Two poems in November

I've been deciding what my first post in a long while should be - a rant about work, or rather people I've come across in my line of work; the writers' strike in Hollywood, which reminded me of the first strike I participated in three years ago - complete with wooden sign and chanting - and which also unearthed a story about one of my parents who didn't just participate in one but actually organized it (I've never felt prouder of that parent than when I listened to that story); the celebration of babies in August (Mandy's Megan) and October (Peiming's Paige); two poems I recently read and came to love; or two books I'm reading and loving but have had to put aside because the work is piling up but I can't seem to bring myself to read another essay with missing articles and non-idiomatic sentences.

Perhaps I'll keep it short with the two poems and save the other stories for another week (drafts are in the works).

Lisel Mueller is a favorite poet, and what she does with words moves me in so many ways that I can't quite begin to name the first. I'll give it a shot anyway - every word is a simple one, but perfect in creating a scene that is at once everyday, ordinary, knowable but also surreal, rich with possibility, and edged with the lozenge of darkness that makes a picture worth looking at more than once.

"In November" by Lisel Mueller

Outside the house the wind is howling
and the trees are creaking horribly.
This is an old story
with its old beginning,
as I lay me down to sleep.
But when I wake up, sunlight
has taken over the room.
You have already made the coffee
and the radio brings us music
from a confident age. In the paper
bad news is set in distant places.
Whatever was bound to happen
in my story did not happen.
But I know there are rules that cannot be broken.
Perhaps a name was changed.
A small mistake. Perhaps
a woman I do not know
is facing the day with the heavy heart
that, by all rights, should have been mine.

Most people love poems for their truth, for how perfectly they reflect our sad and sometimes happy lives.

"Loss and Gain" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

When I compare
What I have lost with what I have gained,
What I have missed with what attained,
Little room do I find for pride.

I am aware
How many days have been idly spent;
How like an arrow the good intent
Has fallen short or been turned aside.

But who shall dare
To measure loss and gain in this wise?
Defeat may be victory in disguise;
The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide.

Posted by Monoceros at November 17, 2007 4:07 PM