Occasional Poetry

Elizabeth Alexander took a lot of flak for her inaugural poem last week, and she has my sympathy. It's hard enough to be a poet, but to write a poem for an occasion...and beyond that, for an occasion of the historic proportions of this one..well, the pressure was on. She chose to write a prose poem, a genre that may not seem to be authentic poetry to the vast majority of her audience, as well.  A brave woman, in more ways than one.

I try not to critique other people's poems. Everyone has his or her own style and preferences. Everyone has a message and a way of delivering it that I may or may not understand. Just as in visual art, there are some artists that speak to me and others that don't. I'd like to think, however, that I can see value in their viewpoints--as should we all.

The occasional artist has a more difficult role, I think, than most. First, the subject is already defined--at least in a general sense. Most events have complete backstories, as well, and the poet, artist, musician, composer is expected to incorporate some of that history into his or her work. In a very real sense, a work created for an occasion must incorporate past, present and future; must be brief to accommodate the program; must be memorable in order to live up to the import of the event; and be able to stand alone, as it will no doubt be reproduced outside the realm of the event. This type of work must pass muster, as well, in a variety of venues. It must appeal to the average listener, as well as to the more demanding critics who will dissect it (and the artist) at their leisure. Finally, the artist must be capable of delivering the work on a very specific, incontrovertible deadline (sometimes with very limited notice), and must be able to perform it adequately for a substantial audience--whether or not she or he possesses the requisite skills in public speaking or performance.

For better or worse, and with varying degrees of success, I've faced the same sort of issues as poet laureate, albeit in much smaller venues.  Occasional poetry is not for the faint of heart, and--at least in my opinion-- Elizabeth Alexander proved herself worthy of the honor accorded her.

The Reader

In our never-ending quest to see all the Oscar-nominated pictures before the Oscars (we like to have our own opinions before they are foisted upon us) we went last night to see "The Reader". I'm not sure if there are any 'feel good' movies in the running this year, but if there were, this wouldn't be it.  Start with a love affair between a 15-year-old boy and a former Nazi prison guard, and you already have the feeling that this isn't "High School Musical 3." 

But, if you take away my predilection for happier fare, it was quite good: a movie whose performances drew me in, and left me thinking long after I left the theater--not so much about the moral questions (of which there were plenty) but of the how and why of telling the story, the ways that meaning was conveyed and accentuated, the metaphors that were chosen and how they were carried through. I find myself doing this more and more--perhaps as a result of doing the same sort of thing in my writing. How much can you rely on symbolism without beating your audience over the head with it? Will they get it at all? And if they don't, will the work make sense on the most basic level?

"The Reader" succeeds because (I think) it can be read on a number of levels, and is subject to a number of thematic interpretations.  These days, any film that leaves you thinking, and that isn't forgotten almost before you get home, is a keeper. 

 

Scattered

I have the attention span of a gnat. It is one of my greatest (and there are many...) failings. Maybe I have undiagnosed attention deficit disorder. Maybe not. A Personalysis test calls it 'being blue'--meaning that I like to consider all possibilities and look at all sides of a problem or issue. Whatever. I am easily distracted and hard-pressed to follow through on things. It's so much more interesting to flit. I am a grade-A, confirmed, card-carrying flitter, and am always on the lookout for the new and different, rather than the old and tired. I am oh-so-easily bored. Which may explain why I've never had a real career, and why any jobs that I have had incorporated variety as part of the job description. I even had a hard time zeroing in on a college major: sticking with one thing for four years? Boring.

So here I am, finally, with no boring job demanding that I spend eight hours out of every day at some repetitive (at least marginally so) schedule of duties. And with all this freedom, one would think that I would be a veritable hummingbird, sipping at the assorted nectars of all the possible and exceedingly tempting opportunities that I've missed out on through the years. 

Not exactly. I find myself bogged down in the sheer volume of 'could-be's and 'ought-to's that intrude on that recently-acquired  vacuum. As mentioned earlier, I'm not the sort to plow systematically through a list of New Year's resolutions... so, while I will no doubt make lists (I have already), I will also (no doubt) mislay them, or begin the check-off process only to be distracted by some other non-listed activity. Like Facebooking. Or, for that matter, blogging. Sigh.

Facebook

I have a Facebook page, and one of the best things about that is that it allows me a tiny window into the lives of friends and acquaintances. I get a hint of who is down, and who is up, of what's going on in the lives of all these people who have been, or still are a part of my life. Instead of a visit, what I see is a sampling of their days; not a big long letter, but a casual aside as they go about living.

Better yet, it makes me feel as if I am still a part of their day. When we meet in person, I feel like I'm up to date on what they're doing and can ask how the recipe turned out, or whether the kids enjoyed their field trip, or whether they are feeling better after a bout with the flu. It's the online equivalent of saying "Hey" in the corridor at work, or bumping into someone in the coffee room.

Of such small encounters, friendships are made and continued. Of such inconsequentialities are lives built.

Almost New Year's...

(Okay--couldn't resist another Audrey picture..even tho she has nothing to do with this post.)

The holidays are all but done, and 2009 is nipping at our heels, in much the same way as Jake nips at mine when I'm late with his meals, his snacks, his treats, or whatever cat-business he thinks I should be about--and am not. 

Unfortunately I find that the new year has the same disregard for my agendas as Jake does. Forget that I'd like to (finally) get back to my novel, begun almost four years ago. There are Christmas trappings to be packed away and returned to the storage space. Forget that I resolved LAST year to submit some of my work to magazines; I have a new computer to break in and a printer to set up. Forget that I had such a good start last fall on exercising; I have a trip to Baltimore each week now to check in with my mom. 

As a favorite poet of mine (John Ciardi) once said, "Where is the flaw in us that lets in the trivial?" He may not have meant it in quite the same way, but it is so easy to let the trivial take over, and figure that the rest will all happen somehow, someday. My brief  sojourn as a Franklin/ Covey facilitator had the answer to that one: in class after class, I spouted the wisdom that "someday" is not on the calendar, and that the only way to make something happen is to plan for it, to divide it up into manageable pieces and schedule those pieces into your day. 

Easy for me to say; much harder to practice. (Sorry to any of you who were in any of my workshops...) I'm very good at buying planners, and I am right there, realizing how important it is to write things down (particularly now, when my memory has a distinct resemblance to a piece of well-holed Swiss cheese) -- but actually walking the walk after I've talked the talk? That's another thing altogether.

But 2009 is just around the corner, and now is the time for good intentions. Since I'm apparently following the road to hell anyway, I may as well add some paving along the way. Okay. First step, a planner. Second, a gift to myself of the time I need to update said planner each week. Third, a resolution to write for an hour every morning. Fourth, another hour each week to submit and keep track of submissions to publications. Fifth, a half-hour each day for exercise, repugnant as that is to me. I owe it to myself, and to young Audrey and the rest of my family, to enable me to stick around long enough for them all to REALLY get tired of my weak-willed ways. Sixth, (and runner-up in the 'repugnant' category) Weight Watchers meetings every week and adherence to their healthy eating mantra, no matter how much I hate vegetables.

That's it. The likelihood of my sticking to all of these is slim--but there's a new administration in town. If Obama can take on the mess we have here in Washington, I guess I might hope to make some change in my own little fiefdom, population one. 

Happy New Year, one and all, and best of luck on your own improvement programs!

A Christmas Perspective

Last year, I’d been in New York overnight with my friend Jan from San Diego—and a cold front had swept in with snow and ice. Upon our return to Alexandria, we'd minced our way in total darkness down my alley—which could have doubled for Rockefeller Center in the amount of ice-covered surface it represented. Cold and tired, we reached the house unscathed. I turned to Jan: “THIS is why we bought the place in San Diego,” I said. She laughed, and not long after, we made our way upstairs, and blessedly, to sleep.

The next morning, I woke early and came downstairs. Before we’d left, I had made a mental note to bring in my two schefflera plants that had so enjoyed their summer outdoors. Like most of my mental notes lately, this one had gotten lost in my filing system, and I fearfully stepped outside to see if they’d weathered the storm. Limp and green-black with frostbite, they languished in their baskets, beyond hope of saving. My mood was as gray as yesterday’s sky had been.

Jan came down soon after and was bubbling over with excitement.
“It looks just like a Christmas card!” she said.
“What?” I replied, my head full of what’s-for-breakfast and what-time-do-we-have-to-be-where.
“Your patio: it’s like a Christmas card with the holly and the snow on the bushes,”

Now, I had just been out there, and I hadn’t seen any Christmas-card-pretty scene. All I had noticed were dead scheffleras and the treacherous ice on the flagstones and the puddle of dirty water left by my shoes as I came in the door. Just as, in New York, while Jan and two other California friends were catching snowflakes on their tongues, I was calculating the probability of train delays and the effect of slush on my shoes.

Sadly, I have the same mindset again this year. I think I need a little Christmas. As Mame says…”right this very minute.” I need to escape from the practicality and gloom-ridden everyday thoughts and worries and pointless concerns that we all fall victim to. I need to change my focus to what I have, from what I have not; from what is, to what could be; from what is wrong, to what is right in my world. It’s so easy to forget blessings, to collect grudges and to hunker down, Scrooge-like, and count them off, one by one, happy in our own misery and that we can give to those around us.

It’s Christmas!! And it is time to be a child again—to see the world as a beautiful place, full of wonder and mystery. It’s time to do things we’ve dreamed of doing—like skating at Rockefeller Center, if only for a few minutes; like walking across the Brooklyn Bridge in gale force winds just to see the view; like strolling past wondrously-decorated department store windows and gawking in awe at Brobdignagian snowflakes suspended over Fifth Avenue and trees so festooned in lights that they glow behind your eyelids as you walk away. It’s time to walk down the street and smile at people, to read our childhood Christmas books, and even watch some holiday movie classics. It is time for hot chocolate with marshmallows and Christmas cookies and eggnog, despite carbs and cholesterol. It’s time to see the Christmas card in our everyday, and to inscribe it with a heartfelt “Happy Holidays!”

It is Christmas once again, and it’s time—past time—for friends and family and lights and singing and larger-than-life living. Christians see this time as one of hope and faith, but I believe it extends beyond the doors of our churches. Christmas is a time to believe in each other again, to find that child inside, to rediscover what we were and what we dreamed of being and to once again--with a gift, a kind word, an understanding ear-- light a hopeful candle in someone’s eyes…. maybe even our own.

Merry Christmas.

Guilty!

Note to self: you know you talk too much when the proprietor of a shop you visit maybe once every couple months a] recognizes you and says "You Facebooked us!" and then b] follows up with "And how's young Audrey?"

(In my own defense, I will say that the young woman--Amy-- has a 3 month-old of her own, AND that this was the shop where I rifled through her entire stock of knitted alphabet blocks to find all the letters of Audrey's name...but still....)

I actually got to meet her little boy, James, and--I know this will surprise all of you--he seems to be as happy a baby as Audrey is: kicks and grins and squirms and generally indicates how happy he is to make your acquaintance. Perhaps we can get them together. Amy (his mom) says he likes older women. :)