Number 72: Lisel Mueller "Why I Need the Birds"

Why I Need the Birds

When I hear them call
in the morning, before
I am quite awake,
my bed is already traveling
the daily rainbow,
the arc toward evening;
and the birds, leading
their own discreet lives
of hunger and watchfulness,
are with me all the way,
always a little ahead of me
in the long-practiced manner
of unobtrusive guides.

By the time I arrive at evening,
they have just settled down to rest;
already invisible, they are turning
into the dreamwork of trees;
and all of us together —
myself and the purple finches,
the rusty blackbirds,
the ruby cardinals,
and the white-throated sparrows
with their liquid voices —
ride the dark curve of the earth
toward daylight, which they announce
from their high lookouts
before dawn has quite broken for me.

-- Lisel Mueller

Hap Notes: Lisel Mueller (born 1924) was born in Hamburg and came to America with her family in 1939 as they were fleeing Nazi Germany. English is her second language and she uses it as one who cherishes its metaphors and twists of phrase. She graduated from the University of Evansville where her father was a professor. She worked as a social worker, a receptionist, a library worker and a freelance writer and editor and translator. She was a teacher at Goddard College in their MFA writing program as well as at the University of Chicago and Elmhurst College.

Mueller's mother passed away in 1953 and she has said she started writing much of her poetry to express her grief. Those of us who have lost parents know that very deep and unusual sadness.

She's won many awards and grants including the Pulitzer Prize in 1996 and the National Book Award. Her Pulitzer was for Alive Together: New and Selected Poems.

Mueller has a delicacy of phrasing that is quite unique. In the poem she shows us the world slowly revolving as the day progresses with the birds "always a little ahead" of her. The birds wake early and bring in the day, they nest in the trees at night "riding" the revolving planet with us. She notices that the birds are always around. It's amazing how many birds and creatures surround us while we are often unaware of their presence. The poem is full of curves, the curve of the earth, the rainbow and the birds a bit ahead of the curve.

By the way, I think we all really need the birds for a lot of things. Mueller's observance that they are present and watchful in their daily lives is probably something we could emulate more.

Her poems are full of common things uncommonly observed with a remarkable imagination. There is always a slight edge of sadness to her poems, I think. Her books of poetry are all tight with metaphor and the secrets of being human.

Here's a good Mueller quote: " Memory and poetry go together, absolutely. It is a matter of preserving and of remembering things."

You can find more Mueller here: www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/lisel-mueller

Number 71: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow "The Emperor's Bird's Nest"

The Emperor's Bird's-Nest

Once the Emperor Charles of Spain,
With his swarthy, grave commanders,
I forget in what campaign,
Long besieged, in mud and rain,
Some old frontier town of Flanders.

Up and down the dreary camp,
In great boots of Spanish leather,
Striding with a measured tramp,
These Hidalgos, dull and damp,
Cursed the Frenchmen, cursed the weather.

Thus as to and fro they went,
Over upland and through hollow,
Giving their impatience vent,
Perched upon the Emperor's tent,
In her nest, they spied a swallow.

Yes, it was a swallow's nest,
Built of clay and hair of horses,
Mane, or tail, or dragoon's crest,
Found on hedge-rows east and west,
After skirmish of the forces.

Then an old Hidalgo said,
As he twirled his gray mustachio,
"Sure this swallow overhead
Thinks the Emperor's tent a shed,
And the Emperor but a Macho!"

Hearing his imperial name
Coupled with those words of malice,
Half in anger, half in shame,
Forth the great campaigner came
Slowly from his canvas palace.

"Let no hand the bird molest,"
Said he solemnly, "nor hurt her!"
Adding then, by way of jest,
"Golondrina is my guest,
'Tis the wife of some deserter!"

Swift as bowstring speeds a shaft,
Through the camp was spread the rumor,
And the soldiers, as they quaffed
Flemish beer at dinner, laughed
At the Emperor's pleasant humor.

So unharmed and unafraid
Sat the swallow still and brooded,
Till the constant cannonade
Through the walls a breach had made,
And the siege was thus concluded.

Then the army, elsewhere bent,
Struck its tents as if disbanding,
Only not the Emperor's tent,
For he ordered, ere he went,
Very curtly, "Leave it standing!"

So it stood there all alone,
Loosely flapping, torn and tattered,
Till the brood was fledged and flown,
Singing o'er those walls of stone
Which the cannon-shot had shattered.

-- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Hap Notes: Popular poets take note: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882) was, at one time, the most popular poet in the country. There are few people born before 1940, who were not required as student to memorize one of Longfellow's works including "Paul Revere's Ride" (O Listen my children and you will hear...), Song of Hiawatha (Should you ask me, whence these stories? Whence these legends and traditions...) , or "Evangeline" (This is the forest primeval...).

Once my nephew was complaining about memorizing something for school. My mother and her friends were sitting in the kitchen chatting (they are all over 70.) I smiled and said to him, "Listen to this...." I called out to the group in the kitchen, "Under the spreading chestnut tree..."

And my mom and her friends paused in conversation and called back, "The village smithy stands/The smith, a mighty man is he/ With large and sinewy hands/ And the muscles of his brawny arms/ Are strong as iron bands." They'd have done the whole poem if I'd let them- they'd all had to memorize Longfellow's "The Village Blacksmith" when they were in GRADE SCHOOL and it had still stuck with them.

First of all in the poem, Longfellow means fighting men when he says "Hidalgos." He's not saying the Emperor is 'macho' like Chuck Norris, he means the word "mule." Golondrina is a Spanish word for female swallow (male: Golondrino) and it was camp slang for a deserter. The bird lasts out through a good deal of noise, eh?

Longfellow is famous (or was famous) for his lyric story poems and while he is often looked at now as a usurper of many poet's styles (most notably Tennyson) he ignited the common reader with a love of heroic stories and poetry. It might be a tad sappy to our cynical ears but the stories are always good and the descriptions and insights he creates are often quite moving.

Longfellow, by the way, was friends with everyone from Emerson to Hawthorne to Charles Sumner and Washington Irving. He taught at Harvard and knew French, Spanish, Italian, Portuguese and German. He was the first American to translate Dante's "Divine Comedy."

He was reportedly a gentle man who suffered some tragedies. His first wife died of a miscarriage. His second wife was using sealing wax or something and her dress caught fire. She called out in panic and Longfellow ran in and tried to smother the flames with a rug and his own body. She died the next morning from her burns and Longfellow was so burned he could not attend the funeral. His facial injuries were such that he stopped shaving and thus we always think of Longfellow with a beard.

My mother used to say, when she accidentally rhymed something while speaking, "I'm a poet and don't know it. But my feet show it- they're Longfellows." Get it? This is what passed for humor in her grade school. I always thought it was funny when I was a kid.

You may think Longfellow is a tad outdated and so he is, really. In his prime he commanded $3,000 per poem. Not too shabby. Poe originally admired him, grew to see him as a bit of a copier and wrote nasty things about the poet later. Here's what Longfellow was like: when Poe died he later wrote, "The harshness of his criticisms I have never attributed to anything but the irritation of a sensitive nature chafed by some indefinite sense of wrong." He was a very nice man.

Longfellow is another one of those cup-of-cocoa-on-a long-winter-night poets. He's a very charming, stirring and enjoyable read. I've always loved reading his poems aloud.

Here's a good Longfellow quote:"Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad. "

And anther: "For age is opportunity no less Than youth itself, though in another dress, And as the evening twilight fades away The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day. "

One more: "However things may seem, no evil thing is success and no good thing is failure."

You can find more Longfellow here: www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/henry-wadsworth-longfellow

Don't forget the "Great Backyard Birdcount Week" (www.birdsource.org/gbbc/ ). We'll have bird poems until it's over- there's so many of them I could have done a year of just birds!

Number 70: Jimmy Carter "Light Comes in Turkey Country"

Light Comes in Turkey Country

I know the forest on my farm
best at breaking day
when birdcalls seem to draw
the darkness back
that cages me.
The dim tree limbs
fragment the barely luminescent sky,
a metronomic whippoorwill
wakes the distant, lonely doves,
strangely wary when they call,
the ground and saplings come in view,
the pileated's crazy cry
is punctuated by its hammer blows on wood
and a barred owl wants to know
who cooks for me.
Distance takes the jagged edges off
the crows' more raucous sound
and then perhaps, perhaps,
a far-off gobbler's piercing call
ends all that reverie.
I move that way, very carefully.
I hardly breathe, and move that way.

-- Jimmy Carter

Hap Notes: Whaaaat? You mean Jimmy Carter (born 1924), former president of the U.S.? Yep. That's the one. The reason I include this poem in "Great Backyard Birdcount Week" (www.birdsource.org/gbbc/ ) is because he made history by being the one of the few U.S. Presidents to publish a book of his own poetry (Lincoln and John Quincy Adams did it too. I've never seen them but Carter said they did and I believe him.) Vanity press, maybe... are the poems good? Let's say they are not embarrassing. They reveal man with solid observation skills and thoughtfulness. And this poem, and most of his poetry, is not bad, I think. He was a gifted student and has been an avid reader since his youth.

"Who cooks for you?" is the phrase often used to explain what the barred owl sounds like. Sound far fetched? Here it is, what do you think it sounds like? : www.youtube.com/watch?v=fppKGJD3Y6c&feature=fvwrel . This is a great video because you see this owl's amazing face.

Carter's poem has the light gradually lifting, the birds calling and his reverent silence amidst all this magical bird talk. He is being released from the "darkness that cages" him. I think it's a good poem. I love the description of the distance taking the "jagged edges" off of the crows' call. He's a farmer who knows his land.

Published in 1994, Carter's poetry book, Always a Reckoning, is illustrated by one of his granddaughters, Sarah Elizabeth Chuldenko. Carter was the first president, by the by, to write a book for junior and senior high school students, Talking Peace. Carter said he wooed his wife Rosalyn by writing poetry to her. Some of the profits from his books always go to charitable causes. He won the Nobel Peace Prize in 2002. Might be nice to have a few more poet-presidents?

Here's a good Jimmy Carter quote on his love poetry to Rosalyn: "I don't know if today I'd call them art, but at least they did the job at the time."

You can find another Carter poem here: www.bong-town.com/Bong_Town/Liberia/Poems/firestone.html

Number 69: Robert Frost "Come In"

Come In

As I came to the edge of the woods,
Thrush music -- hark!
Now if it was dusk outside,
Inside it was dark.

Too dark in the woods for a bird
By sleight of wing
To better its perch for the night,
Though it still could sing.

The last of the light of the sun
That had died in the west
Still lived for one song more
In a thrush's breast.

Far in the pillared dark
Thrush music went --
Almost like a call to come in
To the dark and lament.

But no, I was out for stars;
I would not come in.
I meant not even if asked;
And I hadn't been.

--Robert Frost

Hap Notes: This is the second of the bird poems this week to highlight the Great Backyard Birdcount in which I encourage you to participate: www.birdsource.org/gbbc/. You can help for 15 minutes or 4 days- it's up to you.

I love Frost's twist on the term "sleight of hand" to "sleight of wing." It's true that at some point it is too dark in the deep woods for a bird to adjust itself on an unfamiliar branch. Birds generally sing at sunrise and sunset, although ornithologists make a distinction between "calls" and "songs." Song is generally for mating and calls are for communication. In the poem, the birds are calling out to each other just before bedtime, maybe telling each other where they are.

Frankly, to me, most of it sounds like singing. And while science says there are specific reasons for bird sounds, I think it's presumptuous to say that this is all there is to bird song. I think birds sing, at the very least, for all the all the various reasons people sing and talk and probably have reasons we don't understand, too. Frost's take on the thrush is that it has a mournful, melancholy sound. Want to hear for yourself? Visit here--
Sound of a Wood Thrush: www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/Wood_Thrush/sounds.
Sounds almost flute-like doesn't it? Not bad for a dinosaur, eh? Imagine what this would sound like with more than one thrush singing.

When I was in school our choir sang the Randall Thompson music for this poem. We didn't sound nearly this good, but here's how the song goes- it's quite beautiful: www.youtube.com/watch?v=yysXiejsNbY&feature=related.Hard to forget a poem once you sing it. Note how the flute isn't nearly as beautiful as the thrush- it can't be- the thrush's equipment is a lot more complex. The symphony with song really adds to the drama of the Thompson song.

Of course there's a dark side to this poem but I'll let you figure it out this time. A few questions: Is the bird's song somewhat tempting? And it tempts him to go into the darkness? Is the poet fighting depression or some sadness? Just think on it and remember what it feels like in the woods at twilight- there's a loveliness but also maybe some sorrow- about what? The end of the day? The end of something? What does "out for stars" mean to you?

Here's our first Frost poem with more info: http://happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2010/12/number-7-robert-frost-design_14.html

Number 68: Sir Walter Scott "O, Say Not, My Love..."

Song

Oh, say not, my love, with that mortified air,
That your spring-time of pleasure is flown,
Nor bid me to maids that are younger repair,
For those raptures that still are thine own.

Though April his temples may wreathe with the vine,
Its tendrils in infancy curl'd,
'Tis the ardor of August matures us the wine,
Whose life-blood enlivens the world.

Though thy form, that was fashioned as light as a fay's,
Has assumed a proportion more round,
And thy glance, that was bright as a falcon's at gaze,
Looks soberly now on the ground,--

Enough, after absence to meet me again,
Thy steps still with ecstasy move;
Enough, that those dear sober glances retain
For me the kind language of love.

-- Sir Walter Scott

Hap Notes: You may think you know nothing of Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832) but you are probably wrong. Ever heard the expression "Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive!" ? That's Scott (from "Marmion"). Do you think of Scotsman as wearing specialized tartan plaids and kilts? Scott popularized this idea as a Scottish identity. All the popularized myths of the wild Scottish highlands are mostly the work of Scott. Ever heard the verses "Breathes there the man with soul so dead Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land!"? That's also Scott from his poem 'The Lay of the Last Minstrel." You always knew him, you just didn't know it was him.

The top pictures with Scott are from the "Authors" card game- did you ever play that when you were a kid? It was my favorite game and I made a point, as I grew up, to read each work (I'm a dork- you don't have to tell me, I know.)

In our Valentine's Day poem, Scott is telling his beloved that age has not affected her charm with him and that she's more lovely now than ever. When he uses the word "repair" here, he doesn't mean "fix" he means "go to." A "fay" is a Middle English term for fairy or sprite. In the second stanza he's talking about a grape vine- you probably see this already- and saying that age makes a grape/wine more tasty and that this aging process "enlivens" the world with deep maturity.

Scott is famous for writing novels like Ivanhoe (its popularity made a sympathetic case for the emancipation of English Jews -- one of the heroines of the book is Jewish), Waverley and The Bride of Lammermoor (on which Donizetti's opera "Lucia di Lammermoor" is based.) The word "Waverly" has taken on the idea of quality, hence the popular cracker: Waverley Wafers. Many suburbs, housing additions and train stations are also named "Waverly" in the hopes of retaining some dignified "English" class.

Scott , chronologically speaking, was first a translator, then a poet, then a novelist. As a translator he worked on Goethe and Burger. His poems include the famous "Lady of the Lake" and "Rokeby" and "The Lord of the Isles" and dozens and dozens more.

Born in Scotland, when Scott was two years old he contracted polio which left him quite lame. He was sent to the country to live with an aunt, was sent to the "baths" for water cures and, by gosh, by the time he was 7 he was able to walk. He was in "college" (the Brits have an education system I don't quite understand) by the time he was 12 (which was a year or two early) and he apprenticed with his father (a lawyer), studied law and became a lawyer in Edinburgh.

There's a great story about him; Robert Burns was a very famous poet and was invited to many homes and distinguished gatherings. At one such gathering, Burns was a bit ill at ease and walked around the room, looking at the pictures on the host's walls. One picture had a caption of verse that brought Burns to tears and he asked the august gathering if they knew who had written it. None of the authors and scientists knew. The host's son had some younger friends over and one of them (a "pale boy with a limp") piped up and told Burns the author and the title of the poem. Burns, impressed, beamed at the boy "You'll be a man, yet, sir." The boy was Scott.

Here's another good story about Scott: The poet had a severe stroke in 1830 and he was deeply in debt (he was working day and night to pay it off when he had the stroke). He was taken to Naples, Italy to revive his health. Scott went with his doctor and a couple of friends to the great museum there. Scott was weak as a baby, could barely walk and could not retain information- he sort of wandered around the relics aimlessly. Now, there just happened to be a large bunch of students and Italian writers at the museum that day examining an old manuscript and they found out that the "Wizard of the North," as Scott was often called, was there. They sent word they'd like to meet him but Scott declined- he knew no Italian and wasn't feeling very well. Then, about a half an hour later, his memory unclear, he asked who wanted to see him and when he was told he said, sure- he'd go see them. He mounted a staircase and entered the room and when he got to the door, cheers welcomed him, the students rushed up to the door, forming two lines, many of them on their knees to touch the genius that had given them such delight in reading. They touched his hands and kissed him and hugged him and kept thanking him in Italian. Of course, soon he was weary of the talk (most of which he could not understand) and made to leave, and the students again crowded around him, thanking him, holding him up, helping him to walk in his slow tottering steps, kissing his hands with tears and thanked him again and again. Scott's friends said it was the most moving thing they'd ever seen. (His debts by the way, were finally paid, through his work and, after his death, through the sale of his books.)

Now I'll admit right now that Sir Walter Scott's somewhat lacy poetry isn't for everybody (Mark Twain despised it.) It's sometimes clumsily rhymed and he's often been criticized for being slap-dash with both his poetry and his novels. He was a very busy guy, though, and he had a burn in him to tell stories. His poetry, if read by some great dramatic voice; Richard Burton or Lawrence Olivier or Alan Rickman or Amitabh Bachchan (my favorite, as everyone knows); would amaze you with it's charming powers of storytelling. His poetry needs a good voice reciting it sometimes to carry it.

He's another poet to curl up with on a cold winter's night with a cup of cocoa and read aloud. I love all that romantic Lochinvar stuff in "Marmion."

Here's a good Scott quote (there are skillions of them): "A sound head, an honest heart, and an humble spirit are the three best guides through time and to eternity."

Here's another: "Death - the last sleep? No, it is the final awakening"

And another: "Teach your children poetry; it opens the mind, lends grace to wisdom and makes the heroic virtues hereditary."

You can find more Scott here: famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/sir_walter_scott/poems

Number 67: Gerard Manley Hopkins "The Windhover"

The Windhover

To Christ Our Lord

I caught this morning morning's minion, king-
dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird, -the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! And the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!

No wonder of it: sheer plod makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion.

-- Gerard Manley Hopkins

Hap Notes: If you are unfamiliar with this extraordinary poem (written in 1877!) don't panic at the rush of words- let's just take it one phrase at a time, slowly- it's so worth it.

The Windhover (another word for kestrel/falcon-pictured above)

I caught this morning

morning's minion (morning's highly favored servant)

king/dom of daylight's dauphin (the son/prince of the kingdom of daylight)

dapple-dawn-drawn falcon (dapple is spotted- so the dawn and the falcon have mottled color)

in his riding/ of the rolling level underneath him steady air (the bird is riding the thermal currents in the air)

and striding /high there, how he rung upon the reign of a wimpling wing (he flew in circles with a side slip, using his wings to curve and glide from one level to another)

in his ecstasy! then off, off forth on a swing/As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow bend: (He's talking about a skate- the large ray under the sea, and the bow bend- is the shape of a bow (as in bow and arrow) the curve of it)

the hurl and gliding/Rebuffed the big wind. ( the bird's flying ability is such that it can reject the force of the wind-- it refuses the influence of the wind)

My heart in hiding ( Well, there's a lot going on here- first off, the heart is always in hiding inside the body, secondly Hopkins is perhaps talking about his heart hiding from a full commitment to God (he's writing this poem just before he's ordained as a priest) and also his decision to be a priest will hide him, his talents (he was a talented artist and writer.) And really, everyone's heart is in hiding, isn't it?)

Stirred for a bird- the achieve of, the mastery of the thing. (Always good to remember that the Holy Spirit is often depicted as a bird, in addition to the actual bird's breath-taking flying abilities.)

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh air, pride, plume here/Buckle! (Another phrase with a lot going on. The bird tucks his wings and seems to be falling or changing direction. Remember that this poem is dedicated to Jesus so parallels to the life of Christ abound in this poem. The poet's pride must also buckle, give out, be humbled as Christ was.)

And the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion/ Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my Chevalier. ( I believe now the poet is addressing Jesus and saying that his sacrifice, his daily life, was more lovely and dangerous than this incredible falcon's daily performance. A chevalier is a knight- so it's one that must go into battle. Nature's awesome beauty is a daily thing and Christ's daily life was a billion times lovelier. Why? That's coming up...)

No wonder of it: sheer plod makes plow down sillion/ shine (sillion is a strip of land usually worked by a tenant farmer. The plow, by going through the earth on it's daily plodding job, shines from the friction of the dirt. I have to admit, I always thought he meant the earth itself had a shine from the plow's daily upturning of minerals. I think both are correct interpretations. So the poet is saying common daily hard work makes the plow/earth shine.)

and blue bleak embers, ah my dear,/ Fall gall themselves and gash gold vermillion. ( A dark ember, when it falls, often reveals a core of heat and fire still within it. Bleak, apparently dead coals, may still be alive with fire. See the Christ reference in this?)

There. That wasn't so hard, huh? What Hopkins is saying, then, in a nutshell, is that the flight of this bird reminded him of the glory of God's earth, the life of Christ, the Holy Spirit and his own thoughts of ordination. That dedicating yourself to the daily work of God may be plodding, humbling work but is no more so than Jesus' own example. And that there is a glorious aspect to it.

There's more in the poem, but you can read it and get your own interpretation. I've always felt there was a joyous ecstasy of the discovery of the beauty of everyday life in the poem. That the regular plodding world is actually full of the beautiful mysteries of nature and God.

It's the startling way Hopkins uses words and sounds that make this poem so effective. He packs so much into this sonnet. And dig the way he uses the rhyme in such a way that you barely notice it except it scans so gorgeously with the sounds. There is nobody like Hopkins when it comes to the sheer force and color of words. Each verse is packed with phonemic surprises, stops and starts.

This is the start of a week of birds in poetry (except for tomorrow when I have an interesting Valentine's Day poem for us) because Feb. 18 is the start of the four-day Great Backyard Bird Count (sponsored by Audubon and the Columbia Lab of Ornithology) and I hope you will participate. You don't have to do it for all four days, you can do it for one day or one time on one day. You only need to watch birds for 15 minutes and write your count. This citizen-scientist count is so important- it gives so much information on the environment and how healthy it is or isn't. It tracks birds to see where they are as opposed to where they were years ago. It helps protect the species of many endangered birds.

Go here for more information: www.birdsource.org/gbbc/

Number 66: Jorge Carrera Andrade: "Life Of The Cupboard"

Life of the Cupboard

The cupboard grows old, gnawed by moths,
In the lukewarm sisterhood of friendly furniture.
She is dulled by time and now and then creaks
As if about to die. If the children are noisy
At their round games, the poor thing suffers like a grandmother
Who wants to doze alone in her tepid silence.
She has forgotten the odor of ripe fruit
And of that grapejuice every Sunday
And, little old thing that she is, remembers something
Only when the house canary grows lyrical.
Little thieves in search of apples
On summer nights have damaged her doors
And now the poor cupboard is empty...
But when the lamp opens its yellow eye
She stops being motionless and mute as if perhaps
She remembers in ecstasy the image of two children,
My cousin and I absorbed in a picture book,
Seated at the tall old pine table,
Or that sunrise in which her soul
Took flight to the star upon which lost lovers gaze.

--Jorge Carrera Andrade (trans. by H.R. Hays)

Hap Notes: In the current pantheon of Latin American poets (Borges, Neruda, Paz, Vallejo) Jorge Carrera Andrade ( 1902-1978) is often ignored and that's a shame because he writes with a descriptive vision unlike anyone else. Who else would describe grasshoppers as "on crutches" or chimneys as commas or say "the velvet theatre of night"? Almost every poem he writes holds a verbal treat, a strange summing up, a singular vision.

The poem is taken from his book Wreath of Silence (La Guirnalda del Silencio). First off, younger readers may not know what a cupboard is, or rather, think of cupboards as a built in feature of a kitchen so I've added a picture to illustrate. I don't know that this is what the cupboard was like, it could have been shorter or more decorated, but cupboards were not included as "built-ins" in many homes before the 1930s. My grandparent's kitchen had two cupboards, one short for pans with a shelves over it for storage and one much like the picture. So many extraordinary visions in the poem; now what do you think a wooden cupboard would remember when she hears a bird sing?

The children in the poem are probably the second or third generation of kids who have played around her. She has seen this family grow up and looks more enlivened by the "yellow eye" of the lamp remembering her younger more functional days, seeing the poet and his cousin reading a picture book when they were children. Of course the cupboard would be a woman- nuturing, and part of a "sisterhood" but her life has become tepid/luke warm- not full of the fire of sunrise anymore when she was useful each day.

Carrera's poetry was more famous in the U.S. in the 40s when the first book of his poetry was published in English. He was lauded by Archibald MacLeish, Carl Sandburg and William Carlos Williams. He had a lot of diplomatic posts in Ecuador (France, Nicaragua, Belgium, the U.K.) and was once Secretary of State. After he retired from politics in Ecuador he taught at the State College of New York (SUNY) at Stonybrook for two years before retiring in Quito (he was born there) where he was director of the National Library.

Some things that a foreign poet writes will have depths we cannot see, even if we know the language. (How many times I have struggled over those "eye apples" in Rilke's "Archaic Torso" I cannot even say- it just confounds me.) Some of the delight of Carrera's work I'm positive I'm missing because I'm so truly enchanted by the translations already- if that makes any sense at all.

The amazing part of Carrera is that each poem holds some wonderful nugget, even in translation, that transcends the natural barriers of two languages meeting. To many, Ecuador is considered the "center" of the vibrations of the "earth mother." Maybe that has something to do with it. His poetry talks of fire, ice, sugar, fruits, stars, insects, birds, horses and trees. His love of the indigenous peoples of Ecuador is epic. His talents are, at any rate, revelatory.

His book Reflections on Spanish-American Poetry is an enormously helpful read for understanding Latin poetry.

Here's a good Andrade quote: "I am not exactly sure what success means. If it has to do with the sale in bookstores of a large quantity of copies, I must confess that none of my works are in that category."

And another: "Regarding the global meaning of my poetic work, it gives me pleasure to quote Goethe's phrase: " all my works are fragments of a long confession." My poetry as a whole is also a confession, though on a lesser scale. It is a confession of love for the marvel of the world and-- supreme, incorrigible candor-- a confession of a feeling of universal brotherhood."

You can find more Andrade here: www.thedrunkenboat.com/andrade.htm