National Poetry Month

ProetryPlace Blog 49: For National Poetry Month

April is National Poetry Month.

It seems an appropriate choice.

There is much in this spring month to inspire the poet.

April showers bring May flowers. In spring a young man’s fancy turns to thoughts of love. Etc.

Yet I find few poems in my own writing that extol the virtues of the springtime and the rush of emotions associated with it. I have written more of the fall and winter seasons than of spring and summer. I suppose that comes with the perspective of age, but I will try henceforth to pay more attention to the glories of the seasons of warmth, renewal and growth without ignoring the seasons of harvest, respite and repose.

Poetry month, of course, promotes all poetry and  is not restricted to poems dealing with spring, but here are a few that do.

Spring Rains

by  Sara Teasdale, an American Poet, 1884 – 1933.

I thought I had forgotten,

But it all came back again

Tonight with the first spring thunder

In a rush of rain.

I remembered a darkened doorway

Where we stood while the storm swept by

Thunder gripping the earth

And lightning scrawled on the sky.

The passing motor busses swayed,

For the street was a river of rain,

Lashed into little golden waves

In the lamplight’s stain.

With the wild spring rain and thunders

My heart was wild and gay;

Your eyes said more to me that night

Than your lips would ever say . . .

I thought I had forgotten,

But it all came back again

Tonight with the first spring thunder

In a rush of rain.

~

A spring haiku by Richard Allen Anderson

from my book of poetry, Another Season Spent, Vabella Publishing, 2013

spring rains return

more softly than memories

of lost loves

~

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

a classic by English Romantic Poet, William Wordsworth, 1770 – 1850

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o’er vales and hills

When all at once I saw a crowd;

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the Milky Way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they

Out-did the sparkling leaves in glee;

A poet could not be but gay,

In such jocund company!

I gazed and gazed but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

This final unnamed classic by an unknown (to me) poet

Spring has sprung

The grass has riz

I wonder where the birdy is.

The bird is on the wing

But that’s absurd

The wing is on the bird.

Richard Allen Anderson    April 6, 2014      http://richardandersonblogs.blogspot.com

Memoir Noir: The Night My Wife Tried to Kill Me

ProetryPlace Blog 48

The Night My Wife Tried to Kill Me

A memoir noir

    Every soul on earth has secrets—dark moments from the past too shameful or too painful to share with any other. Marriages have secrets too, known only to the loving partners who trust each other with details of their union known to them alone.

    But secrets are the makings of good stories—too good not to share. Few remain long-hidden from view. In the course of time or under severe stress, secrets eventually will emerge from their murky hiding place.

    The outing of the secret rewards the secret holder with mental relief far superior to any physical catharsis. As James Joyce wonderfully phrased it, “Secrets, silent, stony sit in the dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their tyranny: tyrants willing to be dethroned.”

    Sara Gruen, in her novel Water for Elephants (a book I highly recommend) said this of secrets, “ . . . at some point the secret itself becomes irrelevant. The fact that you kept it doesn’t.”

    It is therefore without remorse or reservation that I now reveal the long-held secret of the night my wife tried to kill me.

~

    In truth, Dolly, my wife of many years, on the occasion of these allegations was not yet my wife. In fact, on that occasion she would likely have been greatly amused or perhaps appalled had I or anyone suggested the possibility that we would wed. But neither were we strangers, nor long to remain mere acquaintances.

    Here then, at last, is the true story of that dreadful night three-score and four years ago.

~

         Dolly and I met at college. It was my freshman year at the Milwaukee State Teachers College. I lived in my parents’ home and rode the bus to school during the day while working various full or part-time jobs on nights and weekends. That left little time for social life away from school, so I focused on fun while I was there. I spent most of my time playing cards in the student union and only reluctantly attending a hodgepodge of introductory classes with no particular academic goal in mind.

    Bob Anderson (no relation) a newfound friend, classmate in Chemistry 101 and fellow card-player, persuaded me to join the Student Social Committee. It seemed like another good excuse to avoid serious study, so I did. That is where I first saw her.

    Dolly, stood before the gathered Social Committee, like a collegiate Joan d’Arc, bravely articulating her proposals for whatever issue was under discussion. Her soft, shoulder-length hair moved in agitated waves as she turned to parry any argument or deflect any question. She amazed me with her self-confidence, her thoughtfulness and command. All she lacked was a white steed and armor.

    She blew me away.

    I did not have a similar effect on her, although Bob did catch her attention.

    Our first face-to-face encounter was somewhat inadvertent. Dolly was chief marshal of the homecoming parade, which she commanded while driving her father’s WWII Army Jeep up and down the parade route, checking on us lesser, immobile marshals at various fixed points along the route. Bob and I were assigned to directing traffic at separate street intersections.

    It had been arranged for Dolly to pick me up (I was car-less, as usual) after the parade and transport me to the college for the homecoming dance that followed—at least, so I thought.

     There was a threat of snow in the cold, fall Wisconsin air. I shivered and swore as I paced and waited impatiently for my promised transportation. But Dolly had gotten her Andersons mixed up, and it was Bob, not Richard that she sought. She had no intention of being my chauffeur when she arrived at my intersection after the parade was long-gone and said, “I’m looking for Bob. Where’s Bob?”

    “He’s not here. I’m freezing. You’re supposed to pick me up.”    

    “No I’m not!”

    She frowned, slammed the Jeep into first and started away.

    “Hey, what about me?” My words chased her through the frigid air. “I don’t have a ride!”

     The Jeep jerked to a stop. “Well, climb in then. I’ll find Bob later.”

    The WWII surplus vehicle she drove had been used as a utility vehicle on her father’s tree nursery. It was never driven at night and was not meant for use on city streets.

    After  proceeding slowly for a few blocks, I reluctantly mentioned that it might be a good idea to turn on the headlights.

    “Oh, they don’t work.”

    The side street we were on bore no traffic but soon we turned onto a busy thoroughfare, a four-lane divided avenue. At last, I thought it prudent to mention that we were proceeding up the wrong side of the boulevard.

    “No, we’re not.”

    “Yes, we are. Look!”

     A wall of headlights on vehicles released by the traffic light a block down the road, accelerated in our direction. I braced for the impending crash. With total alacrity, Dolly swung the Jeep across the dividing median and proceeded down the other side of the boulevard.

    “No problem.” She smiled.

Richard Allen Anderson,     http://richardandersonblogs.blogspot.com

ProetryPlace Blog 47

Shadows at the Dawn

(The First Linguist)

    Have you ever wondered when, how and by whom in the course of humanity’s evolution, the first word was spoken? If you have, as I have, we are not alone!

    Theories on the origin of speech abound, but there are no clear answers on the subject, nor will there likely ever be. At one time (1866) the Linguistic Society of Paris banned debate on the subject at its meetings as being not only too contentious but totally futile. Most experts now agree that, interesting as these theories are, we do not and probably cannot come up with a definitive, meritorious answer.

    So why think about it? Why commit effort, manpower and brainpower to the issue?

    Speech and language ability are, among other traits like bipedalism, what distinguish humankind from all the other animals. Yes, other animals communicate with vocal utterances, though none by quite the same mechanism as humans use. Whales emit sonic squeals or songs that carry long distances in the ocean and communicate with other whales. Elephants on land communicate through low-frequency, inaudible (to humans) rumbles. The varied, cheery chirps of birds have been interpreted to have specific meanings to other birds. But none of these comes remotely close to human speech and language capabilities.

    Early humans could not talk. While the history of humankind reaches back two million years or more, it is likely that extinct earlier forms of the species, Homo habilis and Homo erectus, advanced as they were over co-existing ape-forms, could not offer more than grunts and squeals, imitative sounds and signs as a means of communication. Anatomical evolution of speech organs, e.g. the larynx, mouth, throat and head, were prerequisite. Evolution of the brain seems certainly to have been prerequisite also, along with cultural or societal changes as the population grew, aggregated and dispersed across the planet.

   The history of speech and of Homo sapiens may be one and the same. The ability to speak depended on the evolution of the physically and mentally advanced human species; the survival and advancement of the species depended on  its ability to pass on detailed instructions, coordinate cooperative efforts, and to articulate abstract ideas. The rise of Homo sapiens began fewer than 200,000 years ago. Our ascendency to the premier species on earth was complete by 50,000 years ago.

    But what of that first word? At some instant in time, with the evolutionary prerequisites in place, an individual must have synthesized a word that represented a thought, a concept, something beyond the grunts and yelps of warning or fear or joy.

    Words are verbal icons. They are noises (or marks on stone or paper) that represent something either real or imaginary. Some say that language was invented to enable humans to lie, to represent as a sound an abstract or unreal idea. We can probably be confident that the perpetrator of that first word did not sit down, staring absently into the embers of a dying fire and think, “Today, I will invent language!” He or she probably did not consciously think at all, yet an all-important thought process occurred, an electro-chemical process in the brain that had not occurred before, but would be repeated in all surviving generations.

     Following is my prose poem entitled Shadows at the Dawn.

Homo X, with dreadful reverence,

draws up his muscled arms

points ahead toward the east

extending long and bristled fingers

toward the magical aurora

and as the golden rim appears

raises voice to sustain a sound

o o o o  o o o  o   o

a simple sound

suffuse with complex, primitive emotion:

awe and gratitude, fear and pleasure.

The small band of huddled beings

emerging from the cavern’s mouth

sends forth a joyful, manic chorus

across the grassy plain

into the distant shadowed forest--

O O O O O O O  O  O   O . . .

They stand erect and elevate their arms

join their fingers above their dimly lighted faces.

Another day to hunt and forage.

Another day to risk at living.

Homo X leaps upon a high flat rock

his place of honor, his platform to survey

and lead the morning mystic ritual.

The first bright rays surmount the trees, illuminate

his fearsome face, his massive chest, his extended limbs.

An unforetold, unwanted force stirs within his brain,

a mindful recognition.

A self-awareness rises.

His furtive eyes dart and race,

take in the full extent of his own being.

His strong hands press against the turmoil in his skull.

A sound stirs within his throat--

Aaah Aaah

The sound persists within him, seeking to escape

forcing his wide lips to part

then bursts forth to startle and bewilder

the others and himself. Ah!

And then another even stranger utterance. Ya!

A simian smile distorts his face.

With lips parted and drawn back

ahya he whispers, ahya, then shouts

Ahya. Ahya. Ahya!

He whirls about to face the fearful group.

Sunlight exaggerates the shadow of his broad shoulders

and makes serpents of his upraised arms upon the ground.

He points a finger at his chest

and now forcefully, willfully,

directs his voice to make the utterance—Ahya!

With wonder in his newfound power—Ahya. Ahya.

Comprehension grows. The notion of self comes clear.

He jumps with simple joy, high in the still air,

returns to his haunches, springs high again, again.

He beholds the sunlit, shadowed brows

of his gathered species-homo family.

They stare agape in fearful apprehension.

Homo X descends

from his altar of enlightenment

pervaded with new understanding

a new connection fused, a virgin neuron pathway

somewhere within his primal brain.

Turmoil and confusion dissipate.

He grasps the hand of each fellow being

to place it against its own naked breast and,

eyes ablaze, speaks the magic syllables—

Ahya.

First one,

then two or three,

not comprehending

but submissively compliant

attempt the sound

Aah. Aah.  Ahya. Ahya.

The glimmer of thought ascends

displacing shadows of ignorance.

They slap their arms, their chests,

their now wide-eyed faces

acknowledging with ape-like grins

their dawning understanding

their coupling of thought and sound.

A word is born

One simple utterance

Within it the seeds of human perception

communication, language, intelligence.

Within it an infinity of unimagined worlds.

Richard Allen Anderson     http://richardandersonblogs.blogspot.com

ProetryPlace Blog 46

Senior Moments Can Be Fun

    A favorite quote from a favorite, dear old aunt drifted into my consciousness this morning. “If you don’t have it in your head you must have it in your feet.”

    With the germ of a blog idea stirring in my waking mind, I arose early this morning, dressed quickly—khakis and a Tee, no shoes. While coffee brewed, I found one of several notebooks I use for raw writing—notes, ideas, first drafts. I placed it on the arm of my lazy-boy in the living room, a favorite venue for this activity, went to the kitchen to fill my coffee mug, add a dash of half-and-half, and returned.

    As I picked up the notebook, ready to sit and write, I realized the pen from the small table next to my writing chair had disappeared. I went again to the kitchen to pick one out of the container of pens and pencils we keep there for just such an occasion. While there, I remembered I’d forgotten to take one of my several pills last night before going to bed. I opened the vial and took the pill back to the living room to take with a sip of coffee, but returning there, realized I had not gotten the pen I had gone for.

    So, back to the kitchen. I selected a pen and, finally ready to write, returned yet again to the living room only to discover my notebook had now disappeared. While my neglected coffee cooled, I retraced my steps while trying to retrace my recent actions, and found the notebook on the kitchen table where I had laid it while opening the medication vial.

    At last, I sat and sipped the tepid coffee, pad and pen in hand, wondering what had prompted me to get up at this lonely hour before dawn.

~

~

    Last night, Dolly and I watched the movie, Nebraska. In the opening scene a man shuffles slowly through the snow on the edge of the highway that leads eventually from Billings, Montana to Lincoln, Nebraska. The story centers on the obsession of this doddering and confused but damnably likeable old drunk to claim a million-dollar prize that a magazine subscription letter states he may have won.

    It is a story of dysfunctional individuals (the old drunk is certainly not the worst of them) and dysfunctional families whom we eventually came to love or hate as the story and the characters grew over the span of the days-long misadventure. In the end it is a story of human greed and avarice, but also of human spirit and kindness. It is the story of how an old man is impelled to seek just one more small miracle from life and of his family doing the best they can to deal with him and their own lives.

    I loved watching the family dynamics and listening to the Midwestern dialogue. One of my favorite lines from the old wife and mother character, spoken as the youngest son drives off with his father, bound for Nebraska: “You’re just like your father. Stubborn as a mule.” Why does that ring a bell?

    You don’t want to miss this movie.

    Watch it.

    Don’t forget.

    Now, what was that blog idea?

Richard Allen Anderson     http://richardandersonblogs.blogspot.com