Welcome. Thanks for coming. If you compare today's photo with yesterday's, you'll have proof positive that last year Spring was early, or this year it's late, depending on your perspective. Early or late, I think it's time we looked at a poem by Joyce Sutphen, Minnesota's current (and only the second) poet laureate. I'm particularly fond of her poem Crossroads from "Straight Out of View," her first book of poetry. The second stanza concludes with language that particularly resonates with me during this season of transition. Carefully consider:
The second half of my life will be swift,
past leaning fenceposts, a gravel shoulder,
asphalt tickets, the beckon of open road.
The second half of my life will be wide-eyed,
fingers sifting through fine sands,
arms loose at my sides, wandering feet.
There will be new dreams every night,
and the drapes will never be closed.
I will toss my string of keys into a deep
well and old letters into the grate.
The second half of my life will be ice
breaking up on the river, rain
soaking the fields, a hand
held out, a fire,
and smoke going
upward, always up.
Nature literate, yes. Grounded in place, yes [fenceposts, gravel shoulders]. Coyote as totem? I think so [new dreams every night, keys into a deep well]. Bear as totem? Again, I think so [open drapes]. Further totems? What do you think? Fear not science and go further with it ? Yep [fire -->smoke-->upward]. Study mind and language, crafty, get the work done? Yup, yup and yup. [you can figure it out yourself] Truly a nature-worthy poet laureate for My Minnesota. Thanks for listening. Rants, raves and reflections served daily.
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| © harrington |
Hi! Thanks for coming. This is what the pond down the road looked like one year and two days ago. Today it's still 90% ice covered but is starting to open up in spots along the north side, where there's the greatest exposure to the southern sun. Have you ever dreamed you were flying? Without an airplane, I mean. I used to, occasionally, but don't remember having a dream of flying for a long time. Today, while taking Franco the rescue dog for his afternoon walk, we saw a flock of 16 to 20 sandhill cranes up high and headed easterly. I flashed back to dreams of flight, unencumbered, self-powered, looking down on the landscape, untouchable. Franco tugged at his leash. Reality returned. However, today's reality was full of pleasant surprises in addition to the cranes.
Audrey Kletscher Helbling, in her Minnesota Prairie Roots blog, has shared as part of National Poetry Month, a wonderful poem she wrote. This Barn Remembers captures a time we'll see too little of in the future, I fear. Farming is becoming industry more than craft factory more than home. Her photography is haunting and her explanation of how she writes poetry is as useful to the aspiring poet as anything I've read by Ted Kooser or Mary Oliver. My Minnesota's contribution to National Poetry Month today is the first of an 8 poem ensemble submitted last year to Writers Rising Up Prairie Poetry contest. Over the next month, from time to time, the other pieces will show up here.
PRAIRIE GRASSES
What if
Pasque flowers dwarfed you as you
Reclined under prairie stars
All heaven-scattered above prairie grasses
Infinite in their reach
Reminding you of your diminished
Insignificant role in a universal scheme of
things where
Even the prairie and the grasses are ever
changing
Where now can you see
Great horizon-sized bison herds, when what
Remains are only clustered preserves of an
Antique land that was carved into plough-
sized plots
Sliced into fading fragments
Shorn of natural wealth
Ebbing from grass stems to corn stalks
growing beneath prairie
Sunshine, starshine, embedded in a prairie
SKY
I'll leave to you the assessment of how this, and the subsequent pieces, measure up to Snyder's points. Thanks for listening. Come again. Rants, raves and reflections served daily here.
