As we enjoy the summer weather and get outside, we experience many new sensory details around us. This month I published poems by poet Anne Higgins. In her poem, "Cherry Tomatoes," she reveals a sensory experience of sitting in a garden and eating cherry tomatoes. Any sensory experience, no matter how simple it seems, can move us to want to write about it. My challenge to you throughout the month of July is to post a poem a week here on my blog. You can also email me your poems, and I can post them on here myself. (bradyke@gmail.com)
Next time you sense something amazing in your summer activities or travels, take some notes and share your experience with us!
I'm looking forward to reading all the new poems of the season! :)
Saturday, June 25, 2011
June Column
First published in The Evening Sun
I had never walked through a flower garden of poems until reading local poet Anne Higgins' work. She grows her poems, much like she grows flowers or tends the cherry tomatoes. She roots them in the earth of her experience and provides only the necessary supplements: water, sunshine, good intentions. Such fragrant bouquets of poems bloom from the simplicity of her images and ideas that her readers, as Ted Kooser writes in "Lilacs," "want to stand / among them, breathing."
In the following poem, Higgins encourages the reader to "pay attention to the ordinary details of life and how much delight resides in them." She places her finger on the pulse of these everyday objects to show how much life they exude, how much joy we can find in the present moment.
Tribute Poem
Praise for late sleeping day,
waking up without alarm,
for corkscrews,
corkscrew call of
yellowing lustful goldfinches,
butter,
opposable thumbs,
lusciously plush perfume
of viburnum
blooming in the woods
just now
just now.
Everyone can easily access Higgins' images, as they are rooted in our everyday experience. Though the poem reads as a meditation, it is grounded in the concrete. For example, my favorite line in this poem is "butter." By placing this on a line by itself, Higgins encourages us to experience butter in all of its sensory appeal: the rich taste, the greasy feel, and the morning scent of it. She rejoices in butter and encourages the reader to do the same.
In the last two lines, "just now / just now," Higgins asks the reader to focus on the present moment. Though life moves quickly around us like a whirlwind, taking a second to be conscious of our senses can fill us with joy and clarity.
Higgins calls the next poem her "ecstatic garden poem." The garden plays a major role in Higgins' body of work, and she credits gardens with much of her inspiration. "Cherry Tomatoes" was written during a retreat at the Carmelite Monastery in Baltimore. Garrison Keeler read this poem last August on "The Writer's Almanac" for NPR.
Cherry Tomatoes
Suddenly it is August again, so hot,
breathless heat.
I sit on the ground
in the garden of Carmel,
picking ripe cherry tomatoes
and eating them.
They are so ripe that the skin is split,
so warm and sweet
from the attentions of the sun,
the juice bursts in my mouth,
an ecstatic taste,
and I feel that I am in the mouth of summer,
sloshing in the saliva of August.
Hummingbirds halo me there,
in the great green silence,
and my own bursting heart
splits me with life.
"Cherry Tomatoes" shows us the power of immediate sensory realities. The simple things we sense in a moment can speak volumes about philosophical concepts. Even sitting in a garden eating cherry tomatoes can well our spirits with joy!
Anne Higgins is a member of the Daughters of Charity and teaches English at Mount Saint Mary's. She participates actively in the poetry community by reading and publishing her work. On top of her five books and about ninety poems published in journals, Pecan Grove Press will publish Higgins' next collection, "Reconnaissance," in the fall.
Higgins encourages aspiring writers to keep a journal. Though some years she fills numerous journals and other times it takes her years to fill one, journal writing helps keep track of ideas and makes writing more of a habit.
From time to time, Higgins will also participate in an online initiative to write thirty poems in thirty days. Inspired by this initiative, I have decided to start my own during the month of July. I challenge each of you to write a poem a week and to post it on my blog: http://poetlaureatehanover.blogspot.com. See the website for more details. Let's pay attention to the brilliant sensory experience of summer and record it in poetry!
I had never walked through a flower garden of poems until reading local poet Anne Higgins' work. She grows her poems, much like she grows flowers or tends the cherry tomatoes. She roots them in the earth of her experience and provides only the necessary supplements: water, sunshine, good intentions. Such fragrant bouquets of poems bloom from the simplicity of her images and ideas that her readers, as Ted Kooser writes in "Lilacs," "want to stand / among them, breathing."
In the following poem, Higgins encourages the reader to "pay attention to the ordinary details of life and how much delight resides in them." She places her finger on the pulse of these everyday objects to show how much life they exude, how much joy we can find in the present moment.
Tribute Poem
Praise for late sleeping day,
waking up without alarm,
for corkscrews,
corkscrew call of
yellowing lustful goldfinches,
butter,
opposable thumbs,
lusciously plush perfume
of viburnum
blooming in the woods
just now
just now.
Everyone can easily access Higgins' images, as they are rooted in our everyday experience. Though the poem reads as a meditation, it is grounded in the concrete. For example, my favorite line in this poem is "butter." By placing this on a line by itself, Higgins encourages us to experience butter in all of its sensory appeal: the rich taste, the greasy feel, and the morning scent of it. She rejoices in butter and encourages the reader to do the same.
In the last two lines, "just now / just now," Higgins asks the reader to focus on the present moment. Though life moves quickly around us like a whirlwind, taking a second to be conscious of our senses can fill us with joy and clarity.
Higgins calls the next poem her "ecstatic garden poem." The garden plays a major role in Higgins' body of work, and she credits gardens with much of her inspiration. "Cherry Tomatoes" was written during a retreat at the Carmelite Monastery in Baltimore. Garrison Keeler read this poem last August on "The Writer's Almanac" for NPR.
Cherry Tomatoes
Suddenly it is August again, so hot,
breathless heat.
I sit on the ground
in the garden of Carmel,
picking ripe cherry tomatoes
and eating them.
They are so ripe that the skin is split,
so warm and sweet
from the attentions of the sun,
the juice bursts in my mouth,
an ecstatic taste,
and I feel that I am in the mouth of summer,
sloshing in the saliva of August.
Hummingbirds halo me there,
in the great green silence,
and my own bursting heart
splits me with life.
"Cherry Tomatoes" shows us the power of immediate sensory realities. The simple things we sense in a moment can speak volumes about philosophical concepts. Even sitting in a garden eating cherry tomatoes can well our spirits with joy!
Anne Higgins is a member of the Daughters of Charity and teaches English at Mount Saint Mary's. She participates actively in the poetry community by reading and publishing her work. On top of her five books and about ninety poems published in journals, Pecan Grove Press will publish Higgins' next collection, "Reconnaissance," in the fall.
Higgins encourages aspiring writers to keep a journal. Though some years she fills numerous journals and other times it takes her years to fill one, journal writing helps keep track of ideas and makes writing more of a habit.
From time to time, Higgins will also participate in an online initiative to write thirty poems in thirty days. Inspired by this initiative, I have decided to start my own during the month of July. I challenge each of you to write a poem a week and to post it on my blog: http://poetlaureatehanover.blogspot.com. See the website for more details. Let's pay attention to the brilliant sensory experience of summer and record it in poetry!
Sunday, June 19, 2011
May Column
First published in The Evening Sun
Last Sunday I had the honor of reading a poem at "No Greater Love," a memorial for the tenth anniversary of 9/11, held at South Western High School. To say the experience was moving is an understatement. The music, speakers, and presence of everyday heroes made for an incredible event.
I would like to give special thanks to Scott Fredericks for organizing the event and for including poetry, and Reverend Klaus Molzahn for imagining the idea for the program. As Molzahn said to me last Sunday, imagination is a powerful tool. I would also like to thank all the everyday heroes who serve our community and make it a better, safer place to live.
The following poem, which I read last Sunday, explores the role of a first-responder through an extended metaphor. I draw from a personal experience, of corralling horses that had gotten out in the middle of the night, to describe a first-responder's work and impulses. In the title, "Corralling Horses in the Dark," horses stand in for any of the obstacles one must overcome when trying to help others. It is amazing how often, as humans, we will "scrape our faces on the concrete of our own fears" in order to lend a hand.
Corralling Horses in the Dark
Something shuffling in the walls woke me
the cats staring at me, then the window.
What seemed at first a scuffle or a tapping
became familiar: horseshoes clapping macadam.
I thought of the storm, the gate, the large trucks
rumbling down a country road
at 5 a.m. with headlights blaring
and roused the house with ropes over my shoulder.
I became a concentrated version of myself,
a clear-headed, speed-heightened first responder
waking others, announcing my plan.
It was still dark as I chased hoofprints
in pajamas and muckboots,
imagining legs caught in barbed wire,
or worse, a horse frozen in a truck's headlights.
When one horse made a run for it
I dove for the gate,
legs covered in mud.
I imagined, instead, pants covered in ash,
the lives of our first-responders
whose boots tread other pavements:
firefighters, police, paramedics, military,
and the everyday heroes who respond
simply because another needs help.
Then, the gate became a face
and I imagined corralling my urgency
into one sprint,
one hand reaching,
one bicep flexing,
one body emerging
from the place of our haunting.
I imagined the repetition
of body after body,
my own limbs robotic.
First response stiffens each vein,
energizes each doubt that has sunk
to the pit of our stomachs.
Our instinct for triage is to know
if the face can remember its name,
feel its toes,
tell you where to find the wound,
where to find the others.
For the taste of freedom
horses will knock down fences,
and we will follow to save them,
even scrape our faces on the concrete
of our own fears
to know they are safe,
that they will heal.
Last Sunday I had the honor of reading a poem at "No Greater Love," a memorial for the tenth anniversary of 9/11, held at South Western High School. To say the experience was moving is an understatement. The music, speakers, and presence of everyday heroes made for an incredible event.
I would like to give special thanks to Scott Fredericks for organizing the event and for including poetry, and Reverend Klaus Molzahn for imagining the idea for the program. As Molzahn said to me last Sunday, imagination is a powerful tool. I would also like to thank all the everyday heroes who serve our community and make it a better, safer place to live.
The following poem, which I read last Sunday, explores the role of a first-responder through an extended metaphor. I draw from a personal experience, of corralling horses that had gotten out in the middle of the night, to describe a first-responder's work and impulses. In the title, "Corralling Horses in the Dark," horses stand in for any of the obstacles one must overcome when trying to help others. It is amazing how often, as humans, we will "scrape our faces on the concrete of our own fears" in order to lend a hand.
Corralling Horses in the Dark
Something shuffling in the walls woke me
the cats staring at me, then the window.
What seemed at first a scuffle or a tapping
became familiar: horseshoes clapping macadam.
I thought of the storm, the gate, the large trucks
rumbling down a country road
at 5 a.m. with headlights blaring
and roused the house with ropes over my shoulder.
I became a concentrated version of myself,
a clear-headed, speed-heightened first responder
waking others, announcing my plan.
It was still dark as I chased hoofprints
in pajamas and muckboots,
imagining legs caught in barbed wire,
or worse, a horse frozen in a truck's headlights.
When one horse made a run for it
I dove for the gate,
legs covered in mud.
I imagined, instead, pants covered in ash,
the lives of our first-responders
whose boots tread other pavements:
firefighters, police, paramedics, military,
and the everyday heroes who respond
simply because another needs help.
Then, the gate became a face
and I imagined corralling my urgency
into one sprint,
one hand reaching,
one bicep flexing,
one body emerging
from the place of our haunting.
I imagined the repetition
of body after body,
my own limbs robotic.
First response stiffens each vein,
energizes each doubt that has sunk
to the pit of our stomachs.
Our instinct for triage is to know
if the face can remember its name,
feel its toes,
tell you where to find the wound,
where to find the others.
For the taste of freedom
horses will knock down fences,
and we will follow to save them,
even scrape our faces on the concrete
of our own fears
to know they are safe,
that they will heal.
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