The Old Stoic

By Emily Bronte

 

Riches I hold in light esteem,
   And Love I laugh to scorn;
And lust of fame was but a dream,
   That vanished with the morn:

And if I pray, the only prayer
   That moves my lips for me
Is, "Leave the heart that now I bear,
   And give me liberty!"

Yes, as my swift days near their goal:
   'Tis all that I implore;
In life and death a chainless soul,
   With courage to endure.

I like this poem a lot. It reminds me a lot of Emily Dickinson, both in message and in form. More optimistic, perhaps. The "courage to endure" particularly speaks to me. I'm not feeling very courageous at the moment. But this poem makes me think of Lizzy Bennet, sure and strong. It seems to me that it takes a lot more to be content to just be with yourself, without the trappings of everyday life. It might be lonely, though. But it might be worth it to feel so at home in your own skin.

Iowa, again...

Back in Iowa City. There is so much going on here. I had forgotten. A few things have caught my attention lately. A Hungarian poet, George Szirtes. A Sudanese artist, Ibrahim El-Salahi. I feel as though I have never read as much poetry--both for class, and on my own--as I have in the last few months. I love being back in Iowa City.
The Szirtes poem I'm reposting is a conversation of sorts. I admire the way he uses unusual spacing, juxtaposition, and line breaks to convey the tone of the conversation. I'm trying to decide whether the poem could be considered an internal monologue--I have conversations with myself like this, questioning the way that I'm telling my own story in my head, questioning the validity of my own thoughts/answers. The feeling of free-association in the poem's progression makes me think that it is.

By George Szirtes.
48.
see the leaves    what leaves?    the leaves
on the ground, the black hand flapping
the brown hand spread as if to grasp
grasp what?    a paving slab   a street   a sweep
of air    then some cruddy music    and leaf
leaf flattens, is pressed    is what?   is the body
as flat as this as brittle as surrendered   to what?
and some you burn and watch fly   and this
is    what?  an analogy as the mind makes it
of war perhaps    which war? dare we answer? dare
the body be its own dialogue? dare the
long, shall we say? rain beat down on us
and our music    is that the music? that cruddy
music you make in your bones and teeth?
who is asking the questions?    there are too
many and late and too soon and this answer
too is a question only you don’t see, no, you
don’t hear the question mark   – where?   – in the leaf
which leaf? that one there, that black-brown-green-
grey thing with its negligible weight, its music.

As posted on 3AM Magazine website url:  http://www.3ammagazine.com/3am/george-szirtes-48/

The last month or so in Ghana, I kept feeling like Iowa was calling me. I kept finding poems about corn and fields and prairies. There was a wonderful Mary Oliver poem that talked about morning glories that twined around corn stalks. I think Iowa was calling me. Or rather, the part of me that flourishes in Iowa was begging to be again at the forefront. It's nice to be back.