I found one of Martha's poems on line (out of curiosity to see the kind of work she writes) and thought I'd share:
http://www.buybooksontheweb.com/peek.aspx?id=1275
A Poet's Prayer
Dear Lord, please, Grant me inspiration In my praying hands, Direct this pen; That I may inscribe Your will - (through poetry), Into the hearts and minds of men.
Here is another one:
Old Memory Trail
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Old Memory Trail
I find the way to live again, The pleasures from before, Is listening to the old folks' tales. It's pleasant time, spent in repoire. Both are blessed, the listener And the story teller, frail. Pull up a chair. I'll lead you down Life's old memory trail. Old Friends I lingered with dear friends today, Reminiscing all the while. We shared our thoughts, each tender touch, Some tears, more laughs, a smile. We must do this more often. I am at their beck and call. Charming friends inspire me to respond, Eagerly - with them all. Some, I've known since childhood; Newer ones, I greet with glee! Dear friends increase in number, For I bring them home with me. They'll share time with you gladly, (Their inner charms, their classic looks). Pick the sweetest and the wisest From among my friends: my treasured books.
Here's a poem I wrote a while ago while at Ghost Ranch in New Mexico. Ghost Ranch was one of the places that the painter Georgia O'Keeffe lived in so I felt inspired to write a poem about her. This was my attempt at a dramatic monologue written in her voice:
Abiquiu Monologue
The anvil edged Pedernal was mine, and the rock with the fossil in it, and that smooth black one that Ansel pocketed, also mine! He thought he could have it, but I lifted it off his coffee table. It sang of water and volcano, fire and dry riverbed, coal black like Stieglitz’s eyes. Never Alfred, always Stieglitz. Never silent, always talking. Those men yammered on and on about making the Great American Painting. While they talked, I did it: a cow’s skull next to a flower & at the edges: Red, White, and Blue.
I risked my life to get a sign in Farsi saying "Open." The family who made it seemed amazed anyone wanted their language in a movie. The son, studious, graceful, drew the characters first in pencil. One looked like an upside down question mark, others like mosques and minarets. His mother held the cardboard steady and, in a language like music, instructed him on making the correct letters. He let her revise, then inked the characters with fine tipped markers I’d brought for just this purpose. I sat in the leatherette booth of their pizza parlor, feeling guilty, sipping a free soda. The Director had really wanted Korean for the prop, intended to indicate the squalor his character, a "Yale Graduate in LA" must face. I took their handiwork and hit the freeway, so tired I drove recklessly, sobbing & speeding. Months later I watched the film, and of course, the sign was not there. I filled in the patient boy inking, the bent heads appraising, centuries of civilization behind the act.
I have always aspired to a more spacious form that would be free from the claims of poetry or prose and would let us understand each other without exposing the author or reader to sublime agonies.
In the very essence of poetry there is something indecent: a thing is brought forth which we didn't know we had in us, so we blink our eyes, as if a tiger had sprung out and stood in the light, lashing his tail.
That's why poetry is rightly said to be dictated by a daimonion, though its an exaggeration to maintain that he must be an angel. It's hard to guess where that pride of poets comes from, when so often they're put to shame by the disclosure of their frailty.
What reasonable man would like to be a city of demons, who behave as if they were at home, speak in many tongues, and who, not satisfied with stealing his lips or hand, work at changing his destiny for their convenience?
It's true that what is morbid is highly valued today, and so you may think that I am only joking or that I've devised just one more means of praising Art with thehelp of irony.
There was a time when only wise books were read helping us to bear our pain and misery. This, after all, is not quite the same as leafing through a thousand works fresh from psychiatric clinics.
And yet the world is different from what it seems to be and we are other than how we see ourselves in our ravings. People therefore preserve silent integrity thus earning the respect of their relatives and neighbors.
The purpose of poetry is to remind us how difficult it is to remain just one person, for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors, and invisible guests come in and out at will.
What I'm saying here is not, I agree, poetry, as poems should be written rarely and reluctantly, under unbearable duress and only with the hope that good spirits, not evil ones, choose us for their instrument.
An "Ars Poetica" is a poem about the art of poetry. I find this Ars Poetica by Milosz (arguably the 20th century's greatest poet) and by Macleish (now considered a "minor" poet) fun to read side by side.
You can copy this link into your browser and click on it to get to the article if you are interested (I think.)
ReplyDeleteI found one of Martha's poems on line (out of curiosity to see the kind of work she writes) and thought I'd share:
ReplyDeletehttp://www.buybooksontheweb.com/peek.aspx?id=1275
A Poet's Prayer
Dear Lord, please,
Grant me inspiration
In my praying hands,
Direct this pen;
That I may inscribe
Your will -
(through poetry),
Into the hearts
and minds of men.
Here is another one:
Old Memory Trail
User Rating:
-- /10
(0 votes)
Old Memory Trail
I find the way to live again,
The pleasures from before,
Is listening to the old folks' tales.
It's pleasant time, spent in repoire.
Both are blessed, the listener
And the story teller, frail.
Pull up a chair. I'll lead you down
Life's old memory trail.
Old Friends I lingered with dear friends today,
Reminiscing all the while.
We shared our thoughts, each tender touch,
Some tears, more laughs, a smile.
We must do this more often.
I am at their beck and call.
Charming friends inspire me to respond,
Eagerly - with them all.
Some, I've known since childhood;
Newer ones, I greet with glee!
Dear friends increase in number,
For I bring them home with me.
They'll share time with you gladly,
(Their inner charms, their classic looks).
Pick the sweetest and the wisest
From among my friends: my treasured books.
Here's a poem I wrote a while ago while at Ghost Ranch in New Mexico. Ghost Ranch was one of the places that the painter Georgia O'Keeffe lived in so I felt inspired to write a poem about her. This was my attempt at a dramatic monologue written in her voice:
ReplyDeleteAbiquiu Monologue
The anvil edged Pedernal
was mine, and the rock with the fossil
in it, and that smooth black one
that Ansel pocketed, also mine!
He thought he could have it, but I lifted
it off his coffee table. It sang of water
and volcano, fire and dry riverbed,
coal black like Stieglitz’s eyes.
Never Alfred, always Stieglitz.
Never silent, always talking.
Those men yammered on and on
about making the Great American Painting.
While they talked, I did it:
a cow’s skull next to a flower & at the edges:
Red, White, and Blue.
Here is another, a prose poem:
ReplyDeleteArt Department
I risked my life to get a sign in Farsi saying "Open." The family who made it seemed amazed anyone wanted their language in a movie. The son, studious, graceful, drew the characters first in pencil. One looked like an upside down question mark, others like mosques and minarets. His mother held the cardboard steady and, in a language like music, instructed him on making the correct letters. He let her revise, then inked the characters with fine tipped markers I’d brought for just this purpose. I sat in the leatherette booth of their pizza parlor, feeling guilty, sipping a free soda. The Director had really wanted Korean for the prop, intended to indicate the squalor his character, a "Yale Graduate in LA" must face. I took their handiwork and hit the freeway, so tired I drove recklessly, sobbing & speeding. Months later I watched the film, and of course, the sign was not there. I filled in the patient boy inking, the bent heads appraising, centuries of civilization behind the act.
A JOURNAL THAT PUBLISHES PERSONAL ESSAYS/MEMOIRS PIECES (ACCEPTS SUBMISSIONS DURING SPECIFIC MONTHS):
ReplyDeletehttp://memoirjournal.squarespace.com/
Ars Poetica by Archibald Macleish
ReplyDeleteA poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruit,
Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb,
Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown --
A poem should be wordless
As the flight of birds.
*
A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs,
Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,
Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,
Memory by memory the mind --
A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs.
*
A poem should be equal to
Not true.
For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf.
For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea --
A poem should not mean
But be.
Ars Poetica by Czeslaw Milosz
ReplyDeleteI have always aspired to a more spacious form
that would be free from the claims of poetry or prose
and would let us understand each other without exposing
the author or reader to sublime agonies.
In the very essence of poetry there is something indecent:
a thing is brought forth which we didn't know we had in us,
so we blink our eyes, as if a tiger had sprung out
and stood in the light, lashing his tail.
That's why poetry is rightly said to be dictated by a daimonion,
though its an exaggeration to maintain that he must be an angel.
It's hard to guess where that pride of poets comes from,
when so often they're put to shame by the disclosure of their frailty.
What reasonable man would like to be a city of demons,
who behave as if they were at home, speak in many tongues,
and who, not satisfied with stealing his lips or hand,
work at changing his destiny for their convenience?
It's true that what is morbid is highly valued today,
and so you may think that I am only joking
or that I've devised just one more means
of praising Art with thehelp of irony.
There was a time when only wise books were read
helping us to bear our pain and misery.
This, after all, is not quite the same
as leafing through a thousand works fresh from psychiatric clinics.
And yet the world is different from what it seems to be
and we are other than how we see ourselves in our ravings.
People therefore preserve silent integrity
thus earning the respect of their relatives and neighbors.
The purpose of poetry is to remind us
how difficult it is to remain just one person,
for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors,
and invisible guests come in and out at will.
What I'm saying here is not, I agree, poetry,
as poems should be written rarely and reluctantly,
under unbearable duress and only with the hope
that good spirits, not evil ones, choose us for their instrument.
An "Ars Poetica" is a poem about the art of poetry. I find this Ars Poetica by Milosz (arguably the 20th century's greatest poet) and by Macleish (now considered a "minor" poet) fun to read side by side.
ReplyDelete