Because Even the Word Obstacle Is an Obstacle by Alison Luterman

Try to love everything that gets in your way:
the Chinese women in flowered bathing caps
murmuring together in Mandarin, doing leg exercises in your lane
while you execute thirty-six furious laps,
one for every item on your to-do list.
The heavy-bellied man who goes thrashing through the water
like a horse with a harpoon stuck in its side,
whose breathless tsunamis rock you from your course.
Teachers all. Learn to be small
and swim through obstacles like a minnow
without grudges or memory. Dart
toward your goal, sperm to egg. Thinking Obstacle
is another obstacle. Try to love the teenage girl
idly lounging against the ladder, showing off her new tattoo:
Cette vie est la mienne, This life is mine,
in thick blue-black letters on her ivory instep.
Be glad she’ll have that to look at all her life,
and keep going, keep going. Swim by an uncle
in the lane next to yours who is teaching his nephew
how to hold his breath underwater,
even though kids arent allowed at this hour. Someday,
years from now, this boy
who is kicking and flailing in the exact place
you want to touch and turn
will be a young man, at a wedding on a boat
raising his champagne glass in a toast
when a huge wave hits, washing everyone overboard.
He’ll come up coughing and spitting like he is now,
but he’ll come up like a cork,
alive. So your moment
of impatience must bow in service to a larger story,
because if something is in your way it is
going your way, the way
of all beings; towards darkness, towards light.

Because Even the Word Obstacle

Ever since I first read this poem a few years ago, my mind returns to it on those occasions that seem to fit perfectly, in my own experience, into the litany of possibilities which the poet curates for us. And I delight in the humour she brings to these situations which can sometimes help me find a glimmer of amusement in things that can otherwise just frustrate me.

Try to love everything that gets in your way. Such a clear declaration of sage advice, though of course not so easy in practice. If you pool-swim, you will instantly recognize these literal obstacles slowing you down – the women doing leg exercises in your lane, the thrashing heavy-bellied man. Teachers all, such truth in two words. The tattooed teenage girl, the uncle teaching his nephew how to hold his breath underwater which becomes a riff on the boy as a young man washed overboard at a wedding on a boat but he’ll come up like a cork.

Remember that all these people who have slowed you down, be it in a pool, or at the grocery store, or driving late to your appointment, can teach you patience, and we must bow in service to a larger story. More than that, she tells us if something is in your way it is / going your way. She is reminding us that we are all moving towards darkness, towards light. It is the way / of all beings. Something to think about, isn’t it. But don’t let me stand in your way.

Winter: Tonight: Sunset by David Budbill

Tonight at sunset walking on the snowy road,
my shoes crunching on the frozen gravel, first

through the woods, then out into the open fields
past a couple of trailers and some pickup trucks, I stop

and look at the sky. Suddenly: orange, red, pink, blue,
green, purple, yellow, gray, all at once and everywhere.

I pause in this moment at the beginning of my old age
and I say a prayer of gratitude for getting to this evening

a prayer for being here, today, now, alive
in this life, in this evening, under this sky.

Winter: Tonight: Sunset

It is still winter in this part of the world despite the sudden temperature spikes, and this is such a lovely, compact poem by a favorite Vermont poet who left behind a rich legacy of such memorable work. I was taken by his title, three words, separated by colons which he uses to give emphasis to each part, rather than to put them all together in a single phrase. It caught my attention right away.

It’s evening, sunset and he is walking on the snowy road, his shoes making that crunching sound one can get on frozen snow. He walks through woods, then into open fields past a couple of trailers and some pickup trucks, a detail that makes the scene even more present. Then all of a sudden, so many colors in the sky at sunset, all at once and everywhere – I’m guessing you’ve seen a sunset like that, too many colors to even name.

He pauses, for who could not, whether at the beginning of my old age, or at the beginning of youth or middle age, to say a prayer of gratitude for getting to this evening. Who can take for granted that we will arrive at this time of day to see such beauty? His prayer is one we might all remember, for being here, today, now, alive / in this life, to see this amazing sky, to be so fully alive. May we always pause to allow a sunset to wake us up to this life.

Winter Thanks by Marcus Jackson

To the furnace—tall, steel rectangle
containing a flawless flame.
To heat

gliding through ducts, our babies
asleep like bundled opal.
Praise

every furry grain of every
warm hour, praise each
deflection of frost,

praise the fluent veins, praise
the repair person, trudging
in a Carhartt coat

to dig for leaky lines, praise
the equator, where snow
is a stranger,

praise the eminent sun
for letting us orbs buzz around it
like younger brothers,

praise the shooter’s pistol
for silencing its fire by
reason of a chilly chamber

praise our ancestors who shuddered
through winters, bunched
on stark bunks,

praise the owed money
becoming postponed by a lender
who won’t wait

much longer in the icy wind,
praise the neon antifreeze
in our Chevrolet radiator,

and praise the kettle whistle,
imitating an important train,
delivering us

these steam-brimmed sips of tea.

Winter Thanks

I find I love the humble vulnerability of poets who write praise poems. In this one, Marcus Jackson, a new-to-me poet, begins with the furnace – tall, steel rectangle / containing a flawless flame, giving thanks for warming our babies / asleep like bundled opal, what an image that is! He offers praise for the repair person, trudging in a Carhartt coat to keep the leaky lines flowing, the heat blowing through ducts, warmth more than a coat.

Then there is praise of the equator where snow / is a stranger, of the magnetic sun for letting us orbs buzz around it / like younger brothers, of the unloaded gun silencing its fire. I was especially touched by his praise for our ancestors who shuddered / through winters, bunched / on stark bunks, a thought that often comes to me in my furnace-warmed rooms as I imagine unheated spaces in times past, or for that matter, present.

There is praise for the neon antifreeze / in our Chevrolet radiator – what would we do without it in these temperatures? And finally, praise for the whistle of a kettle imitating an important train, / delivering us // these steam-brimmed sips of tea. Now there’s an image with sound and sight and taste and touch all in one, that seems to contain many of the reasons to give thanks for winter. Let us sip a cup of hot tea to offset the winter’s chill, another comfort as the furnace deflects the frost.

Don’t Expect Applause by Ellen Bass

And yet, wouldn’t it be welcome
at the end of each ordinary day?
The audience could be small,
the theater modest. Folding chairs
in a church basement would do.
…Just a short earnest burst of applause
that you got up that morning
and, one way or the other,
made it through the day.

You soaped up in the steaming
shower, drank your Starbucks
in the car, and let the guy with the
Windex wipe your windshield
during the long red light at Broad Street.
Or maybe you were that guy,
not daring to light up
while you stood there because
everyone’s so down on smoke these days.

Or you kissed your wife
as she hurried out the door, even though
you were pretty sure she was
meeting her lover at the Flamingo Motel,
even though you wanted to grab her
by a hank of her sleek hair.

Maybe your son’s in jail.
Your daughter’s stopped eating.
And your husband’s still dead
this morning, just like he was
yesterday and the day before that.
And yet you put on your shoes
and take a walk, and when a neighbor
says Good morning, you say
Good morning back.

Would a round of applause be amiss?
Even if you weren’t good.
If you yelled at your kid,
poisoned the ants, drank too much
and said that really stupid thing
you promised yourself you wouldn’t say.
Even if you don’t deserve it.

Don’t Expect Applause

Ellen Bass has a knack for translating those random thoughts that pass through our mind from time to time, and putting words to them in such a way as to help it all make some sense, as well as with gentle humor. I must say there are days when any sign of appreciation for the endless rounds of thankless tasks would be a happy surprise. And the idea of hands clapping, especially at the end of an ordinary day, would be welcome.

From that first act of the morning, whether it be simply standing up and moving slowly, or, leaping into race day mode, each one is noteworthy, though it may not earn you applause. All the possibilities of a day, from the dramatic to the mundane, are made for appreciation though you may not receive it. Which leads me to wonder if perhaps the applause needs to come from ourselves.

Even if you weren’t good, because who gets through the day without some small thing to regret, something to apologize for saying or doing. Even if you don’t deserve it, because maybe, being human, you really do deserve it. A round of applause for yourself then would not be amiss, would you agree?