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This is a picture of the jam jars in my pantry. I count thirteen and that doesn’t include the outpost colony of orange marmalade and apricot preserves that live in the back of my refrigerator.

 

The jars have sat unused for at least a year, some much longer. If it were up to my husband they’d be tossed, but anytime he comes near what he calls my “hoarding”–- a term that includes the jellies but also my soup cans, bags of dried beans, sewing notions, cleaning fluids, beauty products, boxes of stationery and assorted office supplies—I body-block him and shout about wastefulness. We sure have a lot of fun cleaning together.

 

Therefore in the interests of marital harmony and shelf space not to mention expiration dates, my summer and fall goal—let’s extend it winter too (wild ambition is not one of my faults)—is to use up all the jam. Jam on chicken, jam on pork, jam on toast for gluten-loving visitors. Then I’m going to cook up the beans, send out lots of letters, slather myself in all manner of lotions and ointments, and use use use all my unused things until I’ve achieved a Marie Kondo life-changing tidiness.

 

Yeah. Well. We shall see. I might just settle for tidyish.

 

But there’s one collection I know I can get through and that is my stash of “unused” poems. Over the seven years I’ve been writing this blog I’ve collected a lot, and I know I won’t use most of them. Some poems are by poets I’ve featured too many times, some I don’t much remember why I liked in the first place, and some demand more time than I’m willing to take away from my other writing projects.

 

I hereby resolve to post poems several times a week until my Poem Elf folder is empty. It’s going to be simple. Photos and a caption. I’m not going to write commentary, and I may or may not include a short biography of the poet. Whatever prevents me from putting poems out in the world and posting them on this blog will be eliminated.

 

Project Tidy-Up starts this week. Also posted on Twitter.

 

 

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poem is on first tier of plant shelf

Forgive the unpolished copies of these poems and quotes, the yellow notepaper, the terrible handwriting, though I did try my best. This is what happens when Poem Elf has an idea but no printer, no scotch tape and no finesse with a pen.

 

My idea was to honor two people who are gone and much missed. This post is a memorial of sorts for a friend’s brother who died six years ago today and for another friend’s sister who died just three days ago.

 

My friend’s brother was an exceedingly kind man. He liked to leave quarters here and there for people to find and also liked to tuck them in birthday cards to his many nieces and nephews. My friend’s sister, an illustrious and national figure, was known for mentoring countless people. She was never too busy to meet with those trying to get a foothold in her field, including, once, my own niece, who described her as “very kind and interesting.” Which is an excellent way to be remembered. Much better than being remembered as “kind of interesting.”

 

So I left quarters and poems around my local grocery store to remember them. The random placement of quarters was the one’s habit and the other’s avocation (allow me to stretch the metaphor a little), best expressed by Dolly Levi in Hello, Dolly!: “Money, pardon the expression, is like manure,” she says. “It’s not worth a thing unless it’s spread around, encouraging young things to grow.” (Just substitute “kindness” for “money” and you have a tribute to a great mentor.)

 

poem is on stone ledge by bush

This next one I may have mentioned before, but it’s a favorite of mine, often coming to the forefront of my thoughts. It’s from Emile by Jean-Jacques Rousseau.

poem is on curb in foreground

 

If you have a quarter, leave it somewhere. Leave behind a “little, nameless, unremembered act.”

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the poem’s first home

 

“This is what you shall do; Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body.”

 

 

A few weeks back I left this excerpt from Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass on the Maha’ulepu Trail on the island of Kauai. Maha’ulepu is revered not only as the last undeveloped coastline in southern Kauai, but also as a Hawaiian heritage site, with ancient burial grounds, ruins of a heiau (Hawaiian temple), and the bones of extinct species still being discovered.

 

The trail, 8 miles round trip, runs along limestone cliffs high above the crashing surf, dropping to empty beaches and rising up again. On one side of the trail are ancient fossils, petroglyphs, and caves, and on the other a lush golf course and mountain view. Each turn of the sandy path brings an ever more beautiful view. It was tough to decide where to leave the poem I carried in my pocket.

 

my niece adds to the natural beauty around her

 

I first attached it to a twig and stuck it in the sand, but the day was windy and would quickly turn Whitman’s words into trash. I was not going to be the haole who left trash in a place of such archeological, historical and spiritual significance.

 

So I walked on. Then I remembered that further up on the trail was a hideaway spot where visitors are encouraged to leave something behind on a makeshift altar to friendship and aloha.

 

So there the prose poem found a home.

wonder if it’s still there

 

I’m calling this a “prose poem” but it’s actually taken from an essay that prefaces Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. Leaves, our quintessential American epic, is a collection of 343 poems (originally published as twelve and re-issued and expanded throughout Whitman’s life) that are optimistic in tone, democratic in spirit, innovative in form, and bold in subject matter. Whitman was after a new and looser form of poetry, a new openness towards the body and sexuality, a new approach to race relations, and a new American religion. Still, there’s something ancient about his words. They sound as if they were etched on stone tablets. I’m no Whitman scholar, but I noticed right away how similar the first sentence of Whitman’s paragraph is to Exodus 12:11. This is the passage where God gives Moses instructions for the first Passover:

 

This is how you shall eat it: with your waist girded, your shoes on your feet, and your staff in your hand

 

More to the point, the same sentence of Whitman’s has kinship with Exodus 19, the passage where God gives Moses the Ten Commandments:

 

This is what you are to say to the descendants of Jacob and what you are to tell the people of Israel: Exodus 19

 

The echo must be deliberate. The Old Testament structure is the perfect foil for the new American commandments Whitman offers. In place of ten commandments, he gives twelve. In place of Thou shalt not’s (eight of the ten, anyway), he offers You shall. His commands are all stated affirmatively. And then there’s the content, which is anti-command-following, at least anti the rules people of his time were accustomed to. Re-examine, dismiss, he says, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown. And this, my hands-down favorite: STAND UP FOR THE STUPID AND CRAZY. I put it in all caps because in this age of extreme division, it needs to be shouted. People of all political persuasions would do well to think, STAND UP FOR THE STUPID AND CRAZY, every time they encounter views opposite their own.

 

The covenant, too, differs sharply from the one in Exodus. The Israelites’ “reward” for following the commandments was to be called God’s chosen people. The reward for following Whitman’s is to be called a poem, a living, breathing poem. From between the lashes of your eyes to every joint in your body the flesh becomes word and not the other way around.

 

Because I left Whitman’s piece in Hawaii, an unlikely spot if there ever was one for the words of a native New Yorker, I can’t help but think of another set of commandments. Or to put it differently, another guide for righteous living. I’m talking about the Aloha Spirit, and it’s got nothing to do with leis and hula dancers. Hawaiians take the Aloha Spirit so seriously they even put it in their state constitution.

 

Even though it’s long and will stretch the length of this post past anyone’s patience, I want to print the law in whole. I leave it to others to write the dissertation on how Whitman’s philosophy relates to the A.S. law–I only suggest that although one celebrates the individual and the other a culture of collectivism, both place a high value on connection, authenticity and the spiritual aspects of life.

 

Full Text of THE ALOHA SPIRIT LAW

 

[§5-7.5] The Aloha Spirit.

 

(a) The Aloha Spirit is the coordination of mind and heart within each person. It brings each person to the Self. Each person must think and emote good feelings to others. In the contemplation and presence of the life force, Aloha, the following unuhi laulâ loa (free translation) may be used:

 

* Akahai, meaning kindness to be expressed with tenderness;

* Lôkahi, meaning unity, to be expressed with harmony;

* Olu`olu, meaning agreeable, to be expressed with pleasantness;

* Ha`aha`a, meaning humility, to be expressed with modesty;

* Ahonui, meaning patience, to be expressed with perseverance.

 

These are traits of character that express the charm, warmth and sincerity of Hawaii’s people. It was the working philosophy of native Hawaiians and was presented as a gift to the people of Hawaii.

 

* Aloha is more than a word of greeting or farewell or a salutation.

* Aloha means mutual regard and affection and extends warmth in caring with no obligation in return.

* Aloha is the essence of relationships in which each person is important to every other person for collective existence.

* Aloha means to hear what is not said, to see what cannot be seen and to know the unknowable.

 

(b) In exercising their power on behalf of the people and in fulfillment of their responsibilities, obligations and service to the people, the legislature, governor, lieutenant governor, executive officers of each department, the chief justice, associate justices, and judges of the appellate, circuit, and district courts may contemplate and reside with the life force and give consideration to The Aloha Spirit. [L 1986, c 202, §1]

 

 

Walt Whitman (1819-1892) was born in Long Island, the second of nine children. His mother and his father, a carpenter, were sympathetic to Quaker thought but never actually became Quakers. The same is true of Whitman throughout his life.

 

The family was poor and forced to move often. When he was eleven Whitman quit school and started to work, first as an office boy in a lawyer’s office and then as an apprentice to a printer, where he stayed till he was seventeen. He taught in a one-room schoolhouse for five years, and in his early twenties became a full-time journalist and started a weekly newspaper. He worked as an editor for newspapers in Brooklyn, Long Island and New Orleans. Meanwhile he was writing the poems that would form the original Leaves of Grass, which he produced and published himself in 1855. The sexual content in the book was controversial—even banned in Boston–and over the years Whitman failed to get work and lost work because of it.

 

During the Civil War he served as a nurse and later as a government clerk. The last eighteen years of his life he faced serious health issues but continued to work on new editions of his masterwork. He published the “deathbed” version only four months before he died at age 72 of tuberculosis.

 

Leaves of Grass has inspired more than mere controversy—it’s inspired writers as diverse as Virginia Woolf, Allen Ginsburg and Gabriel Garcia Marquez. It’s been translated into every major language and continues to inspire both pop culture (Gilmore Girls, Dead Poet’s Society, Breaking Bad, Levi’s commercials,) and more highbrow pursuits (Iggy Pop’s recitation is worth listening to; here’s one by Lana del Rey, and here a nude dance interpretation), not to mention romantic ones. (Bill Clinton’s gift to Monica Lewinsky, remember?)

 

 

** If you want to read more about Leaves of Grass, link to this this piece by poet Robert Haas. Interestingly, in the excerpt from his book (scroll down when you link), Haas mentions that poet Galway Kinnell once said that Leaves of Grass is so rich in vowel sounds it might as well have been written in Hawaiian.

 

 

 

 

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The sixth annual Poem Elf Valentine’s Day Poem Blitz ran into some glitches this year, which is why it’s arriving so late. I knew it was going to be a few hours late because I’m on Hawaii time, but I didn’t expect (who does) to wake up on Valentine’s Day and discover my purse was stolen. I had to spend a few hours with the police and the credit card companies instead of on this post. I can’t complain because, well, Hawaii. Also because my son found my purse in the bushes up the street and the dumb kids who broke in only took my money and not my credit cards, license, favorite lipstick, or prescription sunglasses.

if you have to get your purse stolen, better here than in Michigan

if you have to get your purse stolen, better here than in Michigan

 

Anyway, the show must go on.

 

I’m without my own valentine this Valentine’s Day—he’s travelling in Asia–but his absence doesn’t dim my enthusiasm for my favorite holiday. Forget about chocolates and roses and candlelight—it’s a great day stripped of all that, a day to celebrate love in all its forms and manifestations. After all, what other holiday is dedicated to one single emotion?

 

Let’s start with a poem I’ve posted before (at my niece’s wedding). Fulvia Lupulo’s poem was just the thing to leave at a fancy hotel where couples go to canoodle and watch the sun set over the spectacular Hanalei Bay. This couple from Seattle was celebrating their third anniversary. Look how happy they are!

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You don’t need to have a romantic partner to understand that being loved is transformational.

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Honeymooners and babymooners (something I only recently heard of) are everywhere here in Hanalei, but I also see a lot of long-married couples. For them I taped “A Decade” by Amy Lowell (1874-1925) on a tree much older than that.

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poem is on tree root

The ease of these older couples as they walk the beach or wade into the surf together is a delight to watch. Less red wine and honey and more morning bread.

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Here’s one for brand-new Valentines, “Rondeau” by Leigh Hunt (1784-1859). I taped it to a park bench under a tree on the beach, just right for a first kiss.

poem is on bench back

poem is on bench back

Hunt’s poem is a sweet reminder of the thrill of that first contact.

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Galentines is a thing these days, not a typo, a day (the day before Valentine’s Day, actually) to celebrate friendship. I’m changing it to Palentines so men are included, and so for all pals I left an excerpt from Shakespeare’s “To Me, Fair Friend” under a wooden statue of an old surfer in Hanalei Town. The surfer is making the shaka sign, a friendly greeting made popular by surfers and Hawaiians.

 

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The gray-haired, wrinkle-chested surfers you meet around here truly are, in dress and demeanor, ageless. Boys by any measure of the spirit.

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For those who find Valentines Day painful, I taped William Butler Yeats (1865-1939) “Down by the Salley Gardens” on a flowery phone booth right outside a lively bar where couples are busy coupling.

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Yeats is the poster boy for unrequited love. He courted Maud Gonne for thirty years and it all came to this: But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.

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For break-ups that are more bittersweet than heartbreaking, I present this Frank O’Hara poem (1926-1966), “Animals.” I wedged it in a display of Valentine animals of unknown species in the grocery store.

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The older I get, the more I love this poem and these lines in particular:

when we were still first rate

and the day came fat with an apple in its mouth

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For my own Valentine, who wakes up today on the opposite side of the Pacific, I taped “Tides” by Hugo Williams (b. 1942) to some twigs and stuck it in the sand at high tide.

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For that is happiness: to wander alone

Surrounded by the same moon, whose tides remind us of ourselves

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That’s it! Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone! Or Happy Day-After Valentine’s Day if that’s what it is by the time you read this!

 

And yes, Happy Valentine’s day even to the punks who stole my money—may you find the love that heals whatever ails you.

 

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poem fragment on wall in foreground

poem fragment on wall in foreground

 

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

from T.S. Eliot’s “Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”

 

image-1

 

Sometimes you rifle down into your purse and find treasure. Quarters for the meter, a lipstick you forgot about, a funeral card for someone dear. The same with pictures on your phone, which at least for me, are taken and re-taken to get the light right or goofy expressions eliminated, and then sit buried with thousands of others photos in cyberspace till your storage is full.

 

So with these pictures. I happened upon them because I was missing my daughter who’s studying abroad. I pulled up pictures from my visit to her in early November and found this excerpt from T.S. Eliot’s “Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.” (Link to the full poem here.)

 

Not bragging (or am I) but I do like how the yellow light looks so seedy, the way I’ve always imagined Prufrock’s streets–

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

of insidious intent

 

Some of you may already have seen this from my Twitter account. I’m pulling it out for my blog because posting it on Twitter led me to a beautiful video I want to share.

 

Another tweeter (DareToEatAPeach@twitter.com) shared a link to a video interpretation of the poem. Actually, I shouldn’t call it an interpretation. The actor in the video, Daniel Henshaw, calls the film a “response” to the poem, and the poem a “love song to existence.”

screen-shot-2016-12-12-at-10-57-31-am

 

The film is directed by Laura Scrivano, produced by The Passion Films, and filmed in New York.

 

It’s only eight minutes long and worth watching. I loved it. It’s quiet and mesmerizing with lots of cigarrette-smoking, something I don’t often see anymore. You’ll hear the old familiar poem anew. Link here. 

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This past week I’ve heard stories of people not going home for Thanksgiving because they’re upset their relatives voted differently than they did.

no pissing match on Thanksgiving

no pissing match on Thanksgiving!

 

Add one more to the list of disheartening effects the 2016 election has had on our country. Thanksgiving is the holiday that’s supposed to bring us together. Thanksgiving is a holiday all Americans share regardless of faith, political beliefs, or economic status, a holiday only Mr. MacGoo might object to. It also happens to be my favorite one.

 

I hate to think of people alone and angry this day, nursing grudges or avoiding toxic situations.

 

So this Thanksgiving poem-elfing is for the divided dinner table. For the arguments narrowly avoided and the arguments that’ll erupt over the fifth bottle of wine. For old hurts and fresh injuries passed around with the potatoes, for the comments swallowed and the ones blurted out, for tongues bit and tongues wagged. But most of all for the love and gratitude that bring a group of people together to sit shoulder-to-shoulder and share food. This poem-elfing is for bridges over our divides and reinforcements for our connections.

 

And if you’re a family that sees eye-to-eye on all issues, all I can say is, Welcome to Planet Earth! Golly gee, alien life forms among us!

 

On to the elfing. I went to Costco and found it surprisingly easy, even among the hoards of shoppers, to leave poems in food displays with no one noticing.

 

I started with a wine glass where I left a quote, not a poem, by Rosseau.

poem is inside 2nd or 3rd glass

poem is inside 2nd or 3rd glass

 

It’s a favorite of mine I may have quoted once or twice here in the past. I never tire of mulling this one over. Write it on your hand and read before opening your mouth.

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My least favorite part of Thanksgiving is chopping onions. My eyes, like my nerves, are overly sensitive. So into the onion bin I put Mary Oliver’s brief “Uses of Sorrow.”

poem is on onion baton left-hand side

poem is on onion bag on left-hand side

 

It may takes me years to understand “this, too, was a gift.”

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A display of pecan pies was a good spot for “While We Were Arguing” by Jane Kenyon.

poem is on middle pecan pie

poem is on middle pecan pie ingredient list

 

“’You see, we have done harm,’” she writes. Words to remember before you sit down for dinner.

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Jane Kenyon also wrote what I consider the most perfect Thanksgiving poem. It’s called “Otherwise” and I balanced it on a turkey.

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poem is on middle turkey

 

Gratitude takes perspective, and there’s no perspective as good as this: It might have been/ otherwise.

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A wine called “Seven Deadly Zins” was tailor-made for an excerpt from Walt Whitman’s “Leaves of Grass.”

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Here’s the perfect response to any argument. Memorize it—it’s the very reason people can’t be reduced to who they voted for.

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In my Costco shopping loop, I reached the flowers last, which is where I put Anne Porter’s “Looking at the Sky.” Another beautiful Thanksgiving poem.

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I shall never have enough time, she writes. Praise and gratitude for the whatever you have.

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Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! I am grateful for all of you, for your insightful comments and continued support for this project.

 

Bonus: if you need some music to dance to while you’re cooking, here’s a song I heard this morning, courtesy of DJ Blizzard Lizzard: Rock a Side Pony.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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poem is under Callaghan sign

poem is under Callaghan sign

 

What the Doctor Said

by Ray Carver

 

He said it doesn’t look good

he said it looks bad in fact real bad

he said I counted thirty-two of them on one lung before

I quit counting them

I said I’m glad I wouldn’t want to know

about any more being there than that

he said are you a religious man do you kneel down

in forest groves and let yourself ask for help

when you come to a waterfall

mist blowing against your face and arms

do you stop and ask for understanding at those moments

I said not yet but I intend to start today

he said I’m real sorry he said

I wish I had some other kind of news to give you

I said Amen and he said something else

I didn’t catch and not knowing what else to do

and not wanting him to have to repeat it

and me to have to fully digest it

I just looked at him

for a minute and he looked back it was then

I jumped up and shook hands with this man who’d just given me

something no one else on earth had ever given me

I may have even thanked him habit being so strong

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Tuesday afternoon I left Ray Carver’s “What the Doctor Said” outside my local polling station and posted the pictures on Twitter. My thought was to provide some perspective on an election which was hyped as a life-or-death-of-the-republic event. Things could always be worse, I tweeted.

 

I myself was not especially anxious about the election result.

 

But hours after the sun had set I began to tremble and shake. That’s what I do when I’m nervous. I put myself to bed and left my phone downstairs so I wouldn’t reach for it in the middle of the night to find out who won. The next morning I woke at six and approached my phone with the same dread I had twelve years ago when I answered a call from my radiologist.

 

When I read the news, I thought, strange that I chose to cover the election with a poem about the shock of getting a cancer diagnosis. All day Wednesday I walked around in a similar state of shock.

 

If you think I’m being dramatic, well, yes, I am, but then you probably are also someone who’s happy right now.

 

This begins my story of being given “something no one else on earth else had ever given me,” which is one way to look at the election results.

 

Foolishly I started my day with a Facebook post, not the best idea when one is in a highly reactive state. I wrote that I was getting off Facebook because reading other people’s Facebook comments made it too hard to behave with “charity towards all and malice towards none.” I planned to wait to the end of the day to de-activate my account so I could see what response I got. Which wasn’t much, it never is, just a few likes, and then unfortunately two comments that sent me into a froth of rage. Both people wrote that they were sure I’d be pleasantly surprised. They meant well, but such tone-deaf, insular views and thinly-disguised gloating made me want to scream till my teeth fell out.

 

A friend had seen the post and the comments and called to say she was in front of my house, did I want to go for a walk. Yes, please. She was calm. She listened to me vent. What is that they say, she said, You get to tell your story three times and then you let it go. She suggested I try the serenity prayer.

 

That helped a little. I worked all day, wavering back and forth between trying to be calm and feeding my anger. Later I headed to the grocery store, wary of being around other humans. The people in Krogers might as well have come from central casting for a movie about groups insulted during the campaign. A woman in a hijab, disabled grocery baggers, more black shoppers than I usually see at that particular grocery store, and of course women, women, women of every shape, size and age, few dressed to charm men.

 

Then I saw a white woman cruising the aisles in a Trump t-shirt. Blond bimbo asshole, I said to myself (I was never good at putting together curse words). I gave her the stink-eye. She failed to notice. I hoped to cross her path again so I could make an even more dramatic face. Wouldn’t that show her.

 

At the seafood counter, a woman, older and African-American, started talking to me about the rising price of fish. She was a talker, and talkers always send me running in the opposite direction, plus I only had an hour to clean house and cook for my mother-in-law and aunt who were coming for dinner. The conversation kept going, even after I got my salmon and was ready to hurry off. She moved on to various ways to cook fish, and when she heard I was having elderly people for dinner, she talked about how fish is a good meal to serve old folks, how the fish flesh is soft in their old mouths and easy to chew even with sore gums and missing teeth. That was a short step to telling me about her mother, now deceased, and how she took care of her in her last illness and how sometimes they just sat together and had so much fun doing that.

 

That’s when I stopped wanting to get away from her.

 

Me too, I said. I used to like to sit next to my mother on the couch, reading. I told her my mother died last May.

 

Just like that my eyes watered. I was about to cry. She saw it. She opened her arms to embrace me. We hugged.

 

As she let go of me, she said, when you miss her, just think about all the good times you had. Hold on to that, she said.

 

The interaction was slightly absurd, two strangers hugging in front of the seafood counter, the seafood clerk watching and waiting for the older woman’s order, the older woman consoling me over something that happened months ago, even though I was initially upset about what happened only a few hours ago.

 

The interaction between the two characters in Carver’s poem is absurd as well, and darkly funny. The bumbling doctor and shocked patient don’t know how to act with each other. The conversation is dislocated from the awful reality, especially on the patient’s end. He says he’s been given something he’s never gotten before, and out of habit he thanks the doctor. As if he’s been given a gift.

 

Cancer is sometimes described as a gift. It isn’t, but the perspective it supplies can be. Bad news says, This is the reality, straight up. Focus. Bad experiences bring up hard questions. You can face those questions and act on your answers, or you can look away. What’s important? What do I believe? The doctor in the poem asks,

 

do you stop and ask for understanding

 

and

 

do you kneel down

in forest groves and let yourself ask for help

 

For me, leaving the grocery store, I asked if I would react to a hate-filled campaign with hate. Would I sneer at those I disagree with? Would I despair of my country?

 

And also, would I get dinner made on time?

 

Later that night, the dishes done, back in bed, back in my head, I pictured all of us Kroger shoppers from above, as if I were looking at fish in an aquarium. I believe in the grocery store, I thought. What a beautiful place. The day after the most divisive, ugly election in recent history, and there we were, shoppers, clerks and baggers all going about our business. Here people of different backgrounds, races, faiths, and political beliefs push carts in peace. They ignore each other, they smile at each other, they let someone with fewer groceries go ahead in line. Sometimes they even connect over shared experience.

 

These everyday relations, how marvelous.

 

And out beyond the grocery store, a non-violent transition of power. A graceful concession by the loser. Peaceful protests.

 

Our democracy, I sing of it. People who think differently, whose lives are different, who want different things, all live together. That is our country. That is our experiment and we continue to work through it.

 

The lab result is in, but the prognosis is never final. Treatment lies ahead.

 

For me the treatment begins with how I treat other people.

 

I’m not going to be hateful. I am not going to make assumptions about why people voted the way they did. People have reasons. People have their own priorities.

 

Humility is called for. Empathy. And as one of my daughters puts it, love:

 

screen-shot-2016-11-12-at-10-26-24-amPlanet Earth, there is so much healing to be done. We know that love is the only way to do it. May we each explore what that looks like in our lives, in the tiniest and vastest of ways, and may we all move forward together. The thought that keeps coming back to me, is that love means looking at the most challenging, ugliest things we can imagine, and keeping an open heart. Do no harm, take no shit, and pour out your heart. We are capable of infinite amounts of love. I’m grieving today. I’m on fire tomorrow.

 

 

 

screen-shot-2016-11-12-at-10-17-25-amRay Carver (1938-1988) is not known primarily as a poet, although he published several books of poetry in his short life. Considered the reviver of the short story form, he’s a fiction writer admired for his spare style and peerless dialogue. Critic Thomas Edwards writes that Carver’s working class characters live in a world where

 

people worry about whether their old cars will start, where unemployment or personal bankruptcy are present dangers, where a good time consists of smoking pot with the neighbors, with a little cream soda and M & M’s on the side. . . . Carver’s characters are waitresses, mechanics, postmen, high school teachers, factory workers, door-to-door salesmen. [Their surroundings are] not for them a still unspoiled scenic wonderland, but a place where making a living is as hard, and the texture of life as drab, for those without money, as anywhere else

 

Sound familiar?

 

Surely Carver would have been a worthy bard of this election.

 

He was born in Oregon and raised in Washington. His dad worked in a sawmill, his mother worked various other blue-collar jobs.

 

At 19 he married his 16-year old pregnant girlfriend, a young woman at a prep school whose mother never forgave him for interrupting the upward course of her life. The couple had two children and worked odd jobs to keep afloat, he as a janitor, flower-picker, gas station attendant, library assistant, she as a waitress and office assistant.

 

They moved to California where he enrolled in school and found a mentor in novelist John Gardner of Grendel fame, and began publishing his short stories. He was given a fellowship to the Iowa Writer’s Workshop, but didn’t complete his MFA in part because he felt out of place among the upper-middle-class students.

 

Eventually he landed a white-collar job as a textbook editor, and wrote in his spare time. He started teaching, and developed a drinking problem (no connection). He wasn’t able to quit drinking till 1977. Two years later he moved in with poet and writer Tess Gallagher. He and his first wife divorced in 1982. He married Tess in 1988 and died six weeks later of lung cancer.

 

 

*DJ Lizzard Blizzard can be found on Wake Up and Dance. Subscribe and she’ll send a dance song to your email every morning.

 

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