Ran in the afternoon. 45 degrees and no snow. Spotted one lone chunk of ice floating in the river. Very mild. I was overheated in my layers: black tights, black shorts, long-sleeved green shirt, orange sweatshirt. For a few minutes of the run I felt good, but for most of it I felt off. Some gastro thing, I think.
In my state of discomfort and distraction, did I happen to notice 10 things?
10 Things
overheard, one woman walker to another: It’s been five years and a lot has changed
kids yelling on the playground
a flash of white car up ahead — were they driving the wrong way in the parking lot? No, the car I was seeing was on the road, on the other side of the ravine
someone roller blading — not roller skiing
the short dirt trail where folwell climbs up to the top of the bluff then back down again was all mud
lots of bikers on the bike path
lots of walkers down below on winchell
(as mentioned above) the river was open except for one big chunk of ice
playing chicken with a walker who was walking on my side until the last minute — were they playing chicken too or just oblivious?
no grit on the path or shadows or honking geese or regulars
today’s peripheral: just a distraction
daydreams reveries distractions
When ideas float in our mind, without any reflection or regard of the understanding, it is that which the French call reverie; our langauge has scarce a name for it.
John Locke, cited in The Plentitude of Distraction
To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee, One clover, and a bee. And revery. The revery alone will do, If bees are few.
This short book takes a second look at distraction, extracting untold pleasures and insights from its alleged dangers, defending and celebrating the unfocused life for the small and great miracles it can deliver.
I acknowledge my status as a stranger: Inappropriate clothes, odd habits Out of sync with wasp and wren. I admit I don’t know how To sit still or move without purpose. I prefer books to moonlight, statuary to trees.
But this lawn has been leveled for looking, So I kick off my sandals and walk its cool green. Who claims we’re mere muscle and fluids? My feet are the primitives here. As for the rest—ah, the air now Is a tonic of absence, bearing nothing But news of a breeze.
Ran with Scott on the ford loop. Today I talked about the US Olympic Marathon Trials, which I watched this morning. A runner from Minnesota, Dakotah Lindwurm, got third. Scott talked about the music project he worked on before the run — a little jam with his new keyboard and bass. We also mentioned slippery mud, tight shins (Scott), cramped toes (me), running up the Summit hill during the marathon, and mistaking a fire hydrant (Scott) and a black fence (me) for people. I was surprised that there weren’t more people out running — it’s not that cold and the paths are clear. Maybe it was the time of day — 12:30?
10 Things
an empty bench on the bluff
a wide (r than I remembered) expanse of grass between the path and the edge
the crack trail
some strange decorations on the fence in front of the church — yarn? paper chains?
a car blasting music at an overlook parking lot — the only lyric I remember was senorita
a wide open view of the river and the other side
a double lamp post on the ford bridge — one light was on, the other was not
the dead-leafed branch that’s been pushed up agains the other side of the double bridge for months — still there with all of its dead leaves
no poem on the poetry window — have they stopped doing it? was it just for the pandemic?
ice on river, near the east shore, one chunk almost the shape of a right triangle
Searching “peripheral” on the Poetry Foundation site, I found this interesting blurb:
Poet Tan Lin edited issue 6 of EOAGH, for which he invited contributors to submit a piece of “peripheral” writing – that is, a text that doesn’t directly supply the material or inspiration for the authors’ work, but is in some tangential, peripheral, or ambient way, related.
I would like to play around with this idea of the peripheral text in my own writing. What are the peripheral texts, ideas, practices that contribute to my poems, especially my Haunts poems?
4.7 miles river road trail, north/south 35 degrees
Another beautiful and disturbingly mild late morning. No snow or ice. Glancing over at the gorge, it looked like April not January. Noticed my shadow — first she was in front of me, then behind and off to the side. Heard a pileated woodpecker laughing somewhere above me. Smelled something sour just below me, near the rowing club. Almost slipped on some mud.
I thought about, and tried emphasizing, my peripheral vision as I ran. What did I see? I can’t remember.
Listened to birds and traffic and my striking feet as I ran north. Put in Jesus Christ Superstar running south.
Peripheral
This month’s challenge: peripheral. The first thing I did was to search through my old entries and tag any mention of the peripheral.
The next thing I wanted to do was to create a playlist of peripheral songs, like I did with windows last month, but not much was coming up — except poet-singer Fiona Apple’s excellent Periphery. So, I’m taking a different approach: peripheral music = incidental music or ambient or background music. Maybe even a movie or tv score? Erik Satie’s furniture music (I discovered this term on apple music last year when I was searching for “chill” music). Here’s something about Satie that I found:
the idea of “music to be ignored” was first articulated by Erik Satie, who wrote what he called “furniture music” (musique d’ameublement). This was music which had no set form and sections could be re-arranged as a performer or conductor wished, much like furniture in a room, and to act as part of the ambiance or furnishings.
As I write this, I’m listening to one of the most well-known of the background/ambient genre: Ambient 1: Music for Airports by Brian Eno. In an article about ambient music, Open Culture offers these words from Eno in an interview:
“For me, the central idea was about music as a place you go to,” he said in an interview about his recent ambient album Reflection. “Not a narrative, not a sequence that has some sort of teleological direction to it — verse, chorus, this, that, and the other. It’s really based on abstract expressionism: Instead of the picture being a structured perspective, where your eye is expected to go in certain directions, it’s a field, and you wander sonically over the field.”
Yes! I love things that aren’t driven by a narrow story or purpose — no teleology — but create a place to inhabit. Poems are often described as places — a house or an open field. The idea of the eye (or the ear) wandering through a field immediately makes me think of peripheral vision — it doesn’t offer focused, detailed images, but a broader sense of the whole picture — less the trees, more the forest.
All this writing about ambient music makes me think of one of Eno’s longtime collaborators, Robert Fripp. In 2020, he released an ambient track, culled from his decades of recording, every Friday. I’m listening to a playlist of them on Apple Music right now: Music for Quiet Moments 1: Pastorale (Mendoza 3rd June 2007). I love what Fripp writes about these moments on his blog (I like the design of his blog too!)
Music For Quiet Moments…
I
A Quiet Moment is how we experience a moment: the moment which is here, now and available.
Quiet moments are when we put time aside to be quiet; and also where we find them. Sometimes quiet moments find us.
Some places have an indwelling spirit, where quiet is a feature of the space: perhaps natural features in the landscape; perhaps intentionally created, as in a garden; perhaps where a spirit of place has come into being over time, as in an English country churchyard.
Quiet may be experienced with sound, and also through sound; in a place we hold to be sacred, maybe on a crowded subway train hurtling towards Piccadilly or Times Square.
A Quiet Moment is more to do with how we experience time than how we experience sound.
A Quiet Moment prepares the space where Silence may enter.
Silence is timeless.
II
My own quiet moments, over fifty-one years of being a touring player, have been mostly in public places where, increasingly, a layer of noise has intentionally overlaid and saturated the sonic environment.
III
Quiet Moments of my musical life, expressed in Soundscapes, are deeply personal; yet utterly impersonal: they address the concerns we share within our common humanity.
Paradoxically, they have mostly taken place in public contexts inimical and unsupportive of quiet.
Some of these Soundscapes are inward-looking, reflective. Some move outwards, with affirmation. Some go nowhere, simply being where they are.
Feels like spring today. Sun, warm air, less layers. Today: black tights, black shorts, long-sleeved green shirt, orange sweatshirt, hat, buff, headband.
No gloves. No winter jacket. No snow on the path. Lots of birds and darting squirrels and shimmering water.
I felt sore from the 30 minute workout I did yesterday, but not too sore. Maybe I’ll try it a few more times.
Thought about how strange it was to be running in January with no snow and such warm air. It’s not just that it’s warm today — we’ve had warm days in past Januarys, but that it’s been warm like this for 4 or 5 days and will continue to be this warm for the next week. And, there’s no snow. Bad for the trees; they’re starting to bud. RJP came home the other day from school and told me how one of her friends was very scared about the warm weather — we’re all going to be dead by the time we’re 30, he said. How terrible to be coming of age in this time, when statements like this are felt so intensely by so many people.
Yesterday, while rereading my July entries from 2023, I was reminded of Christina Sharpe’s amazing book, Ordinary Notes. I read it while quarantining for COVID. I posted a note from it on July 4th:
I was particularly struck by her discussion of the shift from guilt to grief because Scott and I just watched (on Monday night) a beautiful story on PBS about Rita Davern and her efforts to reckon with her family’s buying of Pike Island, a sacred space for the Dakota people known as Bdote which was illegally “purchased” by Zebulon Pike in 1805. I’m not sure if Rita utters that exact phrase, but the idea of moving from guilt to grief was a big focus. After reading Sharpe’s note again, I decided to find and watch the documentary she mentions, Traces of the Trade. Found it online from my local library — public libraries for the win! — and watched it yesterday afternoon. It was amazing. One thing I kept thinking as I watched it was Marie Howe’s entreaty: don’t look away. Guilt gives us distance and prevents us from witnessing/beholding. Grief enables us to feel — not just the pain of others, but our own pain — the pain of silence, complicity, denial of connection, fear, helplessness.
I’m not a big fan of guily; it’s not helpful as a foundation for ethics or politics. As I thought this, I suddenly remembered a feminist ethicist I read/liked, back in the day: Elizabeth Spelman. She wrote a chapter titled “Good Grief” and it was about ways of grappling with racism. She was critical of guilt as a response — what did she like instead? I’m sure I have the article somewhere. Oh well.
Speaking of rereading old entries, I’ve been encountering the idea of the peripheral a lot lately. It’s giving me the itch to work seriously on some peripheral poems. Maybe this could be the February challenge? Maybe this poem could get me started?
In Praise of Being Peripheral/ Jane Hirshfield
Without philosophy, tragedy, history,
a gray squireel looks very busy.
Light as a soul released from a painting by Bosch, its greens and vermilions stripped off it.
He climbs a tree that is equally ahistoric.
His heart works harder.
This last line about his heart working harder reminds me of something else I’m reading: The Plenitude of Distraction. In it, Marina Can Zuylen argues for the value of distraction. In a bit I read last night she praises how the slowness that distraction demands — wandering through the peripheral and away from one’s central task. Maybe I should read this too — I’ll try; it has a lot of words for my weak eyes.
Sun! Sun! Finally some sun! After days of gloom, sun and warmer air. Birds. Snow all gone. Greenish grass. It feels like spring. An unpopular opinion, but as much as I like this weather, I want some snow. Big fluffy flakes to run through. The silence only a blanket of snow can create. Crisp, cold air. I’m sure we’ll get some in February.
Ran to the lake for a specific reason: I wanted to see if Painted Turtle, the restaurant, has made any progress on building a structure so they can serve beer this summer. Nope — at least, now that I could see.
The lake still has a thick layer of ice, but the surface is wet and blue. Such a beautiful, intense blue. I don’t think I saw anyone out in the middle on the ice — did I just forgot to look? Or is too wet or too thin?
10 Things
Ran over the recently redone duck bridge, noticed it squeaking
a sparkling river
a truck making a racket as it went over a bump — the noisiest part were its rattling chains
no ice on the creek, no water in the swampy area in my favorite part of the path
what I thought was a teacher’s shrill whistle at the playground was a bird, calling repeatedly
still working on nokomis avenue, had to cross over to the sidewalk
lots of mud near the lake — again, no snow
walking by my favorite bench at the big beach, imagining myself sitting there this summer and my suit, waiting for open swim to begin
no poem on the window at the house that used to put up a poem on their front window
many friendly, kind people on the sidewalk moving over for me to pass
Earlier this morning, reading the Longfellow Messenger, I found an article about Edmund Avenue — the one I’ve mentioned many times here. The Edmund is after Edmund Walton who was the first developer to do a racial covenant on the properties he was selling. He did this in 1910. Some people want to change the name. I’m with them. Racial covenants are terrible; we had one on our house that we didn’t realize was there and just filed paperwork to get it removed a few weeks ago. And, it’s not in the past; our neighborhood, and all of Minneapolis, is still shaped by who could and couldn’t buy a home here. The article mentioned a site: Reclaiming Edmund
2.1 miles river road, north/dorman/loons coffee 37 degrees / humidity: 90%
Ran with Scott up the river road and over to a coffee place. The air was so thick with moisture, which made it harder to breathe. Otherwise a good run. We talked about The Muppet Movie, which we watched last night, and how it didn’t dumb down (or try to purify) the characters or their relationships. Then I rambled on for a few minutes about what a rich, messy character Miss Piggy was and how there was such a variety of representations of love within the movie.
10+ Things
encountered and greeted a woman in a bright red jacket, almost the same color as Scott’s
passed a woman in a blue jacket — she’s a Regular that I should name. I see her often. The thing I remember most is that she’s always wearing a long skirt or dress. In the winter, she also wears a ski jacket and tights, in the summer just the dress. I’m not sure what to call her — all dressed up?
near the tunnel of trees the river is still white
everyone else the river is open — a deep dark gray
heard some cardinals, at least one black-capped chickadee
the ghost bike — June’s bike — at the trestle was wreathed in dried flowers
the ravine, between the 35th and 36th street parking lots had an open view and was only half covered in snow
4 stones stacked on the ancient boulder
bright orange striped barrel blocking the way down the old stone steps
a lone black glove, looking forlorn on the biking path
a SUV honking unnecessarily and repeatedly at a pedestrian near Minnehaha Academy
Here’s a poem I don’t want to forget by Jane Hirshfield:
Many capacities have been thought to define the human— yet finches and wasps use tools; speech comes into this world in many forms. Perhaps it is you, Opinion.
Though I cannot know for certain, I doubt the singing dolphins have opinions.
This thought of course, is you.
A mosquito’s estimation of her meal, however subtle, is not an opinion. That’s my opinion, too.
To think about you is to step into your arms? a thicket? pitfall?
When you come rising strongly in me, I feel myself grow separate and more lonely. Even when others share you, this is so.
Darwin said no fact or description that fails to support an argument can serve.
Myoe wrote: Bright, bright, bright, bright, the moon.
Last night there were whole minutes when you released me. Ocean ocean ocean was the sound the sand made of the moonlit waves breaking on it.
I felt no argument with any part of my life.
Not even with you, Opinion, who drifted in salt waters with the bullwhip kelp and phosphorescent plankton, nibbling my legs and ribcage to remind me where Others end and I begin.
5.1 miles bottom of franklin hill 37 degrees / humidity: 91%
Fog. Mist. And is that a very light drizzle or just the over-saturated air? Felt cold in the beginning — that damp, gets-in-your-bones cold — but warmed up by the end of the first mile. Waved at Mr. Morning!, said Hi! to Dave, the Daily Walker. Smiled at many other people I encountered. The fog made everything seem muffled, relaxed.
10 Things, Water
beyond the flood plain forest, the river, glowing a silvery white, iced over
small puddles on the path
my forehead was damp for most of the run — not sweat, but drizzle or the damp
in the flats, the river, almost completely open, only a few chunks of bright white ice floating on the surface
the slick sound of water in car and bike wheels
stepped in some squishy mud where snow had melted on the dirt trail
some people down in longfellow flats, right by the river, laughing
hardly any snow anywhere, almost all melted
low visibility, enveloped in fog
my pink headband at the end of the run: soaked with sweat
Before I ran, I started thinking about a hybrid chapbook idea: combining some of my water poems with the moments in my log where they started. I want to call it Waterlogged. Initially I thought I would just use poems about swimming in Lake Nokomis, but as I ran, I thought about all the different water-related things I’ve written, about the fog (yes, this idea was inspired by today’s weather), the crunching snow, the gorge and erosion, sweat/humidity/dew point. Maybe even a 10 Things list about water?
Running north, I listened to the water and my feet crunching on the sandy debris on the trail. Running south, I listened to Dear Evan Hansen.
Stepped outside and felt the sidewalk — at first, it seemed fine, but at the end of the block I realized a lot of it was covered in an invisible sheen of ice. Oh well, too late to turn back. It was never really a problem, although it was pretty slick on the cobblestones at the falls. But I didn’t fall; barely even slipped! Waved a greeting to Santa Claus, heard the kids at the playground, noticed 2 people hiking below under the falls. I watched them step over the rope blocking off the trail.
Stopped at my favorite spot to put in a playlist. Before I started running again on the ice, I took this short footage of the falls:
the falls falling between 2 columns of ice / 23 jan 2024
10 Things Not Seen
the thin layer of ice on the sidewalk and the path
the exact temperature, but I knew it was warm because of how energetic the kids on the playground were
a runner, approaching. I thought I had seen a biker so I was looking for them, meanwhile a runner was approaching me and I had no idea. Saw him a couple seconds before I might have run into him
open water — the river is iced over
the light rail, but I heard its bell as I ran through the park
my shadow — too gloomy and gray
light rain falling — barely felt it either
no fat tires or Daily Walkers or bright blue running tights
the woodpecker knocking on dead wood in the gorge
my breath — too warm today for that!
before the run
I was just about to write that I’ve moved on from windows — my January challenge — to assays and not seing but in midst of thinking it I conjured a new version of windows that I’d like to ruminate on for a moment: a window opening. I like the slight difference that exists between an open window and a window opening. An open window is already open, but a window opening captures the moment when the air first enters and new understandings arrive.
Side note: Suddenly while writing this, I remembered a mention of windows that is almost entirely unrelated to the last paragraph except for it involves windows and not knowing how to open them. I just finished the gothic horror novel. A House with Good Bones by T. Kingfisher. I don’t want to spoil it for anyone else reading this, but near the end some monstrous creatures are attempting to open a window but they don’t know how. If they did, it would be the end for the main character and her companions. I’ve already returned the book (bummer) or I’d post the actual description here of the strong creatures flailing and not understanding the concept of a window — it’s gross and disturbing and compelling and not recommended when you’re eating lunch (which I was).
I’m about to go out for a run. I’ll try to think about opening windows or windows opening.
during the run
I imagined I might have a few moments where something I noticed felt like a window opening. I didn’t. About a mile in, I decided to do triple beat chants with the word: op en ing/ op en ing — then, op en ing/wel com ing/ won der ing. Thought about the openness of opening versus the confinement of closed, or even closing. After chanting opening for a few minutes, I remember lifting out of my hips and leading with my chest — an opening of my body.
after the run
Walking back after I finished my run, I listened to The Woman in the Window. I heard this and it got me thinking:
“And what’s going with the rest of the block?”
I realize I have no idea. The Takedas, the Millers, even the Wassermen–they haven’t so much as pinged my radar this last week. A curtain has fallen on the street; the homes across the road are veiled, vanished; all that exists are my house and the Russells’ house and the park between us.
Not seeing: being so preoccupied/obsessed with something that everything else doesn’t exist.
Then the narrator continued and I thought some more:
I wonder what’s become of Rita’s contractor. I wonder which book Mrs. Gray has selected for her reading group. I used to log their every activity, my neighbors, used to chronicle each entrance and exit. I’ve got whole chapters of their lives stored on my memory card.
Before the run I had been thinking about what it means to not see. I’d also been thinking about what it means for me to see. I might turn both “Not Seeing” and “Seeing” into poems and submit them to Couplet Poetry for their submissions window next month. Anyway, listening to the first bit from The Woman in the Window, I suddenly thought about how an obsession, being preoccupied with something, like whether a neighbor has been murdered, makes one myopic. And then listening to the second bit, I thought about the new way I see by making note of everything, slowly, habitually noticing all the small, seemingly unimportant and peripheral moments. This is how I see now: moment on moment on moment.
Here’s a poem by Jane Hirshfield. It’s in her “assay” form, which I’ve been studying for the past few days. As I understand it, an assay explores, imagines, tries out different meanings of a word or a concept. Is this an assay about “moment” or am I’m misunderstanding the poem?
(added a few hours later): I almost forgot to mention that this entry is my 2000th post. Not every single one of these entries is about a run, but most of them are. Wow. When I started this project to document marathon training in 2017, I had no idea where it might lead! So happy I’m still here writing and running and noticing!
Hooray for warm (but not too warm) mornings and clear paths and flying geese and frozen rivers and runners in electric blue running tights and frozen seeps and weeping springs and brief visits from shadows and squirrels that don’t dart and not slipping on the few spots where there was snow and chirping birds and laughing woodpeckers and clicking blue jay jaws and running down hills then walking back up them and winter playlists and legs and lungs and hearts that work!
A good run. Before the run, I had a brief wave of anxiety — not for any reason. It just came on all of a sudden — feeling strange, tingly, finding it a littler harder to breathe. Peri-menopause and messed-up hormones, I’ve decided. Running helped, partly because moving always helps and partly because I told myself that I wouldn’t be able to run at a 9:30 pace for so long if something was really wrong with me.
I wasn’t sure how far I’d run this morning, but when I got to the bottom of the franklin hill I had an idea: run until you reach a frozen seep. So I did, which made my run a little longer than usual. What a seep! And falling water from a spring. I thought about crossing the road to get closer to the seep, but there’s no curb and the road isn’t that wide and cars drive faster here then they should, so I didn’t. Instead I took some video from the edge of the trail and then I stood still and marveled at the falling and frozen water, and then the height of the bluff.
frozen seep / weeping spring / 22 jan 2024
After the seep, I ran again until I reached the bottom of the franklin hill, then walked up while I recited ideas for a new poem about the idea of not-seeing. One connection to windows: not seeing a window (or glass) and bumping into it. I’ve read several poems that feature birds who run right into the glass and are dazed. Are there any poems about people? I suppose people mostly (always?) run into glass doors not windows. I’ve done it at least once, while I was studying abroad in Japan. The worst thing about running into glass is the grease smudge your face leaves on the glass. It just stays there, staring at you, embarrassing you — not just because it’s evidence that you ran into the glass, but that your face is greasy.
I’m wondering now: what are the most embarrassing things to not see?
Here’s a poem I found from poem-of-the-day that I’d like to remember.
Leaves that fall. Ought to breed Fire from stone. The world counts On our fall. Our solitude interests The butterflies And the lost gold Of the afternoons.
Ochre and blue walls And the fading peaks Of volcanoes And the sunlight Plummeting beyond The hills waken Leaves to their Lost trees.
To discover You still have A world To make At sunset Sobers The stones.
Love the brevity of this poem and the double-meaning of the first line: leaves from that fall and leaves that fall down. Arequipa is the second largest city in Peru (south of Lima, slightly inland — 100km from the coast).
Back outside! Cold, but much warmer than Tuesday. Low (ish) wind, plenty of sunshine, clear paths. I felt a little tired and sore, but still happy to be outside. Was planning to do my usual routine of running without music, then putting some in at my favorite spot by the falls, but I forgot my headphones. Oh well, if I had been listening to music I might not have heard a goose honking.
10 Things
startled some birds in the brush on the path near the ramp that winds down to the falls bridge — some rustling noises, then a silver flash as the sun caught the feathers on one of the bird’s wings — it reminded me of Eamon Grennan’s line about a lark’s silver trail in Lark-luster or EDickinson’s silver seam in A Bird, came down the Walk
the falls were hidden behind columns of ice
a few people (3 or 4?) walking on the frozen creek, admiring the falls from up close
falling water sound: tinkling, sprinkling, shimmering
the creek was frozen over, with just a few open spots where the water flowed beneath it
running past the stretch of woods near the ford bridge — all the leaves are gone, the small rise up to the bridge fully visible
crunch crunch crunch as my feet struck the ground — not slippery or hard or too soft
my shadow, sharp lines, solid, dark, lamp post shadow, softer, fuzzier
the rhythm of a faster runner’s legs as they passed me — a steady lift lift lift — so graceful
a lone geese honking — not seen, only heard
Somewhere near the Horace Cleveland overlook (near the double bridge), I thought about interiors and exteriors and how you can look in or out of windows and then outside as the abstract/thinking/theorizing/writing and inside as the body. I want to remove the barrier between these, to mix writing with being/doing/moving as a body. Then lines from Maggie Smith’s “Threshold” popped into my head: You want a door you can be on both sides of at once. You want to be on both sides of here and there now and then…Yes, I do.
added 21 jan 2024: Reading through a past entry this morning I suddenly remembered the black capped chickadee calling out their fee bee song so loudly as I ran up the hill between locks and dam no. 1 and the double bridge. Wow! I recall thinking they were in beast mode (a reference to Michael Brecker and how some people describe his playing).
Jane Hirshfield’s Ten Windows, Chapter 6 (Close Reading: Windows)
Many good poems have a kind of window-moment in them–they change their direction of gaze in a way that suddenly opens a broadened landscape of meaning and feeling. Encountering such a moment, the reader breathes in some new infusion, as steeply perceptible as any physical window’s increase of light, scent, sound, or air. The gesture is one of lifting, unlatching, releasing; mind and attention swing open to new-peeled vistas.
windows offer an opening, a broadened landscape, fresh air, a lifting, unlatching, releasing, expansion, an escape or a way into somewhere else
In this chapter, Hirshfield does a close reading of ED’s “We Grow Accustomed to the Dark” — yes!
I have called the third stanza (And so of larger — Darkness –/Those Evenings of the Brain –) the poem’s first window, but for me, the true window in Dickinson’s poem is contained in one word; its quick, penultimate, slipped-in “almost.” (And Life steps almost straight). The effect is so disguised it feels more truly trap-door than window: On this close-to-weightless “almost,” the poem’s assurance stumbles, catches. Its two syllables carry the knowledge that there are events in our lives from which no recovery is possible.
I love Emily Dickinson’s almost in this poem. The space it gives — the possibilities — for living your life otherwise. It seems that Hirshfield reads this almost as unfortunate — you almost made it back to your normal life after the darkness, but not quite. I don’t. There’s so much room (and a lot less pressure) in the almost! So much to write about this idea, so little time right now.
In the chapter, Hirshfield references a “popular” Dickinson poem that I’ve never encountered before:
The Brain — is wider than the Sky — For — put them side by side — The one the other will contain With ease — and You — beside —
The Brain is deeper than the sea — For — hold them — Blue to Blue — The one the other will absorb — As Sponges — Buckets — do —
The Brain is just the weight of God — For — Heft them — Pound for Pound — And they will differ — if they do — As Syllable from Sound —
I’d like to put this into conversation with my mid-run ideas about the body and the mind — maybe add Mary Oliver’s ideas about the difference between a poem and the world from The Leaf and the Cloud too.
