Possibilities by Linda Pastan

 

Today I drove past a house

we almost bought and heard

through the open window music

made by some other family.

We don't make music ourselves, in fact

we define our differences

by what we listen to.

And what we mean by family

has changed since then

as we grew larger then smaller again

in ways we knew would happen

and yet didn't expect.

Each choice is a winnowing,

and sometimes at night I hear

all the possibilities creak open

and shut like screendoors

in the wind,

making an almost musical

accompaniment

to what I know

of love and history.

One of the Butterflies by W. S. Merwin

 

The trouble with pleasure is the timing

it can overtake me without warning

and be gone before I know it is here

it can stand facing me unrecognized

while I am remembering somewhere else

in another age or someone not seen

for years and never to be seen again

in this world and it seems that I cherish

only now a joy I was not aware of

when it was here although it remains

out of reach and will not be caught or named

or called back and if I could make it stay

as I want to it would turn to pain.

W. S. Merwin

Places I Have Heard the Ocean by Faith Shearin

 

In a cat's throat, in a shell I hold

to my ear — though I'm told

this is the sound of my own

blood. I have heard the ocean

in the city: cars against

the beach of our street. Or in

the subway, waiting for a train

that carries me like a current.

In my bed: place of high and low

tide or in my daughter's skates,

rolling over the sidewalk.

Ocean in the trees when they

fill their heads with wind.

Ocean in the rise and fall:

lungs of everyone I love.

Faith Shearin

If I Could Fly by Jonathan Potter

 

If I could fly

My plane to you

I'd put the sky

Into my shoe

And make my way

Across the blue

In half a day

That's what I'd do

To spend the evening

Touching you

And then the morning

Through and through

And on and on

And deep into

Your dusk my dawn

Our one from two

Jonathan Potter

Staying at Grandma's by Jane Kenyon

 

Sometimes they left me for the day

while they went — what does it matter

where — away. I sat and watched her work

the dough, then turn the white shape

yellow in a buttered bowl.

A coleus, wrong to my eye because its leaves

were red, was rooting on the sill

in a glass filled with water and azure

marbles. I loved to see the sun

pass through the blue.

"You know," she'd say, turning

her straight and handsome back to me,

"that the body is the temple

of the Holy Ghost."

The Holy Ghost, the oh, oh ... the uh

oh, I thought, studying the toe of my new shoe,

and glad she wasn't looking at me.

Soon I'd be back in school. No more mornings

at Grandma's side while she swept the walk

or shook the dust mop by the neck.

If she loved me why did she say that

two women would be grinding at the mill,

that God would come out of the clouds

when they were least expecting him,

choose one to be with him in heaven

and leave the other there alone?

Jane Kenyon

Burning the Old Year

Letters swallow themselves in seconds.    Notes friends tied to the doorknob,    transparent scarlet paper, sizzle like moth wings, marry the air. So much of any year is flammable,    lists of vegetables, partial poems.    Orange swirling flame of days,    so little is a stone. Where there was something and suddenly isn’t,    an absence shouts, celebrates, leaves a space.    I begin again with the smallest numbers. Quick dance, shuffle of losses and leaves,    only the things I didn’t do    crackle after the blazing dies.            - - - BY NAOMI SHIHAB NYE

Oregon Dawn in Spite of the News by Kim Stafford

 

Before I can get to the day’s statistics—so

many stricken, so many dead—I’m summoned

by the birds raising a ruckus outside, crows

and jays in festive outrage, chirr and aria

from the little brown birds, the mournful

dove, the querulous towhee, rusty starlings

in their see-saw mutter, and a woodpecker

flicker hammering the gutter staccato.

On the porch, I’m assaulted by the merciless

scent of trees opening their million flowers

as I inhale the deep elixir of hazel, hawthorn,

maple, and oh those shameless cherry trees.

And just when I’ve almost recovered

my serious moment, I gasp, helpless to see

the full queen moon sidling down

through a haze of blossoms.

Kim Stafford

Fiction by Lisel Mueller

 

Going south, we watched spring

unroll like a proper novel:

forsythia, dogwood, rose;

bare trees, green lace, full shade.

By the time we arrived in Georgia

the complications were deep.

When we drove back, we read

from back to front. Maroon went wild,

went scarlet, burned once more

and then withdrew into pink,

tentative, still in bud.

I thought if only we could go on

and meet again, shy as strangers.

Lisel Mueller

Staying After by Linda Gregg

I grew up with horses and poems

when that was the time for that.

Then Ginsberg and Orlovsky

in the Fillmore West when

everybody was dancing. I sat

in the balcony with my legs

pushed through the railing,

watching Janis Joplin sing.

Women have houses now, and children.

I live alone in a kind of luxury.

I wake when I feel like it,

read what Rilke wrote to Tsvetaeva.

At night I watch the apartments

whose windows are still lit

after midnight. I fell in love.

I believed people. And even now

I love the yellow light shining

down on the dirty brick wall.

by Linda Gregg

The Room by Stephen Dunn

 

The room has no choice.

Everything that’s spoken in it

it absorbs. And it must put up with

the bad flirt, the overly perfumed,

the many murderers of mood—

with whomever chooses to walk in.

If there’s a crowd, one person

is certain to be concealing a sadness,

another will have abandoned a dream,

at least one will be a special agent

for his own cause. And always

there’s a functionary,

somberly listing what he does.

The room plays no favorites.

Like its windows, it does nothing

but accommodate shades

of light and dark. After everyone leaves

(its entrance, of course, is an exit),

the room will need to be imagined

by someone, perhaps some me

walking away now, who comes alive

when most removed. He’ll know

from experience how deceptive

silence can be. This is when the walls

start to breathe as if reclaiming the air,

when the withheld spills forth,

when even the chairs start to talk.

by Stephen Dunn

3

A Purification by Wendell Berry

 

At start of spring I open a trench

in the ground. I put into it

the winter's accumulation of paper,

pages I do not want to read

again, useless words, fragments,

errors. And I put into it

the contents of the outhouse:

light of the sun, growth of the ground,

finished with one of their journeys.

To the sky, to the wind, then,

and to the faithful trees, I confess

my sins: that I have not been happy

enough, considering my good luck;

have listened to too much noise;

have been inattentive to wonders;

have lusted after praise.

And then upon the gathered refuse

of mind and body, I close the trench,

folding shut again the dark,

the deathless earth. Beneath that seal

the old escapes into the new.

Changing Genres by Dean Young

 

I was satisfied with haiku until I met you,

jar of octopus, cuckoo's cry, 5-7-5,

but now I want a Russian novel,

a 50-page description of you sleeping,

another 75 of what you think staring out

a window. I don't care about the plot

although I suppose there will have to be one,

the usual separation of the lovers, turbulent

seas, danger of decommission in spite

of constant war, time in gulps and glitches

passing, squibs of threnody, a fallen nest,

speckled eggs somehow uncrushed, the sled

outracing the wolves on the steppes, the huge

glittering ball where all that matters

is a kiss at the end of a dark hall.

At dawn the officers ride back to the garrison,

one without a glove, the entire last chapter

about a necklace that couldn't be worn

inherited by a great-niece

along with the love letters bound in silk.

Snow and Snow by Ted Hughes

 SNOW AND SNOW

by Ted Hughes 

Snow is sometimes a she, a soft one.
Her kiss on your cheek, her finger on your sleeve
In early December, on a warm evening,
And you turn to meet her, saying "It''s snowing!"
But it is not. And nobody''s there.
Empty and calm is the air.

Sometimes the snow is a he, a sly one.
Weakly he signs the dry stone with a damp spot.
Waifish he floats and touches the pond and is not.
Treacherous-beggarly he falters, and taps at the window.
A little longer he clings to the grass-blade tip
Getting his grip.

Then how she leans, how furry foxwrap she nestles
The sky with her warm, and the earth with her softness.
How her lit crowding fairylands sink through the space-silence
To build her palace, till it twinkles in starlight—
Too frail for a foot
Or a crumb of soot.

Then how his muffled armies move in all night
And we wake and every road is blockaded
Every hill taken and every farm occupied
And the white glare of his tents is on the ceiling.
And all that dull blue day and on into the gloaming
We have to watch more coming.

Then everything in the rubbish-heaped world
Is a bridesmaid at her miracle.
Dunghills and crumbly dark old barns are bowed in the chapel of her sparkle.
The gruesome boggy cellars of the wood
Are a wedding of lace
Now taking place.

If You Could Go Back

 

I know, I know
If you could go back you
would walk with Jesus
You would march with King
Maybe assassinate Hitler
At least hide Jews in your basement
It would all be clear to you
But people then, just like you
were baffled, had bills
to pay and children they didn’t
understand and they too
were so desperate for normalcy
they made anything normal
Even turning everything inside out
Even killing, and killing, and it’s easy
for turning the other cheek
to be looking the other way, for walking
to be talking, and they hid
in their houses
and watched it on television, when they had television,
and wrung their hands
or didn’t, and your hands
are just like theirs. Lined, permeable,
small, and you
would follow Caesar, and quote McCarthy, and Hoover, and you would want
to make Germany great again
Because you are afraid, and your
parents are sick, and your
job pays shit and where’s your
dignity? Just a little dignity and those kids sitting down in the highway,
and chaining themselves to
buildings, what’s their fucking problem? And that kid
That’s King. And this is Selma. And Berlin. And Jerusalem. And now
is when they need you to be brave.
Now
is when we need you to go back
and forget everything you know
and give up the things you’re chained to
and make it look so easy in your
grandkids’ history books (they should still have them, kinehora)
Now
is when it will all be clear to them.

~ Danny Bryck, playwright, actor, activist, producer, and educator based in New York.

April - National Poetry Month

 As always, I'm going to be celebrating National Poetry Month here at Meanderings and Muses.

I have just finished reading, thanks to NetGalley and Random House, a powerful, brutal, beautiful collection written by Tara M. Stringfellow, author of the Novel MEMPHIS.

Description from NatGalley.com -

"Radiant poems that celebrate Black Southern womanhood and the many ways magic lives in the bonds between mothers, daughters, and sisters, from the bestselling author of Memphis.

“God can stay asleep / these women in my life are magic enuff”

An electrifying collection of poems that tells a universal tale of survival and revolution through the lens of Black femininity. Tara M. Stringfellow embraces complexity, grappling with the sometimes painful, sometimes wonderful way two conflicting things can be true at the same time. How it’s possible to have a strong voice but also feel silenced. To be loyal to things and people that betray us. To burn as hot with rage as we do with love.

Each poem asks how we can heal and sustain relationships with people, systems, and ourselves. How to reach for the kind of real love that allows for the truth of anger, disappointment, and grief. Unapologetic, unafraid, and glorious in its nuance, this collection argues that when it comes to living in our full humanity, we have—and we are—magic enough."

MAGIC ENUFF, is a collection that lives up to a quote attributed to Banksy. 

You should read it.

Note: FTC Disclosure Notice: Dear FTC - I received a digital copy of Magic Enuff from NetGalley.com. No other compensation was offered or accepted beyond the possibility of a review of the book.

Recommended Reading That Has Nothing To Do With Politics

 Sometimes to just need to pack a bag and move to Ireland.

If you can't do that, then travel along vicariously with Emily Allen.

I cannot say enough about Jenn McKinlay's newest (release date May 14th - go ahead and pre-order it!)

Description from NetGalley

When a librarian moves to a quaint Irish village where her favorite novelist lives, the last thing she expects is to fall for the author’s prickly son… until their story becomes one for the books, from the New York Times bestselling author of Summer Reading.

Emily Allen, a librarian on Martha’s Vineyard, has always dreamed of a life of travel and adventure. So when her favorite author, Siobhan Riordan, offers her a job in the Emerald Isle, Emily jumps at the opportunity. After all, Siobhan’s novels got Em through some of the darkest days of her existence.

Helping Siobhan write the final book in her acclaimed series—after a ten-year hiatus due to a scorching case of writer’s block—is a dream come true for Emily. If only she didn’t have to deal with Siobhan’s son, Kieran Murphy. He manages Siobhan’s bookstore, and the grouchy bookworm clearly doesn’t want Em around.

Emily persists, and spending her days bantering with the annoyingly handsome mercurial Irishman only makes her fall more deeply in love with the new life she’s built – and for the man who seems to soften toward her with every quip she throws at him. But when she discovers the reason for Kieran's initial resistance, Em finds herself torn between helping Siobhan find closure with her series and her now undeniable feelings for Kier. As Siobhan's novel progresses, Emily will have to decide if she’s truly ready to turn a new page and figure out what lies in the next chapter.

Note: FTC Disclosure Notice: Dear FTC - I received a digital copy of Love at First Book from NetGalley.com. No other compensation was offered or accepted beyond the possibility of a review of the book.

More Recommended (Political) Reading - The Truth Tellers

 

How to Break Through Trump’s Lies and Get the Truth

The pros who watch him so you don’t have to

SCOTT DWORKIN

I have taken the liberty of posting this entire Scott Dworkin post because it's important.  But please hit the above link and consider following him, along with the friends he's recommending.

"How to Break Through Trump’s Lies and Get the Truth

Leading up to the 2016 election, much of the country thought of Donald Trump as a ridiculous sideshow who couldn’t possibly win the presidency. What started as a joke soon became a cringeworthy onslaught of unbelievable campaign antics. I think that many people who wrote him off did so because they couldn’t bear to watch the nightmare he was creating and didn’t believe he would win.

As a veteran of Democratic campaigns, I recognized early on that not paying attention was a luxury we could not afford with Trump and his cult followers. I saw the fervor building around his nomination, and it was terrifying. Even though I hated it, I gave Trump a lot of my hours and attention at that time. I dedicated my life to trying to stop him.

I’m not sure it’s something to brag about, but while he was in office I wrote about and covered Trump for all of it. I’ve spent countless hours watching videos, dissecting his speeches, investigating his web of corruption, and exposing him for what he truly is.

My team and I spent years buried in videos of Trump rallies, speeches, and shows. I combed through business records, photos and videos of him and his family, campaign finances, and court documents. We poured over every single thing Trump said or did to make sure we called him out on every hypocrisy and lie.

It was exhausting and, at times, beyond disturbing. It was not a healthy place to live in.

Since Trump left office, I have pivoted more towards coalition building and online organizing but I still need to be aware of what Trump and his MAGA cult are doing.

Thankfully, there are now many watchdogs keeping their eyes on everything Trump is up to (which is a lot). One I trust is

Aaron Rupar

from

Public Notice

. He still does the grueling work of dissecting Trump videos on a daily basis. Aaron is one of the best sources on social media for videos of Trump's brain failures in action.

I have mad respect for the folks like Aaron, who are still able to keep an eye on Trump’s nonsense around the clock, and put in the tireless work needed to constantly call him out on it. The dedication is inspiring. It also gives him a perspective that we all can learn from.

As we enter yet another election season with Donald Trump as a presidential candidate, this is the point where we all likely want to ignore him. But we know it’s imperative that he never lands back in the White House.

So, I asked Aaron a couple of questions that I thought might help us stay strong as we go through this election year.

How are you able to watch the never-ending hours of disinformation and lies and not let it get to you?

These are, “historic times—even if they're rather bleak,” Rupar told me. “So it never feels like too much of a burden to immerse myself in right-wing TV and events.”

He said, “You're right that watching a lot of Trump isn't for the faint of heart, so if people are disturbed by his rallies and the like, that's what people like me are for–to watch so you don't have to.”

I can say from experience that no matter how long you’ve been doing this, it’s tough to watch a grotesque pathological liar spewing nonsense constantly.

How do you not get trapped in that negativity?

Rupar replied, “I also try to maintain some semblance of work-life balance by spending time with my kids, going to ball games, and those sorts of things. I'm decent at compartmentalizing. I exercise most days during the day as a way to take a break and get some fresh air.”

“The line between work and non-work is blurry, especially when you're self-employed. But having two young kids makes it easier. I try to log off from when I pick them up until when they're winding down for bed a few hours later.”

There’s no easy answer to living in a world with Trump near the presidency. I am grateful Aaron has found a way to sustain his work, because we need him to keep it up.

Trump’s not gonna magically disappear. He is once again the Republican nominee for president.

And after all of the damage he’s done to our country, we simply can’t afford for anyone to ignore and roll their eyes at this maniac. We have an obligation to call him a liar every time he lies. We can’t let him gain even one inch.

It’s how we won in 2020. No matter how many lies we hear or how many excruciating minutes we spend calling Trump out on his lies, we must never allow ourselves to become numb to the threat he poses to our country.

That's why I highly recommend you follow the heroes like Aaron.

Below I have listed out several of the folks that I count on to find and report the truth about Trump and MAGA, or that work to help progressives and Democrats. Thanks to their diligent truth-telling, their organizing, and the fact that they will never look away from Trump’s lies, I don’t have to watch every agonizing moment anymore.

You should absolutely subscribe to and follow all of them:

Aaron Rupar

 of 

Public Notice

, 

E. Jean Carroll

, 

Mary L Trump

, 

Malcolm Nance

, 

Jay Kuo

, 

Jessica Craven

, 

Simon Rosenberg

, and investigative journalists like 

Grant Stern

 and 

Judd Legum

. Those who cut through the noise like 

JoJoFromJerz

, 

John Pavlovitz

, 

Rachel Vindman

,

Alexander Vindman

, 

Alicia’s Substack

, 

Dean Obeidallah

, 

Jess Piper

, 

Joyce Vance

, 

Dan Rather

, 

Tara Dublin

 and 

Rick Wilson

 just to mention a few.

Apologies to any friends I’ve missed here.

Be sure to tag your favorite writers in the comments below. Add links to your favorite pieces, or of course your own! I’d love to take a read, and recommend others do the same! Onward!

Here’s how you can help spread this message:

1. Hit like/heart at the bottom of this post, so we know you read it!

2. Restack it! ♻ button at bottom of the post!

3. Share this—we’ll amplify your post!"

Character Matters