Poetry Out Loud

During the month of April, in celebration of National Poetry Month, I highlighted poetry as an oral art form – the spoken word delivered to an audience. I noted that “the speaking and the hearing of poetry have always been central to its beauty and its effect upon people.”

Throughout the month, I shared video presentations of poets reading or reciting their works as well as other people reading the works of poets. I was able to share oral presentations of nine poets from diverse backgrounds. There were well over 1,000 views of those blog posts. The work of local spoken word artist Michael Harriot, “My Mama's So Black” received the most views, followed closely by Helen Mirren's reading of Tennyson's “Ulysses.”

All of the presentations seemed to be well received. Particularly effective was Bill Murray's reading of “What the Mirror Said,” by Lucille Clifton, and, of course, Maya Angelou's own presentation of “And Still I Rise.” I was glad to hear some Native American perspective with Joy Harjo's presentation.

Some told me that my reading of “Conscientious Objector,” by Edna St. Vincent Millay, was their first time to even hear about that poem. Others remarked that “Digging,” by Seamus Heaney was their all time favorite poem. One of my favorites was to be able to sit and listen to an evening with Coleman Barks reading from his translations of Rumi.

I am happy to have done some small part in presenting poetry in its oral form, and glad to have introduced some new voices as well as some old favorites to the readers of my blog. Thank you all for taking time to appreciate poetry as a spoken art form this month.

In case you missed any of them, you will find them listed below, with a hyperlink to take you to each presentation.

Coleman Barks Presents Works by Persian Poet, Rumi

Helen Mirren Reads “Ulysses” by Alfred Lord Tennyson

“My Mama’s So Black,” by Michael Harriot

“The Lanyard,” by Billy Collins

“And Still I Rise,” by Maya Angelou

"Nearly Unbearable Grace," the poetry of Joy Harjo, Native American Poet

Bill Murray Reads “What the Mirror Said,” by Lucille Clifton

“Digging,” by Seamus Heaney

Charles Kinnaird Reads “Conscientious Objector,” by Edna St. Vincent Millay

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"The Lanyard," by Billy Collins

 

Celebrating the Spoken Word

Former U.S. Poet Laureate, Billy Collins, shares a poem that brings some humor to the table while expressing a serious truth.

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On Death and Gratitude

Billy Collins said that every poem is about death and gratitude. Recently I had the privilege of attending a small discussion group examining the works of the English metaphysical poets. John Donne was discussed one night. While reading his famous poem, “Death Be Not Proud,” we discussed the way Donne addresses death. He personifies death and seems to use his traditional Anglican faith to show death to be an insignificant thing – “one short sleepe past, we wake eternally.”

As I looked at the poem, however, it struck me that Donne does not actually seem to be acknowledging his own mortality. He belittles death and says things that one would think appropriate and expected when affirming one’s religious faith. But does he really come to terms with the fact that he indeed will die? How does his recognition of death affect the way he lives his life?

As synchronicity would have it, on the same day we discussed Donne’s poem, one of my blogger friends posted the following poem by Mary Oliver. Perhaps it is due to the times in which each poem was written – Mary Oliver is a contemporary American poet, John Donne a 17th century English poet – but it seems to me that Oliver demonstrates a healthier recognition of death, and a more overt expression of gratitude. Read the two poems for yourself and see what you think. Feel free to disagree or offer a different opinion on the topic.



Death Be Not Proud
By John Donne

Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

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When Death Comes

By Mary Oliver

When death comes

like the hungry bear in autumn

when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps his purse shut;

when death comes

like the measle-pox;

when death comes

like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering;

what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything

as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,

and I look upon time as no more than an idea,

and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common

as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth

tending as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something

precious to the earth.

When it’s over, I want to say: all my life

I was a bride married to amazement.

I was a bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder

if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened

or full of argument.

I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.

*****

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On Poetry, Prayer, and Gratitude

I mentioned in one of my past blog entries that my own experiences of mystery and wonder led me first to poetry then to theology, and later back to poetry. I think poetry is a more primary response. Theology, like philosophy and psychology are secondary responses in that they require categories, definitions, rules, and analyses. Billy Collins, U.S. poet laureate from 2001 to 2003, says that every poem is about death and gratitude. The awareness of death heightens the beauty of the world as we see it. As one who attempts to write poetry, I heartily agree with that notion. Poetry conveys that sense of awareness and gratitude.

I consider poetry to be an open canon of scripture, one that is still being written every day, but that’s just me. You have your own canon of scripture, I’m sure. Maybe you are like John Muir who saw “the scripture of nature” and marveled in the presence of nature and its author. Perhaps music is your doorway to the divine.

I must also consider the great souls, such as Dorothy Day and Mother Teresa, who made service to others their witness of God’s presence on the world. Jim Wallis (Sojourners, Washington, D.C.) and Birmingham’s own Jim Douglass (Mary’s Catholic Worker House, Ensley) are examples of people who bear witness to the divine by way of social activism. I believe the mystery of God is conveyed through words, beauty, and actions.

So how does prayer fit in? I was in an online blog discussion a while back in which the question was posed, “Is it okay to pray for material things?” That same week another blogger friend was writing about how he had been influenced by encounters with different faith expressions and wanted to know what others had experienced. Both of those discussions prompted me to take a look at my own attitude toward prayer and faith.

Certainly one’s concept of God will affect that person’s understanding of prayer. I am one who is enlivened by the contact with many faith expressions that we are seeing more and more as our society becomes more pluralistic. I grew up Baptist in a rural, provincial setting and that was enough for awhile. Later, I came to enjoy worship in the liturgical settings of the Episcopal and Roman Catholic churches. It was like learning a new language for worship. As with any new language, new insights arise in the learning. I have also benefitted in personal devotions by reading the works of Quakers (e.g. John Woolman, Rufus Jones, Elton Trueblood), Catholics (e.g. Thomas Merton, Thomas Keating, and Basil Pennington) as well as Buddhist practitioners (e.g. Jack Kornfield, Thich Nhat Hanh, and His Holiness the Dalai Lama)

To me, gratitude is the most enriching kind of prayer. It immediately assumes a relationship with the divine and a trust even in uncertainty. Throughout my pilgrimage, my image of God has certainly changed, but I have never lost that sense of gratitude toward a loving ultimate force behind an ultimately friendly universe. This brings me back to Billy Collins’ statement about poetry: every poem is about death and gratitude. Every prayer, every poem, every offering of service we can make is undergirded by the awareness of our own mortality and by our gratitude for the wonder of existence.

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Not Dark Yet (Reprise)

Today this blog has been online for six months. I thought I'd reprise my original post as a way of doing a self check, to see if I'm doing what I said I would do on New Years Eve. In addition, I'm including a video of Dylan's song so you can hear the song that inspired the name of this blog.

Here is the original post:

“Not Dark Yet…” you may remember this as the title to one of Bob Dylan’s songs on his "Time Out of Mind" CD. I have borrowed that phrase for the title of my blog, because I like the imagery it evokes. My interests include poetry, religion, politics, nature, conservation, and striving toward the common good. This blog will cover observations of life and shared events. If the politics and religion aspect get too heated, there is always the mediating influence of poetry. Billy Collins, U.S. poet laureate from 2001 to 2003, says that every poem is about death and gratitude. The awareness of death heightens the beauty of the world as we see it. As one who attempts to write poetry, I heartily agree with that notion. Poetry conveys that sense of awareness and gratitude.

So in this space you will see political commentary, personal observations, spiritual questions, maybe a poem from time to time or some pertinent literary references. My emphasis, I anticipate, will always be on the “Not dark yet,” but in the background there is always Bob Dylan’s reminder (as any good poet will affirm) “Not dark yet, but it’s gettin’ there.”

And here is the video:

Striking a Chord

Billy Collins, U.S. poet laureate from 2001 to 2003, says that every poem is about death and gratitude. April is National Poetry Month and today is Good Friday. So today, I will use poetry to illustrate how Good Friday strikes a cord within humanity. During this Lenten season, I spent some time following the Stations of the Cross at St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church each Friday. On one occasion we used a modern set of meditations which at times brought into focus the suffering that occurs in humanity; suffering that brings to mind the passion of Christ.

Today I am offering one of my poems, “An Ancient Harp,” and lyrics form two of Bob Dylan’s songs, “Not Dark Yet,” (for which this blog is named), and “Shelter from the Storm.” Not Dark Yet has some “Why have you forsaken me?” moments: “my sense of humanity has gone down the drain,” “I was born here and I’ll die here against my will,” “Don’t even hear a murmur of a prayer.” Note in Shelter from the Storm some specific Good Friday references such as “my crown of thorns,” and “they gambled for my clothes.”


An Ancient Harp
by Charles Kinnaird

When have I ever been far from pain?
Its shadow varies with humanity’s seasons.
And when have I ever been far from the rain
That sweetens the forest breeze?

A gunman appeared, that pursuing one,
His weapon cold and quick.
His bullet traced a familiar pain,
Making my old wound visible.

You have seen the gunman
Stepping briefly from the woods.
When you refused to give him credence
I felt the pain.

A mountain gorge speaks to the heart.
A beautiful cleft in violence torn.
And in my solitary pain I think
That I am not alone.

A madman runs down city streets
to bring redemption to our insanity.
A saint gives flesh to a common hope
to bring redemption to our personhood.
A poet weeps upon an ancient harp
to bring redemption to our pain.





Not Dark Yet
by Bob Dylan (From Time Out of Mind, 1997)

Shadows are fallin' and I've been here all day
It's too hot to sleep and time is runnin' away
Feel like my soul has turned into steel
I've still got the scars that the sun didn't heal
There's not even room enough to be anywhere
It's not dark yet but it's gettin' there.

Well, my sense of humanity has gone down the drain
Behind every beautiful thing there's been some kind of pain
She wrote me a letter and she wrote it so kind
She put down in writin' what was in her mind
I just don't see why I should even care
It's not dark yet but it's gettin' there.

Well, I've been to London and I been to gay Paris
I've followed the river and I got to the sea
I've been down on the bottom of the world full of lies
I ain't lookin' for nothin' in anyone's eyes
Sometimes my burden is more than I can bear
It's not dark yet but it's gettin' there.

I was born here and I'll die here against my will
I know it looks like I'm movin' but I'm standin' still
Every nerve in my body is so naked and numb
I can't even remember what it was I came here to get away from
Don't even hear the murmur of a prayer
It's not dark yet but it's gettin' there.



Shelter from the Storm
by Bob Dylan (From Blood on the Tracks, 1975)

'Twas in another lifetime, one of toil and blood
When blackness was a virtue and the road was full of mud
I came in from the wilderness, a creature void of form.
'Come in,' she said,
'I'll give you shelter from the storm.'

And if I pass this way again, you can rest assured
I'll always do my best for her, on that I give my word
In a world of steel-eyed death, and men who are fighting to be warm.
'Come in,' she said,
'I'll give you shelter from the storm.'

Not a word was spoke between us, there was little risk involved
Everything up to that point had been left unresolved.
Try imagining a place where it's always safe and warm.
'Come in,' she said,
'I'll give you shelter from the storm.'

I was burned out from exhaustion, buried in the hail,
Poisoned in the bushes an' blown out on the trail,
Hunted like a crocodile, ravaged in the corn.
'Come in,' she said,
'I'll give you shelter from the storm.'

Suddenly I turned around and she was standin' there
With silver bracelets on her wrists and flowers in her hair.
She walked up to me so gracefully and took my crown of thorns.
'Come in,' she said,
'I'll give you shelter from the storm.'

Now the bounds are broken and they can't be retired
A one more journey to the woods, the hole were spirit tired
It's a never ending battle, for a peace that's always torn
'Come in,' she said,
'I'll give you shelter from the storm.'

Well, the deputy walks on hard nails and the preacher rides a mount
But nothing really matters much, it's doom alone that counts
And the one-eyed undertaker, he blows a futile horn.
'Come in,' she said,
'I'll give you shelter from the storm.'

I've heard newborn babies wailin' like a mournin' dove
And old men with broken teeth stranded without love.
Do I understand your question, man, is it hopeless and forlorn?
'Come in,' she said,
'I'll give you shelter from the storm.'

Now there's a wall between us, somethin' there's been lost
I took too much for granted, got my signals crossed.
Just to think that it all began on a long-forgotten morn.
'Come in,' she said,
'I'll give you shelter from the storm.'

In a little hilltop village, they gambled for my clothes
I bargained for salvation an' they gave me a lethal dose.
I offered up my innocence and got repaid with scorn.
'Come in,' she said,
'I'll give you shelter from the storm.'

Well, I'm livin' in a foreign country but I'm bound to cross the line
Beauty walks a razor's edge, someday I'll make it mine.
If I could only turn back the clock to when God and her were born.
'Come in,' she said,
'I'll give you shelter from the storm.'



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Not Dark Yet

“Not Dark Yet…” you may remember this as the title to one of Bob Dylan’s songs on his Time out of Mind CD. I have borrowed that phrase for the title of my blog because I like the imagery it evokes. My interests include poetry, religion, politics, nature, conservation, and striving toward the common good. This blog will cover observations of life and shared events. If the political and religious aspects get too heated, there is always the mediating influence of poetry. Billy Collins, U.S. poet laureate from 2001 to 2003, says that every poem is about death and gratitude. The awareness of death heightens the beauty of the world as we see it. As one who attempts to write poetry, I heartily agree with that notion. Poetry conveys that sense of awareness and gratitude.

So in this space, you will see political commentary, personal observations, spiritual questions, maybe a poem from time to time or some pertinent literary references. My emphasis, I anticipate, will always be on the “Not dark yet,” but in the background, there is always Bob Dylan’s reminder (as any good poet will affirm) “Not dark yet, but it’s gettin’ there.”




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