Lucky Words

Recorded in a tiny little canyon that I never learned the name for, but it was peaceful and quiet. Everyone should have a peaceful, quiet little place to read a poem every now and again.

As I mention in the commentary, this is interesting because it's simultaneously modern -- I mean, it's talking about an event in the 20th century! -- but also has something older about it. All of Thomas Hardy does, I think, and this in particular. We don't worry much about the role that Fates play in our lives these days.

#### TEXT OF POEM

"The Convergence of the Twain" by Thomas Hardy

(Lines on the loss of the "Titanic")

I

In a solitude of the sea

Deep from human vanity,

And the Pride of Life that planned her, stilly couches she.

II

Steel chambers, late the pyres

Of her salamandrine fires,

Cold currents thrid, and turn to rhythmic tidal lyres.

III

Over the mirrors meant

To glass the opulent

The sea-worm crawls -- grotesque, slimed, dumb, indifferent.

IV

Jewels in joy designed

To ravish the sensuous mind

Lie lightless, all their sparkles bleared and black and blind.

V

Dim moon-eyed fishes near

Gaze at the gilded gear

And query: "What does this vaingloriousness down here?" ...

VI

Well: while was fashioning

This creature of cleaving wing,

The Immanent Will that stirs and urges everything

VII

Prepared a sinister mate

For her -- so gaily great --

A Shape of Ice, for the time far and dissociate.

VIII

And as the smart ship grew

In stature, grace, and hue,

In shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too.

IX

Alien they seemed to be;

No mortal eye could see

The intimate welding of their later history,

X

Or sign that they were bent

By paths coincident

On being anon twin halves of one august event,

XI

Till the Spinner of the Years

Said "Now!" And each one hears,

And consummation comes, and jars two hemispheres.

Recorded sitting next to some trickling water just outside the mouth of Hellhole Canyon, in Ivins, Utah. In part, my analysis was a chance for me to talk a little about my process in reading a poem—the messy stuff that gets cut out in my editing.

Because not only do I typically record things in a single take and live on a hike, I also don't use any notes or any script. I have, of course, read and thought about the poem, but I don't have a written plan: I read the poem and then talk about it, just like I would if you were on the hike with me. What happens in editing is that I take out long pauses where I think, or I remove false starts. Sometimes I'll get two minutes into an idea and then realize that what I'm talking about is invalidated by a word or phrase that I hadn't understood before.

That's how it goes with many things, isn't it? We start off with a rough idea about where we are headed, but only along the way do we actually figure it out. If you don't believe me, [take Alan Jacobs's word for it](https://blog.ayjay.org/my-writing-advice/).

Anyway, that's my process.

For this poem in particular, you might be interested in [seeing the painting that Auden is talking about](https://www.bl.uk/collection-items/landscape-with-the-fall-of-icarus).

#### TEXT OF POEM

"Musée des Beaux Arts" by W. H. Auden

_December 1938_

About suffering they were never wrong,

The Old Masters: how well they understood

Its human position; how it takes place

While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along

How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting

For the miraculous birth, there always must be

Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating

On a pond at the edge of the wood:

They never forgot

That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course

Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot

Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse

Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.

In Brueghel's _Icarus_, for instance: how everything turns away

Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may

Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,

But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone

As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green

Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen

Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky

Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

A reading and short analysis of Jim Harrison's poem, recorded live in [Hellhole canyon](https://hikestgeorge.com/hiking-trails/hellhole-canyon/), outside St. George, Utah.

#### TEXT OF POEM

"I Believe" by Jim Harrison, from his book [_In Search of Small Gods_](https://www.amazon.com/Search-Small-Gods-Jim-Harrison/dp/1556593198)

I believe in steep drop-offs, the thunderstorm across the lake

in 1949, cold winds, empty swimming pools,

the overgrown path to the creek, raw garlic,

used tires, taverns, saloons, bars, gallons of red wine,

abandoned farmhouses, stunted lilac groves,

gravel roads that end, brush piles, thickets, girls

who haven't quite gone totally wild, river eddies,

leaky wooden boats, the smell of used engine oil,

turbulent rivers, lakes without cottages lost in the woods,

the primrose growing out of a cow skull, the thousands

of birds I've talked to all of my life, the dogs

that talked back, the Chihuahuan ravens that follow

me on long walks. The rattler escaping the cold hose,

the fluttering unknown gods that I nearly see

from the left corner of my blind eye, struggling

to stay alive in a world that grinds them underfoot.

Three poems (more than two!) poems by E. E. Cummings recorded on the shore of the Virgin River in northern Arizona, at the edge of the Mojave Desert. I was sitting on a big, jutting chunk of red sandstone, surrounded by Joshua trees and cacti.

These three poems are of varying levels of difficulty, but for today, the only one that gets the double treatment is "sweet spring is your."

One thing I didn't mention—because I am a man with great self-control—is that I can't read "viva sweet love" without thinking of Elvis singing "Viva Las Vegas." And maybe that's why I chose this poem, sitting just a long stone's throw from the road that would take me there. I can imagine Elvis singing a song with these lyrics, and it would have been a classic.

Instead, I discovered "sweet spring is your" from this album ([Apple Music](https://music.apple.com/us/album/the-rain-is-a-handsome-animal-17-songs-from-the-poetry/547639841), [Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/album/6CyUWx6roy1SbW0AjS0MnN)) by the acoustic chamber quarter (formerly trio) [Tin Hat](http://www.tinhattrio.com).

### TEXT OF POEMS

All the following are by E. E. Cummings and published in _1x1 [One times one]_ (1944), which is also included in his [Complete Poems, 1904-1962](https://www.amazon.com/Cummings-Complete-Poems-1904-1962/dp/1631490419)

**LI**

"sweet spring is your

time is my time is our

time for springtime is lovetime

and viva sweet love"

(all the merry little birds are

flying in the floating in the

very spirits singing in

are winging in the blossoming)

lovers go and lovers come

awandering awondering

but any two are perfectly

alone there's nobody else alive

(such a sky and such a sun

i never knew and neither did you

and everybody never breathed

quite so many kinds of yes)

not a tree can count his leaves

each herself by opening

but shining who by thousands mean

only one amazing thing

(secretly adoring shyly

tiny winging darting floating

merry in the blossoming

always joyful selves are singing)

"sweet spring is your

time is my time is our

time for springtime is lovetime

and viva sweet love"

**XXVII**

old mr ly

fresh from a fu

ruddy as a sun

with blue true two

man

neral

rise

eyes

"this world's made 'bout

right it's the people that

abuses it you can git

anything you like out

of it if

you gut a mind

to there's something

for everybody it's a"

old mr lyman

ruddy as a sunrise

fresh with blue come

true from

a funeral

eyes

"big

thing"

**DXIV**

pity this busy monster,manunkind,

not. Progress is a comfortable disease:

your victim(death and life safely beyond)

plays with the bigness of his littleness

—electrons deify one razorblade

into a mountainrange;lenses extend

unwish through curving wherewhen till unwish

returns on its unself.

A world of made

is not a world of born—pity poor flesh

and trees,poor stars and stones,but never this

fine specimen of hypermagical

ultraomnipotence. We doctors know

a hopeless case if—listen:there's a hell

of a good universe next door;let's go

***

Comments, feedback, suggestions, complaints? [Send 'em my way](mailto:[email protected]).

Recorded on site at the tiny, old cemetery in Charleston, Utah. Some of my ancestors are buried there, which makes it relevant for me at least, on this particular day.

You can find some interesting commentary about what Kipling might have been thinking about while composing this poem on [the Kipling Society page about this poem](https://www.kiplingsociety.co.uk/readers-guide/rg_nativity1.htm). It talks much more about World War I and the death of Kipling's son Joseph—all things that I did not discuss.

Because it's Easter! The poem works as a straight religious poem even without its historical context. The historical context is one way of reading the poem, but by no means the only way.

Different ways to read poems is the subject for another day. For today, Easter, the celebration of Christ's resurrection, we're going to stick with a Christocentric reading. Anyway, the solely historical reading of "A Nativity" must simply ignore the final lines of the poem, which feels like a greater disservice from my perspective.

#### TEXT OF POEM

"A Nativity" by Rudyard Kipling

_The Babe was laid in the Manger

Between the gentle kine—

All safe from cold and danger—_

"But it was not so with mine,

(With mine! With mine!)

"Is it well with the child, is it well?"

The waiting mother prayed.

"For I know not how he fell,

And I know not where he is laid."

_A Star stood forth in Heaven;

The Watchers ran to see

The Sign of the Promise given--_

"But there comes no sign to me.

(To me! To me!)_

"My _child died in the dark.

Is it well with the child, is it well?

There was none to tend him or mark,

And I know not how he fell."

_The Cross was raised on high;

The Mother grieved beside—_

"But the Mother saw Him die

And took Him when He died.

(He died! He died!)

"Seemly and undefiled

His burial-place was made—

Is it well, is it well with the child?

For I know not where he is laid."

_On the dawning of Easter Day

Comes Mary Magdalene;

But the Stone was rolled away,

And the Body was not within—_

(Within! Within!)

"Ah, who will answer my word?"

The broken mother prayed.

"They have taken away my Lord,

And I know not where He is Laid."

"_The Star stands forth in Heaven.

The watchers watch in vain

For Sign of the Promise given

Of peace on Earth again—_

(Again! Again!)

"But I know for Whom he fell"—

The steadfast mother smiled,

"Is it well with the child—is it well?

It is well—it is well with the child!"

Recorded live and on site right outside Utah Lake State Park, which means that there are also airplanes flying and birds chirping and other people walking. I have edited out the other people walking, but the rest of it is all here.

[Mark Gibbons](https://gibbonspoetry.com/) is the Montana Poet Laureate for 2021-2023, and I hope he doesn't mind that I used this poem...

#### TEXT OF POEM

"My Life as a Capitalist" by Mark Gibbons

My Life as a Capitalist

has been an abject failure.

As evidence consider the living

room of this rental I've lived in

for the last twenty years:

this chair I sit in and the area rug

beneath me were gifted by our friends,

Bob & Sheryl; the two wooden tables

holding second hand lamps

and donated plants belonged to

our grandmothers; the hide-a-bed

sofa I inherited from my mom

along with the TV trays

we use for end tables; another

straight-backed chair and the handmade

entertainment center I picked up

at my old job as a furniture mover

where I found the legless entryway

table my brother rebuilt for me;

our used Samsung flat screen TV

was shipped to us by friends in Alaska;

the boom-box was donated by my buddy

Burt to fill the silence of the departed

one. The art on the walls? Given to us.

The only thing in this room we purchased

brand new is the (now shredded) cat tree

which has evolved into a scratched post-

modern work of frayed-fiber art.

If everyone in America lived like me,

there would be no "throw away" society/

economy. And now that we find ourselves

crowding the end of the line, to consider that

this is all we have, our accumulated wealth,

seems comical (in the way that everything

has seemed comical to me, the absurdity

of this material trip). It almost appears as if

it were a focused effort to have bought

so little and scrounged so much. Honestly

I just didn't pay attention, and obviously

I don't care—never did. So this is

the inevitable result—what's left of

the hand-me-down kid: one angel

on the right moans, embarrassed,

holding and shaking its head while

the little devil on the left sorts through

a pile of freebies from the recently dead.

You can find this poem in Gibbons's book, which [you can buy signed by the author](https://www.factandfictionbooks.com/weeds-signed) at Missoula's best independent bookstore, Fact & Fiction.

Five or six years ago, I read this poem here on Lucky Words. This is a new recording—recorded, edited, and uploaded on Good Friday 2023—looking at the best Good Friday poem ever written.

Who am I kidding? Every poem by John Donne is the best ever written.

I hope that you have (or had) a lovely Easter, filled with family, chocolate, poetry, and Jesus Christ.

#### TEXT OF POEM

Let man's soul be a sphere, and then, in this,

Th' intelligence that moves, devotion is;

And as the other spheres, by being grown

Subject to foreign motion, lose their own,

And being by others hurried every day,

Scarce in a year their natural form obey;

Pleasure or business, so, our souls admit

For their first mover, and are whirl'd by it.

Hence is't, that I am carried towards the west,

This day, when my soul's form bends to the East.

There I should see a Sun by rising set,

And by that setting endless day beget.

But that Christ on His cross did rise and fall,

Sin had eternally benighted all.

Yet dare I almost be glad, I do not see

That spectacle of too much weight for me.

Who sees Gods face, that is self-life, must die;

What a death were it then to see God die?

It made His own lieutenant, Nature, shrink,

It made His footstool crack, and the sun wink.

Could I behold those hands, which span the poles

And tune all spheres at once, pierced with those holes?

Could I behold that endless height, which is

Zenith to us and our antipodes,

Humbled below us? or that blood, which is

The seat of all our soul's, if not of His,

Made dirt of dust, or that flesh which was worn

By God for His apparel, ragg'd and torn?

If on these things I durst not look, durst I

On His distressed Mother cast mine eye,

Who was God's partner here, and furnish'd thus

Half of that sacrifice which ransom'd us?

Though these things as I ride be from mine eye,

They're present yet unto my memory,

For that looks towards them; and Thou look'st towards me,

O Saviour, as Thou hang'st upon the tree.

I turn my back to thee but to receive

Corrections till Thy mercies bid Thee leave.

O think me worth Thine anger, punish me,

Burn off my rust, and my deformity;

Restore Thine image, so much, by Thy grace,

That Thou mayst know me, and I'll turn my face.

Redorded on location on the trail to Corona Arch outside Moab, Utah, in May of 2022. Some members of my family were with me, and I recorded in snatches while we were hiking—which is why there is some heckling going on. I tried to edit most of it out, but, you know...

I have a soft spot for Dylan Thomas, but I don't know why. There's something about his poetry that just feelsgood to me. I feel the same way about Hopkins (maybe I should do some Hopkins...), even though they're both poets who really make me work. It's good work, though.

TEXT OF POEM

"The force that through the green fuse drives the flower" by Dylan Thomas

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.

The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman's lime.

The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.

And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.

Recorded on location at Arches National Park in Moab, Utah. Specifically, at the La Sal mountains look out—not that I could see anything.

While this is a lovely poem, it's also another poem that I recorded sitting down. At least this time I wasn't at my desk, I was still enclosed in a car. It wasn't quite as bad, and the view was nice, but it isn't my ideal. I'm not sure that you all notice, but my brian feels like it only works at half-speed when I'm sitting. To get access to my whole intellect (such as it is) I need to be upright and in motion.

A very different thing today: I'm stuck indoors and so this was recorded at home. So weird. Still, I don't think you'll get bored, because I get all artsy: give it a listen and let me know how much you like (or dislike) it.