Poetic Addendum

I hardly ever understand the poetry in the New Yorker. I like the articles, even though some of them have way too many words. I love the fiction - I even listen to a podcast of the stories read by other authors on my Ipod when I ride my bike. Pretty dorky, huh? Some of the pictures are great, and the cartoons are cool, but the poetry always leaves me feeling like it is over my head. Most of the time, I just don't get it. Being a glutton for punishment, I read every single verse, sometimes two or three times, before I sniff and pronounce it poorly written, and mumble something about how I don't have time to sit around reading a bunch of meaningless, self-indulgent drivel. My motto is: "If I don't understand it, it's wicked retarded."

However, after I wrote the last post, I read a poem that I like a lot, and that I think sums up those days when the underlying thrill of being makes it impossible to dwell on the negative, even if it is undeniable or inevitable, and, how just as one can get overwhelmed by minutiae, it's also the little things that lead us to feeling free, aware, a part of the universal hum, a part of something wonderful and amazing. Want to read it? OK, go ahead! Even though I am pretty sure I am going to the Big House for copyright infringement, I have reprinted it for you here. Don't worry about me. I'll be just fine in the pokey, on account of I'm real gangsta. You're welcome.

Preachers Warn

By Charles Simic

This peaceful world of ours is ready for destruction -

And still the sun shines, the sparrows come

Each morning to the bakery for crumbs

Next door, two men deliver a bed for newlyweds

And stop to admire a bicycle chained to a parking meter.

Its owner is making lunch for his ailing grandmother.

He heats the soup and serves it to her in a bowl.

The windows are open, there's a warm breeze.

The young trees are delirious to have leaves.

Italian opera is on the radio, the volume too high

Brevi et triste giorni visse, a baritone sings.

Everyone up and down the block can hear him.

Something about the days that remain for us to enjoy

Being few and sad. Not today, Maestro Verdi!

At the hairdresser's a girl leaps out of a chair,

Her blond hair bouncing off her bare shoulders

As she runs out the door in her high heels.

"I must be off," says the handsome boy to his grandmother.

His bicycle is where he left it. He rides casually through the heavy traffic

His white shirttails fluttering behind him

Long after everyone else has come to a sudden stop.

You can find it in the March 1, 2010 edition ( I'm a slow reader!) of the New Yorker, that has this great cover by Brian Stauffer:

Also, as a special, additional bonus, I thought that I would include one of my mom's poems about the juicy Rainier cherries her father grew in his garden. It is from a series she has called "The Fruit Poems", and I reprint it here with her permission, as I respect that sort of thing. With my mom, anyway.

Yellow cherries

of my childhood

with a hint of carmine

fleshy and gay

eaten right off the tree

steadfastly

A caterpillar filled with glee

I took my pleasure thoroughly

made earrings with twinned fruit

day after day from morning to noon

No matter when Spring comes

trailing snows

late in the rainy season

the ripening of cherries

their savoring

remains

a durable rendezvous

- Liliane Richman

cherries image from furrygoat.com