{"id":197,"date":"2020-05-25T17:45:00","date_gmt":"2020-05-25T17:45:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/scholarblogs.emory.edu\/english\/?p=197"},"modified":"2020-05-26T17:45:01","modified_gmt":"2020-05-26T17:45:01","slug":"poems-for-pandemic","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/scholarblogs.emory.edu\/english\/2020\/05\/25\/poems-for-pandemic\/","title":{"rendered":"Poems for Pandemic"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

5\/22<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Next week will be our last of daily pandemic poems as we move into the summer months.  However, in changing the format to a weekly poem, I hope that you will continue to submit your wonderful suggestions to ghiggin [at] emory [dot] edu<\/a>.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Irish poet, Derek Mahon claims that there must be three things in combination before poetry can happen — \u201csoul, song and formal necessity.\u201d  A master craftsman of poetic form, Mahon has long investigated the dark night of the soul. In fact, he said, \u201cIt\u2019s practically my subject, my theme: solitude and community; the weirdness and terrors of solitude: the stifling and consolations of community.  Also, the consolations of solitude.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Here, for the Memorial Day weekend is his 2011 poem, \u201cEverything is Going to be All Right\u201d:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Everything is Going to be All Right<\/p>\n\n\n\n

How should I not be glad to contemplate<\/p>\n\n\n\n

the clouds clearing beyond the dormer window<\/p>\n\n\n\n

and a high tide reflected on the ceiling?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There will be dying, there will be dying,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

but there is no need to go into that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The poems flow from the hand unbidden<\/p>\n\n\n\n

and the hidden source is the watchful heart;<\/p>\n\n\n\n

the sun rises in spite of everything<\/p>\n\n\n\n

and the far cities are beautiful and bright.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I lie here in a riot of sunlight<\/p>\n\n\n\n

watching the day break and the clouds flying.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Everything is going to be all right.                                Derek Mahon<\/p>\n\n\n\n

5\/21<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Today’s wonderful example of poetry in motion was chosen by John Sitter:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“As Thoreau traveled widely in Concord, A.R. Ammons seems to have meandered mainly in Ithaca.  In a time of limited travel it helps to be reminded that so much happens at home.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Cascadilla Falls<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I went down by Cascadilla<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Falls this<\/p>\n\n\n\n

evening, the<\/p>\n\n\n\n

stream below the falls,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

and picked up a<\/p>\n\n\n\n

handsized stone<\/p>\n\n\n\n

kidney-shaped, testicular and<\/p>\n\n\n\n

thought all its motions into it,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

the 800 mph earth spin,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

the 190-million-mile yearly<\/p>\n\n\n\n

displacement around the sun,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

the overriding<\/p>\n\n\n\n

grand<\/p>\n\n\n\n

haul<\/p>\n\n\n\n

of the galaxy with the 30,000<\/p>\n\n\n\n

mph of where<\/p>\n\n\n\n

the sun’s going:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

thought all the interweaving<\/p>\n\n\n\n

motions<\/p>\n\n\n\n

into myself: dropped<\/p>\n\n\n\n

the stone to dead rest:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

the stream from other motions<\/p>\n\n\n\n

broke<\/p>\n\n\n\n

rushing over it:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

shelterless,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I turned<\/p>\n\n\n\n

to the sky and stood still:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

oh<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I do<\/p>\n\n\n\n

not know where I am going<\/p>\n\n\n\n

that I can live my life<\/p>\n\n\n\n

by this single creek.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

5\/20<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

William Tolbert chose William Carlos Williams\u2019 poem \u2018Danse Russe\u2019 for today:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI have always loved this poem. Williams just packs so much narrative into such an oddly relatable, intimate, and strange image. It’s silly and comforting and poignant and sad. It’s a lot of stuff. While I wouldn’t say I share the exact same emotion as the speaker of this poem, I am finding that I occasionally <\/em>miss the pre-pandemic quiet that came with working in isolation from home while my wife was at work and my daughter was at school. I have also found the odd elation of waking up before the rest of my family (my north room has delightful sunlight but, sadly, no mirror). I imagine that a lot of people have a new, or maybe more developed, relationship with loneliness these days.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Danse Russe<\/p>\n\n\n\n

If I when my wife is sleeping<\/p>\n\n\n\n

and the baby and Kathleen<\/p>\n\n\n\n

are sleeping<\/p>\n\n\n\n

and the sun is a flame-white disc<\/p>\n\n\n\n

in silken mists<\/p>\n\n\n\n

above shining trees,\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

if I in my north room<\/p>\n\n\n\n

dance naked, grotesquely<\/p>\n\n\n\n

before my mirror<\/p>\n\n\n\n

waving my shirt round my head<\/p>\n\n\n\n

and singing softly to myself:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI am lonely, lonely.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I was born to be lonely,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I am best so!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

If I admire my arms, my face,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

my shoulders, flanks, buttocks<\/p>\n\n\n\n

against the yellow drawn shades,\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Who shall say I am not<\/p>\n\n\n\n

the happy genius of my household?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

5\/19<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The beautiful poem for today was chosen by Angelika Bammer who writes:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThis poem is by the Chinese poet, who publishes under the name, Bei Dao; it is translated by Bonnie S. McDougall. It is part of a series of poems he wrote between 1979 and 1983. My response to this poem is always a mix of conflicting emotions. On the one hand, I find it deeply comforting. On the other hand, it deepens my sense of foreboding at the losses we both experience and brace for. But the two lines, \u201cif love is not forgotten\/ hardship leaves no memory,\u201d remain with me in this time of dread as a promise.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Stretch out your hands to me<\/p>\n\n\n\n

don\u2019t let the world blocked by my shoulder<\/p>\n\n\n\n

disturb you any longer<\/p>\n\n\n\n

if love is not forgotten<\/p>\n\n\n\n

hardship leaves no memory<\/p>\n\n\n\n

remember what I say<\/p>\n\n\n\n

not everything will come to pass<\/p>\n\n\n\n

if there is only one last aspen<\/p>\n\n\n\n

standing tall at the end of the road<\/p>\n\n\n\n

like a gravestone without an epitaph<\/p>\n\n\n\n

the falling leaves will also speak<\/p>\n\n\n\n

fading paling as they tumble<\/p>\n\n\n\n

slowly they freeze over<\/p>\n\n\n\n

holding our heavy footprints<\/p>\n\n\n\n

of course no one knows tomorrow<\/p>\n\n\n\n

tomorrow begins from another dawn<\/p>\n\n\n\n

when we will be fast asleep<\/p>\n\n\n\n

5\/18<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

An article in Saturday\u2019s Guardian<\/em> discusses Ireland\u2019s turn to poetry<\/a> to ease the strain of lockdown and social isolation.  This series was partly inspired by a tweet from the Irish health minister quoting Seamus Heaney. Lately the Taoiseach (prime minister), Leo Varadker, has been dubbed a \u201csuper-spreader in a poetry pandemic\u201d because he quotes Heaney so often.  Today\u2019s poem, chosen by Rebecca McGlynn, is an extract from Heaney\u2019s play, The Cure at Troy: A Version of Sophocles\u2019 Philoctetes<\/em>. These lines were often quoted by President Bill Clinton during the negotiations for peace in Ireland in the 1990s and have recently been revived in campaign speeches by Joe Biden.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rebecca writes, \u201cI always turn to Heaney\u2019s work in times of stress and anxiety. It never fails to provide comfort. The final lines here have a particular resonance right now.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

History says don’t hope<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On this side of the grave.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But then, once in a lifetime<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The longed for tidal wave<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Of justice can rise up<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And hope and history rhyme.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So hope for a great sea-change<\/p>\n\n\n\n

on the far side of revenge.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Believe that a further shore<\/p>\n\n\n\n

is reachable from here.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Believe in miracles<\/p>\n\n\n\n

and cures and healing wells.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

5\/15<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

We end our eighth week of Pandemic Poetry with Lynn Unger\u2019s \u2018On the Other Side,\u2019 chosen by Frances Smith Foster.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On the Other Side<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

(Lynn Unger)<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Through the looking glass,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

down the rabbit hole,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

into the wardrobe and out<\/p>\n\n\n\n

into the enchanted forest<\/p>\n\n\n\n

where animals talk<\/p>\n\n\n\n

and danger lurks and nothing<\/p>\n\n\n\n

works quite the way it did before,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

you have fallen into a new story.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It is possible that you<\/p>\n\n\n\n

are much bigger\u2014or smaller\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

than you thought.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It is possible to drown<\/p>\n\n\n\n

in the ocean of your own tears.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It is possible that mysterious friends<\/p>\n\n\n\n

have armed you with magical weapons<\/p>\n\n\n\n

you don\u2019t yet understand,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

but which you will need<\/p>\n\n\n\n

to save your own life and the world.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Everything here is foreign.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Nothing quite makes sense.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That\u2019s how it works.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Do not confuse the beginning<\/p>\n\n\n\n

of the story with the end.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

5\/14<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Deepika Bahri introduces today’s disturbing poem:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Philip Larkin wrote \u201cMyxomatosis\u201d in 1954, partly in response to the horror of human cruelty to animals, and partly to comment on the terror of nuclear war and the state of self-deception in which humans live. \u201cMyxomatosis,\u201d a disease caused by the Myxoma virus, was intentionally used to control the European rabbit population in several countries, including Britain, in the 1950s. Larkin\u2019s poem deftly captures the invisibility of the threat, the poet\u2019s inability to explain suffering or its manmade sources, and the helpless state of waiting for things to \u201ccome right again.\u201d Larkin may have been cynical and politically incorrect in so many ways, but, as Christopher Hitchens notes, \u201cabout suffering, he was seldom wrong.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Myxomatosis <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Caught in the center of a soundless field<\/p>\n\n\n\n

While hot inexplicable hours go by<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What trap is this? Where were its teeth concealed?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You seem to ask.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I make a sharp reply,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then clean my stick. I’m glad I can’t explain<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Just in what jaws you were to suppurate:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You may have thought things would come right again<\/p>\n\n\n\n

If you could only keep quite still and wait.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

5\/13<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Today\u2019s  pandemic poem, chosen by Paul Kelleher, takes a different turn — “Something’s Coming” from West Side Story<\/em>.  Paul writes:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAlthough I’ve lately taken great comfort in, for instance, the work of Mary Oliver and W. H. Auden, more often, I’ve been turning to some of the greatest poetry of the last century, poetry written to be sung to a popular or mass audience. For my money, Stephen Sondheim is one of our great poets. Recently, on March 22, Sondheim turned 90 (happy birthday!). <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Something’s Coming\u2019 reminds me of the keen pleasures of packing into a theater, shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers, waiting for the curtain to go up on a Broadway show. Those days will come again–as Sondheim puts it, \u2018Will it be? Yes, it will. \/ Maybe just by holding still, \/ It’ll be there!\u2019 (If you want to sing along, I recommend Larry Kert’s rousing, joy-inducing rendition from the original Broadway cast album.)\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Something’s Coming” (music: Leonard Bernstein; lyrics: Stephen Sondheim)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Could be! <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Who knows? <\/p>\n\n\n\n

There’s something due any day; <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I will know right away, <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Soon as it shows. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

It may come cannonballing down through the sky, <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Gleam in its eye, <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Bright as a rose! <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Who knows? <\/p>\n\n\n\n

It’s only just out of reach, <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Down the block, on a beach, <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Under a tree. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I got a feeling there’s a miracle due, <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Gonna come true, <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Coming to me! <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Could it be? Yes, it could. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Something’s coming, something good, <\/p>\n\n\n\n

If I can wait! <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Something’s coming, I don’t know what it is, <\/p>\n\n\n\n

But it is <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Gonna be great! <\/p>\n\n\n\n

With a click, with a shock, <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Phone’ll jingle, door’ll knock, <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Open the latch! <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Something’s coming, don’t know when, but it’s soon; <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Catch the moon, <\/p>\n\n\n\n

One-handed catch! <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Around the corner, <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Or whistling down the river, <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Come on, deliver <\/p>\n\n\n\n

To me! <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Will it be? Yes, it will. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Maybe just by holding still, <\/p>\n\n\n\n

It’ll be there! <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Come on, something, come on in, don’t be shy, <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Meet a guy, <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pull up a chair! <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The air is humming, <\/p>\n\n\n\n

And something great is coming! <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Who knows? <\/p>\n\n\n\n

It’s only just out of reach, <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Down the block, on a beach, <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Maybe tonight\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

5\/12<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The poem for today, \u2018To Be of Use,\u2019 by Marge Piercy was chosen by Rosemarie Garland-Thompson.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

TO BE OF USE<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The people I love the best<\/p>\n\n\n\n

jump into work head first<\/p>\n\n\n\n

without dallying in the shallows<\/p>\n\n\n\n

and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They seem to become natives of that element,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

the black sleek heads of seals<\/p>\n\n\n\n

bouncing like half-submerged balls.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

who do what has to be done, again and again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I want to be with people who submerge<\/p>\n\n\n\n

in the task, who go into the fields to harvest<\/p>\n\n\n\n

and work in a row and pass the bags along,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

who are not parlor generals and field deserters<\/p>\n\n\n\n

but move in a common rhythm<\/p>\n\n\n\n

when the food must come in or the fire be put out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The work of the world is common as mud.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But the thing worth doing well done<\/p>\n\n\n\n

has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Greek amphoras for wine or oil,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums<\/p>\n\n\n\n

but you know they were made to be used.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The pitcher cries for water to carry<\/p>\n\n\n\n

and a person for work that is real.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

5\/11<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

On graduation day, Ben Reiss shares Elizabeth Bishop\u2019s masterpiece, \u2018One Art.\u2019 Ben writes:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe pandemic paints in many shades of grief.   Millions have lost jobs and livelihoods, and many have  lost loved ones.  We have all lost the company of friends; the pleasures of travel, live music, loud restaurants, and theatre;  the graduation ceremonies and the chance to say goodbye to students, classmates, and colleagues before summer; a sense of solidity and certainty about our world and our way of life.  But there are moments of beauty and connectedness, too.  Last Friday, we had a wonderful Zoom celebration for our beloved  Jericho Brown after he won the Pulitzer Prize.   Some old friends joined us for an hour that felt full of the richness of life.   One of the people on the call was Kevin Young,  the great poet, archivist and editor, joining us from New York. This weekend, I returned to Kevin\u2019s edited collection, The Art of Losing: Poems of Grief & Healing<\/em>, to see what it could teach me about grieving in this new context.  I turned first to the poem that contains the line that gives the book its title, by Elizabeth Bishop.  I find it gives excellent instruction in how to build up grief muscles, starting slow and easy like a runner stretching, and building toward a marathon.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

One Art<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The art of losing isn\u2019t hard to master;<\/p>\n\n\n\n

so many things seem filled with the intent<\/p>\n\n\n\n

to be lost that their loss is no disaster.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lose something every day.  Accept the fluster<\/p>\n\n\n\n

of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The art of losing isn\u2019t hard to master.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

places and names, and where it was you meant<\/p>\n\n\n\n

to travel.  None of these will bring disaster.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I lost my mother\u2019s watch.  And look! My last, or<\/p>\n\n\n\n

next-to-last of three loved houses went.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The art of losing isn\u2019t hard to master.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I lost two cities, lovely ones.  And, vaster,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I miss them, but it wasn\u2019t a disaster.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

-Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I love) I shan\u2019t have lied.  It\u2019s evident<\/p>\n\n\n\n

the art of losing\u2019s not too hard to master<\/p>\n\n\n\n

though it may look like (Write <\/em>it!) like disaster.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

5\/8<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Today\u2019s poem is for all mothers (and their children) and is especially in memory of my own wonderful mother, Mary Higgins.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And did you get what<\/p>\n\n\n\n

you wanted from this life, even so?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I did.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And what did you want?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

To call myself beloved, to feel myself<\/p>\n\n\n\n

beloved on the earth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLate Fragment\u201d by Raymond Carver, from A New Path to the Waterfall,<\/em>  1989.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

5\/7<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jim Morey shares this pithy poem for today by Emily Dickinson, \u201cNo one packs more poetic punch, word for word, than Emily Dickinson.  Despite the brevity of the poem –only a quatrain–it is a ballad stanza (XAXA, 7-6-7-6) and thus implies that it is part of a longer poem, and of a longer story.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFaith\u201d is a fine invention<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For Gentlemen who see!<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

But Microscopes are prudent<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In an Emergency!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

5\/6<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Today\u2019s  poem \u201cPerhaps the World Ends Here\u201d by Joy Harjo was chosen by Levin Arnsperger.  Joy Harjo has just been elected for a second term as America\u2019s Poet Laureate. Levin writes, \u201c I first read this poem in a class at Emory, and I have taught it a couple of times since then. As we are all still spending much of our days at home, it seems fitting to look at a poem that declares the centrality of the kitchen table.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Perhaps the World Ends Here<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

By Joy Harjo<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

5\/5<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

In celebration of the news that our brilliant colleague Jericho Brown has just been awarded the 2020 Pulitzer prize for<\/em> The Tradition, here is his poem, \u2018The Virus.\u2019 The Pulitzer citation honors \u201cA collection of masterful lyrics that combine delicacy with historical urgency in their loving evocation of bodies vulnerable to hostility and violence.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Virus<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dubbed undetectable, I can\u2019t kill<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The people you touch, and I can\u2019t<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Blur your view<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Of the pansies you\u2019ve planted<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Outside the window, meaning<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I can\u2019t kill the pansies, but I want to.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I want them dying, and I want<\/p>\n\n\n\n

To do the killing. I want you<\/p>\n\n\n\n

To heed that I\u2019m still here<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Just beneath your skin and in<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Each organ<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The way anger dwells in a man<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Who studies the history of his nation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

If I can\u2019t leave you<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dead, I\u2019ll have<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You vexed. Look. Look<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Again: show me the color<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Of your flowers now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

5\/4<\/strong> We begin the week with Harry Thomas’s powerful poem, ‘Deor,’ chosen by Daniel Bosch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Deor<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            Old English<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Wayland in V\u00e4rmland<\/p>\n\n\n\n

suffered adversities,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

that strong-minded man<\/p>\n\n\n\n

knew misery.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Bitter setbacks, pains<\/p>\n\n\n\n

of winter cold, these<\/p>\n\n\n\n

were his companions.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His truck was with trouble<\/p>\n\n\n\n

after Nithhad had done<\/p>\n\n\n\n

the violence to him\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

hacking his hamstrings,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

hobbling the better man.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

            \u2014That was endured;<\/p>\n\n\n\n

            so may this be.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Beadohilde despaired<\/p>\n\n\n\n

when her brothers were butchered,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

but when she was sure<\/p>\n\n\n\n

she carried a child\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

that was what wrecked her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She couldn\u2019t conceive<\/p>\n\n\n\n

of a future.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

            \u2014That was endured<\/p>\n\n\n\n

            so may this be.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We\u2019ve all of us heard<\/p>\n\n\n\n

how the Geat loved Mathilde,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

loved her without limit,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

loved with such love<\/p>\n\n\n\n

his sleep was shattered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

            \u2014That was endured;<\/p>\n\n\n\n

            so may this be.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Thirty years Theodric<\/p>\n\n\n\n

ruled the Maeringa\u2019s town.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The facts are all known.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

            \u2014That was endured;<\/p>\n\n\n\n

            so may this be.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We all know of Eormanric<\/p>\n\n\n\n

and his wolflike ways\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

subjugating subjects<\/p>\n\n\n\n

the length of Gotland.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He was a cruel king!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Men sat unmoving,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

shackled to sorrow,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

thinking just one thing\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

to cut the king down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

            \u2014That was endured;<\/p>\n\n\n\n

            so may this be.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Of myself I\u2019ll say this:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I was once the poet<\/p>\n\n\n\n

of the Heodingas,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

dear to my lord.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My name was Deor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Winter to winter<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I had a good holding,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

a lavishing lord.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Now one Heorrenda,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

a masterly man,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

finds praise in the place<\/p>\n\n\n\n

until lately my lord<\/p>\n\n\n\n

gave to me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

            \u2014That was endured;<\/p>\n\n\n\n

            so may this be.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Translated from Anglo-Saxon by Harry Thomas.<\/p>\n\n\n\n