain reflected. In the elegiac works following his wife’s death, it’s apparent that it is precisely this creative gift that sustains Hall through those dark times of illness, decline and loss. Without (1998) and The Painted Bed (2002) are intimate collections chronicling their lives, their love and dedication. In the poem The Ship Pounding, Hall keeps vigil at his wife’s side, comparing the hospital to a ship:

The Ship Pounding
By Donald Hall

Each morning I made my way
among gangways, elevators,
and nurses’ pods to Jane’s room
to interrogate the grave helpers
who tended her through the night
while the ship’s massive engines
kept its propellers turning.
Week after week, I sat by her bed
with black coffee and the Globe.
The passengers on this voyage
wore masks or cannulae
or dangled devices that dripped
chemicals into their wrists.
I believed that the ship
travelled to a harbour
of breakfast, work, and love.
I wrote: “When the infusions
are infused entirely, bone
marrow restored and lymphoblasts
remitted, I will take my wife,
bald as Michael Jordan,
back to our dog and day.” Today,
months later at home, these
words turned up on my desk
as I listened in case Jane called
for help, or spoke in delirium,
ready to make the agitated
drive to Emergency again
for readmission to the huge
vessel that heaves water month
after month, without leaving
port, without moving a knot,
without arrival or destination,
its great engines pounding.

There is no safe harbour however, only the pounding engines; the directionless journey of this floating infirmary. In Her Long Illness, Hall is once again sitting with his wife, reading to her aloud. Faced with the inevitable, they reaffirm their love for one another and her desire to catch even a scent of snowy air reflects her determination, her willingness to fight to the death.

Her Long Illness
By Donald Hall

Daybreak until nightfall,
he sat by his wife at the hospital
while chemotherapy dripped
through the catheter into her heart.
He drank coffee and read
the Globe. He paced; he worked
on poems; he rubbed her back
and read aloud. Overcome with dread,
they wept and affirmed
their love for each other, witlessly,
over and over again.
When it snowed one morning Jane gazed
at the darkness blurred
with flakes. They pushed the IV pump
which she called Igor
slowly past the nurses’ pods, as far
as the outside door
so that she could smell the snowy air.

The pain of loss is crippling. I’m reminded of Emily Dickinson again There is a pain so utter-/it swallows substance up. Writers and poets like Hall learn to live with pain by writing about it but they don’t have the monopoly on creativity. At any time, you can pick up a pen and start writing. Slowly at first if it’s new to you, you can write about what you’re doing right now, how you’re feeling, what’s going through your mind. There is huge therapeutic potential in writing, creatively or otherwise. Give sorrow words, wrote Shakespeare in his dark tragedy Macbeth, the grief that does not speak whispers the oer’fraught heart and bids it break – i.e. don’t bottle things up!

I have a somewhat ambivalent relationship with doctors. So does Anne Sexton, a poet

anne sexton

Anne Sexton

who spent more than her fair share of time in psychiatric units. Here’s an extract from her poem Doctors:

They work with herbs
and penicillin
They work with gentleness
and the scalpel.
They dig out the cancer,
close an incision
and say a prayer
to the poverty of the skin.
They are not Gods
though they would like to be;
they are only a human
trying to fix up a human.
Many humans die.
They die like the tender,
palpitating berries
in November.
But all along the doctors remember:
First do no harm.
They would kiss if it would heal.
It would not heal.

As a woman, I’m not alone in this love/hate relationship. All of my female friends have had negative experiences with flippant GP’s (mostly male), who’s dismissive approach to women’s health concerns is dangerous and grievous. It’s rare you get the understanding and compassion you hope for when you’re sick and vulnerable. ‘Are painyou sure it’s not psychological?’, my GP asked. If he’d taken me seriously or maybe even opened his ears a little, I probably wouldn’t have needed that emergency Laperotomy a week later! Would that we all had a doctor like the American writer and poet Raymond Carver. Carver’s life was marred by alcohol, violence and broken relationships and he died from lung cancer at only fifty years old. In What the Doctor Said, from the collection All Of Us, Carver receives a terminal diagnosis and despite the physicians poor communication skills (although this does reveal a welcome humanity), both men are led to somewhat of an epiphany:

He said it doesn’t look good
he said it looks bad in fact real bad
he said I counted thirty-two of them on one lung before
I quit counting them
I said I’m glad I wouldn’t want to know
about any more being there than that
he said are you a religious man do you kneel down
in forest groves and let yourself ask for help
when you come to a waterfall
mist blowing against your face and arms
do you stop and ask for understanding at those moments
I said not yet but I intend to start today
he said I’m real sorry he said
I wish I had some other kind of news to give you
I said Amen and he said something else
I didn’t catch and not knowing what else to do
and not wanting him to have to repeat it
and me to have to fully digest it
I just looked at him
for a minute and he looked back it was then
I jumped up and shook hands with this man who’d just given me
Something no one else on earth had ever given me
I may have even thanked him habit being so strong

In the absence of recovery, the doctor prescribed resolve and grit, the kind of steadfastness required to meet the harrowing challenges ahead. Spiritual medicine.

Carver wasn’t the only poet to write from his sick-bed. Awaiting death, the comedic and good-natured Romanian poet Marin Sorescu wrote a collection of poetry entitled The Bridge. He was suffering from Cirrhosis and with almost Zen like objectivity

marin sorescu

Marin Sorescu

considers his fate, reflects on his life and illness, the nature of pain – he is played like a cursed organ in Balance Sheet and a diver who lost his oxygen tank in Pure Pain. The collection was his parting gift both dictated and dedicated to his wife Virginia:

 

Balance Sheet
By Marin Sorescu

I have two serious diseases,
A few others, extremely serious,
Plus three more, no less than dreadful
(Every one, I’ve been assured, is incurable).
Each hurts in its own particular way.
An acute, differentiated pain,
Requiring all my energy
And power of resistance.
In sum they add up to a kind of
Essence of torture and anguish,
Something unimaginable.
I am played like a cursed organ,
Assailed around the clock
By a thousand tempests.

Pure Pain
By Marin Sorescu

I don’t feel ill in order to feel better,
I feel ill in order to feel worse.
Like the sea with its green, treacherous waves,
You cannot sound the bottom of pain.

I dive into pure pain,
Essence of scream and despair,
And I return to the surface blue and pale,
Like a diver who lost
His oxygen tank.

To the emperor of fishes, I beg,
Kindly send me your most trustworthy shark
To cut short my passing.

What could be more distressing than your own illness? Your child’s. My younger sister had a tough time as a kid. She was sick a lot; always in and out of hospital or cuddled-up on the sofa in the sitting room with a Sindy doll or a book of fairytales. I know she suffered but I used to love coming home from school and finding her there, and snuggling up beside her and my mother on the couch. Although it was difficult for her, I sometimes contemplate how strenuous it was for my mum. The stress and worry with each medical emergency, the vigils by her bedside, the long convalescences. All of this in addition to looking after two other children, holding down two jobs and keeping a marriage together! The strain must have been immense but she never let it show. Calm, measured and graceful through what were undoubtedly tumultuous times. Her resolve, her strength of character and mind has always been remarkable to me and I thought about her while reading this next poem by American poet Philip Levine. It describes a night vigil over a child, the feelings of helplessness and despair, that there’s no-one there to hear our anxious prayers. Levine, confessed to over-dramatising his role in his sons illness, revealing that his wife did most of the work (surprise, surprise!). Like a true poet though, he turned his misfortunes into a poem:

Extract from:
Night Thoughts Over A Sick Child
By Philip Levine

Numb, stiff, broken by no sleep,
I keep night watch. Looking for
signs to quiet fear, I creep
closer to his bed and hear
his breath come and go, holding
my own as if my own were
all I paid. Nothing I bring,
say, or do has meaning here.

Outside, ice crusts on river
and pond; wild hare come to my
door pacified by torture.
No less ignorant than they
of what grips and why, I am
moved to prayer, the quaint gestures
which ennoble beyond shame
only the mute listener.

No one hears. A dry wind shifts
dry snow, indifferently;
the roof, rotting beneath drifts,
sighs and holds. Terrified by
sleep, the child strives toward
consciousness and the known pain.
If it were mine by one word
I would not save any man,

myself or the universe
at such cost: reality.
Heir to an ancestral curse
though fallen from Judah’s tree,
I take up into my arms my hopes,
my son, for what it’s worth give
bodily warmth.

Speaking of kids. Ever tried feigning an illness to avoid going to school? Award winning American songwriter, cartoonist and children’s writer Shel Silverstein did:

Sick
By Shel Silverstein

“I cannot go to school today,”
Said little Peggy Ann McKay.
“I have the measles and the mumps,
A gash, a rash and purple bumps.
My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,
I’m going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I’ve counted sixteen chicken pox
And there’s one more—that’s seventeen,
And don’t you think my face looks green?
My leg is cut—my eyes are blue—
It might be instamatic flu.
I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,
I’m sure that my left leg is broke—
My hip hurts when I move my chin,
My belly button’s caving in,
My back is wrenched, my ankle’s sprained,
My ‘pendix pains each time it rains.
My nose is cold, my toes are numb.
I have a sliver in my thumb.
My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,
I hardly whisper when I speak.
My tongue is filling up my mouth,
I think my hair is falling out.
My elbow’s bent, my spine ain’t straight,
My temperature is one-o-eight.
My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,
There is a hole inside my ear.
I have a hangnail, and my heart is—what?
What’s that? What’s that you say?
You say today is. . .Saturday?
G’bye, I’m going out to play!”

Physical pain is debilitating; mental anguish even more so. One feels as if one were lying bound hand and foot at the bottom of a deep dark well, utterly helpless -Vincent van Gogh wrote to his brother from the grip of mental illness. The stigma surrounding mental illness can be almost as hard to bear as the symptoms. I mentioned the poet Anne Sexton earlier whose battle with depression is widely documented. She was good

sylvia plath

Sylvia Plath

friends with a fellow American poet Sylvia Plath, clinically depressed for much of her life too. Actually, many writers and artists struggle with psychological issues. Both states involve unconventional thought processes. Creative writing requires creative thinking and similarly mental illness concerns thoughts and behaviours that also differ from the norm. I was reading an article as well recently about how misery can improve creative performance! – So maybe there’s something to the correlation between creativity and mental illness but it’s worth noting that there are just as many mentally well writers out there too. Plath and Sexton shared with us and with each other their demons, despair and desire to escape it all. They were young women, mothers who felt imprisoned by domesticity; writers, trying to carve out successful careers but curtailed also within a predominantly male-dominated literary world; all of this under the shadow of depression. Both ultimately succumbed to suicide. Plath first in 1963, leaving behind a husband and two children; Sexton ten years later or so. In Sylvia’s Death, Sexton not only mourns her friends passing but envies it:

Sylvia’s Death
By Anne Sexton

for Sylvia Plath

O Sylvia, Sylvia,
with a dead box of stones and spoons,
with two children, two meteors
wandering loose in a tiny playroom,
with your mouth into the sheet,
into the roof-beam, into the dumb prayer,
(Sylvia, Sylvia
where did you go
after you wrote me
from Devonshire
about raising potatoes
and keeping bees?)
what did you stand by,
just how did you lie down into?
Thief —
how did you crawl into,
crawl down alone
into the death I wanted so badly and for so long,
the death we said we both outgrew,
the one we wore on our skinny breasts,
the one we talked of so often each time
we downed three extra dry martinis in Boston,
the death that talked of analysts and cures,
the death that talked like brides with plots,
the death we drank to,
the motives and the quiet deed?
(In Boston
the dying
ride in cabs,
yes death again,
that ride home
with our boy.)
O Sylvia, I remember the sleepy drummer
who beat on our eyes with an old story,
how we wanted to let him come
like a sadist or a New York fairy
to do his job,
a necessity, a window in a wall or a crib,
and since that time he waited
under our heart, our cupboard,
and I see now that we store him up
year after year, old suicides
and I know at the news of your death
a terrible taste for it, like salt,
(And me,
me too.)

 

American poet Ralph Waldo Emerson had a way with words – It is one of the blessings of old friends, he said, that you can afford to be stupid with them. I’d go further and suggest that you can be sick with them too! Friends are great healers. They cut your problems in half and double your chances of surviving even the darkest of times. When you’re sick and most of the people you know would rather be anywhere else, your friends are by your side. Renowned 7th century Chinese poet Po Chu-I knew only too well the value of good friends. Often unwell, the death of his mother and daughter severely affected his health and similar to censorship under communism, Po Chu-I’s poetry sometimes made him unpopular with officials and he spent a good deal of time in exile. His conviction that poetry should be simple, clear and accessible to everyone assured his place as one of the most loved and widely read of all the Chinese poets of the classical tradition. His poetry was unpretentious yet deeply philosophical.
Here, he’s been sick so long he doesn’t know what day it is; everything glum, even the sparrows. But then the cavalry arrive! They place his couch out in the sunshine and converse intimately as friends do, gradually restoring him to some level of well-being – a tonic more effective than any other medicine:

Being Visited by a Friend during Illness
by Po Chu-ï (772-846, tr. Arthur Waley)

I have been ill so long that I do not count the days;
At the southern window, evening – and again evening.
Sadly chirping in the grasses under my eaves
The winter sparrows morning and evening sing.
By an effort I rise and lean heavily on my bed;
Tottering I step towards the door of the courtyard.
By chance I meet a friend who is coming to see me;
Just as if I had gone specially to meet him.
They took my couch and placed it in the setting sun;
They spread my rug and I leaned on the balcony-pillar.
Tranquil talk was better than any medicine;
Gradually the feelings came back to my numbed heart.

 

If you’re sick for long enough or have recurring bouts of illness, it’s difficult to hang on to that joie de vivre. Being present, being with the pain seems theoretically sensible but when you’re suffering your objective is to escape it. Sometimes we run in the wrong direction. Why are we so clever at making things worse? Don’t struggle against the pain in life, said the Buddha. Struggling increases suffering. Buddhist wisdom says that anytime we suffer misfortune, two arrows fly our way. The first is the actual event the second is the suffering, which apparently is voluntary:

Life often shoots an arrow at you and wounds you. However, by not accepting what has happened, by worrying about it, by saying it is unfair and wondering how long the pain will last, we tend to shoot a second arrow into the open wound and increase and prolong the pain. Pain is often a given, but suffering is optional.

We can choose not to add to our woes simply by accepting what is. So I guess rather than questioning why me? It’s better to accept that it is (why not me?) and work on dealing with the consequences of that. And that’s more than enough to be getting on with. Struggling against the pain is like shooting the second arrow. Let’s take a leaf out of Robert Frost’s book, from the collection West Brook Running to be exact:

Acceptance
By Robert Frost

When the spent sun throws up its rays on cloud
And goes down burning into the gulf below,
No voice in nature is heard to cry aloud
At what has happened. Birds, at least must know
It is the change to darkness in the sky.
Murmuring something quiet in her breast,
One bird begins to close a faded eye;
Or overtaken too far from his nest,
Hurrying low above the grove, some waif
Swoops just in time to his remembered tree.
At most he thinks or twitters softly, ‘Safe!
Now let the night be dark for all of me.
Let the night be too dark for me to see
Into the future. Let what will be, be.

Nature and poetry are interchangeable for me. The rhythm of life and line, the absorption of the senses, immersion of spirit, the patterns and hidden meanings, the souls music! I reach out to nature for the same reason I reach out to poetry: for comfort, protection, rescue. In search of spiritual connection there’s a place I go not far from my home near the village of Cong. Along the banks of the river Corrib the

IMG_0210.JPG

Enter a caption

hawks rise high in the Cedar Pines and salmon leap in the meandering waters of Ashford Castle. It’s an outstanding place of natural beauty and an hour there, for me, can replenish and reinvigorate my soul like nothing else. Last week, standing on a grassy verge I faced an impossibly beautiful vista that looked almost as if it had been prearranged. The fallen log in the sandy bank overhung by Willows and downy Birches; the grey heron I startled from his patient hiding place at the waters edge; the mute swan preening her white feathers, bobbing in the ebb and flow, the bees and ducks in the dappled sunlight, the gentle breeze – it was so uplifting! But out where the current was stronger, I watched the water rush and hustle its way around a dark, mossy rock. I thought to myself Tracy, you are that rock! Out there, up to your waist in a river of pain. And, I thought, just like that rock you’re going to stand your ground! Let the pain lap at your heels and rush about, but don’t let it in, it will make it’s own way around you. It’s easier to get beyond than through! Reminds me of a quote by novelist Toni Morrison – all water has a perfect memory and is forever trying to get back to where it was – with a bit of luck, maybe the same holds true for pain.

robert frost

Robert Frost

Nature too is the lifeblood of Frost’s verse, yet he is not just purely a nature poet. His motivation is human psychology and his poems are moral messages. Mary Oliver works in this way too, making comparisons between the natural world and the human condition. In the above sonnet, the approaching darkness draws attention to the significance of the light. He’s saying that acceptance is our greatest weapon against fear. He gives us such a violent description of a sunset and yet the birds don’t ruffle a feather, they simply find their safe place in a night that is mercifully too dark for them and us to see our anxieties, to face whatever it is to come tomorrow; all we can do is let what will be, be.

I’ll conclude on a hopeful note with a blessing from award winning African-American writer Lucille Clifton. As a black female writer Clifton’s staying power was

lucille clifton

Lucille Clifton

commendable. She wrote candid and profound poetry, suffered her own personal tragedies and illnesses including several battles with cancer, her last in 2010. Her poem blessing the boats (a commemoration in honour of the blessing of the English boats that carried the first settlers to Maryland in 1633) is about letting go, facing your fears; venturing out into the unknown and trusting the wind to love your back! From her award winning eponymous collection:

blessing the boats
By Lucille Clifton

(at St. Mary’s)

may the tide
that is entering even now
the lip of our understanding
carry you out
beyond the face of fear
may you kiss
the wind then turn from it
certain that it will
love your back may you
open your eyes to water
water waving forever
and may you in your innocence
sail through this to that

And that is my wish for everyone out there suffering – that you sail with some ease through this to that.

I’ll leave you with a quote that I’ve been trying to drill into my head. It comes from a guy called Ajahn Chah, a Buddhist teacher with a simple philosophy: Don’t hang on to anything. He said: If you let go a little you a will have a little peace; if you let go a lot you will have a lot of peace; if you let go completely you will have complete peace.

Advertisements

The Poetry & Music Of Alternatives To January Gym Membership!

Today, I invite you to join my fitness protection program, and look at the poetry and music of take-care-2things we can do instead of joining the gym in January!  It’s a peculiar month isn’t it. Dark, cold and penniless and after spending too much money on the wrong things, we’ve only just sat down to enjoy the luxurious Belgian-chocolate-fudge-cake-with-chocolate-butter-ganache-and-rum-and-raisin-(double)icecream we so richly deserve, when we find ourselves being vilified (by ourselves!) for over-indulging and hasten off to the nearest gym before said chocolate cake has had time to reach our salivating lips!  That is of course if we read the newspapers, magazines, blogs, social media posts that perpetuate this kind of unhelpful, ill-timed, stress-inducing madness. My advice? Don’t buy into it. Take a bath instead.  All it is is somebody else’s idea of a reality that just mightn‘t suit us. We can be the authors of our own ambitions and stick to what we feel is right for us. It’s hard not to get sucked in though, especially when around every corner lurks a gym or a night-class or a tai-chi-for-beginners-instructor telling you YOU’RE DOING LIFE WRONG!  So today we’re putting the brakes on, and using the first month of the new year not to beat ourselves up but rather build ourselves up.

take-care-6Think about it, many of us have just spent some more time than usual with our families and despite the obvious joy and good fortune in having people to share the holiday with, we can easily lose ourselves in the chaos, we fall back into old familial roles and patterns, tension is high, old wounds and hurts get reopened that can leave us feeling a little vulnerable and maybe questioning our life choices. I’m not sure that the answers we’re looking for are on the treadmill or under the weight machine though.  We might just need to ask ourselves a few basic questions, then sit quietly and wait for the answer to come from within. Why let a magazine article or sign at the local supermarket decide our fate? If the response we hear back is in fact a date with a rowing machine then yay! join in February, but if we decide that what we really need is an evening or two with our feet up then we’ve just saved a large amount of money and extra pressure and guilt for all the sessions we know we were going to miss.

So with the help of today’s poets I’ve come up with a few alternatives to dumbbells and Divorce/girl powerdipping bars.  After weeks of socialising , one of the first things we need to do before making any resolutions or life changing decisions is to get back in touch with ourselves to re-centre. The Argentinian poet Susana Thenon in her poem Nuptial Song believes that the only way for us to truly know ourselves, to rediscover our inner voice and appreciate the wonderful person that we are, is by being happily married … to ourselves. You heard m! Because we live in such an externalised culture it’s essential that we create moments of solitude for ourselves to get to know ourselves, to seek out our souls and nourish them. But we’re so afraid to take this journey inwards. Why? Well maybe we don’t go there often enough and fear what we might find: that we’re dreadful people who’ll never be good enough? But what if we find that we’re actually alright and just as good as anyone else? And remember solitude is different from isolation. If we sit quietly with ourselves for long enough we find that we have all answers to all the questions that have been evading us for years. Nuptial Song, is a poem about paying attention to emotional pain.

Tess Gallagher then gives us a credible alternative to kick-boxing …. Hug someone!  In a take-care-4recent show about happiness, you might recall I talked about little things we can do everyday to improve our well-being and one of them was to give, especially of ourselves. Reaching out to someone in need can have enormous benefits for both the giver and the receiver.   Psychological research tells us that loneliness is as detrimental to health as smoking is and with that in mind it’s important that we make more time for people; the elderly, the marginalized, those who live alone, we don’t know who out there is struggling or how much.  And it goes both ways: reaching out to is equally as important as reaching out for, asking for help when we need it. And you know, something as simple as a hug can go along way. A hug releases hormones that lower blood pressure, slows the heart rate, what’s known as the cuddle hormone oxytosin can reduce stress and above all reduce feelings of loneliness. It’s a common thing to be asked by a homeless person for spare change but what if he/she asked for a hug? How would we deal with a request like that? Well in  The Hug, American poet Tess Gallagher responds in a way I think we would all like to think we would respond.  She’s standing on the street hugging her partner when a homeless man walks up ’can I have one of those’ he asks. The overriding theme of the poem is love and I think what Gallagher proves is that it is not limited.

take-care-7Something else we might do as we look ahead is to remember that even though the hopes we have for ourselves don’t always match up to our reality, we are far from failures. Jack Gilbert, in his poem Failing and Flying, reminds us to focus on the positive.  The first line reads Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.  Icarus was the Greek character whose father warned him that his wings would melt if he flew too close to the sun, but he was a young man who got carried away, did what he wasn’t supposed to and ended up drowning in the sea, we remember him as the boy who failed not as the boy who flew. Failure is a tricky one, our reaction to it is to stop trying, our minds trick us into believing we can’t do things but Gilbert, no stranger to emotional pain, wants us to stop convincing ourselves we can’t succeed. To stop seeing things as all bad. He so beautifully cites the end of his own marriage as an example, even though the relationship is over, it did exist once, full with passion and promise and wonderful memories the gentleness in her
like antelope standing in the dawn mist. Gilbert, I think has a lot in common with Rilke, who we also read today, he travelled a lot, lectured to support himself, he mostly avoided fame and wrote for the love of it not to be lauded. And he uses a quote from English poet GK Chesterton which I love That anything worth doing is worth doing badly, meaning that how we do things is the way they should be done, that we are good enough, that individuality trumps excellence every-time. Finally then Gilbert goes further and trumps himself with a concluding line that we could all benefit from remembering, that we are not failing just coming to the end of a triumph. Reminds me of Samuel Beckett’s famous lines ever tried, ever failed, no matter, try again, fail again, fail better.

So look at all we can achieve instead of going to the gym in January! We can spend more time getting to know ourselves; live life more fully; question everything so we can form better opinions about ourselves and others; be more compassionate by reaching out to others; changing how we view things like failure, if we can do that maybe we can change how we look at other negatives in our lives and most of all we can come to realise that maybe things aren’t as bad as we thought they were; maybe we’re alright as we are.  We can stop being so hard on ourselves and making January gloomier than it has to be. I think when we’re forced into doing things they don’t work out as well as when we choose to do something for ourselves. So let’s take the time to think about we really want, because change, if we want it to work, takes time not added pressure.

Follow your inner moonlight; don’t hide the madness.
Ginsberg

Also on todays’ show:  Go To The Limits Of Your Longing by Rainer Maria Rilke, Some Questions You Might Ask by Mary Oliver, In Spite Of Everything, The Stars by Edward Hirsh.  Music from Atli Ovarsson, Jacob Collier, Al Martino, The Frames, Bell X1, Nina Simone, London Metropolitan Orchestra, Josh Ritter.

 

 

 

 

 

All Good Wishes To You!

In Memoriam, [Ring out, wild bells]img_0370
Lord Alfred Tennyson

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light:
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes
But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

 

WestWords Perfect Christmas Pair

There’s something about horses at Christmas.  It’s in the dark eyes I think, the stillness,Digital image the mix of warm breath and magic on a crisp winter morning.   I’m fortunate that wherever I’ve lived, there have always been horses nearby in fields or stables.  Being able to stand with them for a moment, rub their necks and manes or feed them carrots and apples, stirs something in my soul that I can’t explain.  It’s like entering a church or sacred place, there’s a spiritual hush that comes and takes you out of your own reality and puts you into the wild and earthy presence of something otherworldly.    Gorgeous creatures.

Digital imageI remember being snowed in one Christmas.  I lived in a cottage in the forest, about two hours drive away from family and friends and unable to travel, I spent a couple of days alone with my dog. Digital image On Christmas morning, we walked out through the Scots pine (ouch!) and fir, heavy with snow and reached a clearing at the top of the hill where my neighbours three horses were waiting. A mare, her yearling and a cheeky friend.  The animals touched noses and we all stood reading one another’s thoughts, lashes frosty in the wakening light.  The horses’ steaming breath on my hands, their snorting nostrils calming to slow inhalations, hooves prodding the frozen ground beneath, everything was sonorous with snow.  Later, thumbing through an anthology, I came across this poem by English poet Henry Shukman.  It was his attempt to write about his new born son.  His poems have appeared in The Guardian, The Times and The London Review Of Books and his first poetry collection, In Dr. No’s Garden, was published by Cape in 2003.  As a fiction writer he has published two novels, Sandstorm in 2006 and The Lost City which was a Guardian Book Of The Year.  I’ve paired it with the traditional folk carol Let Us The Infant Greet by Loreena McKennit, hope you enjoy it 🙂  Happy Christmas!  – Feliz Navidad! – Frohe Weihnacten! – Buon Natale! – Sona Nollag! – Kala Hristouyienna! – Joyeax Noel!

HORSES AT CHRISTMAS
By Henry Shukman

In our little house Creedence were singing
About the old cotton fields, the baby
Was flat on his back in front of the fire,
Eyes swimming with flame.
Christmas morning, and you were at church.
I thought of going to join you late,
But instead took the baby up to the horses.
Out in the field he started crying.
Maybe I should have taken him to the bath
Of stone, the discipline of a saviour, the sanctuary
Of hymns –

But the horses saved us.
To be close to them, so tough and nothing
To do with us, and their breathing all over him,
And the flaking mud on their necks
Where they had rolled, and the sucking of hooves
As they walked the sodden field.
The horses with their long heads,
Underwater eyes, watched us watch them.

Then they turned, drumming the field,
Leaving us alone – the damp morning
All about, the soaked grass under foot,
The baby’s diaphanous ears going pink in the cold
As silence bowed back to earth.

‘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

 

 

The Mountains Are Calling And I Must Go!

Today is natureall about the natural world around us, from caterpillars to columnar tree shapes, bird-bills to blizzards and snapping turtles to tornadoes; Nature’s got it all going on, it’s wondrous, it is us and it’s a recurring theme in poetry. ‘First follow nature’ Alexander Pope remarked in his Essay on Criticism; ’Am I not partly leaves and vegetable mould myself?’ asks Henry Thoreau in his part-personal book Walden about simple living.
Poets and writers are akin to spies when it comes to observing Nature, and have always drawn on her beauty, landscapes and seasons, through metaphor – to better understand ourselves and our behaviour, or to convey deep metaphysical messages and stark ecological ones, or simply to celebrate life’s 3 and a half billion years of existence!
To help us, Gary Snyder gets ecological with his observations by Frazier Creek Falls,  a meditation really on the natural world, similar to the Japanese Haiku tradition, which reduces the world to a kernel of acute observation. And as I read this, I found it to be one of those poems that demand absolute stillness, in keeping with the geology and pyramidal pines of the scene he’s describing. He creates a stunning picture of what he sees from the falls and explores the idea that we are linked to everything around us, man and nature are one ‘we are it, it sings through us’ he says. We are interconnected. And if we took the time to really consider this concept, then we could reach a more ecologically sound understanding of what it means to grow and develop as a species. If we stopped trying to control nature and began instead to work with her, life would be far less complicated.  A Zen Buddhist, who lives in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada, skins his own bullfrogs and spends nights reading the constellations, Gary Snyder is a poet entrenched in the nature!

Jane Hirshfield’s Zen Buddhist training taught her two things: silence and the desire to call forward a complete attention. – Inhabiting her own experience I guess. Recalling Mary Oliver’s attention to detail and Gary Snyder’s meditations, Hirshfield finds a deeper understanding of herself in her interactions with nature. Her poem, Three Foxes By the Edge Of A Field At Twilight, reflects on how much in nature is hidden from us and what in turn we keep hidden from each other. The foxes are visible until she tries to approach, then the woods suddenly take them back. She continues walking with an acquaintance from whom she holds back some of herself. Perhaps the foxes represent the thoughts she can‘t verbalise, the ones that return to the heart, revealing something to herself and to us: that in our desire to be closer to nature we come to realise that we are closer to ourselves than we know. That old Lao Tzu proverb comes to mind ‘he who knows, does not speak. He who speaks does not know.’  The poem is from her Selected Poetry volume Each Happiness Ringed By Lions.

‘Are you bowed down in heart?’ Asks James Weldon Johnson in his poem Deep In The Quiet Wood, ‘Do you but hear the clashing discords and the din of life? Then come away, come to the peaceful wood, here bathe your soul in silence.’ Those lines are beautiful aren’t they? And they jumped out at me, reminding me of places I often go to escape, the traffic, bustling streets and … disruptive neighbours. My favourite place to recharge, is at the grounds of Ashford Castle in the village of Cong, Co. Mayo.  It’s a wonderful amenity with tranquil woods of varieties of broad-leaf, evergreen and native trees, it’s on the shores of Lough Corrib with it’s meditative crystal clear waters and there’s a school of falconry there also so if you’re lucky enough to arrive during a hawk-walk, you’ll be captivated by these amazing creatures soaring and diving, their bells jingling through the trees. American poet Wendell Berry also espouses the view that we can find solace in nature, that the spirit of the natural world can restore the human spirit. ’When despair grows in me‘, he says ’I come into the peace of wild things’ , there is somewhere we can go to relieve the anxieties of our lives, but you know sometimes even reading this poem I find myself transported and automatically relaxed. From the 1968 collection Openings, we’ll read The Peace Of Wild Things.

There’s a lot to be gained through communing with the natural world, and I suppose we shouldn’t have to try we are a part of it, we are stardust after all. This world is the house we live in, packed full of creatures and plants and natural wonders and our over-exploitation of it is unfortunate, every habitat we destroy today results in the loss of a species tomorrow – we all know this – primates, tropical orchids, numerous species of birds and fish are all at risk. But more worryingly, because they thrive on human activity, things like cockroaches and rats are the only species unaffected! So think on China & America!  All we can do is look after our own patch, make a home for nature isn’t that the tag-line?

Also on today’s show, I read Lingering Happiness by Mary Oliver, Putting In The Seed by Robert Frost and Summer Farm by Scottish poet Norman MacCaig.  Music from Ludovico Einaudi, Nils Frahm, Message To Bears, Yaruma and much more!

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.