Witnessing the Magnitude

What makes you this person you are? How do you define yourself? A mother. A partner. A surgeon. A teacher. A red-head. Perhaps a combination of two traits, your family affiliation and your career. Maybe, an artist. Or, a musician. What happens when things begin to be stripped away by time? When your parents die, are you still a daughter? If you lose your job, are you still an investment banker?

If you are a poet and you’ve lost your facility with words, what are you? I read an article in the Los Angeles Times about Jack Gilbert who’s suffering from Alzheimer’s disease. Gilbert’s poetry has been an inspiration to me, as well as his insistence at living life on his own terms, eschewing traditional academia for the most part and moving to England, Greece, Denmark.

John Penner writes:

Of Gilbert’s favored words, probably none conveys better the poet than magnitude. “Poetry, for me,” he declares in a 1965 essay, “is a witnessing to magnitude.” In poems he sings of a “magnitude of pain, of being that much alive,” and “a magnitude of beauty that allows me no peace.”

Even if the words are trapped inside, or perhaps worn away altogether, that magnitude of beauty must surely still be there. Perhaps only the expression of it changes.

Often I am struck by the magnitude of the sky and the light. Words seem bleached compared to the pure physicality of standing beneath such ever-shifting beauty. It is only later that poetry comes as witness.

What am I that can not be stripped away?

Dreamer. Student. Witness.

A Brief for the Defense
by Jack Gilbert 

Sorrow everywhere. Slaughter everywhere. If babies
are not starving someplace, they are starving
somewhere else. With flies in their nostrils.
But we enjoy our lives because that’s what God wants.
Otherwise the mornings before summer dawn would not
be made so fine. The Bengal tiger would not
be fashioned so miraculously well. The poor women
at the fountain are laughing together between
the suffering they have known and the awfulness
in their future, smiling and laughing while somebody
in the village is very sick. There is laughter
every day in the terrible streets of Calcutta,
and the women laugh in the cages of Bombay.
If we deny our happiness, resist our satisfaction,
we lessen the importance of their deprivation.
We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure,
but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have
the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless
furnace of this world. To make injustice the only
measure of our attention is to praise the Devil.
If the locomotive of the Lord runs us down,
we should give thanks that the end had magnitude.
We must admit there will be music despite everything.
We stand at the prow again of a small ship
anchored late at night in the tiny port
looking over to the sleeping island: the waterfront
is three shuttered cafés and one naked light burning.
To hear the faint sound of oars in the silence as a rowboat
comes slowly out and then goes back is truly worth
all the years of sorrow that are to come.

From Refusing Heaven (Knopf, 2005)

A Savage and Beautiful Country

“It began in mystery, and it will end in mystery, but what a savage and beautiful country lies in between.”  – Diane Ackerman from A Natural History of the Senses

The world is constantly surprising me. The incandescent beauty of a sunrise. The immovable solidity of the frozen ground. The resilience of my antique dachshund. The skill in my partner’s hands as he creates a building out of an idea. The myriad ways that people can work together, as well as the ridiculously destructive things they do.

Art is what we create from what the world gives to us, we only have to be awake. In the last month I’ve written poems about a crow, a dream of an exotic bazaar, spiders mating (or fighting), the scent of gasoline, and the infinite blue of a clear winter sky. I could have written about a thousand other amazements. Open your eyes, take a deep breath, eat fresh pineapple, watch the stars. Art is out there waiting for you. Make it.


Chaos Incorporated – or how do you hang on to the tiller when the seas are stormy?

Well, not as stormy as they are out on the east coast. I’ve been thinking of everyone who has been besieged by Sandy; nothing like the fury of a hurricane to remind one of how vulnerable humans actually are in the face of nature. Now is a good time to give a little to the Red Cross – even a bit will be appreciated by some family who has lost much.

Even without a hurricane, my life has been a series of rough weather lately, a stew of loss, sickness, and a little madcap physical damage as well. And yet, I’ve sailed on through it. Sleepless nights, black-eye, sprained ankle, loss of a fine friend, dog medical emergency, car troubles… Two weeks of chaos. Routine out the window. Writing time allocated to fixing, nurturing, healing. And now, two weeks later, I wash up on the shore of wanting to write and am afraid that I’ve lost the knack.

So. Time to read a little. Play around a bit with words. Not expect much and be okay with whatever happens. Time to remember that this writing stuff is not a chore or an item on my to-do list. Perhaps a wee bit of time to stare into the woodstove and watch the flames shimmer orange and purple, and not think about how to use tonight’s full moon rising behind threadbare clouds as an image.