A MUG'S GAME

In the past two years  I have tried to pursue with more urgency my  desire to write poetry.  It is a strange  vocation and one I have  feelt was central to my identity  since my childhood---but  never trusted that I could  make a living  with poetry.  Poetry is my private and secret  pleasure.  It feels like an indulgence.  Even though when I read poems as a child from teh age of 4 to the presnt day  I was  moved and consoled to think that other  people had felt   so badly anad made a poem for  me and others to find and comfort ourselves with .
The  phrase that   labelled  poetry  "a mug's game" is from the poet TS Eliot. What do you think?. 


"[Poetry] may make us from time to time a little more aware of the deeper, unnamed feelings which form the substratum of our being, to which we rarely penetrate; for our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves." "Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality." "As things are, and as fundamentally they must always be, poetry is not a career, but a mug's game. No honest poet can ever feel quite sure of the permanent value of what he has written: He may have wasted his time and messed up his life for nothing. "

Two Early Loves

I guess that I have always had a romantic cast of mind. Sometimes it seems to me that longing is my heart's default position.. By the time I was four I was being read to by my mother and I had two favorite poems which I asked her to read over and over to me. One was THE HIGHWAYMAN by Alfred Noyes and the other was Lochinvar by Sir Walter Scott. Here is the text of LOCHINVAR: Lochinvar BY SIR WALTER SCOTT O young Lochinvar is come out of the west, Through all the wide Border his steed was the best; And save his good broadsword he weapons had none, He rode all unarm’d, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. He staid not for brake, and he stopp’d not for stone, He swam the Eske river where ford there was none; But ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented, the gallant came late: For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. So boldly he enter’d the Netherby Hall, Among bride’s-men, and kinsmen, and brothers and all: Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword, (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,) “O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?” “I long woo’d your daughter, my suit you denied;— Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide— And now I am come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.” The bride kiss’d the goblet: the knight took it up, He quaff’d off the wine, and he threw down the cup. She look’d down to blush, and she look’d up to sigh, With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,— “Now tread we a measure!” said young Lochinvar. So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; And the bride-maidens whisper’d, “’twere better by far To have match’d our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.” One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reach’d the hall-door, and the charger stood near; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung! “She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They’ll have fleet steeds that follow,” quoth young Lochinvar. There was mounting ’mong Graemes of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran: There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? Source: The Longman Anthology of Poetry (Pearson, 2

A Strange Wish

Reading a poem by George Herbert who has become my new favorite poet, I come upon these lines that startle me so much I make one of those involuntary sounds Is it a chortle or a snort or a little stifled shout? The poem is titled AFFLICTION I--and here are the lines that shook me:

Now I am here, what thou wilt do with me

None of my books will show

I read. and sigh, and wish I were a tree;

For sure I then should grow

To fruit or shade: at least some bird would trust

Her household to me; and I should be just.

I have often had the exact thought and could never share it. I wanted to be a tree so that I would not be free to choose, I would just be what I was supposed to be. If I were an acorn I would be an oak-- not change to a cherry or long to be a maple. My freedom messes me up-- it makes me anxious. What if I make the wrong choice? What if I miss the point and choose the wrong job or the wrong husband? Then I saw that God requires freedom. That is what makes us great and worthy--that we choose to love God and to follow Him--we could and do choose otherwise. Divinity has no interest in coerced love. We must invite him into our lives. He will knock and knock but he will not enter unless he is invited. There is something magical and miraculous about that fact of freedom. He gave freedom to the angels and they revolted. He gave freedom to Adam and Eve and they ate of the forbidden fruit. But not the horses or elephants or the lions or cows--they simply follow their natures and instincts and cannot be faulted.

Words, Words, Words

WORDS, Words Words I am beginning this narrative as my personal counterpoint to the narrative that a good friend of mine that I knew in Cincinnati has created about her life. I will attempt to tackle in my way the questions that she raises about meaning and life myths especially as they seem to be more urgent questions as we get older. Certainly I have been a person who has thought and explored questions of meaning. My push in my own reading and writing has been spurred by my desire to know and my delight in all the books that are in the world and the wonders that they contain.I would say that for me books have been the tools of my search into self knowing. Books have been a central focus of my life and love since I was young. my mother says that my first word was "book." That was the word she used for the magazines that I loved to sit with and turn the pages and look at the pictures from the time that I was 6 months old. Always I have loved the world of words and story. I found refuge there. That is what I have discovered that since my mother was an avid reader herself, she understood and praised my reading. She never yelled at me for reading—in fact if any one said I read too much, she would answer—let her read more and learn more because education and learning can never be taken from you. Early on in life I understood also that my middle birth position between two sisters with Down Syndrome meant that I was to be their protector and defender. My mother did not encourage violence or fights but where my sisters were concerned—if they were under attack from teasing or taunting children, I was expected to take action and to fight back. So there were two basic rules-- 1.Reading was never wrong 2.Defending my sisters was always right These were the often announced absolutes of my young life. The household that I lived in was intrinsically matriarchal—my mother, her younger sister, my two sisters and me. My father lived with us until I was nine years old. He was genial, joking man who often countered my mother's cautions and warnings. He was a compulsive gambler and had all of the suppressed energy and excitement of gamblers who are themselves daily running towards the big win that they know will be theirs tomorrow. My mother loved my father and enjoyed his jokes and easy going charm but she had discovered that she could not depend on him and that betting on a horse would always trump buying groceries. I saw my mother begin and complete difficult tasks on a daily basis. She was energetic and cheerful. She taught herself to paper and paint and would transform our tenement with her bright color combinations and creative use of wallpaper. She constantly improved our environment. So I saw that women could and often must take on big jobs. I did not yet feel any limitations in being a girl.

Something I just made

IN the spirit of this blog and my new determination to stop waiting to get better and to do something that I can do now. That is the only way to make it better--I post the FIRST DRAFT of a poem I wrote for a Workshop I have enrolled in online SOUND THE TRUMPETS--- here goes First draft of SOUND poem

INDIAN SUMMER on the Banks of the TEN MILE RIVER

I park the car so we can see the falls

shimmering like shook silk

water so still above the low dam

beaten to froth below like beer foaming in a glass

I lower the windows, warmth enters

bringing with it murmurs like slurring drunks

of waters never silent shush

sliding slowly over the upper pond, swans

glide in the reflecting brown water

their wake churns seed pods and leaves

below shallow water gurgles between suds and tree snags

Three geese fly low under the stone bridge

squawking loudly as they land ungainly

flapping, skimming, breaking the calm

like children let out at recess

or a late inning runner sliding into third.

Waiting to get better

This has emerged as my problem--I wait to get better and promise myself that when I am better I will do the things I want to do. This seems to me to be a dangerous continuation of a self-undermining habit I have had all my life. I have often been waiting for more time or a better time to pay attention to my own work. I have not allowed myself to devote myself to creative work. MY job, my teaching, my research, my editing, my scholarly writing all took priority. I think they did because they were not as scary--I knew that I could do them and not risk rejection. I felt that teaching was my vocation since childhood, and I loved the time in the classroom. I also separated my intellectual life from my creative life--or I should say that I made my intellect primary and I allowed my creative life to augment and enhance my scholarly writing and presenting. I never put my writing of poetry and plays in first place--or not for very long. Now I feel the pressure of time and the fact of disease and aging processes. These scare me and make me understand that in the immortal words of Elvis--IT'S NOW OR NEVER

Getting Real?

TAKING THE TITLE OF THIS BLOG IN EARNEST I AM EXPERIMENTING WITH MY TRAVEL WRITING--> In the past week I have started some writing projects that involve me with other people. This represents an attempt to break out of my isolation and to connect with other people who are also interested in writing and improving their writing. Two of the projects are informal and are in the opening stages The first project is with my niece Nimmie. In 2004 she went to India for a long visit and to acquaint herself with her father's family and his culture and the places that were part of his life as a boy and young man in India. Nimmie was born and raised in Canada, and like many Canadian children of immigrants she speaks English and also French but no Indian language. She developed a habit while travelling of writing about her adventures in a diary that she shared with friends and family. I had read and admired earlier journals she posted online of journeys to Cuba and Guatemala. Now she has a 90 page manuscript detailing her time in India, and she would like to raise it to a publishable level. Nimmie is a talented writer and has a funny and engaging persona as a traveler. I would like to help her improve her book for publication and also to use the opportunity to concentrate on one of my own travel writings and see what I can make of it now. In my past travels I spent a year in India, many summers in Ireland and a year in Romania. I only fitfully and very unevenly tried to write about those times. Helping Nimmie and taking my own advice, I might be able to make something I could publish about my locales. Or I might find a way of expressing that time in poetry or drama. I am embarking on these new writing initiatives on line in the spirit of the conclusion that I came to after many sessions with my therapist---DO WHAT I CAN DO NOW. DON"T WAIT TO BE ALL BETTER TO DO IDEAL AND MORE AMBITIOUS PROJECTS>