Month: March 2008

e.e. cummings’ celebration of Spring

It’s been a long time since I read e.e. cummings, though he was one of my favorite poets in college. Mike’s suggestion that I might want to take a look at his Unitarian roots made me decide to re-read his Collected Poems. I’m enjoying reacquainting myself with his poetry, especially since it gives me a chance to compare poems that I liked while at college and poems that I like now. I decided not to look at poems I’d marked until I’ve actually re-read them.

I did look back and see that I also enjoyed this poem the first time I read it, suggesting that neither cummings nor i have entirely shaken our Romantic heritage:

21

Oh, sweet spontaneous
earth, how often have
the
doting
fingers of
prurient philosophers pinched
and
poked
thee
,
has the naughty thumb
of science prodded
thy
beauty . how
often have religions taken
thee upon their scraggy knees
squeezing and
buffeting thee that thou mightest conceive
gods
(but
true
to the incomparable
couch of death thy
rhythmic
lover
thou answerest

them only with

spring)

Generally when I think of e.e.cummings i tend to forget about the content of his poems and focus on the rather obvious differences between his poetry and that which proceeded him. Poems like this remind me just how traditional much of the comment seemed. Of course, seen in the context of contemporary poetry, his style also seems much more traditional than it did when i read him in the 60’s. In fact, he reminds me more of Metaphysical poems like Doone and Herbert than he does most current poets.

Still, there’s an immediacy to this poem that reminds me more of Taoism than I would ever have imagined. He rejects attempts to turn Nature into Gods, but contrasts the marvel of spring to the “incomparable couch of death” it’s “rhythmic lover.”

The Bluebird of Happiness

I didn’t get a chance to see nearly as many birds last week in Santa Rosa as I did in the previous visit, but we got more sunshine than we did in the previous visit. I think there was only one partially cloudy day our whole week there. Otherwise, everything came up Blue Skies.

Since we stayed closer to home, I spent more time than in the previous trip trying to capture the ultimate shot of the Mockingbird and the Western Scrub Jay that seem to make their home in Mary’s yard.

Perhaps not surprisingly, my favorite shot of the Mockingbird is this one, which I took the first day I was there:

Mockingbird on Post

I have a much harder time deciding which is my favorite Western Scrub Jay photos, perhaps because all have a fundamental flaw. For instance, technically this might be the best shot because the light and background were excellent:

Western Scrub Jay on Roof

but I don’t like the fact the Jay is sitting on a man-made object.

I also liked this shot, even the angle looking down, but the grass seems rather distracting to me.

Scrub Jay on Lawn

For awhile, I thought I’d go the perfect shot of this Western Bluebird
the very first time I’d ever seen one, but the more I look at it, the less happy I am with the blue of the lake in the background. Unfortunately, I’ve not found a good way to alter it without also destroying the colors in the bird itself. And, of course, in the photos I took with the grass in the background there are harsh shadows which detract from the bird itself.

Western Bluebird

Perhaps it’s best that the perfect photo seems to evade me just as eternal happiness continues to mock me. Otherwise, all the expensive photo equipment I’ve gathered in the last few years would have to be disposed of and a new pursuit pursued.

Carver’s “Gravy”

I’ll have to admit that purely for personal reasons, Carver’s “Gravy” is probably my favorite poem. Those few who were reading “In a Dark Time” in December of 2001 will remember that I was diagnosed with throat cancer and told I would be dead in less than six months unless I got immediate treatment, and none of the treatment options seemed particularly good.

GRAVY

No other word will do.  For that’s what it was.

Gravy.

Gravy, these past ten years.

Alive, sober, working, loving, and

being loved by a good woman.  Eleven years

ago he was told he had six months to live

at the rate he was going.  And he was going

nowhere but down.  So he changed his ways

somehow.  He quit drinking!  And the rest?

After that it was all gravy, every minute

of it, up to and including when he was told about,

well, some things that were breaking down and

building up inside his head.  “Don’t weep for me,”

he said to his friends.  “I’m a lucky man.

I’ve had ten years longer than I or anyone

expected.  Pure Gravy.  And don’t forget it.”

I survived throat surgery, learned how to eat again and seem to have totally recovered from the cancer even though the odds seemed stacked against me. Since then, I’ve felt exactly like this. I sometimes think these have actually been the best years of my life, though that’s hard to say because I seldom think much beyond the moment. Though I’m not planning on dying in the near future, I seldom plan beyond that time.

And yet, if I were to die on the way home this Friday I would be happy. I need nothing more than today and today and today. It’s been all gravy.

Carver’s “Hope”

I’ll have to admit that my favorite Carver poems are those that seem to mention “Tess,” and refer to the last ten years of his life, apparently the happiest years of his life. Those poems, however, lose much of their strength if they are not seen against the whole of his work, which includes many poems focused on his failed marriage and to the alcoholism that threatened his very existence.

In light of may own divorce after seventeen years of marriage, I can certainly identify with this poem:

HOPE

“my wife,” says Pinnegar, “expects to see me go to the dogs when she leaves me. It is her last hope.”

–D.H. Lawrence, “Jimmy and the Desperate Woman”

She gave me the car and two
hundred dollars. Said, So long, baby.
Take it easy, hear? So much
for twenty years of marriage.
She knows, or thinks she knows,
I’ll go through the dough
in a day or two, and eventually
wreck the car — which was
in my name and needed work anyway.
When i drove off, she and her boy —
friend were changing the lock
on the front door. They waved.
I waved back to let them know
I didn’t think any the less
of them. Then sped toward
the state line. I was hell-bent.v
She was right to think so.

I went to the dogs, and we
became good friends.
But I kept going. Went
a long way without stopping.
Left the dogs my friends, behind.
Nevertheless, when I did show
my face at that house again
months, or years, later, driving
a different car, she wept
when she saw me at the door.
Sober. Dressed in a clean shirt,
pants and boots. Her last hope
blasted.
She didn’t have a thing
to hope for anymore.

I suspect that anyone who has endured a bitter divorce (aren’t all divorces bitter ?) can identify with this poem, perhaps even hoping the same for their former spouse. I know it took me many years before I could begin to hope that my ex-wife found the same happiness that I sought for myself.

The irony, of course, is that even the narrator believes that his wife is right when she believes he is “hell-bent,” as many of Carver’s poems show. The remarkable thing is that he managed to overcome his personal devils and find happiness. And, though it’s never stated, the implication seems to be that he has done better than his ex for when she last sees him her last hope, for happiness, is “blasted” and she “didn’t have a thing/ to hope for anymore.”

The best revenge in life isn’t getting even; it’s simply finding your own happiness.