I Dare You by Dorianne Laux

It’s autumn, and we’re getting rid
of books, getting ready to retire,
to move some place smaller, more
manageable. We’re living in reverse,
age-proofing the new house, nothing
on the floors to trip over, no hindrances
to the slowed mechanisms of our bodies,
a small table for two. Our world is
shrinking, our closets mostly empty,
gone the tight skirts and dancing shoes,
the bells and whistles. Now, when
someone comes to visit and admires
our complete works of Shakespeare,
the hawk feather in the open dictionary,
the iron angel on a shelf, we say
take them. This is the most important
time of all, the age of divestment,
knowing what we leave behind is
like the fragrance of blossoming trees
that grows stronger after
you’ve passed them, breathing
them in for a moment before
breathing them out. An ordinary
Tuesday when one of you says
I dare you, and the other one
just laughs.

I Dare You

Being of a similar state of mind, I was drawn to Dorianne Laux’s poem, thrilled to discover that someone, a poet of course, had captured some of the ambivalent feelings about this end of life. She opens with autumn, the season of endings of the year, getting ready to retire, that slippery term that can mean different things to each of us, as we contemplate a smaller living space, less house and contents to manage.

We’re living in reverse, / age-proofing the new house, a brilliant way to describe aging, the parallels with new life and growing up. She speaks of the slowed mechanisms of our bodies, the natural order of life as our world shrinks, gone the tight skirts and dancing shoes. Perhaps you might recognize the wisdom of these changes, or perhaps you resist this natural progression, or maybe you’re just not there yet.

She details some of what they give away, the hawk feather, the iron angel – we all have items that once were precious to us that we realize we no longer need. This is the age of divestment, that what we leave behind is like the fragrance of blossoming trees, an exquisite scent that cannot last, breathing / them in for a moment before / breathing them out. Take a breath to feel the truth of that. And now when a friend dares us to do or say something outrageous, we can laugh and remember those times with pleasure as we embrace this new stage of life.

Mother by Ted Kooser

Mid April already, and the wild plums
bloom at the roadside, a lacy white
against the exuberant, jubilant green
of new grass an the dusty, fading black
of burned-out ditches. No leaves, not yet,
only the delicate, star-petaled
blossoms, sweet with their timeless perfume.

You have been gone a month today
and have missed three rains and one nightlong
watch for tornadoes. I sat in the cellar
from six to eight while fat spring clouds
went somersaulting, rumbling east. Then it poured,
a storm that walked on legs of lightning,
dragging its shaggy belly over the fields.

The meadowlarks are back, and the finches
are turning from green to gold. Those same
two geese have come to the pond again this year,
honking in over the trees and splashing down.
They never nest, but stay a week or two
then leave. The peonies are up, the red sprouts
burning in circles like birthday candles,

for this is the month of my birth, as you know,
the best month to be born in, thanks to you,
everything ready to burst with living.
There will be no more new flannel nightshirts
sewn on your old black Singer, no birthday card
addressed in a shaky but businesslike hand.
You asked me if I would be sad when it happened

and I am sad. But the iris I moved from your house
now hold in the dusty dry fists of their roots
green knives and forks as if waiting for dinner,
as if spring were a feast. I thank you for that.
Were it not for the way you taught me to look
at the world, to see the life at play in everything,
I would have to be lonely forever.

Mother

I so admire the poems of Ted Kooser and this is, after all, mid April. He introduces us to the lacy white of wild plums, the timeless perfume of the delicate, star-petaled / blossoms, and the jubilant green of new grass, that joyful new greenness. Then he segues to the woman in the title, gone now a month, measured in rainfalls and a tornado watch. He describes the spring clouds somersaulting, rumbling east, and a storm on legs of lightning, / dragging its shaggy belly over the fields – what a vivid image!

He is speaking directly now to his mother, telling her about the meadowlarks, finches and geese passing on their northward migration. And the peonies with their red sprouts, / burning in circles like birthday candles because it is April, everything ready to burst with living. Though it is his birth month, he tells us there will be no more new flannel nightshirts / sewn on your old black singer , no more hand written birthday cards. This is Kooser’s gift, to use plain-spoken language to bring such details alive.

He acknowledges he is sad she is no longer living, though he has transplanted iris bulbs from her garden to his, the dusty dry fists of their roots / green knives and forks as if waiting for dinner. Another stunning image to describe how he sees spring as a feast. And he thanks her for all this, for the way you taught me to look / at the world, a world where he has learned to see life at play in everything. That final line honours her, saying were it not for what she taught him, I would have to be lonely forever. I can feel how the way he looks at the world keeps her close to him, still living in his memory, not so lonely now.

Joy Chose You by Donna Ashworth

Joy does not arrive with a fanfare

on a red carpet strewn

with the flowers of a perfect life

joy sneaks in

as you pour a cup of coffee

watching the sun

hit your favourite tree

just right

and you usher joy away

because you are not ready for her

your house is not as it should be

for such a distinguished guest

but joy, you see

cares nothing for your messy home,

or your bank balance

or your waistline

joy is supposed to slither through

the cracks of your imperfect life

that’s how joy works

you cannot truly invite her

you can only be ready

when she appears

and hug her with meaning

because in this very moment

joy chose you.

Joy Chose You

Joy does not arrive with a fanfare, no red carpet or flowers strewn about. Certainly not for me, despite the fairy tale messages we hear from an early age. Instead Ashworth says, joy sneaks in, as simple as watching the sun / hit your favourite tree, or any tree I might add. But you usher joy away / because you are not ready for her, perhaps thinking we are not deserving, not quite ready despite our longing.

We can be tricked into believing we will be ready for joy to visit once we have perfected our messy, imperfect lives. But what if joy is supposed to slither through / the cracks of your imperfect life? What if it is strewn all around you – that inexplicable contentment that arrives unexpectedly, those tiny new shoots coming out a wintered earth, a tender touch or kind smile, those quiet joys often overlooked.

As the poet says, we cannot demand joy – you can only be ready / when she appears. We must keep our eyes, ears and hearts open to receive the small gifts of joy that surround us. They are there even on dark days; sometimes we just can’t recognize them. Rather than waiting for the ‘right’ moment, we can let ourselves be ready for when joy chooses us. Are you ready?

Instructions for the Morning After the Terrible Haircut by Gloria Heffernan

First, do not look in the mirror
until after you have had your coffee.
Everything looks better after coffee.
When it still does not look better,
do not drink a second cup of coffee.
It will not make your hair grow faster,
and it will make you jittery while wondering
if anyone would find it odd
if you showed up at work
wearing a bee-keeper’s hood.

Next, go to your jewelry box and take out
the largest pair of earrings you own—
the ones with peacock feathers and beads
to draw attention away from the terrible haircut.
Then dig out the tube of red lipstick
you bought last New Year’s Eve and swore
you would never wear again
because it made you look like a clown.
Nothing distracts from a terrible haircut
like a crimson neon sign across your face

Before heading out the door,
sit still for a little while
and listen to the morning news.
No, I mean really listen.
Then go back and wash your face.
Return to your usual
understated silver earrings.
Be thankful that this morning,
a terrible haircut
is your biggest problem.

Instructions for the Morning After the Terrible Haircut

I love the humour of this poem, along with its underlying truth, and besides, who among you has not had a haircut you wanted to hide from? Should this happen to you, Heffernan tells us, do not look in the mirror / until after you have had your coffee. Even if you are not a coffee drinker, you’ve probably heard that things will look better after your first cup, so you might try it. Her wondering about going to work wearing a bee-keeper’s hood made me laugh out loud.

Next her instructions are to find the largest pair of earrings you own, probably ones you bought on impulse in a Carmen Miranda moment, and which you rarely wear. Then dig out that tube of red lipstick, that supposed-to-be-sexy but actually garish red that you later realized made you look like a clown. Her logic is that Nothing distracts from a terrible haircut / like a crimson neon sign across your face. Questionable but some truth to that no doubt.

Now the turn toward the serious, the invitation to sit still and let yourself hear the morning news. No, I mean really listen, really let yourself take it in. Then it is time to go wash off the loud lipstick, set aside the flamboyant earrings in lieu of your usual / understated silver earrings. Now that you’ve heard, really listened to the news of the day, she presents her final instruction: Be thankful that this morning, / a terrible haircut / is your biggest problem. Kind of nailed it for me, put things in perspective.