You can't pay time back.
It's over.
But you can give it as a gift.
No one can take it from you.
Not really.
You have all of it,
whether you want it or not.
To try to forget
is sorrow untold.
Maybe time is a river.
Flowing forward,
moving molecule-lives along.
Maybe time is a suitcase.
Try to fit everything in.
Then you check the bag,
the airline loses it,
and you forget what you packed.
Showing posts with label time. Show all posts
Showing posts with label time. Show all posts
Sunday, August 21, 2016
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
William Stafford Makes Sense Today (Whereas Yesterday Was a Different Story)
Poetry is about more than the right word. It's about more than keeping interest, or using intricate and precise metaphors.
Poetry is about timing. You may read a poem, and not know right away that you need it. But later, when circumstance has caught up with you, you go searching about in your mind for those precise words, like a spell; because someone already said it, and said it deeper than you can in that hard moment. Maybe they understand what is happening to you.
Today, I was grasping for "that poem about how we're all in darkness, and we need to communicate better. Something about the darkness around us is deep." Thank you, William Stafford and the Internet, for this poem and access to it. It is not quite what I thought it was. But I grasp it tightly anyway, understanding today what would have been impossible yesterday. Even the elephants.
A Ritual To Read To Each Other
If you don't know the kind of person I am
and I don't know the kind of person you are
a pattern that others made may prevail in the world
and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.
For there is many a small betrayal in the mind,
a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break
sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood
storming out to play through the broken dyke.
And as elephants parade holding each elephant's tail,
but if one wanders the circus won't find the park,
I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty
to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.
And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,
a remote important region in all who talk:
though we could fool each other, we should consider--
lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.
For it is important that awake people be awake,
or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;
the signals we give--yes or no, or maybe--
should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.
William Stafford
Poetry is about timing. You may read a poem, and not know right away that you need it. But later, when circumstance has caught up with you, you go searching about in your mind for those precise words, like a spell; because someone already said it, and said it deeper than you can in that hard moment. Maybe they understand what is happening to you.
Today, I was grasping for "that poem about how we're all in darkness, and we need to communicate better. Something about the darkness around us is deep." Thank you, William Stafford and the Internet, for this poem and access to it. It is not quite what I thought it was. But I grasp it tightly anyway, understanding today what would have been impossible yesterday. Even the elephants.
A Ritual To Read To Each Other
If you don't know the kind of person I am
and I don't know the kind of person you are
a pattern that others made may prevail in the world
and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.
For there is many a small betrayal in the mind,
a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break
sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood
storming out to play through the broken dyke.
And as elephants parade holding each elephant's tail,
but if one wanders the circus won't find the park,
I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty
to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.
And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,
a remote important region in all who talk:
though we could fool each other, we should consider--
lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.
For it is important that awake people be awake,
or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;
the signals we give--yes or no, or maybe--
should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.
William Stafford
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Time Passing Under the Siamese, Silly-Leaf Tree*
By my part of the stream in a corner of the park, the new summer breeze draws its silk cape over my bare arms.
Who knows what may come or go?
But may God receive praise for it all.
For this moment: the grass bits on this paper, the sap from that old tree: knowing that life probably goes on.
For the last moment: when I saw the soft heart of someone for whom I'd given up hope.
And for the next moment: when life will continue or end at Your pleasure.
Be praised, Great God.
Ant biting my ankle.
Two mallards swimming by.
A groundhog, honestly, nibbling at leaves above its head, exposing its soft belly.
A branch creaking in the wind, like a strange bird or a rusty door,
and, naturally, two heavy-footed humans scare the groundhog away, and the breeze stops,
as does the rusty door-branch. The mallards are past now.
The stream is still flowing, at least.
---
*I believe we've talked about how I don't know the names of things in nature. This is a tree whose trunk splits very low, creating two, and whose leaves look like mittens and high-five hands.
Who knows what may come or go?
But may God receive praise for it all.
For this moment: the grass bits on this paper, the sap from that old tree: knowing that life probably goes on.
For the last moment: when I saw the soft heart of someone for whom I'd given up hope.
And for the next moment: when life will continue or end at Your pleasure.
Be praised, Great God.
Ant biting my ankle.
Two mallards swimming by.
A groundhog, honestly, nibbling at leaves above its head, exposing its soft belly.
A branch creaking in the wind, like a strange bird or a rusty door,
and, naturally, two heavy-footed humans scare the groundhog away, and the breeze stops,
as does the rusty door-branch. The mallards are past now.
The stream is still flowing, at least.
---
*I believe we've talked about how I don't know the names of things in nature. This is a tree whose trunk splits very low, creating two, and whose leaves look like mittens and high-five hands.
Friday, August 31, 2012
Reflections on "Getting Old"
They don't use an alarm clock to wake up.
The sun calls their joints and ligaments awake to arrange the aching bones.
Oo! Too long in one posture.
They share the sink in the bathroom.
He has an electric razor,
She has a rubber toothpick.
Breakfast is toast and fruit
and four pills and coffee, decaf.
She checks the calendar and
they talk to-do lists and appointments.
They talk about it twice,
because he is forgetting more and more.
They are glad to be together, still.
But she knows that life will change
now that only she may drive,
only she can make out checks,
only she knows where the turns are,
who to call, when to arrive,
how to survive
alone.
----
The above is based loosely on a poem by Gwendolyn Brooks, "The Bean Eaters," and my understanding of my grandparents' lives right now.
----
I have heard people tell me casually,
as they are getting up from an uncomfortable position,
or as they are squinting to adjust their eyes to the road signs,
"never get old."
But I have been planning to do just that, this whole time.
Next time, if I have the courage, I will respond,
"Would you rather I die young?"
----
In this country, it is a grave insult to call someone "old".
In this country, we don't vote for people with completely gray hair:
"What do they know? They're old."
What don't they know? They're old.
The sun calls their joints and ligaments awake to arrange the aching bones.
Oo! Too long in one posture.
They share the sink in the bathroom.
He has an electric razor,
She has a rubber toothpick.
Breakfast is toast and fruit
and four pills and coffee, decaf.
She checks the calendar and
they talk to-do lists and appointments.
They talk about it twice,
because he is forgetting more and more.
They are glad to be together, still.
But she knows that life will change
now that only she may drive,
only she can make out checks,
only she knows where the turns are,
who to call, when to arrive,
how to survive
alone.
----
The above is based loosely on a poem by Gwendolyn Brooks, "The Bean Eaters," and my understanding of my grandparents' lives right now.
----
I have heard people tell me casually,
as they are getting up from an uncomfortable position,
or as they are squinting to adjust their eyes to the road signs,
"never get old."
But I have been planning to do just that, this whole time.
Next time, if I have the courage, I will respond,
"Would you rather I die young?"
----
In this country, it is a grave insult to call someone "old".
In this country, we don't vote for people with completely gray hair:
"What do they know? They're old."
What don't they know? They're old.
Saturday, June 2, 2012
June
It's beautiful: being overcome
by simple exhaustion at the end of a school year.
[Breathe.]
It's beautiful.
by simple exhaustion at the end of a school year.
[Breathe.]
It's beautiful.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Everything Natural
I have a hole in my vocabulary: I don't know how to describe landscape. It may be the result of a lack of nature reading. But I am more prone to believe that it comes from a lack of nature. What is a rill? A hummock? What exactly is an escarpment? It sounds like a place where fish might be bred. It gets worse when we're talking about specific types of herbage. As I read James Herriott, a Scottish author, I found myself at a blank when I tried to imagine his environment. I finally gave in and web-searched what peat moss and heather looked like.
My vocabulary hole is even more apparent when I try to write about my environs. I don't even know the name of the tree outside my window. In the summer, its greenery is vibrant enough to obstruct intrusive eyes. In the wintertime, said tree drops its leaves onto our porch from which they are swept into the road to be removed by the street cleaners (which I never see, but know exist, because they are religious about ticketing vehicles). Even after discarding its leaves, long green pods remain on the branches. Throughout the winter, these pods become more and more translucent, revealing small black seeds inside, which obligingly take up the office of the leaves and scatter themselves about our porch, to be swept into the road and then removed by the unseen, yet fastidious, street cleaners. Through my long and fervent commerce with this tree, I have yet to learn its name, or any of its virtues as a plant. As a city-dweller, it merely gets in my way; much like the tree a few houses down which excretes a sap that smells like vomit, and has accordingly been dubbed the vomit tree.
I'm out of touch, you see.
I don't know nature,
and she doesn't know me.
I haven't felt the earth with
my bare, soft feet
in I-don't-know-how-long!
...It may be getting to me.
I remember living in smaller towns growing up. I wasn't so far removed then. I could hike in the woods, and did often. I knew the smaller parks and hiking trails nearby with an almost shameful intimacy. I didn't often feel hungry or tired there. Sometimes, it was a marvel how deeply I lost myself in sunlight and trees. I wanted to be a part of them. Some force would pull me off the trail, to know the outside of the trail, and maybe actually know it... nature, something. Once off the trail, my desire would only grow. There was more, where was it? Knowing tree names wasn't enough, I had to be a part of it, get inside. I would climb a tree, or stoop to the mosses, inspecting the insides of logs. But that tugging does not just go away. Sometimes, in fact, my dissatisfaction rose to anger.
Not long ago, I was visiting Longwood Gardens with my grandparents. While there, I compared it to my first time to Longwood, ten years ago. I had felt that dissatisfied longing to be in nature. I remember how awful it was to be in such an achingly beautiful place, and somehow not really know it. But something was different this trip. As I walked through the conservatory, I felt like singing to God! I felt as though I had to worship and adore the Creator, or I would burst all over the lovely orchids. I smiled dumbly, room after room of incredible colors, each representing a vast framework of design. The longing was still there, but smaller. As I thanked God in prayer for His unrestrained, immoderate beauty, I knew that I was a part of it.
My vocabulary hole is even more apparent when I try to write about my environs. I don't even know the name of the tree outside my window. In the summer, its greenery is vibrant enough to obstruct intrusive eyes. In the wintertime, said tree drops its leaves onto our porch from which they are swept into the road to be removed by the street cleaners (which I never see, but know exist, because they are religious about ticketing vehicles). Even after discarding its leaves, long green pods remain on the branches. Throughout the winter, these pods become more and more translucent, revealing small black seeds inside, which obligingly take up the office of the leaves and scatter themselves about our porch, to be swept into the road and then removed by the unseen, yet fastidious, street cleaners. Through my long and fervent commerce with this tree, I have yet to learn its name, or any of its virtues as a plant. As a city-dweller, it merely gets in my way; much like the tree a few houses down which excretes a sap that smells like vomit, and has accordingly been dubbed the vomit tree.
I'm out of touch, you see.
I don't know nature,
and she doesn't know me.
I haven't felt the earth with
my bare, soft feet
in I-don't-know-how-long!
...It may be getting to me.
I remember living in smaller towns growing up. I wasn't so far removed then. I could hike in the woods, and did often. I knew the smaller parks and hiking trails nearby with an almost shameful intimacy. I didn't often feel hungry or tired there. Sometimes, it was a marvel how deeply I lost myself in sunlight and trees. I wanted to be a part of them. Some force would pull me off the trail, to know the outside of the trail, and maybe actually know it... nature, something. Once off the trail, my desire would only grow. There was more, where was it? Knowing tree names wasn't enough, I had to be a part of it, get inside. I would climb a tree, or stoop to the mosses, inspecting the insides of logs. But that tugging does not just go away. Sometimes, in fact, my dissatisfaction rose to anger.
Not long ago, I was visiting Longwood Gardens with my grandparents. While there, I compared it to my first time to Longwood, ten years ago. I had felt that dissatisfied longing to be in nature. I remember how awful it was to be in such an achingly beautiful place, and somehow not really know it. But something was different this trip. As I walked through the conservatory, I felt like singing to God! I felt as though I had to worship and adore the Creator, or I would burst all over the lovely orchids. I smiled dumbly, room after room of incredible colors, each representing a vast framework of design. The longing was still there, but smaller. As I thanked God in prayer for His unrestrained, immoderate beauty, I knew that I was a part of it.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Belleville
On Memorial Day weekend, I visited Stephen, Megan, Aida, and my Dad in Burnham. I had such a good time playing with Aida (nearing four years!) and her two friends, Braden and Cameron. I just loved rough-housing with them and pretending to be fish! On Monday Stephen, Meg, Aida and I spent the day in Boalsburg, the "birthplace of Memorial Day." They have lots of events and a carnival and vendors galore for Memorial Day--in all of the U.S., it was the place to be! My Dad couldn't join us because he wasn't feeling well, but we got to hang out together in Stephen's garden next to the creek below their house (prepositional overload!: out, in, next to, below). We didn't talk about anything new. My Dad likes to talk about guns, my brother likes to humor my Dad, Aida takes her mother's attention. I looked at the sunset as it shone golden and splendid through the trees just above us. Then the gold melted through the lowest-hanging branches into the dark trees lining a meadow across the creek. Creeks gurgle. They really do.
Driving out of Burnham an hour later, I decided to follow through with the plan inside my head since the night before: I would visit Belleville before turning home to Lancaster. Belleville is where I lived with Stephen and my Mom from ages one to six. I still remember the outline of the little town, although it's been over ten years since I last saw the place.
I wish I could better describe the reasons I had for visiting Belleville. I wanted to see Belleville with that self-conscious desire we all have to reread our favorite book as a kid: will it still be funny? will it still make me cry? will I still worry about the dog finding its real mother? I guess I wanted to check to make sure that there was indeed a reality at the center of the memories I retain of my first few years of life. I have a surprising number of memories for a child under the age of seven. I'm told we don't remember our experiences much before age seven. But I do! Sometimes I remember whole conversations. Off track.
I parked at Union Elementary and got out. I turned toward the school and to the area near a tree that the first grade girls used as stables for their My Little Ponies [TM]. I remembered a moment from first grade when I had brought my ponies to school to play with these girls. I came over with my tattered ponies, and asked to play with them. They refused, "No. You can't come play." I don't remember my reaction exactly, but I think it was shame and anger. I may have told them I would make them play with me. But instead I took my ponies and my heavy heart to the playground. Looking back at six-year-old me was strange. That hesitation and insecurity is not gone entirely, but what do I have at age 20 that I didn't have then? The ability to forgive those girls. So I did that, and committed to keep on doing that as I continued my walk through the past.
I went down the little hill of the school toward the lane leading to the Orchard Apartments. There was a stable (a real one) at the corner where I had always been so thrilled to see the head of an old gray horse protruding from a small window on the corner of the building. I walked around the building in the twilight, searching with a sense of eeriness for a phantom horse to pop his head out of one of the windows on the side of the stable. As I turned the corner, I gave a jump! A tall chestnut horse leaned her long head out of the window, nostrils at my eye level. It was the same jump as 14 years ago! She even consented to letting me rub her head as she licked my open palm, wondering where the food was.
I walked around little Belleville in the dusk, seeing only one other person the whole time. The town seemed to be deserted at only 8:30 in the evening. I headed back to my car as I noticed the baseball fields past the school. I headed up the footpath and watched the mountain pull down the very last remnants of color from the sky. But the only song I could think of was about a lakeshore, not mountains. So I sang it anyway, and headed to the car, and to 322 Eastbound, and to Lancaster, and my feather comforter, and statistics homework.
I've been working on this thought for a while now, and it's so simple. Life is building. Each day adds another brick to the structure, and only repetition will create something, good or bad. But how quickly we find ourselves in a whole other wing of the building that is ourselves! There's an uncontrollable continuity of the bricks: each day is 24 hours. And sometimes it seems as though whole months are exactly the same, one after another. But we are moving very quickly, I feel. Even if the scenery looks the same for a while. This may not make sense yet, due to the conflicting metaphors that I have tried unsuccessfully to avoid. But I may revisit this "aloud" in the future. In the words of my stats teacher, "this is just something I love to think about!"
Driving out of Burnham an hour later, I decided to follow through with the plan inside my head since the night before: I would visit Belleville before turning home to Lancaster. Belleville is where I lived with Stephen and my Mom from ages one to six. I still remember the outline of the little town, although it's been over ten years since I last saw the place.
I wish I could better describe the reasons I had for visiting Belleville. I wanted to see Belleville with that self-conscious desire we all have to reread our favorite book as a kid: will it still be funny? will it still make me cry? will I still worry about the dog finding its real mother? I guess I wanted to check to make sure that there was indeed a reality at the center of the memories I retain of my first few years of life. I have a surprising number of memories for a child under the age of seven. I'm told we don't remember our experiences much before age seven. But I do! Sometimes I remember whole conversations. Off track.
I parked at Union Elementary and got out. I turned toward the school and to the area near a tree that the first grade girls used as stables for their My Little Ponies [TM]. I remembered a moment from first grade when I had brought my ponies to school to play with these girls. I came over with my tattered ponies, and asked to play with them. They refused, "No. You can't come play." I don't remember my reaction exactly, but I think it was shame and anger. I may have told them I would make them play with me. But instead I took my ponies and my heavy heart to the playground. Looking back at six-year-old me was strange. That hesitation and insecurity is not gone entirely, but what do I have at age 20 that I didn't have then? The ability to forgive those girls. So I did that, and committed to keep on doing that as I continued my walk through the past.
I went down the little hill of the school toward the lane leading to the Orchard Apartments. There was a stable (a real one) at the corner where I had always been so thrilled to see the head of an old gray horse protruding from a small window on the corner of the building. I walked around the building in the twilight, searching with a sense of eeriness for a phantom horse to pop his head out of one of the windows on the side of the stable. As I turned the corner, I gave a jump! A tall chestnut horse leaned her long head out of the window, nostrils at my eye level. It was the same jump as 14 years ago! She even consented to letting me rub her head as she licked my open palm, wondering where the food was.
I walked around little Belleville in the dusk, seeing only one other person the whole time. The town seemed to be deserted at only 8:30 in the evening. I headed back to my car as I noticed the baseball fields past the school. I headed up the footpath and watched the mountain pull down the very last remnants of color from the sky. But the only song I could think of was about a lakeshore, not mountains. So I sang it anyway, and headed to the car, and to 322 Eastbound, and to Lancaster, and my feather comforter, and statistics homework.
I've been working on this thought for a while now, and it's so simple. Life is building. Each day adds another brick to the structure, and only repetition will create something, good or bad. But how quickly we find ourselves in a whole other wing of the building that is ourselves! There's an uncontrollable continuity of the bricks: each day is 24 hours. And sometimes it seems as though whole months are exactly the same, one after another. But we are moving very quickly, I feel. Even if the scenery looks the same for a while. This may not make sense yet, due to the conflicting metaphors that I have tried unsuccessfully to avoid. But I may revisit this "aloud" in the future. In the words of my stats teacher, "this is just something I love to think about!"
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