A Triple-Dog Dare

There isn't much I can say about Dorianne Laux as a poet that her poems don't say for themselves. Therefore, I'm not going to try. I dare you to tell me that this poem isn't incredible. I triple-dog dare you...

Facts About the Moon

The moon is backing away from us
an inch and a half each year. That means
if you're like me and were born
around fifty years ago the moon
was a full six feet closer to the earth.
What's a person supposed to do?
I feel the gray cloud of consternation
travel across my face. I begin thinking
about the moon-lit past, how if you go back
far enough you can imagine the breathtaking
hugeness of the moon, prehistoric
solar eclipses when the moon covered the sun
so completely there was no corona, only
a darkness we had no word for.
And future eclipses will look like this: the moon
a small black pupil in the eye of the sun.
But these are bald facts.
What bothers me most is that someday
the moon will spiral right out of orbit
and all land-based life will die.
The moon keeps the oceans from swallowing
the shores, keeps the electromagnetic fields
in check at the polar ends of the earth.
And please don't tell me
what I already know, that it won't happen
for a long time. I don't care. I'm afraid
of what will happen to the moon.
Forget us. We don't deserve the moon.
Maybe we once did but not now
after all we've done. These nights
I harbor a secret pity for the moon, rolling
around alone in space without
her milky planet, her only child, a mother
who's lost a child, a bad child,
a greedy child or maybe a grown boy
who's murdered and raped, a mother
can't help it, she loves that boy
anyway, and in spite of herself
she misses him, and if you sit beside her
on the padded hospital bench
outside the door to his room you can't not
take her hand, listen to her while she
weeps, telling you how sweet he was,
how blue his eyes, and you know she's only
romanticizing, that she's conveniently
forgotten the bruises and booze,
the stolen car, the day he ripped
the phones from the walls, and you want
to slap her back to sanity, remind her
of the truth: he was a leech, a fuckup,
a little shit, and you almost do
until she lifts her pale puffy face, her eyes
two craters and then you can't help it
either, you know love when you see it,
you can feel its lunar strength, its brutal pull.

Dorianne Laux

Haiku and the Zen lifestyle

I was trying to fall asleep last night, but I couldn't. The wheels kept turning, and I kept thinking of words and phrases that I could use for poetry. This is not irregular for me, as I probably take a longer time to fall asleep than the average person because I can't shut things down. People have called me Wordsworth...that's fairly accurate.

All of a sudden, it hit me like a 300 ton boulder - these phrases and words I always think of are haiku. The brief images that flash through our minds before we move onto something else - these are haiku. It makes me reassess my pre-conceived notions about the craft. In its essence, haiku represents the bare bones of language, the minimum amount of diction needed to make something beautiful and meaningful. In that way, haiku could be considered the root of all poetry...I don't necessarily mean from a historical sense but more from an imagistic, poetic sense. I think that analysis holds some serious weight.

I used to dislike Haiku. In the past, the 5-7-5 pattern and obligatory proposition of revelation through nature bothered me. It seemed too simple and not important enough. I thought people who wrote haiku were lazy and didn't appreciate the full-fledged lyricism I assumed to be superior, both linguistically and artistically. I was so wrong, and I know that now. While I don't think I'll consistently try to write haiku, I will now be able to turn to it when I feel overwhelmed by the complexity of contemporary language.

I find it interesting that my discovery of the beauty and inventiveness of haiku coincides with my development as a person. As I discover more about the benefits of a Zen way of life, I become more aware of simplicity and leaving the desire for epic, over-dramatic pieces of fluff at the door. My lines of poetry are becoming shorter and more concise, which parallels my thought-processes and respect and admiration for what's always been in front of me. Creation is an extension of what is right in front of our senses.

Here is a BEAUTIFUL haiku from Arakida Moritake (1473-1549). He was a Japanese poet and a Shintoist.

The falling flower

I saw drift back to the branch

was a butterfly.

Each word in this poem compels the reader to think simply but deeply. Although that sounds like a contradiction, I don't think it is. There is SO MUCH going on in this poem. We should not search for any answers in Moritake's bare language, but we should consider the scene he presents, if only to see the beauty in it. Think about the connection between each of the three lines, between the flower, the branch and the butterfly. Man, I could go on and on about this, but I'll let you, the faithful poetry enthusiast, take it from here.

Yet Another Finland-Swedish Poem

This time, it's Claes Andersson. He is one of the most eclectic individuals in the Finland-Swedish writing community. He is a politician, playwright and has practiced medicine in hospitals and mental institutions for years (among other endeavors). This variety in his experiences has given him some diverse and intriguing poetry material. As I read each of his poems we were assigned to read, I had a difficult time uncovering one common aesthetic or mood to his poetry. He weaves through darkness and light - cynicism and optimism - without making blatant statements of self-identification. I found his poetry, while not always great, to be intriguing in the subject matter. However, like any poet, there are some gems, some poems that made me want to leave class, come back to my flat and bury myself in a day and night of writing. And to me, that's what good poetry does - it invigorates the mind and the creative streak of humanity and inspires more great writing. Poetry is like an avalanche in that respect - Claes Andersson has certainly contributed his bit of poetic voice to the tumbling mass of figurative snow. Here is my favorite poem of the collection I read - a wonderful meditation on suicide from a past medical professional. Enjoy!

A Man Once Thought, in Desperation

A man once thought, in desperation:

The best thing would be to hang myself

in the nearest ocean.

Down a rope he clambered into the sea

and found his Atlantis.

Another man thought, in desperation:

The best thing would be to drown myself

in the nearest tree.

In its crown he found happiness

and quenched his thirst on dew and rain.

A third man thought, in desperation:

The best thing would be to put a sleeping

pill through my forehead.

He was transformed into the good moon

and nightly companion of all the sleepless.

Claes Andersson

What I like so much about this poem is the integration of all elements of nature. There is a indescribable fluidity to his voice in this poem, as he moves from location to location, almost as if this were a dream sequence. The Zen influence on this poem is convincing, and Andersson conveys an optimistic message through his calm, meditative language. I love the lyrical movement of this poem - it's the kind of work that gets the wheels turning in my head. I can think of no better compliment.

The Finland-Swedish tradition - Edith Södergran

While in Turku, Finland, I have been taking an introductory course in Finland-Swedish literature. I assumed that this course would compare Finnish and Swedish literature, but to my (pleasant) surprise, the Finland-Swedes are actually their own minority culture. This culture is very small and waning, but it has produced some compelling poetry that can be enjoyed and appreciated throughout the literary world. It's interesting how different minority cultures tend to have many parallels (at least thematically) within their literatures. For example, a theme that pervades most of the writing is the search for some sort of concrete identity. Minority cultures tend to see themselves as outcasts and separated from the majority culture, so naturally the need for identity is increased. This is, of course, only one example.

One poet in particular has caught my attention. Edith Södergran was perhaps the most important poet in the Finland-Swedish tradition, although most would likely give that honor to Johan Runeberg. She was a pioneer of the modernist movement, a shift from the romantic nationalism that preceded her. Her poetry is considered radical for its time, in that it searched the self and its identity in the collective, as opposed to conservative poems from poets of the romantic tradition that praised patriotism and an acceptance of the status quo. Similar modernist literary movements have occurred around the world and many at about the same time period...makes me wonder if there isn't some kind of connecting force driving the evolution of literature and, by extension, humanity. Enjoy these two poems by Södergran, and keep in mind the idea of the minority culture and the revolutionary nature of her work for its time.

On foot I had to cross the Solar System

(1919)

On foot

I had to cross the solar system

before I found the first thread of my red dress.

I sense myself already.

Somewhere in space hangs my heart,

shaking the void, from it streams sparks

into other intemperate hearts.

Vierge Moderne

(1916)

I am no woman. I am a neuter.

I am a child, a page and a bold resolve,

I am a laughing stripe of a scarlet sun...

I am a net for all greedy fish,

I am a skoal to the glory of all women,

I am a step towards hazard and ruin,

I am a leap into freedom and self...

I am the whisper of blood in the ear of a man,

I am the soul's auge, the longing and refusal of the flesh,

I am an entrance sign to new paradises.

I am a flame, searching and brazen,

I am water, deep but daring up to the knee,

I am fire and water in free and loyal union...