The war against euphemism and cliché matters not because we can guarantee that eliminating them will help us speak nothing but the truth but, rather, because eliminating them from our language is an act of courage that helps us get just a little closer to the truth. Clear speech takes courage. Every time we tell the truth about a subject that attracts a lot of lies, we advance the sanity of the nation. Plain speech matters because when we speak clearly we are more likely to speak truth than when we retreat into slogan and euphemism; avoiding euphemism takes courage because it almost always points plainly to responsibility. To say “torture” instead of “enhanced interrogation” is hard, because it means that someone we placed in power was a torturer. That’s a hard truth and a brutal responsibility to accept. But it’s so. 

Adam Gopnik in the New Yorker, "Clear Words About Mass Shootings" 
May 2014 

A Letter to Her Husband, Absent upon Public Employment

by Anne Bradstreet (1612-1672)

My head, my heart, mine eyes, my life, nay more,
My joy, my magazine, of earthly store,
If two be one, as surely thou and I,
How stayest thou there, whilst I at Ipswich lie?
So many steps, head from the heart to sever,
If but a neck, soon should we be together.
I, like the Earth this season, mourn in black,
My Sun is gone so far in's zodiac,
Whom whilst I 'joyed, nor storms, nor frost I felt,
His warmth such fridged colds did cause to melt.
My chilled limbs now numbed lie forlorn;
Return; return, sweet Sol, from Capricorn;
In this dead time, alas, what can I more
Than view those fruits which through thy heart I bore?
Which sweet contentment yield me for a space,
True living pictures of their father's face.
O strange effect! now thou art southward gone,
I weary grow the tedious day so long;
But when thou northward to me shalt return,
I wish my Sun may never set, but burn
Within the Cancer of my glowing breast,
The welcome house of him my dearest guest.
Where ever, ever stay, and go not thence,
Till nature's sad decree shall call thee hence;
Flesh of thy flesh, bone of thy bone,
I here, thou there, yet both but one. 

Barter
by Sara Teasdale


Life has loveliness to sell,
All beautiful and splendid things,
Blue waves whitened on a cliff,
Soaring fire that sways and sings,
And children's faces looking up
Holding wonder in a cup. 

Life has loveliness to sell,
Music like a curve of gold,
Scent of pine trees in the rain,
Eyes that love you, arms that hold,
And for your spirit's still delight,
Holy thoughts that star the night. 

Spend all you have for loveliness,
Buy it and never count the cost;
For one white singing hour of peace
Count many a year of strife well lost,
And for a breath of ecstacy
Give all you have been, or could be.

I Happened To Be Standing
by Mary Oliver

 I don't know where prayers go,
      or what they do.
Do cats pray, while they sleep
      half-asleep in the sun?
Does the opossum pray as it
      crosses the street?
The sunflowers? The old black oak
      growing older every year?
I know I can walk through the world,
      along the shore or under the trees,
with my mind filled with things
      of little importance, in full
self-attendance. A condition I can't really
      call being alive.
Is a prayer a gift, or a petition,
      or does it matter?
The sunflowers blaze, maybe that's their way.
Maybe the cats are sound asleep. Maybe not.

While I was thinking this I happened to be standing
just outside my door, with my notebook open,
which is the way I begin every morning.
Then a wren in the privet began to sing.
He was positively drenched in enthusiasm,
I don't know why. And yet, why not.
I wouldn't persuade you from whatever you believe
or whatever you don't. That's your business.
But I thought, of the wren's singing, what could this be
      if it isn't a prayer?
So I just listened, my pen in the air. 

"I Happened To Be Standing" by Mary Oliver

 from A Thousand Mornings. © The Penguin Press, 2012.

Travel                 Edna St. Vincent Millay

The railroad track is miles away,
       And the day is loud with voices speaking,
Yet there isn’t a train goes by all day
       But I hear its whistle shrieking.

 

All night there isn’t a train goes by,
       Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming,
But I see its cinders red on the sky,
       And hear its engine steaming.

 

My heart is warm with friends I make,
       And better friends I'll not be knowing;
Yet there isn’t a train I wouldn’t take,
       No matter where it’s going.

Why Some People Do Not Read Poetry
--W. S. Merwin

Because they already know that it means
stopping and without stopping they know that
beyond stopping it will mean listening
listening without hearing and maybe
then hearing without hearing and what would
they hear then what good would it be to them
like some small animal crossing the road
suddenly there but not seeming to move
at night and they are late and may be on
the wrong road over the mountain with all
the others asleep and not hitting it
that time as though forgetting it again

(in The New York Review of Books, April 30, 2009)

I stopped to pick up the bagel
rolling away in the wind,
annoyed with myself
for having dropped it
as if it were a portent.
Faster and faster it rolled,
with me running after it
bent low, gritting my teeth,
and I found myself doubled over
and rolling down the street
head over heels, one complete somersault
after another like a bagel
and strangely happy with myself. 

"The Bagel" by David Ignatow from 

Against the Evidence.

© Wesleyan University Press, 1993.

“Cosmically, I seem to be of two minds,” John Updike wrote, a decade ago. “The power of materialist science to explain everything—from the behavior of the galaxies to that of molecules, atoms, and their sub-microscopic components—seems to be inarguable and the principal glory of the modern mind. On the other hand, the reality of subjective sensations, desires, and—may we even say—illusions composes the basic substance of our existence, and religion alone, in its many forms, attempts to address, organize, and placate these. I believe, then, that religious faith will continue to be an essential part of being human, as it has been for me.”

Quoted by Adam Gopnik in his New Yorker article, "Bigger than Phil:  When did faith begin to fade?" February 2014

Onomatomania by Thomas Lux    the word for the inability to find the right word, leads me to self-diagnose: onomatomaniac. It's not the 20 volume OED, I need, nor Dr. Roget's book, which offers equals only, never discovery. I accept the fallibility of language, its spastic elasticity, its jake-leg, as well as prima ballerina, dances. I accept that language can be manipulated towards deceit (ex.: The Mahatmapropaganda, i.e., Goebbels); I accept, and mourn, though not a lot, the loss of the dash/semi-colon pair. It's the sound of a pause unlike no other pause. And when the words are tedious and tedious also their order--sew me up in a rug and toss me in the sea! Language is dying, the novel is dying, poetry is a corpse colder than the Ice Man, they've all been dying for thousands of years, yet people still write, people still read, and everyone knows that nothing is really real until it is written. Until it is written! Even those who cannot read know that. Copyright © 2014 by Thomas Lux. "I was annoyed by one of the  occasional poetry-is-dead articles. Then I refute that notion."  from Poem-a-Day by the Academy of American Poets, 2-7-2014

"I must be willingly fallible
to deserve a place in the realm
where miracles happen."

William Stafford (1914-1993)

Token Loss   by Kay Ryan

To the dragon
any loss is 
total.  His rest
is disrupted
if a single 
jewel encrusted
goblet has
been stolen.
The  circle
of himself
in the nest
of his gold
has been
broken.  No
loss is token.


lkm:  Two thoughts on Token Loss:  Having recently seen the second installment of The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug, I'm thinking that this little poem is the perfect description of Smaug's loss.  And secondly, with most poetry these days feeling more like prose "jerryrigged" into stanza form, lacking metaphor, rhythm, rhyme and poetic spirit, what a breath of fresh, poetic air this is!  Below are Ryan's comments on the shape of the poem (from Poem-a-Day from the Academy of American Poets, January 10, 2014):  

Ideally, this little poem would be printed as a circle and wouldn't start or end but rather would round upon itself like the seamless repose of the dragon.  

But, on second thought, since it's describing the disruption of the dragon's perfect circuit, I guess it makes sense that it's all chopped up."  --Kay Ryan

Sugar Maples, January

What years of weather did to branch and bough
No canopy of shadow covers now,

And these great trunks, when the wind's rough and bleak,
Though little shaken, can be heard to creak.

It is not time, as yet, for rising sap
And hammered spiles.  There's nothing there to tap.

For now, the long blue shadows of these trees
Stretch out upon the snow, and are at ease.

Richard Wilbur 
(originally printed in the New Yorker, collected in The Best American Poetry 2013)

"So much of what I love about poetry lies in the vast possibilities of voice, the spectacular range of idiosyncratic flavors that can be embedded in a particular human voice reporting from the field. One beautiful axis of voice is the one that runs between vulnerability and detachment, between 'It hurts to be alive' and 'I can see a million miles from here.' A good poetic voice can do both at once."

--Tony Hoagland in Poem-a-Day from the Academy of American Poets, November 25, 2013

Asked by an interviewer about his “study” of several poets, [Philip] Larkin responded, “Oh...one doesn’t study poets! You read them, and think, That’s marvelous, how is it done, could I do it? and that’s how you learn.” 

(quoted in On Poetry: Points of Entry, Nov. 24, 2013, Sunday Book Review, New York Times, by David Orr)

Nuthatch

What if a sleek, grey-feathered nuthatch
flew from a tree and offered to perch
on your left shoulder, accompany you

on all your journeys? Nowhere fancy,
just the brief everyday walks, from garage
to house, from house to mailbox, from
the store to your car in the parking lot.

The slight pressure of small claws
clasping your skin, a flutter of wings
every so often at the edge of vision.

And what if he never asked you to be
anything? Wouldn't that be so much
nicer than being alone? So much easier
than trying to think of something to say? 

"Nuthatch" by Kirsten Dierking, from Tether. 

© Spout Press, 2013

(October 7, 2013 - excerpt from Time Magazine article, "Power Surge," by Bryan Walsh, p. 39)

The same innovations that have resurrected oil and gas production in the U.S. have extended the age of fossil fuels, making it that much more difficult to break free of them.  A number of independent studies have suggested that the world has to stop emitting carbon dioxide by midcentury to avoid dangerous climate change.  We're not likely to get there if we keep inventing ways to extract and then burn the hydrocarbons still in the ground.  "It appears that the good Lord has set up a real test for us," says Bill McKibben, the writer-activist who helps lead the group 350.org.   "We have to decide if we want a habitable planet or not--and if we do, we can't dig this stuff up."

The threat of climate change is very real, and we now know that we're ingenious enough to extract more than enough hydrocarbons to burn ourselves alive.  McKibben is right.  If we want a habitable world, we'll need to choose it.

Afternoon on a Hill
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

 I will be the gladdest thing
   Under the sun!
I will touch a hundred flowers
   And not pick one.

I will look at cliffs and clouds
   With quiet eyes,
Watch the wind bow down the grass,
   And the grass rise.

And when lights begin to show
   Up from the town,
I will mark which must be mine,
   And then start down! 


(I hate the word "gladdest" and this isn't my favorite of Millay's poems, 
but I have stood on this hill and visited Millay's house, and the poem 
recreates a lovely memory.)

Butterfly Prayer Square  (The butterfly is a symbol of resurrection and renewal.) 

This cloth is adapted from a Drops (Garn Studio) butterfly motif chart for a free sweater pattern.  I wrote the directions based on their butterfly chart.  I have made numerous changes along the way.

Cast on 19 stitches with worsted-weight yarn and size 7 needles.

Rows 1-4:  Knit
Row 5:  (wrong side) k4,  p11,  k4    (Extra knit sts to prevent rolling.)
Row 6 and all even (right side) rows:  Knit
Row 7:  k3,  p13,  k3
Row 9:  k3,  p2,  k1,  p7,  k1,  p2,  k3
Row 11:  k3,  p2,  k2,  p5,  k2,  p2,  k3
Row 13:  k3,  p2,  k4,  p1,  k4,  p2,  k3
Row 15:  k3,  p3,  k3,  p1,  k3,  p3,  k3
Row 17:  k3,  p4,  k2,  p1,  k2,  p4,  k3
Row 19:  k3,  p3,  k3,  p1,  k3,  p3,  k3
Row 21:  k3,  p2,  k4,  p1,  k4,  p2,  k3
Row 23:  k3,  p1,  k4,  p3,  k4,  p1,  k3
Row 25:  k3,  p6,  k1,  p6,  k3
Row 27:  k4,  p11,  k4  (Extra knit sts to prevent rolling.)
Rows 28-31:  Knit
Bind off loosely.  Weave in ends.

(version #4)

Descending Dove Prayer Square
 

3" x 5" size        Size 7 needles, worsted-weight yarn

Cast on (long tail) 19 stitches.

Rows 1 to 4: knit

Row 5:  k4, p11, k4  (WS)  (Extra k sts to prevent rolling.)

Row 6 (and all even rows):  knit (RS)

Row 7:  k3, p6, k1, p6, k3

Row 9:  k3, p5, k3, p5, k3

Row 11:  k3, p3, k7, p3, k3

Row 13:  k3, p1, k11, p1, k3

Row 15:  k3, p1, k3, p1, k3, p1, k3, p1, k3

Row 17:  k3, p1, k1, p3, k3, p3, k1, p1, k3

Row 19:  k3, p5, k3, p5, k3

Row 21:  k3, p4, k5, p4, k3

Row 23:  k3, p3, k3, p1, k3, p3, k3

Row 25:  k3, p3, k1, p5, k1, p3, k3

Row 27:  k4, p11, k4   (Extra k sts to prevent rolling.)

Rows 28-31:  knit

Bind off loosely. 

(version #3)

Single Cross Prayer Square (3-stitch x 9-stitch version)

Cast on 17 stitches using knitting worsted on size 7 needles.

Row 1-4:   Knit all. 
Row 5:   k4, p9, k4      (Wrong side) 
Row 6 and all even rows:   Knit all sts.     (Right Side) 
Rows 7, 9, 11, 13, 15:   k3, p4, k3, p4, k3 
Rows 17, 19, 21:   k3, p1, k9, p1, k3 
Rows 23 and 25:   k3, p4, k3, p4, k3 
Row 27:   k4, p9, k4 
Rows 29-31:   Knit across.  
Bind off loosely.

Some churches have started a new ministry using small knitted prayer cloths to give as reminders of God's presence in our lives.  I've searched the internet for patterns and have adapted them to this ministry.  The first one follows, and I intend to add more.

Single Cross Prayer Square (2-stitch x 6-stitch version)

  Use knitting worsted on size 7 needles.
 Cast on 16 stitches with long tail cast on.

 Rows 1-4: knit
 Row 5: k4, p8, k4  (Extra k sts help prevent rolling.)
 Row 6 and all even rows: knit  (Right side)
 Row 7: k3, p4, k2, p4, k3  (Wrong side)
 Row 9: k3, p4, k2, p4, k3
 Row 11: k3, p4, k2, p4, k3
 Row 13: k3, p4, k2, p4, k3 

 Row 15: k3, p4, k2, p4, k3
 Row 17: k3, p4, k2, p4, k3
 Row 19: k3, p2, k6, p2, k3
 Row 21: k3, p2, k6, p2, k3
 Row 23: k3, p4, k2, p4, k3
 Row 25: k3, p4, k2, p4, k3
 Row 27: k4, p8, k4 (Extra k sts help prevent rolling.) 
 Row 28-31: knit  Bind off loosely.

The Harvest Bow       by Seamus Heaney

As you plaited the harvest bow
You implicated the mellowed silence in you
In wheat that does not rust
But brightens as it tightens twist by twist
Into a knowable corona,
A throwaway love-knot of straw.

Hands that aged round ashplants and cane sticks
And lapped the spurs on a lifetime of game cocks
Harked to their gift and worked with fine intent
Until your fingers moved somnambulant:
I tell and finger it like braille,
Gleaning the unsaid off the palpable,

And if I spy into its golden loops
I see us walk between the railway slopes
Into an evening of long grass and midges,
Blue smoke straight up, old beds and ploughs in hedges,
An auction notice on an outhouse wall—
You with a harvest bow in your lapel,

Me with the fishing rod, already homesick
For the big lift of these evenings, as your stick
Whacking the tips off weeds and bushes
Beats out of time, and beats, but flushes
Nothing: that original townland
Still tongue-tied in the straw tied by your hand.

The end of art is peace
Could be the motto of this frail device
That I have pinned up on our deal dresser—
Like a drawn snare
Slipped lately by the spirit of the corn
Yet burnished by its passage, and still warm.

hunger 


"Give 'em what they want.
They won't even know they want it."

Always
feeding the hunger
of an appetite
for nothing,
not one calorie.

That would take guts
and time
and sacrifice.

So
make it easy.
All flash and no dash.
Fleeting trendy lite.

Make it skim the surface
only.

Make it slide off the mind
or
come nowhere near.

And then abbreviate it
so tht u r rdy 4
the nxt bt of flf.

You won't even know you are starving
you will be so full.


lkm, February 2013

Jane Hirshfield from Remembering Seamus Heaney at poets.org 

 In the poems, it seems to me, were two bedrock qualities, along with the virtuosity of Heaney’s singing and seeing—that signature joy in existence, and then the tempering knowledge of human choice, character, story, consequence. Consequence, above all perhaps—his words were never arabesques drawn on air for the sake of their own shapes. Beauty served him as a sextant for navigation, as a larger righting of justice and deepening of connection. Deepening mattered: his poems went as often into the earth as above it, and it’s interesting to notice how many of them take on some vertical axis, whether digging or climbing.
Two lines from his 2010 book, Human Chain, came to mind and stayed, once I’d taken in the shock of his too-soon passing—

I had my existence. I was there.
Me in place and the place in me.

An Interruption by Robert S. Foote

A boy had stopped his car
To save a turtle in the road;
I was not far
Behind, and slowed,
And stopped to watch as he began
To shoo it off into the undergrowth—

This wild reminder of an ancient past,
Lumbering to some Late Triassic bog,
Till it was just a rustle in the grass,
Till it was gone.

I hope I told him with a look
As I passed by,
How I was glad he'd stopped me there,
And what I felt for both
Of them, something I took
To be a kind of love,
And of a troubled thought
I had, for man,
Of how we ought
To let life go on where
And when it can.