The Lives of the Poets

Lately I’ve been reading and studying about the lives of poets Donald Hall and Jane Kenyon. Frankly, I’m obsessed with them.

It all began with a quote of Hall’s which led me to some of his prose writing, which led me to his poems, which led to more of his prose, which in turn led to Kenyon and her poems…and well, here I am, surrounded by piles of books about two people whom I’ve never met but with whose lives I feel utterly familiar.

This isn’t the first time I’ve become enthralled with the lives of poets. When I was a teenager, it was Emily Dickinson who caught my attention, that brilliant recluse in her white dresses, floating through the woods with tiny scraps of paper drifting behind her. Then in college I developed a macabre fascination with Sylvia Plath, her life, her work, her death, all of it appealing to a morbid streak I’ve never been able to quell. My bookshelves are still testimony to both these obsessions, overflowing with texts by and about these two women.

Is there a purpose to such enchantment, besides my simple curiosity? Are poets and writers my “celebrity” obsession, the way some people fixate on movie stars or sports heroes? Or am I looking for insight into my “teachers,” the people whose work and minds I admire?

I think (or at least I hope) that it’s more the latter. Writers like Hall and Kenyon have a rich inner life which they translate into magical poetic imagery. But their outer lives, their day to day existence, is really much like my own. They loved their home, they protected their solitude, they were happy slaves to their daily routine. They cherished the mundane, yet gave us a body of literature conveying life’s sacredness.

I often write about the extraordinary ordinary, how the seemingly small events of everyday life take on great significance if you look at them with an awesome perspective, the way these poets often do in their verse. “The newspaper, the coffee cup, the dog’s/impatience for his morning walk/These fibers braid the ordinary mystery,” writes Hall in his poem The Coffee Cup. “Ordinary days were best/when we worked over poems in our separate rooms,” he writes in Letters With No Address, after Kenyon’s death. “In the bliss of routine/coffee, love, pond afternoons, poems/we feel we will live/forever…"

Kenyon focuses her bright poet’s eye on the “Luminous Particular," imbuing powerful emotion into a particular  image or event which in turn becomes luminous in importance. “I scrub the floorboards/in the kitchen, repeating/the motions of other women/who have lived in this house./And when I find a long gray hair/floating in the pail/I feel my life added to theirs.”

These days I am living in what Hall would probably describe as one of the best years of my life.  They are the years, he said, that “you remember least because nothing notable happens.” They are not the years of disease or sadness, not even the years of great events or travel. They are the years filled with one ordinary day after another. “The best moments of our lives,” he wrote, “were the days of repeated quiet and work.” Work meaning doing the things they loved - reading, writing, walking their dog, climbing the mountain, eating sandwiches, watching baseball, playing ping pong.

“It might have been otherwise,” Kenyon writes in what is probably her best loved poem (Otherwise) as she lists the things she does on a day she obviously considers one of the best. Getting out of bed on “two strong legs", eating cereal with “sweet milk, a ripe flawless peach,”  taking the dog "uphill to the birch plantings", eating dinner with her mate at “a table with silver candlesticks.”

“But one day, I know,” she concludes, “it will be otherwise.” As of course it was, when just a few months after writing those words she was diagnosed with leukemia and was dead just a year later.

How extraordinary is the best of everyday, especially when seen in the light of what might be otherwise. Even today, when yesterday’s promised hope of spring has dissolved and the sky hangs heavy with clouds and cold icy rain. I am blessed with my warm house, with the companionship of these small dogs who are sentinels at my feet. With tea in a green cup crafted by the hands of a friend. These fibers “braid the ordinary mystery."

The lives of the poets remind us. Their work gives us a way to see it anew.

Because we know otherwise will come.

*April is National Poetry Month. Poetry has always been important in my life. I’ve written more about that here.

TLC Review: Bellagrand, by Paullina Simons

Gina and Harry gave up everything to be together. But they both want different things—from their marriage, from life, from each other . . . and from the shifting world around them. Gina, independent, compassionate, and strong, desperately wants a family. Harry, idealistic and fiercely political, wants to create a better world, a better country. At a crossroads and at cross-purposes, they pursue their opposing dreams at great cost to themselves and those near to them. Through years of passion and turmoil they rail, rage, and break each other's hearts, only to come face-to-face with a stark final choice that will forever determine their destiny.

Their journey takes them through four decades and two continents, from extreme poverty to great wealth, from the wooden planks of the troubled immigrant town of Lawrence, Massachusetts, to the marble halls and secret doors of a mystical place called . . . Bellagrand.

Simons recent novel, Bellagrand,  fills in the gap between two previously published novels, Children of Liberty and The Bronze Horseman, delving into the lives and relationships of Harry and Gina Barrington over a period of four decades, beginning in 1911. Although I hadn’t read the books on either side of Bellagrand, I was easily caught up in the story and able to orient myself to the plot and the characters.

The novel centers on the relationship between Harry and Gina, and the great love that exists between them, a love that remains steadfast through every trial Harry puts it through. Because Harold Barrington is a cock-eyed idealist, a man who steadfastly adheres to his anarchic political agenda through arrests, imprisonment, poverty, and loss of citizenship. A man who never gives up, even though it means dragging his family into the weeds with him time and again.

Bellagrand, the palatial home in South Florida that Harry’s mother bequeathed him, is the only place - literally or figuratively - where Harry and Gina have any peace. In this beautiful tropical paradise, Harry (who is under house arrest) seems to have come to terms with his revolutionary ideas, and their idyllic life makes Gina happier than she has ever been. Bellagrand becomes symbolic of all she had hoped her life would be. Yet once Harry is free, he is drawn inexorably back into the world of fomenting revolution - with disastrous results.

I flew through reading Bellagrand, my haste fueled by my anger at Harry for his ridiculous adherence to The Cause, no matter how devastating it made life for his family. How could Gina continue to stay with him and put up with it? I wondered. Her devotion to him was legion, and it saddened me to think that she might have had a far better life if only she had stood her ground. Their sexual attraction never wavered, no matter how difficult Harry was being. Gina seemed to be under some sort of spell, bewitched by this man beyond even the scope of time, place, and “traditional” women’s values.

I always enjoy a huge family saga, especially if it’s historical in nature, and read through the 400 pages of this one in just over three days.  Bellagrand was an interesting, fast paced read, but I found myself more aggravated with the characters than enraptured by them.  I’m a sucker for a happy ending, and there was no such thing to be found in this novel, which didn’t really entice me to continue reading the next installment of the series. If you’ve read the previous novels, Bellagrand provides some hefty “meat" in the middle of that bookish sandwich.

Thanks to TLC Book tours for the opportunity to read this book.

Bellagrand (uncorrected proof), by Paullina Simons

published by William Morrow, 2014

ISBN: 978-0-06-209813-9

Buy the book from Amazon|Barnes & Noble|Indie Bound

Sing-Spiration

Although my musical training and expertise is mainly as an instrumentalist, my years of accompanying choral groups have given me a profound admiration for the craft of singing. Choral music and vocal singing are fulfilling on two levels - my musical ear is satisfied, but so is my writer’s ear. Singing tells a story by setting words to music, and the best choral groups and vocalists convey the depth of this meaning with the nuance of their performance.  Listening to glorious music automatically makes me a happier person. My recent trip to New York was a unique opportunity to hear some of the best male choruses from the midwest and eastern sections of the country. The IMC (Intercollegiate Men’s Chorus) convocation brings together groups of male singers of all ages, who gather to share their love of singing with each other and with their audiences. For the past 100 years, male choruses have joined this collegium to celebrate the inspiring power of song.

I took the opportunity to share more about the experience in this week’s Sunday Salon at All Things Girl magazine.

No Place Like It

We spent last weekend traveling in New York and New Jersey with other members of my husband’s choral group as they performed in a convocation of choruses from around the east  and midwest. After a very full weekend of singing, socializing, and sight-seeing, we traveled home on my birthday early Sunday morning. Contrary to what you might think after my last post in which I so fondly reminisced about birthday parties of my youth, I no longer care much about celebrating my birthday. Perhaps I got it all out of my system when I was younger. Now, I prefer the kind of understated recognition my son enjoyed in his childhood - a quiet day at home, some family time, maybe a nice dinner at a favorite restaurant. So I happily boarded the plane at 9:00 a.m., knowing I’d be home in time for lunch and would have the remainder of the day to myself.

It probably won’t surprise my readers if I say there is literally no other place on earth I’d rather be than in my home. It’s my sanctuary, my happy place, my salvation, all contained within the space of four walls. As we wandered shivering through the noisy, crowded, dirty streets of New York, wending our way amidst scaffolding, steering clear of the mass of bodies pushing headlong into the wind toward office, home, subway, train, my heart was beating a rapid tattoo - get home, get home, get home, it battered against my chest. I imagine my face wore the panicked expression you see on the eyes of a lost dog anxiously running down an unfamiliar street. Where is my house? Where are my people? Where is my home?

Sometimes I feel as if I need to apologize for loving home so much, for my desire to be here rather than traipsing around the world. For most of my generation, traveling is listed at the top of their ubiquitous bucket lists. There is a sensation that in order to be smart, interesting, and informed, one must be a traveler, must yearn to see and experience foreign lands. If that need doesn’t exist for me, am I therefore provincial, small-minded, and dull? If I don’t force myself out into new and different places, will my intellect atrophy like the sinew of a paraplegic confined to a wheelchair?

My love of home is long-standing and probably inbred. My mother despises travel - her mantra being “don’t take me anywhere unless I can get home to sleep in my own bed.” My grandmother and aunt were like-minded, and when I was younger I determined to be different. I scoffed at their attitudes, which I felt were based on fear and provincialism. Jim and I did some traveling, and I congratulated myself for (eventually!) learning to fly without fear, wander around in unfamiliar cities, even spend three weeks criss-crossing the United Kingdom.

But no matter where I am, every night at dark I am struck with an unassailable bout of homesickness, a heart-wrenching longing for my comfortable chair, a hot bath in my own tub, my bed, pillow, and book to lull me to sleep. With each passing year, it becomes more difficult to over this feeling, to find an acceptable balance between the longing for home and the potential benefit of having new experiences.

Right after my son’s birth, he developed severe jaundice and was having a terribly difficult time nursing. His healthy eight pound birthweight quickly dropped to six and half pounds. The head of pediatrics was called in, and after a five minute consultation diagnosed “failure to thrive.” The doctors wanted to send me home and keep Brian in the hospital. I protested, and because this was 34 years ago and insurance companies did not have the same stranglehold on medical treatment they have today, I was allowed to remain in the hospital in an attempt to maintain nursing. Finally, after a week of being in a hospital room with two other women, a week of aching to go home with my baby, I convinced the doctor to discharge us, even though Brian still hadn’t regained much of his birthweight.

“It will all be better when we get home,” I promised him. I’m upset, I can’t eat, I’m not making any milk. I just need to go home."

When we got home that day, my mother and grandmother had been at our house all day, making fried chicken and buttermilk biscuits, macaroni-and-cheese and cherry pies - all those fat-filled Southern comfort foods that spell H-O-M-E. Within a day or two, the baby was nursing like a champ. Within two weeks, he had gained three pounds. Home worked its magic on both of us.

Last Sunday as our plane headed west toward Michigan I felt myself becoming more and more energized with each passing mile. Despite only three hours of fitful sleep the night before, I was wide awake and excited. Although Jim crashed on the sofa exhausted and travel weary, I arrived home with abundant energy, spent the day putting everything back in order, catching up on e-mails, planning for the week ahead, cooking dinner, enjoying a movie on television. I reveled in a hot bath in my garden tub, the warm blankets on my bed, my favorite fluffy pillow, and a book.

These days it seems that  home calls to me as it never has before. Perhaps it’s because I have become so enamored of this new house, this new neighborhood, because I sigh with pure delight each time I walk in the door and know this beautiful place is my home. Perhaps it’s because I feel a need to be closer than ever to my mother, who becomes more frail with each passing day and depends on the security of my nearby presence. Perhaps it’s because I need the sense of constancy and permanence offered in  daily routines, which in some ways have taken on the essence of sacred rituals. Morning coffee. Walks. Reading and writing. Bath, books, bed.

“There is nothing like staying at home for real comfort,” Jane Austen wrote. Whatever the reason, I will no longer apologize for my lack of interest in traveling or for my desire to be home. For me at this point in my life, there is no place like it.

Celebrations

Birthdays are my favorite of all holiday celebrations. I love everything about them (well, maybe not so much the getting older part). I love having a special day that is just about me, a day that celebrates my existence. I love hearing my mother’s version of the night I was born, a story that takes on almost religious significance in family history.  I love remembering some of the ways I’ve celebrated all my birthdays over these almost six decades. When I was a little girl, my mother gave me not only one but two elaborate birthday parties every year. One was a family party,  for the multitude of cousins, including aunts and uncles, who lived near us. The other was for my neighborhood and school friends, all my hand-picked favorites. The parties were always at our house, and I have wonderful memories of picking out colored streamers with coordinating decorative paper plates, cups, napkins, and candles. I always had a new dress to wear, which meant a shopping trip the week before the big day. There would be fresh sandwiches (usually turkey and ham salads), home baked chocolate layer cake, and neopolitan ice cream. All my favorites.

They were grand and gala affairs, these birthday parties. And though I swear on a stack of Bibles that I am introvert through and through, I still recall being giddy with excitement about being the center of attention during these events.

When my son was little, we had a combination friend/family party for his first and second birthdays. By this time, most of my cousins had grown up, many had moved away. Some of the aunts and uncles were retired to Florida or California. Because neither Jim nor I have any siblings, there wasn’t much in the way of family to celebrate. Brian’s birthday celebrations became small family affairs, or maybe a sleep-over with one special friend.

When Brian was in second grade, he was in a particularly nice classroom with several little boys he enjoyed playing with. I had been feeling guilty about our lackluster birthday festivities, and I suggested we have a big birthday party and invite all the boys in his class. He agreed, so we set about planning how to fit 9 or 10 little boys in our small house. I moved furniture out of the way, set up card tables in the living room, decorated with streamers. I can’t recall if we had a “theme,” but if we did it was probably either cars or Star Trek.

On the appointed day, the boys descended. There was no worry about trying to fit them into the house. They simply took over every available inch of space. It was pretty wild and rambunctious, at least by our quiet standard of living. Cake and ice cream were consumed, games were played, toys were opened and wrapping paper tossed with wild abandon. It was a a typical boyish birthday party.

After it was over and the last guest had been ushered out the door, Brian turned to me and said, “Don’t ever do that to me again.”  Turns out what I thought would be a fun and celebratory event for him was more akin to spending the afternoon in the seventh circle of hell.

One of the hardest lessons we learn as parents is that our children are not us. As a mother, I had identified so closely with my son that I assumed he would love the same things I loved. It’s hard to accept that our children don’t alway share our feelings or reactions or preferences. It’s a lesson we keep learning, every single day.

Today is my son’s birthday. He’s having a quiet day with his wife and son, going out for lunch, going shopping, maybe playing some video games. There is birthday cake at home for later, and presents and cards waiting to open. While some young men in their 30’s would probably enjoy a day hanging out with a group of friends, maybe going to a game, drinking some beer, I’m pretty sure Brian’s plans for today will suit him a lot better.

But there is one feeling I’m quite sure that Brian and I share: The day our sons were born was the best day of our lives.

Happy birthday to my wonderful son. May this new year of your life be filled with happiness!