The Sum of a Man

by Norah Pollard

In autumn,
facing the end of his life,
he moved in with me.
We piled his belongings—
his army-issue boots, knife magazines,
Steely Dan tapes, his grinder, drill press,
sanders, belts and hacksaws—
in a heap all over the living room floor.
For two weeks he walked around the mess.

One night he stood looking down at it all
and said: "The sum total of my existence."
Emptiness in his voice.

Soon after, as if the sum total
needed to be expanded, he began to place
things around in the closets and spaces I'd
cleared for him, and when he'd finished
setting up his workshop in the cellar, he said,
"I should make as many knives as I can,"
and he began to work.

The months plowed on through a cold winter.
In the evenings, we'd share supper, some tale
of family, some laughs, perhaps a walk in the snow.
Then he'd nip back down into the cellar's keep
To saw and grind and polish,
creating his beautiful knives
until he grew too weak to work.
But still he'd slip down to stand at his workbench
and touch his woods
and run his hand over his lathe.

One night he came up from the cellar
and stood in the kitchen's warmth
and, shifting his weight
from one foot to the other, said,
"I love my workshop."
Then he went up to bed.

He's gone now.
It's spring. It's been raining for weeks.
I go down to his shop and stand in the dust
of ground steel and shavings of wood.
I think on how he'd speak of his dying, so
easily, offhandedly, as if it were
a coming anniversary or
an appointment with the moon.
I touch his leather apron, folded for all time,
and his glasses set upon his work gloves.
I take up an unfinished knife and test its heft,
and feel as well the heft of my grief for
this man, this brother I loved,
the whole of him so much greater
than the sum of his existence.

from Death & Rapture in the Animal Kingdom. © Antrim House, 2009.

Comment: This was the featured poem a couple of days ago on The Writer's Almanac. I was moved by its simplicity and accessibility. I actually really enjoyed it when the narrator simply says at the end how she feels, "this brother I loved." After talking about all the trivial material, banal things that make up our lives and how we see people, to sum up the essence of their relationship as one not made of objects, but love, really had an impact.

L is on my lap fascinated by the clicking noise I'm making with my fingertips!

I don't know if I've written about The Writer's Almanac before. A friend told me about it many years ago, but I only recently started listening online and reading the website. It's wonderful. It's hosted by Garrison Keillor and each episode is only five minutes long or so. Their archives are comprehensive and it's very easy to listen to a handful of shows.

Update: I have finally finished that motherf*&%#@! memoir!

And I really enjoyed it. I'm talking of course about Barack Obama's memoir Dreams From My Father. Although it took me FOREVER to finish the last third of it (in my defense and the book's defense it was interrupted by the birth of my daughter!), I really enjoyed the book. He was a surprisingly good writer and I identified with so much of his story I think it will stay with me. Whatever one's politics, I don't know how you could read this book and not like the man.

The Late Singer

by William Carlos Williams

Here it is spring again
and I still a young man!
I am late at my singing.
The sparrow with the black rain on his breast
has been at his cadenzas for two weeks past:
What is it that is dragging at my heart?
The grass by the back door
is stiff with sap.
The old maples are opening
their branches of brown and yellow moth-flowers.
A moon hangs in the blue
in the early afternoons over the marshes.
I am late at my singing.

From Sour Grapes, 1921.

Comment: Completely inappropriate that I am posting this poem about Spring right smack dab in the midst of Fall, but oh well. I love the simplicity of this. It's WCW at his best. Lyrical, succinct and full of feeling. The intimate and urgent voice of the narrator is very Whitman-esque.

Broadcast News

I just watched Broadcast News on AMC and here's my favorite line.

Tom Grunnick: What do you do when your real life exceeds your dreams?
Aaron Altman: Keep it to yourself.

The Gift

by William Carlos Williams

As the wise men of old brought gifts
guided by a star
to the humble birthplace

of the god of love,
the devils
as an old print shows
retreated in confusion.

What could a baby know
of gold ornaments
or frankincense and myrrh,
of priestly robes
and devout genuflections?

But the imagination
knows all stories
before they are told
and knows the truth of this one
past all defection

The rich gifts
so unsuitable for a child
though devoutly proffered,
stood for all that love can bring.

The men were old
how could they know
of a mother's needs
or a child's
appetite?

But as they kneeled
the child was fed.

They saw it
and
gave praise!

A miracle
had taken place,
hard gold to love,
a mother's milk!
before
their wondering eyes.

The ass brayed
the cattle lowed.
It was their nature.

All men by their nature give praise.
It is all
they can do.

The very devils
by their flight give praise.
What is death,
beside this?

Nothing. The wise men
came with gifts
and bowed down
to worship
this perfection.

Comment: I love the simplicity of this poem and its simple observation. I've been recently watching a lot of animal videos on National Geographic's website with K. He's really gotten into animals, especially marine animals. I'm learning all sorts of things that I never knew. The facts that always impress the most are the ones about the bond and relationship between mother and child. For instance, how walruses are tactile creatures and hug and cuddle in the same way we do. That their calves need that tactile affection. How a baby dolphin from day one knows to mimic its mother's every move to learn how to survive. That bond has to be so strong in order for the species to survive. Its so banal and but also extraordinary. Nursing, as WCW observes in this poem, is extraordinary in this same way. It is a gift. It's run-of-the-mill and biological, but it's also a small miracle. It reminds us that we are also part of nature and the age-old struggle to survive.

The God of Interruptions

"God is the name in which I designate all things which cross my path violently and recklessly. All things which alter my plans and intentions and change the course of my life for better or for worse." --Carl Jung, The Red Book

Comment: Our UU minister, Daniel Kanter, used this quote in his sermon last Sunday. It really struck me. If you've ever had something really catastrophic or life-changing or even awe-inspiring happen in your life, this quote makes a lot of sense. These events, good or bad, change you. They deepen you. They wake you up and won't let you sink back into a daze. They make you think, "Am I prepared for this? Can I handle this?"

On another note, The Red Book is Carl Jung's never-before-published journal. It's supposed to be his journey into the unconscious. It spans 16 years. I know absolutely nothing about Jung, but this quote makes me want to know more.