While reading Jack Kornfield for his Buddhist take on life in No Time Like the Present, Finding Freedom, Love and Joy Right Where You Are, I found myself moving far afield from views presented years ago during high school World Religions class. What I didn't know then or have any way of knowing in the early years of my life continues to intrigue and amaze me; and I now believe I am who I am and where I am, in much the same way that wood from a tree became part of the HMS Resolute, sailed the seas and turned up in a desk at which the President of the US now sits in the Oval Office.
In Kornfield's book, I came on a poem I liked by Jack Gilbert, entitled, "A Brief for the Defense" which I decided to post here last week. Before doing so however, I also decided I needed to know more about Jack Gilbert. What I found took me further afield to the point where the poem I originally intended to post took second seat to one which stole my attention with the question, "What do we have that gets it right even that much?" Oddly enough, an answer shows up at the end of the first poem I'd noted (posted 2nd below). Both were written by Jack Gilbert, 1925 to 2012, whose book, Collected Poems was a 2013 finalist for a Pulitzer Prize in Poetry.
The Lost Hotels Of Paris
The Lord gives everything and charges
by taking it back. What a bargain.
Like being young for a while. We are
allowed to visit hearts of women,
to go into their bodies so we feel
no longer alone. We are permitted
romantic love with its bounty and half-life
of two years. It is right to mourn
for the small hotels of Paris that used to be
when we used to be. My mansard looking
down on Notre Dame every morning is gone,
and me listening to the bell at night.
Venice is no more. The best Greek islands
have drowned in acceleration. But it’s the having
not the keeping that is the treasure.
Ginsberg came to my house one afternoon
and said he was giving up poetry
because it told lies, that language distorts.
I agreed, but asked what we have
that gets it right even that much.
We look up at the stars and they are
not there. We see the memory
of when they were, once upon a time.
And that too is more than enough.
by taking it back. What a bargain.
Like being young for a while. We are
allowed to visit hearts of women,
to go into their bodies so we feel
no longer alone. We are permitted
romantic love with its bounty and half-life
of two years. It is right to mourn
for the small hotels of Paris that used to be
when we used to be. My mansard looking
down on Notre Dame every morning is gone,
and me listening to the bell at night.
Venice is no more. The best Greek islands
have drowned in acceleration. But it’s the having
not the keeping that is the treasure.
Ginsberg came to my house one afternoon
and said he was giving up poetry
because it told lies, that language distorts.
I agreed, but asked what we have
that gets it right even that much.
We look up at the stars and they are
not there. We see the memory
of when they were, once upon a time.
And that too is more than enough.
---------------------------------------------
A Brief For The Defense
Sorrow everywhere. Slaughter everywhere. If babies
are not starving someplace, they are starving
somewhere else. With flies in their nostrils.
But we enjoy our lives because that’s what God wants.
Otherwise the mornings before summer dawn would not
be made so fine. The Bengal tiger would not
be fashioned so miraculously well. The poor women
at the fountain are laughing together between
the suffering they have known and the awfulness
in their future, smiling and laughing while somebody
in the village is very sick...
If we deny our happiness, resist our satisfaction,
we lessen the importance of their deprivation.
We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure,
but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have
the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless
furnace of this world. To make injustice the only
measure of our attention is to praise the Devil.
If the locomotive of the Lord runs us down,
we should give thanks that the end had magnitude.
We must admit there will be music despite everything
are not starving someplace, they are starving
somewhere else. With flies in their nostrils.
But we enjoy our lives because that’s what God wants.
Otherwise the mornings before summer dawn would not
be made so fine. The Bengal tiger would not
be fashioned so miraculously well. The poor women
at the fountain are laughing together between
the suffering they have known and the awfulness
in their future, smiling and laughing while somebody
in the village is very sick...
If we deny our happiness, resist our satisfaction,
we lessen the importance of their deprivation.
We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure,
but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have
the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless
furnace of this world. To make injustice the only
measure of our attention is to praise the Devil.
If the locomotive of the Lord runs us down,
we should give thanks that the end had magnitude.
We must admit there will be music despite everything
8 comments:
Very important sentiment there at the end (where do you find this stuff?).
And, along with the music, there is always something about which to sing.
Saw a piece on Team Jacobson that there's a big turn toward Pro-Life in the wake of all the infanticide. About 17% worth.
The cool part is it's coming from young Democrats.
Thanks, MamaM. It's always nice to find a new (to me) artist I like.
And thanks for the link. Boy, he sure lived every young English major's notion of A Poet's Life, didn't he?
Magnitude - great word in that context. One cannot resist an ending that includes magnitude.
The older I get the better I am at living in the moment. My 3 year old granddaughter, as are all toddlers, is a good mentor on enjoying the moment. Good post, Mama.
Last night I wrote a poem about Ginsburg's "threat" that he was going to give up poetry because words are ornery. So was Ginsburg a poet? Or was poetry his means and not his end? But I decided it was too obscure (my attempt) so I didn't post it. That was last night. I'm fudging here by 'splainin'. The thing's still too obscure but what the hay.
For Itself
Words are all we have to hold what we had.
But why the impulse? Unanswerable.
Ginsburg said "I'm quitting," and blamed the words.
Words failed to get him off the hook? That's bad.
How did I manage to misspell Ginsberg?!
Words are ornery. I like that. And I feel on the hook when I enjoy comments to posts, experience them as an interconnection of roots, nurturing, supporting, conveying life and don't know what to say in response to convey the ordinariness and the magnitude of that awareness. What others see, come up with, enjoy and get is wondrous to me.
ricpic - that reminds me of a Titanic joke, the punchline of which goes, and I am paraphrasing here, "Iceberg, Ginsberg, what's the difference?" It's a classic.
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