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Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash. Leonard Cohen

Tuesday, November 19, 2013

A Toad's Favourite: Rita Dove



"I believe even 5-year-olds can get something from a Shakespearean sonnet…as long as you DON’T tell them, ‘This is really hard.’”  -Rita Dove

Rita Dove was born in Akron, Ohio in 1952.  She received her B.A. from Miami University of Ohio in 1973 and her M.F.A. from the University of Iowa in 1977. She served as Poet Laureate of the United States from 1993 to 1995 and Poet Laureate of the Commonwealth of Virginia from 2004 to 2006.  She has received many academic and literary honors, including the 1987 Pulitzer Prize in Poetry and the 1996 National Humanities Medal from President Clinton. In 2011, President Barack Obama presented Ms. Dove with the National Medal of Arts, which made her the only poet to have received both medals. 

Author of nine poetry collections, a book of short stories, a novel, essays, and a play, Rita Dove is currently Chair of Commonwealth Professor of English at the University of Virginia (where I, lolamouse, attended grad school!) She currently lives in Charlottesville, Virginia with her husband, the writer Fred Viebahn. She has one adult daughter.  The Rita Dove HomePage has extensive biographical information as well as photos, readings, videos, and interviews. 

Rita Dove is one of my favourite poets, and I had a difficult time narrowing down her extensive writings to even a few of my very favourite poems.  Dove’s writing encompasses political, historical, and personal  themes. Although I find her writing quite accessible and forthright, I always come away with something new to think about or a new way of looking at the familiar. 

When I was a new mom, struggling with the demands of a difficult baby, Dove’s poem “Daystar” was an epiphany. It is from a collection of poems, Thomas and Beulah (1986) based on Dove’s grandparents. When I first read it, I felt that someone understood my mixed feelings about becoming a mother, the loss of privacy and identity that comes with having a child. I clipped that poem from our newspaper and kept it tucked in my dresser drawer to read whenever I felt overwhelmed and unappreciated. It is still there today.

Daystar

She wanted a little room for thinking:
but she saw diapers steaming on the line,
a doll slumped behind the door.
So she lugged a chair behind the garage
to sit out the children’s naps…

For complete poem, see link at Poet's Choice from the Washington Post, 1/23/2000

Here is a video of Rita Dove reading her poem:
Another favourite poem, "Teach Us To Number Our Days," takes its title from Psalm 90 but speaks to cultural and political issues of today. It begins

In the old neighborhood, each funeral parlor
is more elaborate than the last.
The alleys smell of cops, pistols bumping their thighs,
each chamber steeled with a slim blue bullet…

For complete poem, see the Poetry Foundation website

    Rita Dove is quoted as saying, “I prefer to explore the most intimate moments, the smaller, crystallized details we all hinge our lives on.” I think this is one of the reasons I love her poetry so much. She takes the personal and makes it universal and the universal and makes it personal. She is able to focus a light on those quotidian moments we all have and, with her words, elevate them to things of lasting beauty. Read and enjoy.

Wednesday, November 13, 2013

That Kind of Storm

Photo by Peggy Goetz
The rain
pelts the window glass
like thousands of tiny fists
in impotent fury

The sound
does not soothe or
amuse me
as it did earlier when the rain
pinged upon car hoods
with the sloppy rhythm of popping corn
or
rat-a-tatted
like little bird feet tapdancing
on the roof

This storm
sounds serious

The wind
howls like a feral ghost dog
in the night
and sends my own dog,
a cocky Maltese,
under the bed quivering

Me,
I make a strong cup of tea

It's a teakettle kind of storm
The nagging beep
of the microwave just won't do
I want to listen
to the whistle, brave
and persistent

I hold
the china mug between my palms
It warms my hands
and wards off the demons. 

Poet's Corner

Mike Worrall, Poets Corner, oil on linen, 122x155cm, 2002

I walked the labyrinth until my feet were sore
Discovered that bliss and blisters do not happily coexist
I sat and meditated until my ass went numb
Emerged no more enlightened than when I first began
I prayed to God, the saints, the Devil, the muses, and Jesus
It was the religious equivalent of mixing ammonia and bleach -
Yet here I am, still dumb as a bag of rocks
and empty as a Halloween pumpkin in the head
The music I create is birthed between my legs
Oh well, at least it makes you happy to sing along.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Sunday Challenge, featuring Mike Worrall

Monday, November 4, 2013

Peace By Peace



Peace by peace we make things right
When we can talk instead of fight
When understanding counters hate
Our differences are not so great
An open heart lets in the light

Not everything is black or white
The shades of grey enrich our sight
Let’s join together, share the weight
Peace by peace

There is no day without the night
Two sides to stories we may write
When we listen, we create
A bridge to connect and relate
Those once opposed some day unite