You Belong to the World by Carrie Fountain

as do your children, as does your husband.
It’s strange even now to understand that
you are a mother and a wife, that these gifts
were given to you and that you received them,
fond as you’ve always been of declining
invitations. You belong to the world. The hands
that put a peach tree into the earth exactly
where the last one died in the freeze belong
to the world and will someday feed it again,
differently, your body will become food again
for something, just as it did so humorously
when you became a mother, hungry beings
clamoring at your breast, born as they’d been
with the bodily passion for survival that is
our kind’s one common feature. You belong
to the world, animal. Deal with it. Even as
the great abstractions come to take you away,
the regrets, the distractions, you can at any second
come back to the world to which you belong,
the world you never left, won’t ever leave, cells
forever, forever going through their changes,
as they have been since you were less than
anything, simple information born inside
your own mother’s newborn body, itself made
from the stuff your grandmother carried within hers
when at twelve she packed her belongings
and left the Scottish island she’d known—all
she’d ever known—on a ship bound for Ellis Island,
carrying within her your mother, you, the great
human future that dwells now inside the bodies
of your children, the young, who, like you,
belong to the world.

You Belong to the World

I’m not quite sure what it is about this poem, but I keep reading and reading it again for the comfort I find in the unequivocal reassurance Fountain offers us. Beginning with the title as the first line, she tells us simply you belong to the world. Regardless of whether you are a mother or a wife, she is clear that these gifts / were given to you and that you received them. With the reference to the peach tree, I hear a link between the earth and the body, your body will become food again / for something. We are rooted, grounded in the earth and in the world.

You belong to the world, animal. Deal with it. So direct and certain – you belong no matter if you believe it or not, the world you never left, won’t ever leave, cells / forever. And then she tells the story you may have heard before, how your cells were inside your mother’s body while she was still cells, simple information, inside her mother’s body. The story of the grandmother who left her Scottish Island, all / she’d ever known, to come to a new country, this ancestral link that connects us to the past as well as the present and even the future.

This grandmother, carrying the great / human future that dwells now inside the bodies / of your children – can you feel the bloodline of human beings, how we are here because we belong here. We are of the world, connected to the earth the way the peach tree was put into the earth to grow and flourish there. And doesn’t it all belong? This endless succession of kinship that makes up this world, each of us with our own place, our relationship to the earth, to the world. I am left with this certainty: You belong to the world.

Caregiver by James Crews

You have put off all the small rituals

of care for the body, ignoring every ache

and pain of your own as just the pounding

of a passing storm. Now that your loved one

is gone, the rain won’t stop, and you can

no longer deny that thunder and lightning

don’t split the sky. Now, like a mother

to yourself, you rise from sleep in the night

to give food, give drink, give heat—pulling

the wool blanket over your feet. Now, you say

a resounding no to whatever gets in the way

of your love for this fierce and tender creature

you must caretake, lifting all the shades

in the house, and bringing a glass of cold

water to your lips, little by little coming back

to the only world there is.

Caregiver

If you have ever been a caregiver, especially over the long term, you will recognize the wisdom James Crews brings to us in this poem. I’ve been there myself, and lately, perhaps a function of aging, my life is touched by so many friends and family members who have found themselves in this role. You have put off all the small rituals / of care for the body, he begins, reminding us that we subsume our own aches and pains, subordinating them to the needs of another.

Once that person is no longer here, you can / no longer deny that thunder and lightning / don’t split the sky. Now you can begin to recognize your own needs; now like a mother / to yourself you can turn your attention inward. In fact, though it can seem impossible while focused on others, it is essential to give attention to ourselves, to give food, give drink, give heat to sustain ourselves through such trying times.

This other person you must caretake, this fierce and tender creature, needs your attention regardless of the demands that come at you, when even your own needs seem insignificant. It takes only a moment of small gestures, the blinds raised to welcome sunshine, a glass of cold water, to give sustenance to yourself, to return to the only world there is. May you be guided to care for yourself, giving back to yourself the tender care you offer to another.

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.

Goldfinch by Terri Kirby Erickson

Stunned by an unforgiving

pane of glass, a finch

fell to the ground

like a splash of pale

yellow paint. It sat

shivering in the snow,

its heartbeat faster

than a spinning bobbin

in the aftermath of such

a killing blow. Yet,

this little bird’s thimble-

full of life held fast

to its fragile body,

and was soon cradled

by a loving human hand.

There with splayed

feathers stroked smooth,

belly warmed by

a kind woman’s skin,

the goldfinch rallied.

It spread its gilded wings

and flew to a snow-

laden branch, forgetting

before it got there,

the sky’s unyielding

reflection – then flew

again – a bird-shaped

star with billions

of years left to burn.

Goldfinch

Every carefully chosen word in this poem creates an indelible picture, an experience we can put ourselves into. You are probably familiar with that unforgiving pane of glass, stunning a small bird who now lies on the ground like a splash of pale / yellow paint. It lies there shivering, its heartbeat faster / than a spinning bobbin / in the aftermath of such / a killing blow. Ouch.

Yet, / this little bird’s thimble- / full of life held fast / to its fragile body, such resilience in so small a being. A human hand warming this tiny body, splayed / feathers stroked smooth. Can you hear the polish of those ‘s’ sounds, feel their comfort? Is there not always that impulse to pick up such a vulnerable creature, hope to help revive it?

And so this finch rallies, flies to a branch, forgetting / before it got there, / the sky’s unyielding / reflection. Unlike the pane of glass, the sky will yield to its flight, make space for those wings, a bird-shaped / star with billions / of years left to burn. This goldfinch will not live as long as the lifetime of stars, but on this day, that thimble-full of life will shine its golden glow against the snow just as bright.

Dust by Danusha Laméris

It covers everything, fine powder,

the earth’s gold breath falling softly

on the dark wood dresser, blue ceramic bowls, 

picture frames on the wall. It wafts up

from canyons, carried on the wind,

on the wings of birds, in the rough fur of animals

as they rise from the ground. Sometimes it’s copper,

sometimes dark as ink. In great storms,

it even crosses the sea. Once,

when my grandmother was a girl,

a strong gale lifted red dust from Africa

and took it thousands of miles away

to the Caribbean where people swept it

from their doorsteps, kept it in small jars,

reminder of that other home.

Gandhi said, “The seeker after truth

should be humbler than the dust.”

Wherever we go, it follows.

I take a damp cloth, swipe the windowsills,

the lamp’s taut shade, run a finger

over the dining room table.

And still, it returns, settling in the gaps

between floorboards, gilding the edges

of unread books. What could be more loyal, 

more lonely, and unsung?

Dust

I confess to being annoyed or just indifferent to the ever-present dust in my house, so it is such a pleasure to read Laméris’s poem which offers a whole new perspective. Her description of this fine powder as the earth’s gold breath falling softly on the everyday household objects gives me pause – gold breath, mmmm. Dust not only falls down but wafts up from canyons, carried by wind, birds, animals.

It can be copper-coloured, ink-dark, even red dust from Africa blown across the ocean to reach the islands of the Caribbean. This wine-coloured dust is swept up, saved, reminder of that other home, such a poignant connection. Then her quote from Gandhi, The seeker after truth / should be humbler than the dust, something we all need to hear. This humility is emphasized by the line Wherever we go, it follows; we are none of us exempt.

So she dusts windowsills, lampshade, table top, gently removing the relentless accumulation. And still, it returns – so true is it not? Every surface ultimately sifted with this fine powder, waiting to be noticed. That last line, her question, caught my attention – What could be more loyal, / more lonely, and unsung? I cannot argue dust’s reliability, though I had not thought of it as lonely, but unsung, yes, until now with this poem.

How to Listen by Joyce Sutphen

Tilt your head slightly to one side and lift
your eyebrows expectantly. Ask questions.

Delve into the subject at hand or let
things come randomly. Don’t expect answers.

Forget everything you’ve ever done.
Make no comparisons. Simply listen.

Listen with your eyes, as if the story
you are hearing is happening right now.

Listen without blinking, as if a move
might frighten the truth away forever.

Don’t attempt to copy anything down.
Don’t bring a camera or a recorder.

This is your chance to listen carefully.
Your whole life might depend on what you hear.

How to Listen

It is said that listening is a skill more important than speaking which seems to be true given how easily and often we tend to pronounce our opinions and desires, how seldom we pause to listen to another. I like the idea that you might lift / your eyebrows expectantly – perhaps you recognize this body posture as you attune to another’s voice. Listening requires our attentive silence and the possibility of asking questions without expecting answers.

Listen with your eyes, watching as if the story you are hearing is happening right now. If you simply listen without expectation or judgement, who knows what you may actually hear? It can be challenging to listen without rehearsing what we ourselves want to say next. She says to not even blink, as if a move / might frighten the truth away forever. Although a blink may not cause someone to cease speaking, our body posture can convey listening, or distraction, even disinterest.

Don’t bring a camera or a recorder, she advises, your eyes and ears are enough when you pay attention, no need to write down the specific words you are hearing. When we listen carefully, full of care, we are present in a new way, our senses open. Our presence and silence are a gift. Your whole life might depend on what you hear. You just never know what might be offered if you practice listening with your whole self.

Relax by Ellen Bass

Bad things are going to happen.
Your tomatoes will grow a fungus
and your cat will get run over.
Someone will leave the bag with the ice cream
melting in the car and throw
your blue cashmere sweater in the drier.
Your husband will sleep
with a girl your daughter’s age, her breasts spilling
out of her blouse. Or your wife
will remember she’s a lesbian
and leave you for the woman next door. The other cat–
the one you never really liked–will contract a disease
that requires you to pry open its feverish mouth
every four hours. Your parents will die.
No matter how many vitamins you take,
how much Pilates, you’ll lose your keys,
your hair and your memory. If your daughter
doesn’t plug her heart
into every live socket she passes,
you’ll come home to find your son has emptied
the refrigerator, dragged it to the curb,
and called the used appliance store for a pick up–drug money.
There’s a Buddhist story of a woman chased by a tiger.
When she comes to a cliff, she sees a sturdy vine
and climbs half way down. But there’s also a tiger below.
And two mice–one white, one black–scurry out
and begin to gnaw at the vine. At this point
she notices a wild strawberry growing from a crevice.
She looks up, down, at the mice.
Then she eats the strawberry.
So here’s the view, the breeze, the pulse
in your throat. Your wallet will be stolen, you’ll get fat,
slip on the bathroom tiles of a foreign hotel
and crack your hip. You’ll be lonely.
Oh taste how sweet and tart
the red juice is, how the tiny seeds
crunch between your teeth.

Relax

I’m sure someone has, at some time, told you to ‘just relax’ in the face of a stressful situation, which of course does nothing to relieve one’s stress and anxiety. So I love the title of this poem, with its long litany of things that could go wrong. Ellen has a knack for capturing the absurd along with the real possibilities. Have you ever left ice cream in the car in the summer and found it melted when you returned, on the cloth seat no less!

The list of imagined horrors is impossible to ignore – everything from unfaithful partners to sick cats to losing your keys, / your hair, your memory. And your adult children, so many opportunities for heartbreak, funny, not funny. And then comes the Buddhist teaching story of a women hanging from a vine on a cliff. Two mice, classically one black, one white, are chewing through the vine, her fall inevitable. Then she notices a wild strawberry growing from a crevice, and she does the only thing she can do – she eats this perfect strawberry.

So here’s the view, the poet says, things will happen to you; you are not immune. What can you do? Oh taste how sweet and tart / the red juice is, how the tiny seeds / crunch between your teeth. Can you look for the strawberry, the gift that will not save your life, but can give meaning to the life you have in that moment. It’s not a simplistic solution, but rather a reminder that we must pay attention to the small details of our lives and reach for the sweetness when we find it. It can even help us to actually relax.