What to do on the bad mornings when even making a cup of tea seems too much engagement with the world? When the coldsore cluster newly erupted on one’s upper lip (for “one” read “My!”) demands one admit an exhaustion of body and spirit, wave the white flag of defeat. . . .
Stay in the slough of despond for a while, perhaps, until resilience and experience with “trusting to process” kick in, along with some self-chivvying. . .At which stage, for me, a shower or bubble bath might be the next step. But most often, I turn to formulaic activities, something that lets me fake purpose until I take that purpose on for its own self, for my own worth. . . .
Unfortunately, this particular bad morning coincided with some software program nonsense that I’d decided to resolve. Ancient (three years old!) software to be updated . . . bumped into ancient (five years old!) computer OS . . . and an hour of patient, clear, and helpful “Online Chat Support” later, I’ve got money for new software refunded (incompatible, so. . . ) and old software licences restored (back to my Starting Point, in other words, and it only took me an hour, insert eye-rolling emoji). I’ve added Buy New Computer to my ToDoEventually List . . . and also added New Computer to my Christmas wish list.
But not yet feeling any buzz of purpose, nor even less of achievement, I turn to my default list of creative or productive or utilitarian activities I’ve found calming or endorphin-producing. The structure of a blogpost, for example. A brisk walk listening to a French or Italian podcast. Knitting a few rows on a sweater. Writing out the conjugation of an Italian verb across the tenses I know. Running a load of laundry. Paying some bills online.
Some of these seem impossibly ambitious for my currently deleted energy account; some of them dispiritingly trivial. But I know that sometimes energy levels can, weirdly, be charged up in their use, the way a car battery can be charged as the car is driven.
This morning, I’m going to charge my battery in the simple task of copying out a Donald Hall poem for you. I promised this several posts ago, but “This Poem” seems particularly apt to me today in the simple discipline of its form. Donald Hall was known for his use of common language in tackling themes of love and loss, for pointing to the presence of the numinous in the ordinary everyday. Often, his “common language” is deployed in conversational “free verse,” but he’s also known for his craft within such formal restraints as blank verse. (Read more about Donald Hall here, here, or here.)
And he played around a fair bit with syllabic verse, of which “This Poem” is a stellar example. Here it is. . . the end of Stanza 3 will spell out the governing formula for you. To quote William Wordsworth’s sonnet “Nuns Fret Not,” the poem’s form, although different from that of a sonnet, offers a “scanty plot of ground [within which those of us] Who have felt the weight of too much liberty / Should find brief solace there, as I have found.”
THIS POEM
1
This poem is why
I lie down at night
to sleep; it is why
I defecate, read,
and eat sandwiches;
it is why I get
up in the morning;
it is why I breathe.
2
You think (and I know
because you told me)
that poems exist
to say things, as you
telephone and I
write letters — as if
this poem practiced
communication.
3
One time this poem
compared itself to
new machinery,
and another time
to a Holstein’s cud.
Eight times five times eight
counts three hundred and
twenty syllables.
4
When you require it,
this poem consoles —
the way a mountain
comforts by staying
as it was despite
earthquakes, Presidents,
divorces, and frosts.
Granite continues.
5
This poem informs
the hurt ear wary
of noises, and sings
to the weeping eye.
When the agony
abates itself, one
may appreciate
arbitrary art.
6
This poem is here,
Could it be someplace
else? Every question
is the wrong question.
The only answer
saunters down the page
in its broken lines
strutting and primping.
7
It styles itself not
for the small mirror
of its own regard —
nor even for yours:
to fix appearance;
to model numbers;
to name charity
“the greatest of these.”
8
All night this poem
knocks at the closed door
of sleep: “Let me in.”
Suppose all poems
contain this poem,
dreaming one knowledge
shaped by the measure
of the body’s word.
Of course, Donald Hall was a master, and I’m hardly suggesting that choosing a form or discipline and working within it will yield such richness for/from all of us. But isn’t the poem instructive simply at the level of demonstrating what submission to process can deliver? Never mind what it says about poetry itself or about the human need for comfort and consolation. But, “when you require it, / this poem consoles” . . . . and “Suppose all poems / contain this poem, / dreaming one knowledge / shaped by the measure / of the body’s word.
And that’s all I have for you today. And my wishes for a good week.
xo,
f
Donald Hall's 2005 memoir, The Best Day the Worst Day: Life with Jane Kenyon, was very moving but depressed me so much that I have been put off from reading any of his other work. The memoir was too real (?).
slf
And on a Monday too- to add insult to injury- a damp, cold, dark fall day. Nearly froze at Tai Chi in the Park. The main element of my gas stove has gone – add it to the long list of things that have needed repair this year-built in obsolescence for the win. The time of outdoor gatherings is sadly coming to an end in the cold BC interior. It will be a long and dreary and lonely winter in these days of COVID. Routine activities keep serotonin levels at a bare minimum- I add to my list of things for which I am grateful for there are many and this boosts serotonin too. And so I trudge on with hopes of a vaccine In the spring to release us from this drudgery and fear. Motor on! Jenn
"That nothing lives which seasons do not mend." Oh, that line. I'd forgotten how much it speaks to me. Thanks for the links to the Donald Hall bios – I remember reading the Atlantic one when he died, but not the others. That picture of him with Obama in the Guardian piece – ah, when there was poetry at the White House!
I hope the transcribing of the poem had as good an effect on you as it did for me as a reader. I woke oddly full of energy today (could it be because our latest heatwave is over and we're headed for lovely temps for the next little while?), and crossed several things off my to-do list. Which still leaves me with a mile-long list, but it's shorter than when it started today.
So – I have this question for you and your guests to ponder. Or perhaps it is a challenge? I am an American, 56 so not yet retired, and fortunate enough to have been able to lead my team of 10 successfully (or so it seems) since we were sent to work from home on March 16th. With all the blessings of a dear and supportive husband, a spare room to fully dedicate to workspace, a stable and well paying job – I could go on – every day I wake to what I call the Coronacoaster, which I might as well call the Trumpcoaster, although “coaster” is all too kind an adjective. Some days I arise with energy to triumph. And others, I want to eat frozen cookie dough and watch Netflix. But with my imperative to support my direct reports (and to report up), everyday I mentally suit up. Some days I phone it in, literally and metaphorically.
I guess now that I’ve written it out, I’m not sure what the question is. I suppose it’s this – any of you still working, how are you managing those days when staring at the ceiling seems too much? And for anyone else who has experienced such a disconnect between resources and demands, what advice do you have?
The cold sore – such a gloom-inducing item. But hip-huzzah for the software fix! Tasks like that are tedious though necessary, dull and infuriating, but once done, such a great feeling of triumph. Was only commenting to Mr Green earlier that I am glad to have my surgery-cleaning gig because it gives me a sense of simple accomplishment as well as getting the metabolism shifting by 7.30am. If I get nothing much done after that, I have performed a meaningful task at least once a day. We need to dig very deep now, with the light fading and the situation here in the north of England looking extremely bleak. I'm going back to running as an up-yours to the nonsense. PS I love your idea of writing out verbs.
@KH: re your question, drawn from my experience during the SARS epidemic when I had to manage as you are now, a few ideas:
As managers we are responsible for managing mood as well as deliverables, so I too'suited up' when in contact with them. I distributed an agenda well before the meeting, stored a collection of "dad jokes" that only took 15 seconds. I brushed up on my on-camera skills, for example, instead of putting my head down to read, I'd use 'scoop reading' to read a sentence silently and then deliver it looking at the camera. These may seem like small things but I wanted to create a sense of connection and immediacy with my team.
2. I scheduled 1:1s with each person every week to 10 days to talk privately. Sometimes this involved me mostly listening. Got budget to send every member a delivered meal for themselves and family a few times and would occasionally send small treats. Wanted to enliven the endless WebEx meetings… one time a a yoga teacher friend spent 20 min showing them chair yoga.
We only had to do 6 weeks like this; maintaining an esprit de corps for months on end is a whole other magnitude. This pandemic underscores the need for a particular kind of leadership and it sounds like you have the skill and intention to provide that. Sometimes I would gather myself by thinking of all the people in the hospital, while I was lucky enough to work that day. ma has my contact info if you would like to e-mail me.
materfamilias: Computer woes …gah! Sometimes every aspect of life seems fraught. For me a chat with a friend helps and for some reason I like the phone better than Zoom when I'm feeling depleted.
Remembering that this too shall pass is what helps me when I have bad days. It’s okay to lay low and leave things undone because experience tells me I will feel differently in time. Reading, walking, music and yoga can help as can talking to supportive family members and friends. “This Poem” is remarkable. The use of common language is very powerful and draws the reader in only to find that common words are used to convey uncommon ideas. I hope better days return to you soon.
SLF: I haven't read that, but I've seen it described as intimate,painful, honest, and harrowing.
Jenn: Trudging on, literally, right, as your lively pup needs to go for her daily walks, no matter the cold or snow, and you'll be out there with Prim. . . Bundled up!!
(Sorry about your gas stove!)
Carol: I thought the same thing when I saw that photo in The Guardian! May such days return. . . The transcribing did help. And it reminded me about the value of process, which some days is a reminder I really need. . . Good for you, shortening that list. Now just hold off a day or two before you add to it again 😉
KH: Looks as if you hit the bonanza in the response from Duchesse. And there may well be more. . . A great community here, as you've already sussed discovered apparently.
That last line of the poem is sublime. Thanks for this post.
Anonymous, I read an excerpt from Donald Hall’s memoir about how Jane Kenyon changed profoundly during her cancer progression and I found it so overwhelming I could not go and read the book.
I was listening to a BBC program this morning on touch, inappropriate or not, and somehow the topic turned toward domestic violence. The researcher being interviewed talked about the sharp uptick in domestic violence during the 1918/19 flu pandemic, and how after the crisis had passed, that high rate of violence persisted for years. I thought the interviewer was going to cry as she said “I wish I didn’t know that,” and my thought was that perhaps today would be the day where I didn’t get up and just remained in bed, head under the covers.
But I did get up and I washed my hair, put on earrings and even a little perfume, because, why not?
In another community I post in, last night and this morning was the time where posters poured out their fears and exhaustion over making it through each day. We are all so tired and fearful. It’s good to acknowledge that in each other. We seem to think other people are coping, but we are all feeling the stress.
I do take comfort in the shape and structure of poetry and that the discipline of working within those constraints gives the words and ideas more power. I also take comfort in the quotidian: making egg salad for lunch, dropping off a warm wool cardigan for my mother so she feels comfortable during our weekly visit at the care home, re-reading some Patricia Highsmith, walking in the crisp air.
The only way out is through. Brenda
You are a Fighter. A Hero. An Artist. I'll answer you with a Rumi's poem (yes,you have to read 40 Rules of Love :-)):
As you start to walk
On the way
The Way appears
The everyday,simple things are the ones that keep us going. They are precious…a few rows here…a few there….
Take care
Dottoressa
Annie: Yes, I can well imagine that cleaning is a good gig, particularly now. As for the software fix, well. . . it was actually an undoing of the bungling involved in attempting a software update. All I did was getting myself back to Square One 😉
Duchesse: I wish I'd never let phone use lapse. Only very rarely do I speak on one now, and I miss it. . .
Maria: Yes, experience with Time and its vagaries, knowing the value of perseverance and "keeping on keeping on." Although sometimes This Too Shall Pass coupled with some exposure to science fiction (or history, for that matter) is less comforting . . . 😉
Brenda: I find it a sublime line as well. Even just the phrase "shaped by the measure / of the body's word." (echoes of "and the word was made flesh" but reversed or turned inside out or something).
And I'm so glad to read you here, such a tangible result of my going through the blog-post motions yesterday and of you throwing back those covers, washing your hair, and reading and writing on this shared screen/window. I'm glad to visualise that wool cardigan, to imagine you and your mother visiting . . . And your quiet wisdom, always thoughtfully and even elegantly expressed. If the only way out is through, at least we go through together? xo
Dottoressa: Oh, my friend! Thank you so much for these (too!) kind words. Let us keep going with the everyday, simple things in hope that one day you and I might sit together once again on some terrace in your beautiful city. . .
Oh,yes! Kava sa slagom and prosecco to celebrate! Something to looking for….
D.
It helps to know we are all feeling similar emotions. Let's hope we can meet some time in the future in a cafe in Vancouver. Brenda
@Duchesse – Thank you for that thoughtful reply. I've been puzzling over your reply, for it was not the answer I was expecting, and yet it has the seeds of a very helpful change in perspective. I am an avid reader of your writing as well and will reach out to you over the weekend on that platform. But again, thank you so much for extending yourself.
Cold sores – ugh. I tore my rotator cuff 10 weeks ago and everyone has been very slow and proper about seeing if it would heal on its own with ice and small exercises. Not much sleep since it's on my sleep side. Finally an MRI and cortisone shot this week and start PT next, but all this has meant no yoga or much of anything except a walk when it isn't raining. I've tried to keep my spirits up with writing and other projects, but so tired….and so wish the election was over with a good outcome. I think waiting for that may be the worst!
How good for us that witing a blog post and copying a poem is on your list!
And these poetry posts and thinking of kavi sa šlagom makes me post this for Dotoressa (and you, if you understand it; and apologizing for hijacking your comments):
Jesen
Ona je tu. U tuzi kiše
Po poljanama tiho hoda,
I kuda stiže u vis diže
Usplahirena jata roda.
Polako penje se u brda,
A kuda prođe, njezin put
Od otpalog je lišća žut.
I u dol njime idu krda.
U jezero unese nemir,
I ne vidiš mu više dna,
A medvjed, koga putem sretne,
Odjednom zaželi se sna.
A kada livadama dune
Njen vjetar, uzbune se travke.
U strništima tužno šušti:
To polja slute snijeg i čavke.
Na cesti uveli se list
U čudu digo: gle, ja skačem!
A čovjek koji hoda drumom
Zagrnuo se ogrtačem.
Dobriša Cesarić
Draga Zagorka,kakvo iznenađenje,jako volim Dobrišu Cesarića. Hvala!
Dear Zagorka,what a surprise,and,what a wonderful poem! I adore Dobrisa Cesaric. Thank you
Dottoressa
Dottoressa, Brenda: Those visits will happen!
Lynn: I'm so sorry — those shoulder injuries can be so tough — especially now, when we want physical activity as antidote to, distraction from, the news of the day. May that MRI and cortisone start moving you toward mobility as you finally begin physiotherpay.
Zagorka: My Croatian doesn't extend much beyond a few phrases, but I found a translation of this and it's a good addition to my small stock of Autumn poems. Perhaps I'll post a translation (or a link to one) so that other readers can learn a bit about this renowned poet. Thank you for introducing him to me!
thanks for that wonderful poem. Reminding me to turn to poetry more often. Nurture yourself dear friend and continue sowing beauty in the world, as you do….