Living in Poems

My journey through life has been punctuated by poetry.  As a  young child, living was as much about Dr. Seuss as it was Halloween candy or Christmas morning in the US, but for me the words were a constant music, accompanying me into classrooms, playgroups, babysitters’ living rooms, and anywhere else.  I liked the sing-song nature of the speech, and my formative years were filled with constant rhymes and stories.  My mother encouraged the silliness, going along with me, making up her own lyrics to songs, and generally enjoying the fun.  

When scared, I turned to all that poetry.  The words comforted me.

At the beginning of third grade, my teacher, Mrs. G., introduced us to haiku.  It was early in the year, and I had just turned 8 years old.  After a few weeks of reading Basho to us each day, Mrs. G. finally explained the mechanics of haiku to us and asked us to write one of our own.  That, to me, was a defining moment.  Poems didn’t have to rhyme?  You didn’t have to sing them?  My curiosity grew.  

hummingbird pretty

wings buzzing so quickly

she eats from flowers

It wasn’t the greatest poem in the world, but it was mine.

Since we moved a lot, I often retreated to reading and writing.  Poems and stories didn’t pick at me for being different.  An afternoon in the library was simply heaven compared to being around my peers.  And at ten, I stumbled rather haphazardly into Walt Whitman; though I don’t remember much of his work, the words appealed to me.  My favorites were the poems in which Whitman painted vivid pictures, but on has stayed with me all through the years.

“A Leaf Hand in Hand”

A  Leaf for hand in hand!

You natural persons old and young!

You are on the Mississippi, and on all the branches and bayous of 

the

Mississippi!

You friendly boatmen and mechanics!  You roughs!

You twain!  And all processions moving along the streets!

I wish to infuse myself among you till I see it common for you 

to

walk hand in hand!

On the surface, the poem felt simple to me and was one that resonated.  People, regardless of lives and background, could come together in a common way.  Since Whitman was considered an everyman’s poet, it made sense to me.  Later I would wonder if the poem referred to something Whitman wanted desperately for his own, an intimacy from which he was cut off in daily life.

As I got older, I found more poetry, but none quite so startling as João Cabral de Melo Neto’s “Culling Beans”.  He spoke of words, of poems themselves, and it was lightning to me.  An awakening.  I had been at camp, lonely and homesick, when one of the priests approached me and asked me what I would really like to be doing because it was obvious to him I was not connecting to anyone.  I told him, “I want to read. Poems.  I want to go home and be in the library.”  He asked me to go with him to the office he was using, and he said to me he could give me poems if I wanted them, but they might not make much sense to me yet.  The book he handed me was in Portuguese, and that was the beginning of a friendship.  He spent his afternoon translating for a quiet kid who spent most of her time with books.  When he died, I was very sad.  I’d spent many afternoons during camp sessions tucked away in an office chair reading poetry he would bring to camp specifically for me, but “Culling Beans” was my first introduction to modernism, poetry that speaks plainly and directly to the heart and soul.  It was also my first introduction to a Brazilian author and would set in motion a desire to learn more that has lasted me decades.

“Culling Beans”

I.

Culling beans is not unlike writing:

You toss the kernels into the water of the clay pot

and the words into that of a sheet of paper;

then, you toss out the ones that float.

Indeed, all the words will float on the paper,

frozen water, its verb a lead sinker:

in order to cull that bean, blow on it,

and toss out the frivolous and hollow, the chaff and the echo.

II. 

Now, there is a risk in that bean-culling:

the risk that among those heavy seeds there

may be some any-old kernel, of stone or study-matter,

an unchewable grain, a tooth-breaker.

Not so, for culling words:

the stone gives the phrase its most vivid seed:

it obstructs flowing, floating reading,

it incites attention, luring it with risk.

To this day, I carry this poem in my wallet.  I have never shared it with my family or friends, but I alway know it’s there, as is my desire to know the poet and his homeland better.  To see what inspired him to write these words.  This is why, decades later, I have made the decision to go, to move, to see Brazil, to learn the language, get to know the people, find the poets I love best and learn to be the words I most love.  Where the path leads?  I don’t know, but I am going to enjoy the journey, and I am finding learning the language beautiful.  My own efforts at writing poetry are poor in comparison, but I intend to continue culling.

“Of Written Words”

say not, “I write only for myself.”

you devalue your words.

rather say, “I write to be heard!”

be like the tower bell.

the bell resounds.

it curries no favor.

it strokes no egos,

it cushions no blows.

it simply is.