Ran just after noon today. Sunny and warm. My legs felt a little sore, but the rest of me was loving this spring weather. Right before I went out, I read this poem and gave myself an assignment:
Over the land freckled with snow half-thawed The speculating rooks at their nests cawed And saw from elm-tops, delicate as flowers of grass, What we below could not see, Winter pass.
Thaw as the theme for my running today. How many instances of it can I encounter?
10+ Thawed Things
water dripping down the sewer, a fast flurry of drips, sounding like glitter looks
sandy grit on the edge of trail, left behind by the melted snow
also remaining after the snow melted: mulched-up leaves, small, brittle twigs
mud!, part 1: thick and wet and milk chocolate brown, ruts from a vehicle’s tires running through it
mud!, part 2: sloppy, mixed with decomposing leaves, covering the walking path
bare, dark brown dirt at the edge of someone’s yard
water gushing down the ravine
less layers = 1 pair of running tights, 1 running shirt, 1 running vest, no gloves, no buff, no winter cap
a quick flash of an earthy smell
puddles — none of them too deep or covering the entire path
a class — elementary school kids? — near the trestle. It’s warm enough for spring field trips!
the walking path — was able to run on more of it, and less of the bike path, today
Right before I started I saw some snow flurries but by the time I was running, they had stopped. Windy, humid. A cold 32 degrees. Began the run needing to lose my anxiousness. I did. Some parts of the run were hard; I’m not sure I’m completely over my sickness. But some parts of it were great. For a few minutes I felt like I was flying and free. I did a lot of triple berry chants on the way north. Stopped at the trestle to look down at the brown flat river. Then I put in the Fame (1980 version) soundtrack and ran back south. Timed it so “I Sing the Body Electric” was on as I ran up the last hill. As I sped up, I could hear some geese honking over the gorge, almost like they were racing me. Yes!
10 Things I Noticed
mud — thick, gooey, dark brown — on the edge of the path and alongside the lingering snow
sporadic geese honks throughout the run
the path was almost completely clear, only a few puddles and strips of ice
the wind was strong and in my face as I climbed out from under the lake street bridge
under the bridge, a parked suburu was facing the wrong way
some of the walking path was clear
the river was open and brown. It looked less like water and more like a flat wall
near the end of the run, I stopped for a minute to admire the view between the trees of the lake street bridge and the cars traveling over it
faintly recall hearing some birds chirping in a distinctive way — was it cheer up cheer up?
can’t remember if I heard the sound of my feet striking and sliding on the grit, but I felt it
James Schuyler, Hymn to Life, Page 9
Begins with Have much to thank you for, ends with the evening star seems set.
This page — wow.
And someone You know well is suffering, sees it all but not the way before Him, hating his job and not knowing what to change it for. Have You any advice to give? Have you learned nothing in all these Years? “Take it as it comes.” Sit still and listen: each so alone.
How often do people, when they’re suffering and tell others about it, want advice? How often do I? Sometimes. Mostly I want acknowledgment. Someone to witness what I’m feeling and to honor that it is real, true. Rarely do I want someone to tell me it will be okay or that I’m making a bigger deal out of it (whatever it is) than I should. I try not to give advice, often falling back on the classic, that sucks. More often than I should — should I ever do this? — I try to relate to the other’s pain, share a story of what I think is a similar experience. My daughter hates when I do this, it makes her feel worse. Often I can’t help myself. Slowly, I’ve been getting better at just listening, sitting still.
“Time heals All wounds”: now what’s that supposed to mean? Wounds can Kill, like that horse chestnut tree with the rotting place will surely Die unless the tree doctor comes. Cut out the rot, fill with tree Cement, score and leave to heal.
I think about this one in terms of grief, especially my grief over my mom’s death. It’s true that it isn’t as hard, and I’m not as undone as I was right after she died. But, what does it mean to heal? And, how often do things heal on their own, without any effort or attention? Maybe time doesn’t heal but…gives you more practice living with it? I’m sure this doesn’t totally apply, but I always think about what I’ve heard long-time and/or pro runners say about running long distances: it never gets easier, you just get better at enduring it.
And there Is the fog off the cold Atlantic. No one is at his best with A sinus headache. It will pass. Stopped passages unblock
I appreciate that he put this detail in. Just before reading this page, I was having what I call, a sinus episode. Not quite a headache, but a strange ache and heaviness that descends. No sharp pain, but discomfort, a queasy uneasiness. Pressure. Sometimes feeling like a thick iron plate is pressing down on my face. I’ve been getting these ever since the pandemic started — are they anxiety? Maybe partly? They used to last all day, but now that I’ve learned to put on a breathe right strip, they usually go away pretty quickly.
why Let the lovely spring, its muck and scarlet emperors, get you Down. Unhibernate. Let the rain soak your hair, run down your Face, hang in drops from facial protuberances. Face into It, then towel dry. Then another day brings back the sun and Violets in the grass.
Unhibernate. Face into it, then towel dry. I like this idea better than time heals all wounds.
Far away In Washington, at the Reflecting Pool, the Japanese cherries Bust out into their dog mouth pink. Visitors gasp. The sun Drips, coats and smears, all that spring yellow under unending Blue.
Why does this poem keep returning to DC? I’ll have to look that up. I did (hours later). Not sure if this is the only answer, but he grew up in D.C.
I love his description of the intense, over-the-top ripeness and showiness of spring. I’m reminded of Ada Limón and her line, “the neighbor’s almost obscene display of cherry limbs shoving their cotton-candied color blossoms to the slate sky of Spring rains” (almost remembered it word for word!). The difference is Schuyler’s sun and how it drips, coats and smears, all that spring yellow. This reminds me of living in Atlanta and the yellow pollen, coating every surface. Yuck! For me it just looked gross and stained everything, for others it made it very hard to breathe.
Only the oaks hold back their leaf buds, reticent. Reticence is not a bad quality, though it may lead to misunderstandings. I misunderstood silence for disapproval, see now it was Sympathy.
Are the oaks the last to bud here in Minnesota. I’ll have to watch in the next month. Is it reticence or patience, or maybe a desire to hang back and stay out of the fray of frantic growing and greening? I might be asking this of myself and not the oaks.
Reticent = reserved, holding back, restrained Patience = not hasty or impetuous, measured
I’m not sure whether or not oaks are the last to bud here in Minnesota, but when they do, they aren’t reticent, and their leaves don’t hold back. Within weeks they have consumed the trees, then my view of the gorge. Never in pleasing, controlled shapes like maples, but a hungry, sprawling green everywhere.
Thank you, May, for these warm stirrings. Life Goes on, it seems, though in all sorts of places—nursing Homes—it is drawing to a close. Abstractions and generalities: Grass and blue depths into which the evening star seems set.
Not sure what to say about this bit, but I wanted to leave it in. note, 29 march 2023: Looking back at these lines I started thinking about vision — my vision as an old person’s vision — and how details are lost, things appear mostly in the abstract and as forms — outside, blue sky and grass.
4.75 miles river road, north/south 30 degrees / snow 100% snow-covered
Even though I saw that snow showers were predicted for this morning, I wasn’t expecting it to be snowing today, or if it was, to only be the big flakes that fall but never land. Wrong. The snow started around 8 and hasn’t let up yet (at noon). The most irritating thing about the snow was that it was blowing in my face, even with the brim of my cap pulled way down. The most delightful? Maybe the sharp, quick snap of the crunching snow, or the way the not slippery but also not solid surface made me feel faster or more like I was flying then plodding, or how the rare pops of color — the yellowish-green crosswalk sign, the blue bike path sign, a runner’s pink hat, the hot pink and lime green stripe on another runner’s pants, the orange water jug on the side of the path set up by some running group — stood out against the relentless backdrop of white, or the cross-country skier! skiing on the path. A great run!
At the end of my run, right in front of my house, I heard the snow crunching and the birds chirping and I had to pull out my phone to record them. I made the mistake of holding the phone down at my side — is it a mistake? — and so the crunching sound is so loud that it’s distorted. It was loud, though. I remember passing another running and hearing her feet CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCHing!
LOUD! / 11 march 2023
Before I went out for a run, I read through the third page of Schuyler’s poem. So much of it is about color. I wanted to spend my run looking for color, and I did, at least some of the time, but I became focused on avoiding rough snow and making sure I noticed the river — open, wide, the snow looking like a white mist hovering above the water.
Colors I Remember Noticing
a pale yellow flag in the snow
a yellowish-green crosswalk sign
blue biking and walking path signs
a bright pink hat on a runner
chartreuse running tights on a runner
my purple jacket
almost everything, white
a dark gray strip of bare pavement
running tights with a stripe of lime green and hot pink
an orange water jug
Schuyler, Hymn of Life, page 3
Begins with Below Lee, ends with Or simply lying down to read. A lot of color. Decided to pick out only the color lines, except for one delightful one about birds that I couldn’t resist:
Created no illusion of lived-in-ness. But the periwinkles do, in beds That flatten and are starred blue-violet, a retiring flower loved, It would seem, of the dead, so often found where they congregate.
I’m unfamiliar with periwinkles, so I looked them up:
Tough, low-maintenance, and pest-free, Vinca minor (commonly known as periwinkle) has pretty broadleaf foliage and flowers that thrive in the sun or shade. It is also useful for providing ground cover and is known for its creeping habit. Periwinkle can come back every year as a perennial when planted in warmer climates but is an annual in cooler regions. Vinca minor vines most commonly put out a blue flower in spring, but the color can also be lavender, purple, or white.
Oh wow, I think I have these in my back yard! I love the little purple pops of color, breaking up the monotony of green. Usually I’m able to see them. And, are these flowers that I write about in an entry dated july 29, 2019 periwinkles?
Forgot to look for the river again today. Instead saw lots of green. A few slashes of light purple. What are those wildflowers? Green with purple all over the edge of the path.
Doubtful. I searched periwinkles and Mississippi River Gorge and vinca minor and Mississippi River Gorge and nothing came up.
The sky Colors itself rosily behind gray-black and the rain falls through The basketball hoop on a garage, streaking its backboard with further Trails of rust, a lovely color to set with periwinkle violet-blue.
A rosy sky behind gray-black clouds? Not pure reddish-pink or pinkish-red but the hint of it behind something darker. The rust — did I see rust anywhere on my run? I don’t think so.
in the west appear streaks of different green
So under lilacs unleaved/ Lie a clump of snowdrops
What are snowdrops, and can I find them here in Minneapolis? Yes! But not today.
The Minnesota Landscape Arboretum gardeners and I are on the lookout each March for the first snowdrop flowers, the first perennial garden plant to bloom and a marker of the beginning of the growing season.
A few of the white, bell-like flowers opened March 16 last year, announcing the end of winter.
In botanical and gardening books, snowdrops are described as hardy bulbs with nodding flowers that bloom, while lingering patches of snow are still seen.
I think I’ve seen them in my backyard in very early spring. I’ll have to look out for them at the end of this month or in April.
and one purple crocus. Purple. A polka-dotted Color little girls are fond of: “See my new dress!” and she twirls On one foot. Then, crossed, bursts into tears.
Purple. A polka-dotted Color? Is there a crocus that is purple with polka dots, or is he suggesting that like polka-dots, purple is a color that delights little girls? I don’t like his emotionally erratic little girl image.
Smiles and rain, like These passing days in which buds swell, unseen as yet, waiting For the elms to color their further out most twigs,
The early buds on the tips of tree twigs! I notice these all winter, waiting for them to turn green.
only the willow Gleams yellow.
When I lived much closer to Minnehaha Creek, I would often walk by a beautiful willow tree. Several years ago, it was cut down. It has appeared in a few of my early poem fragments. I remember how it looked yellow in the spring. What a beautiful tree! Now, when I think of willow trees, I mostly think of Carl Phillips (see the end of this log entry).
These Days need birds and so they come, a flock of ducks, and a bunch of Small fluffy unnamed balls that hide in hedges and make a racket.
These days need birds. Yes! I love that line, and the sentiment. Also, the small, fluffy unnamed balls that hide in hedges. No color mentioned; I just wanted to make note of this great bit. I can see a soft, intense, egg yellow of fluff.
It is more Mysterious than that, pierced by blue
I think the pierced by blue is a reference to the color that cuts through the gloom of a rainy, cloudy day.
I read somewhere that in addition to writing poetry, James Schuyler was an art critic. I would imagine that all the time he spent studying various paintings has influenced how he sees, understands, is able to describe color. He’s a great color poet.
Not completely sure if my body — my knees, left hip, lower back — were quite ready to run today, but the rest of me was, and I’m glad I did. The trail was almost completely clear with hardly any ice. And, there was only one short stretch of puddle-y slush so bad that I stopped to walk in the street to avoid it.
10 Things I Remember
the Minneapolis park crew had spread some dirt/sand on the trail to help make it less slippery. It was especially helpful under the lake street bridge on the marshall side
heard the drumming of a woodpecker somewhere in the gorge — it cut through the thick air. Also heard at least two geese, flying low and honking
the flurries were at an angle and I pulled the bill of my cap way down, almost covering my eyes, so that the snow wouldn’t fly directly into my eyes
the river, part 1: the river was gray and open as I crossed the franklin bridge
smelled the sewer a few times — a result of the recent (slight) thaw. Yuck!
the river road on the east side south of franklin was in terrible condition. So many potholes — dozens. I couldn’t tell if they were deep, just that there were a lot of them!
river, part 2: crossing back over the lake street bridge, the river was almost completely open, only one small chunk of ice
the river, part 3: near the small chunk of ice, I noticed that the river looked blueish green. A strange, delightful color. But what was causing it?
don’t remember hearing all the grit under my feet, but I remember feeling it. I like sliding on it. Why? Maybe because it’s more interesting than flat, hard pavement?
Favorite spot: near Meeker Island Dam, there’s a spot with an open view of the river and the other side. Only a few slender tree trunks in the way
Before heading out for my run, I had started revising my “How to Sink” poem. Thought I might get some inspiration by the gorge. Later, as I ran, I realized that I should wait to finish this poem when it’s spring, or at least warmer, when everything is dripping and oozing and flowing down to the river. I thought of this as the sharp flurried stabbed my face. Was thinking that I should do a “How to” poem related to water through the seasons.
Summer = How to Float
Spring = How to Sink
Winter = How to Settle? — something about snow that’s packed, layer, staying (not melting), compacting — How to be compact? or, How to Shrink?
Fall = I need to think about this one some more. What does water do in the fall? Maybe something related to decomposing — leaves falling, drying up, becoming brittle? water leaving — freezing — frost? fog? or, How to Rust?
Recited from memory my ED poem, “I measure every Grief I meet” before the run, then during it as I walked up the hill between the meeker dam and lake street. Recorded it into my phone. Only missed a few prepositions. Nice! My memorizing and reciting has improved over the years. This skill will come in handy when my ability to read gets worse. I’ll be able to memorize my poems for reciting to others.
I recited some of ED’s poem in my head as I ran. It follows a steady beat, so it’s easy to keep in rhythm, harder to recite without getting sucked into a sing song-y cadence.
This poem popped up on my twitter feed this morning:
Lake of the Isles/ Anni Liu
After my grandfather died I waited for him to arrive In Minneapolis. Daily I walked across the water Wearing my black armband Sewn from scraps, ears trained for his voice. Migration teaches death, deprives us Of the language of the body, Prepares us for other kinds of crossings, The endless innovations of grief. Forty-nine days, forty-nine nights— I carried his name and a stick Of incense to the island in the lake And with fellow mourners watched As it burned a hole in the ice. He did not give a sign, but I imagined him Traveling against the grain Of the earth, declining time. Spirit like wind, roughening Whatever of ourselves we leave bare. When he was alive, he and I Rarely spoke. But his was a great And courageous tenderness. Now we are beyond the barriers Of embodied speech, of nationhood. Someday, I will join him there in the country Of our collective future, knowing That loneliness is just an ongoing Relationship with time. It is such a strange thing, to be Continuous. In the weeks without snow, What do the small creatures drink?
About This Poem
My grandfather died during the first winter of the pandemic. His was the first death of someone I loved. That winter, people everywhere experienced the impossibility of being with dying loved ones. No one knew how to mourn in absentia. Having been separated from him and the rest of my family for twenty-two years due to my immigration status, I had had practice. I turned to poetry. Poems can enact impossible journeys. So, even though I wasn’t able to see him or be with my family, I could mourn. Here, in this room I made for us to be together.
A few weeks ago, my daughter walked on the ice at Lake of the Isles with her friend. They didn’t visit the island, but she talked about going back, and she wondered what happened there. I told her about this poem this morning as she made her coffee. Together we wondered if this actually happened, that during the pandemic people visited the island to mourn. Now I wonder, what does it mean to “actually” happen? If it was only conjured for this poem, does that mean it didn’t happen? [No.]
Love these lines:
That loneliness is just an ongoing Relationship with time.
It is such a strange thing, to be Continuous.
In the weeks without snow, What do the small creatures drink?
Now I’m wondering, how would Emily Dickinson measure Liu’s grief?
Ran on the track with Scott this morning, not together but at the same time. I thought about swimming, but knew it would be crowded, so I ran. Listened to a playlist titled, Sara 2020. Started with Tower of Power’s “What is Hip” and ended with Prince’s “Let’s Go Crazy.” Focused on my cadence, arm swing, and not running into people as I passed them, including 2 runners who were running in the far lane. There were soccer games going on below me in the big gym, but I didn’t notice them at all. Too lost in my run.
The thing I noticed the most were the people:
a man with white hair, wearing shorts and a tank top, running
a woman in turquoise shorts and a tank top, running in the far lane, making it difficult to pass
another runner in dark sweatpants and a light shirt running in the far lane
2 people walking, one of them carrying dumbells
another pair of women, the one in the middle lane wearing a bright blue shirt
a woman in mid-calf light blue patterned running tights and a white tank top running in the middle lane
someone in tan shorts walking faster than the other walkers
a woman stretching her calf muscles on the steps in the far corner
a guy in gray, walking
someone in red (I think?) sitting on the bench near the punching bag and the exit
I was listening to music, so I couldn’t hear what anyone was saying, but Scott told me that he overheard 3 interesting things from the pair of women walkers (#5 above). He called them chatty Cathys, he guessed they were in college, and he heard them say this: First, just as he passed them, he overheard one of them call out in disgust, Yuck! Next time, They’ll see it on your transcripts. Finally, You should really stop binging. Binging a show, food, alcohol? What will they see on your transcripts, and is this a good thing, or a bad thing? I love overheard conversations and imagining what they’re about.
Here are two poems I discovered today that move in opposite directions:
Suddenly this defeat. This rain. The blues gone gray And the browns gone gray And yellow A terrible amber. In the cold streets Your warm body. In whatever room Your warm body. Among all the people Your absence The people who are always Not you.
I have been easy with trees Too long. Too familiar with mountains. Joy has been a habit. Now Suddenly This rain.
Today my heart is so goddamned fat with grief that I’ve begun hauling it in a wheelbarrow. No. It’s an anvil dragging from my neck as I swim through choppy waters swollen with the putrid corpses of hippos, which means lurking, somewhere below, is the hungry snout of a croc waiting to spin me into an oblivion worse than this run-on simile, which means only to say: I’m sad. And everyone knows what that means.
And in my sadness I’ll walk to a café, and not see light in the trees, nor finger the bills in my pocket as I pass the boarded houses on the block. No, I will be slogging through the obscure country of my sadness in all its monotone flourish, and so imagine my surprise when my self-absorption gets usurped by the sound of opera streaming from an open window, and the sun peeks ever-so-slightly from behind his shawl, and this singing is getting closer, so that I can hear the delicately rolled r’s like a hummingbird fluttering the tongue which means a language more beautiful than my own, and I don’t recognize the song though I’m jogging toward it and can hear the woman’s breathing through the record’s imperfections and above me two bluebirds dive and dart and a rogue mulberry branch leaning over an abandoned lot drags itself across my face, staining it purple and looking, now, like a mad warrior of glee and relief I run down the street, and I forgot to mention the fifty or so kids running behind me, some in diapers, some barefoot, all of them winged and waving their pacifiers and training wheels and nearly trampling me when in a doorway I see a woman in slippers and a floral housedress blowing in the warm breeze who is maybe seventy painting the doorway and friends, it is not too much to say it was heaven sailing from her mouth and all the fish in the sea and giraffe saunter and sugar in my tea and the forgotten angles of love and every name of the unborn and dead from this abuelita only glancing at me before turning back to her earnest work of brushstroke and lullaby and because we all know the tongue’s clumsy thudding makes of miracles anecdotes let me stop here and tell you I said thank you.
This poem! The beauty that interrupts us and forces us out of ourselves and into the world! Ross Gay is wonderful.
My Emily Dickinson, part two
a new grammar grounded in humility and hesitation
Emily Dickinson took the scraps from the separate “higher” female education many bright women of her time were increasingly resenting, combined them with voracious and “unladylike” outside reading, and used the combination. She built a new poetic form from her fractured sense of being eternally on inteIlectual borders, where confident masculine voices buzzed an alluring and inaccessible discourse, backward through history into aboriginal anagogy. Pulling pieces of geometry, geology, alchemy, philosophy, politics, biography, biology, mythology, and philology from alien territory, a “sheltered” woman audaciously invented a new grammar grounded in humility and hesitation. HESITATE from the Latin, meaning to stick. Stammer. To hold back in doubt, have difficulty speaking. “He may pause but he must not hesitate”-Ruskin. Hesitation circled back and surrounded everyone in that confident age of aggressive industrial expansion and brutal Empire building. Hesitation and Separation. The Civil War had split American in two. He might pause, She hesitated. Sexual, racial, and geographical separation are at the heart of Definition.
Here’s something I wrote about this passage on March 17, 2021:
I really like this idea of hesitation and humility and aboriginal anagogy as a sharp contrast to progress, aggression, confidence/hubris, and time as always moving forwards (teleology). I tried to find a source that could explain exactly what Howe means by aboriginal anagogy but I couldn’t. I discovered that anagogy means mystical or a deeper religious sense and so, when I connect it to aboriginal, I’m thinking that she means that ED imbues pre-Industrial times (pre Progress!, where progress means trains and machines and cities and Empires and factories and plantations and the enslavement of groups of people and the increased mechanization of time and bodies and meaning and, importantly, grammar) with the sacred. Is that right? Is it clear what I’m saying?
A few paragraphs later, Howe writes this about ED’s grammar of “hesitation and humility”:
Naked sensibilities at the extremest periphery. Narrative expanding contracting dissolving. Nearer to know less before afterward schism in sum. No hierarchy, no notion of polarity. Perception of an object means loosing and losing it. …Trust absence, allegory, mystery–the setting not the rising sun is Beauty. No outside editor/”robber.” Conventional punctuation was abolished not to add “soigne stitchery” but to subtract arbitrary authority. Dashes drew liberty of interruption inside the structure of each poem. Hush of hesitation for breath and for breathing….only Mutability certain.
Some of this is starting to make sense. The periphery, the dashes as hesitation, mystery. I was curious about her take on sunsets over sunrises so I googled it and found this ED poem and helpful account from the Prowling Bee (love her!). She includes a list of ED’s sunset poems.
Howe ends Part One with one more description of ED’s hesitation and humility:
Forcing, abbreviating, pushing, padding, subtraction, riddling, interrogating, re-writing, she pulled text from text (29).
5.5 miles franklin loop 25 degrees / light snow 100% snow-covered, slick ice
This morning it snowed. An inch in an hour. Then it stopped. By the time I got out to the river, it was snowing again. I decided not to wear my yaktrax, which was a bad idea. Very slippery. Lots of ice hidden under the snow. I slipped a few times, but never fell.
a few tips to avoid slipping
It was difficult for me to see where it was icy, but within a few miles I had developed a system that mostly worked.
First, look for the footsteps that stretch, the ones that seem longer than a foot. That is where someone has slipped or slid from ice underneath. Try to avoid these spots.
Second, accept that every single crosswalk entrance will be slippery and that you need to slow down in those spots. Slow down by shortening your stride and lifting your feet more often but with less height. Do a shuffle. Or, slow down to a walk. Keep your foot flat as you step down.
Third, stay focused, constantly reminding yourself the ice is lurking everywhere. Do not look away or try to pick up your pace.
I liked this run and am glad that I did it, although I wondered what I had gotten myself into when I was on the east side of the river, too far in to turn around.
the river
Crossing the Franklin Bridge, the snow just starting again, I noticed the river was brown and open and that the faintest fog, due to the light snow, was hovering above the surface. Later when I was crossing under the lake street bridge on the east side, I noticed 2 people standing at a railing, looking out at the river. I walked up the steps and stopped halfway to stand at another railing and admire the grayish-brown water. This view, a reward for the effort of trudging through the snow for 50+ minutes.
10 Things
on the bridge, closest to the railing, there were squares of bare pavement. As my feet landed on snow then bare pavement then snow again, I could feel the difference — a slight slide, then a thud, then a slide again
voices yelling from down below in the gorge — people having fun in the snow?
a quiet voice grunting or clearing their throat, gently alerting me to their presence before biking by
cars moving very slowly, carefully
a truck on the bridge starting to stop way back from the cars in front of it. Must be slippery on the road
chick a dee dee dee
headlights down at the bottom of the franklin hill — a car slowly climbing up
an adult pulling a young kid in a sled on the path
2 walkers having an animated conversation as we all approached meeker island. I heard one of them talking as I passed. Now I can’t remember what he said, just that he said it strangely
the pipe under the lake street bridge — the one that I recorded gushing the last time I ran the franklin loop — was frozen solid. One thick, ugly icicle hanging at the bottom
Like discarded pages from the book of autumn, the leaves come trembling down in red and umber, each a poem or story, an unread letter.
Think of the fires in ancient Alexandria, the voluminous smoke of parchment burning.
Open your arms to the dying colors, to the fragile beauties
of November. Deep in the heart of buried acorns, nothing lost.
Nothing lost. I like imaging my past selves — not past lives, but the many selves I’ve been throughout my life — as not lost. Buried acorns to become, over time and slow, steady growth, a new forest of trees. Now I’m imagining a forest of Saras. I’d like to walk through that forest! This makes me think of something I’ve been noticing about Pastan — she loves trees. She wants to be a tree, she links trees with the act of writing poetry, she finds hope against the inevitability of death in trees. A forest of Saras also makes me think of a poem I started a few years ago about a lake of Saras, different ages, lining up to make a bridge. It also makes me think of something funny I did last night. I positioned 2 of the mirrored doors of our bathroom medicine cabinet in such a way that I could look into the small wedge between each mirror and see around 20 of me. I stuck out my tongue and all these Saras were sticking their tongues out too. So many Saras. I kept looking to see if one of them might decide not to stick out their tongue. Nope, at least not that night.
5.5 miles bottom of franklin hill turn around 15 degrees / feels like 5 5% ice-covered
Colder today, but almost a completely clear path! Sunny, bright. Greeted Dave the Daily Walker early on. He was bundled up today. Wrapped in so many layers, I felt disconnected. I barely remember running on the stretch between the Welcoming Oaks and the lake street bridge. Only one flash of memory: looking down from the bike path, I noticed the walking path was hidden by a hard pack of snow, hardly looking like a path.
Listend to the gorge running north, a playlist returning south.
layers
my (recently) dead mother-in-law’s purple Columbia jacket
pink jacket with hood
green shirt
2 pairs of black running tights
2 pairs of gloves (black, pin and white striped)
gray buff
black fleece-lined cap
1 pair of socks
10 Things I Noticed
my shadow, running ahead of me
the shadow of the lamp post beside the trail — the tip of the top of the lamp post looked extra sharp
the river was open and brown, with a few streaks of white
the path was clear but on the edges there were thick slabs of opaque ice where the puddles had refroze
birds!, 1: the tin-whistle song of a blue jay
birds!, 2: the laugh of the pileated woodpecker
birds!, 3: the drumming of some woodpecker. Was it a pileated woodpecker, or a downy woodpecker, or a yellow-bellied woodpecker?
birds!, 3: so many chirps and trills and twitters on the way up the franklin hill — a rehearsal for spring
an impatient car illegally passing another car on the river road
very little ice on the trail — where there was ice, Minneapolis Parks had put some drit down to make it less slippery (finally!)
Today, I have 2 Pastan poems. I am including both of them because they work together to speak to one set of struggles I have with losing my vision: I can no longer drive because of my deteriorating central vision AND this inability to no longer drive makes me feel much older than I am. Pastan is writing about surrendering her key when she’s in her late 80s. I stopped being able to drive at 45.
Ode to My Car Key/ Linda Pastan
Silver bullet shape of a treble clef I slip you in the ignition— an arrow seeking its target— where you fit like a thread in the eye of a needle like a man and a woman. A click and the engine roars,
the road unscrolls on its way to anywhere. At night you sleep in the darkness of a drawer, On a pillow of tarnsied coins. Oh faithful key: last week I gave you up for good— Excalibar back in its stone— as I climbed into the waiting vehicle of old age.
Reading “Ode to My Car Key”
Cataracts/ Linda Pastan
Like frosted glass, you blur the hard edges of the cruel world.
Like summer fog, you obscure the worse even an ocean can do. But watch out.
They are coming for you with their sterile instruments, their sharpened knives,
saying I will be made new— as if I were a rich man wanting a younger wife.
Soon the world will be all glare. Grass will turn a lethal green, flower petals a chaos
of blood reds, shocking pink. What will I see? I am afraid of so much clarity, so much light.
This second poem offers an interesting contrast to the first one, which is a lament over the loss of the ability to drive, presumably (mostly?) because of her vision. In “Cataracts,” Pastan is worried about regaining her vision and how it will change the gentle ways she sees. “I am afraid/of so much clarity, so much light” immediately reminds me of Emily Dickinson’s “Tell it Slant”: “too bright for our infirm Delight” and “Before I got my eye put out”: “So safer — guess — with my just my soul/ Opon the window pane/ Where other creatures put their eyes/ Incautious — of the Sun– “
I like how putting these poems together offers space for both lamenting the loss of vision, and for appreciating the new ways it allows you to see. Is this what Pastan is doing? I’m not sure, but it speaks to how I feel about my vision loss.
A swim! The last time I swam was 10 days ago. How has it been that long? The water was the cloudiest I ever remember it being. Was it that cloudy, or was it my vision or my loose googles? Swam alone for 30 minutes, then my daughter joined me.
10 Things I Noticed
the water was so cloudy I couldn’t see to the other end
starting out, swimming just above the bottom, I heard some kicking noises and worried that I had picked a lane that someone was already swimming in (I hadn’t)
something brown, looking suspiciously like a band-aide, was stuck to the floor as it sloped down to the deep bottom. It stared back at me every time I swam above it
in the next lane, someone was swimming an exaggerated breast stroke, kicking their legs way out, taking up most of the lane, possibly stretching over into my lane. I was a little irritated, but more enchanted by the wide swing of their legs and their froggy look
I could see a small circle of light in the far corner
trying to look more closely at the band-aide, I noticed some other white things stuck to the sloped floor too. What were they?
as I flipped at the wall and looked up at the ceiling from below the water, I noticed that at the wall closer to the windows the light was yellow, and at the wall that was farther, the light was a pinkish-orange
my nose plug squeaked once — a high-pitched squeak
in the next lane a swimmer waited at the wall. Right as I flipped then pushed off, he started swimming. Was he trying to race me? Probably not
I don’t think I saw anything floating in the pool today
Another good swim. For reasons I can’t quite pinpoint, I was agitated before my swim. It took some time, but the swimming helped calm me down.
Today’s Linda Pastan poem reminds me of something I was just writing about for my week five lecture for my class: gnarled branches.
In the Orchard/ Linda Pastan
Why are these old, gnarled trees so beautiful, while I am merely old and gnarled?
If I had leaves, perhaps, or apples . . . if I had bark instead of this lined skin,
maybe the wind would wind itself around my limbs in its old sinuous dance.
I shall bite into an apple and swallow the seeds. I shall come back as a tree.
This idea of coming back as a tree also reminds me of a poem I found the other day on twitter by Czesław Miłosz:
More spring-like weather. Above freezing. Sun. The sound of snow melting everywhere, especially under the lake street bridge. I checked and the last time I ran the franklin loop was on December 13th. It’s nice to get this view of the river again.
Felt relaxed. My knees ached a little — not an injury, just grumbling over the month of uneven, icy paths. Speaking of paths, the trail on the east side of the river was rough — ice, deep puddles — between Franklin and the trestle. I had to stop and walk a few times.
10+ Things I Noticed
a V of geese above me. When I first noticed them through my peripheral vision, I thought they were a plane
a white form up in the air. A cloud? No, a plane. It took me a minute to finally see it in my central vision
crossing the Franklin bridge, the river was covered in a steel blue ice
the bridge trail was mostly clear. The part shaded by the railing was not
everywhere the moisture on the path shone so bright that I couldn’t tell if it was only water or slippery ice. (it was mostly water)
crossing under the railroad trestle on the west side, I heard the beep beep beep of the alarm. I wondered if a train was coming. (I never saw or heard one)
heard some bike wheels behind me, then voices calling out Ice! I moved over and stopped to let them pass, then watched as they slowly navigated the ice on their thin wheels
lots of whooshing wheels and noises that sounded like sploosh! as cars drove through the puddles collecting on the edge of the road
a favorite late fall spot: right before the meeker dam, there’s an opening in the trees and a clear, broad view of the river and the other side
the river down below the trestle on the east side looked like an otherwordly wasteland. Brown, riddled with broken up ice
crossing back over the lake street bridge from east to west, the river looked like an ice rink that had been skated on for too long and needed a Zamboni
running down the hill from the bridge to the path, a woman crossing the river road called out, Oh! As I neared her, I stopped and she said, It’s slippery!
When I stopped running to walk up the lake street bridge steps, I could hear and see the water gushing down through the pipe under the bridge. I had to stop and record it.
feb 13, 2023 / gushing water
Here’s my Pastan poem for the day. I found it before I went out for my run. My goal was to try and listen for voices out there by the gorge, and I did, somewhat. The woman who cried out when she almost slipped. 2 women walking on the bridge above, when I was below. The biker calling out Ice! A tree, its dead leaves rustling in the breeze. The soft not quite gushing of the limestone seeping melting snow. The drip drip drip of water off the bridge.
For Miriam, Who Hears Voices/ Linda Pastan
If the voices are there you can’t ignore them, whether they come up through the floorboard on a conduit of music or in a rattle of words that make sounds but no sense.
They can be messages from the sky in the form of rain at the window, or in the cold silent statements of snow. Sometimes it’s the dead talking, and there is comfort in that
like listening to your parents in the next room, and perhaps it’s the same parents still talking years after they’ve gone.
If you’re lucky, the vowels you hear are shaped like sleep– simple cries from the thicket of your dreams. You lie in bed. If the voices are there, you listen.
I am always looking for poems about love (not necessarily “love” poems). This one popped up on my twitter feed this morning. As a bonus, it’s about winter and fits with my theme of layers for next week AND it has wild turkeys in it!
After stepping into the world again, there is that question of how to love, how to bundle yourself against the frosted morning— the crunch of icy grass underfoot, the scrape of cold wipers along the windshield— and convert time into distance.
What song to sing down an empty road as you begin your morning commute? And is there enough in you to see, really see, the three wild turkeys crossing the street with their featherless heads and stilt-like legs in search of a morning meal? Nothing to do but hunker down, wait for them to safely cross.
As they amble away, you wonder if they want to be startled back into this world. Maybe you do, too, waiting for all this to give way to love itself, to look into the eyes of another and feel something— the pleasure of a new lover in the unbroken night, your wings folded around him, on the other side of this ragged January, as if a long sleep has ended.
As a bonus, this poem also has another thing I’m always trying to find: a reference to the idea of looking into someone’s eyes and really seeing them as (one of) the key metaphors for being fully human. I’m collecting these examples because they bother me. With my failing central vision, I can’t really look into a person’s eyes and see them. Does this mean I can’t be fully human?
3.25 miles trestle turn around 40 degrees 75% bare, wet, puddled pavement
A late afternoon run on a sunny, warm (warm for February in Minnesota) day! The path was wet, with lots of puddles, some slick spots, and lots of sloppy snow. Twice I had big slips. My one leg flew off to the side and I waved my arms involuntarily, but I didn’t seem to lose momentum and my body never felt the fear of falling — that fear deep in the pit of my stomach that quickly spreads to the top of my head and makes my whole body tense up.
10 Things
the warm sun on my face — it felt like spring
the late afternoon shadows — I can’t remember a specific shadow, maybe shadows of trees over the gorge?
a siren behind me as I ran up from under the lake street bridge. It sounded close and like it was stopping. I think I heard the siren double beep and then stop
some little yippy dogs freaking out down below at the minneapolis rowing club. So frantic! What’s going on down there? I worried for a minute, wondering if I was actually hearing someone screaming, but decided it was definitely some exuberant dogs
Also heard a strange moan or whine coming from the rowing club — not a human moan, but one coming from a machine
so much whooshing of car wheels through deep puddles on the edges of the road
lots of bikes deciding to bike on the mostly dry road instead of the be-puddled path
my shoes and socks were soaked before I reached the first mile. After the run, the white socks were now speckled in brown grit
smelled pot as I ran past a parking lot
heard a few random geese honks closer to the river
I didn’t look at the river or notice the ancient boulders or greet the welcoming oaks. Didn’t hear any birds — wait, I think I heard a crow at the beginning —or music coming from a car radio or a bike or someone’s phone.
This was a great afternoon run. I like running at this time, when the sun is slowly sinking. My only problem: the paths are usually much more crowded. Still, I’d like to try and add in some more of these runs so I can study the sun and the shadows.
Here’s my Linda Pastan poem for today. I don’t think there were any clouds to admire, but I’m posting it anyway!
The Clouds/ Linda Pastan
From a high window I watch the clouds—
armada of white sails
blown by the wind from west to east, as if
auditioning for me, as if they needed
nothing more than to be in a poem.
What a delightful little poem! I think this counts as one of Mary Oliver’s little alleluias on the page.