Lucky Words

When I was in high school and probably completely insufferable, I used to walk around with a book of poetry in my back pocket. Keats was a big favorite then. I'm not sure why; I mean he is great, but it's not exactly stuff that should thrill an obnoxious young kid. And I was very obnoxious. I cringe looking back at myself in those days.

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Hiking in the snow is always harder than hiking on dirt, but there's still snow on the ground and so I'll take what I can get. The cold does present one particular difficulty, of course, that it makes my nose run and I have to edit out about a thousand sniffs. I didn't get them all, and for that I apologize.

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Reading and analysis of this poem by John Ashbery, while hiking in the Utah mountains

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This is kind of a lonely poem for a lonely day hiking. Not lonely, exactly, but very alone. I spent probably five hours and saw, maybe, three human beings. It was good. I like to be alone.

Sometimes. I also like to be with those I love. When I am with other people, I think about them. I am a person in society. When I am alone, I think about God, or nature, or poetry and art, or all of those things. I think about myself in relation to all those things.

### TEXT OF POEM

"The Preacher Ruminates Behind the Sermon" by Gwendolyn Brooks

I think it must be lonely to be God.

Nobody loves a master. No. Despite

The bright hosannas, bright dear-Lords, and bright

Determined reverence of Sunday eyes.

Picture Jehovah striding through the hall

Of His importance, creatures running out

From servant-corners to acclaim, to shout

Appreciation of His merit's glare.

But who walks with Him?—dares to take His arm,

To clap Him on the shoulder, tweak His ear,

Buy Him a Coca-Cola or a beer,

Pooh-pooh His politics, call Him a fool?

Perhaps—who knows?—He tires of looking down.

Those eyes are never lifted. Never straight.

Perhaps sometimes He tires of being great

In solitude. Without a hand to hold.

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More adventures in Canyonlands National Park in southern Utah.

I hike to be quiet and alone. This hike took me on the White Rim Trail, one of the destination trails for 4x4 affectionados. Which is about the opposite of me. I like my peace and quiet, which never includes dirtbikes or ATVs.

Of course, every one I saw at least waved at me, and often were very friendly and chatty. I tell a story of one of those encounters in this episode.

### TEXT OF POEM

Alexander Pope's "Ode on Solitude"

Happy the man, whose wish and care

A few paternal acres bound,

Content to breathe his native air,

In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,

Whose flocks supply him with attire,

Whose trees in summer yield him shade,

In winter fire.

Blest, who can unconcernedly find

Hours, days, and years slide soft away,

In health of body, peace of mind,

Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease,

Together mixed; sweet recreation;

And innocence, which most does please,

With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;

Thus unlamented let me die;

Steal from the world, and not a stone

Tell where I lie.

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This recording was originally much longer than what I've got for you here. I took a fork in a trail which led me to an overlook that was so magnificent, so overwhelming, that I just stood there, mostly mute. It's vastness, it's quiet emptiness: it made me feel small and like a thing touching divinity.

Later, on that same hike, I discovered tiny tiny flowers that I hadn't noticed before. They were just as shocking to me as the canyon. Big and small: this hike was really killing me aesthetically.

It took a bunch of research to figure out that the flowers I looked at were [Gilia inconspicua], or "shy gilia."

### TEXT OF POEM

"Interlude III" by Karl Shapiro

Writing, I crushed an insect with my nail

And thought nothing at all. A bit of wing

Caught my eye then, A gossamer so frail

And exquisite, I saw in it a thing

That scorned the grossness of the thing I wrote

It hung upon my finger like a sting.

A leg I noticed next, fine a mote,

“And on this frail eyelash he walked,” I said,

“And climbed and walked like any mountain-goat”

And in the mood I sought the little head,

But it was lost; then in my heart a fear

Cried out, “A life- why beautiful, why dead!”

It was a mite that held itself most dear,

So small I could have drowned it with a tear.

[Gilia inconspicua]: http://www.swcoloradowildflowers.com/White%20Enlarged%20Photo%20Pages/gilia.htm

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I spent a few days in Moab, camping and hiking and writing and recording. It was lovely.

This episode was recorded as I was hiking in Canyonlands National Park on the Murphy loop. I did edit out some long stretches of just me walking (not excatly compelling audio, that), and a couple of times were I got distracted by something I saw. I did leave in a couple shorter ones (a lizard in one instance, a butterfly in another) just to maintain the feeling of the recording, which is not some manufactured-in-the-studio-with-a-catalog-of-outdoor-sounds. Nope, this is really me, walking along in a spectacular landscape.

### TEXT OF POEM

"My Cathedral" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Like two cathedral towers these stately pines

Uplift their fretted summits tipped with cones;

The arch beneath them is not built with stones,

Not Art but Nature traced these lovely lines,

And carved this graceful arabesque of vines;

No organ but the wind here sighs and moans,

No sepulchre conceals a martyr's bones.

No marble bishop on his tomb reclines.

Enter! the pavement, carpeted with leaves,

Gives back a softened echo to thy tread!

Listen! the choir is singing; all the birds,

In leafy galleries beneath the eaves,

Are singing! listen, ere the sound be fled,

And learn there may be worship with out words.

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One of the beautiful days in April in Utah, talking about a beautiful sport in Boston. (OK, this year, there's very little beautiful about baseball in Boston, but last year was great and there's always next year.) Some American poetry today, because today feels like a good day to be an American.

This is not an easy poem. It's weird. Don't worry too much about getting it "right." That's not the point. This is a poem to take an interpretation (or partial interpretation, in my case, and probably yours, too) and go with it. There's something powerful in a poem that so absolutely refuses to allow for definitive interpretation.

### TEXT OF POEM

Amy Lowell's "Fenway Park: Study in Orange and Silver"

Through the spring-thickened branches

I see it floating,

An ivory dome

Headed to gold by the dim sun.

It hangs against a white-misted sky,

And the swollen branches

Open or cover it,

As they blow in the wet wind.

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On a trail up American Fork canyon, listening to the water rushing down the mountain as it melts from the snowpack. It's mesmerizing. I know it just sounds like a static hiss on the recording: maybe you can hear it as a natural sound and not just a background noise.

There's something magical about this transition between seasons. There's something magical about seeing the world transform itself, to move from a monochromatic, cold environment to a verdant one: warm, green, vibrant.

Today's poem is about the world, kind of. And it's about things that repeat (like the seasons repeat, every year). And it's about language. Every poem is about language at some level, it's more surface in this one than in others.

You might find this a challenging poem. I do. I know that I am only getting only a fraction of the meaning out of this poem. But that's enough for today. I will let this grow the way that the things are growing around me. I'll know more tomorrow. You'll know more tomorrow, too.

### TEXT OF POEM

"You begin" by Margaret Atwood

You begin this way:

this is your hand,

this is your eye,

this is a fish, blue and flat

on the paper, almost

the shape of an eye

This is your mouth, this is an O

or a moon, whichever

you like.

This is yellow.

Outside the window

is the rain, green

because it is summer, and beyond that

the trees and then the world,

which is round and has only

the colors of these nine crayons.

This is the world, which is fuller

and more difficult to learn than I have said.

You are right to smudge it that way

with the red and then

the orange: the world burns.

Once you have learned these words

you will learn that there are more

words than you can ever learn.

The word hand floats above your hand

like a small cloud over a lake.

The word hand anchors

your hand to this table

your hand is a warm stone

I hold between two words.

This is your hand, these are my hands, this is the world,

which is round but not flat and has more colors

than we can see.

It begins, it has an end,

this is what you will

come back to, this is your hand.

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While one a short hike right near the border between Utah and Idaho, I tried to capture the songs of all the [Western Meadowlarks](https://www.audubon.org/field-guide/bird/western-meadowlark) around me. If you listen closely, you can just hear them. It's one of my favorite birdsongs, and they're not shy about singing it.

Today's poem is another of Shakespeare's sonnets. If you didn't hear my episodes on the sonnets, I highly recommend heading back and listening to episodes 201, 203, and 205. I give a brief summary here, but only very, very briefly.

There are still a couple of important moves left for the sonnets, and next time we will be leaving the handsome young man and hooking up with the dark lady. Whoo: mysterious!

### TEXT OF POEM

Sonnet 126, by William Shakespeare

O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power

Dost hold Time's fickle glass, his sickle, hour;

Who hast by waning grown, and therein showest

Thy lovers withering, as thy sweet self growest.

If Nature, sovereign mistress over wrack,

As thou goest onwards still will pluck thee back,

She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill

May time disgrace and wretched minutes kill.

Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure!

She may detain, but not still keep, her treasure:

Her audit (though delayed) answered must be,

And her quietus is to render thee.

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