*TO end the week of giving thanks, here is a lesser known poem from Walt Whitman, who is one of my favorites of the 19th century. Whitman bore witness to a young country, to the Civil War, to Lincoln and slavery and New York’s early rise, growing pains and all. I give thanks for Whitman, and for my incipient old age in good health if – yes, well – a tad insane – but aren’t we all, these mad days? I might even finally join AARP, now that I am actually, numerically – by my specific standards – OLD. Actually, now that I think on it, no. FEH.
Thanks in old age—thanks ere I go,
For health, the midday sun, the impalpable air—for life, mere life,
For precious ever-lingering memories, (of you my mother dear —you, father—you, brothers, sisters, friends,)
For all my days—not those of peace alone—the days of war the same,
For gentle words, caresses, gifts from foreign lands,
For shelter, wine and meat—for sweet appreciation,
(You distant, dim unknown—or young or old—countless, un- specified, readers belov’d,
We never met, and ne’er shall meet—and yet our souls embrace, long, close and long;)
For beings, groups, love, deeds, words, books—for colors, forms,
For all the brave strong men—devoted, hardy men—who’ve for- ward sprung in freedom’s help, all years, all lands,
For braver, stronger, more devoted men—(a special laurel ere I go, to life’s war’s chosen ones,
The cannoneers of song and thought—the great artillerists—the foremost leaders, captains of the soul:)
As soldier from an ended war return’d—As traveler out of myriads, to the long procession retrospective,
*a week of gratitude must include a poem from Joy Harjo, who was appointed poet laureate of the United States in 2019. Born in Tulsa, Oklahoma, in 1951, Harjo is a member of the Mvskoke/Creek Nation. She is the author of several books of poetry, including An American Sunrise, from W. W. Norton in 2019, and Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings also from Norton in 2015. She is a current Chancellor of the Academy of American Poets. Harjo lives in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Acknowledging that not all memories are pleasant, or joyful, yet being grateful for life in all its strange glory.
Remember the sky that you were born under, know each of the star’s stories. Remember the moon, know who she is. Remember the sun’s birth at dawn, that is the strongest point of time. Remember sundown and the giving away to night. Remember your birth, how your mother struggled to give you form and breath. You are evidence of her life, and her mother’s, and hers. Remember your father. He is your life, also. Remember the earth whose skin you are: red earth, black earth, yellow earth, white earth brown earth, we are earth. Remember the plants, trees, animal life who all have their tribes, their families, their histories, too. Talk to them, listen to them. They are alive poems. Remember the wind. Remember her voice. She knows the origin of this universe. Remember you are all people and all people are you. Remember you are this universe and this universe is you. Remember all is in motion, is growing, is you. Remember language comes from this. Remember the dance language is, that life is. Remember.
My mother loves butter more than I do, more than anyone. She pulls chunks off the stick and eats it plain, explaining cream spun around into butter! Growing up we ate turkey cutlets sauteed in lemon and butter, butter and cheese on green noodles, butter melting in small pools in the hearts of Yorkshire puddings, butter better than gravy staining white rice yellow, butter glazing corn in slipping squares, butter the lava in white volcanoes of hominy grits, butter softening in a white bowl to be creamed with white sugar, butter disappearing into whipped potatoes, with pineapple, butter melted and curdy to pour over pancakes, butter licked off the plate with warm Alaga syrup. When I picture the good old days I am grinning greasy with my brother, having watched the tiger chase his tail and turn to butter. We are Mumbo and Jumbo’s children despite historical revision, despite our parent’s efforts, glowing from the inside out, one hundred megawatts of butter.
*Grateful for the artists, the writers, the singers and all who create (all of us, I guess?!!) and inspire me, make my life infinitely richer, including the glorious voice of Paul Robeson – if you’ve never heard it – do! (it’s linked below, it always gives me chills, although again, creaky with age, and badly staged, imo) This poem from Gwendolyn Brooks is more than just a celebration of Robeson, but if and when you hear him, you’ll get this on a deeper level. He’s featured in the 1936 version of Show Boat singing ‘Old Man River’, a creaky but gorgeous musical from Jerome Kern and Oscar Hammerstein. More on Brooks at https://poets.org/poet/gwendolyn-brooks
That time we all heard it, cool and clear, cutting across the hot grit of the day. The major Voice. The adult Voice forgoing Rolling River, forgoing tearful tale of bale and barge and other symptoms of an old despond. Warning, in music-words devout and large, that we are each other’s harvest: we are each other’s business: we are each other’s magnitude and bond.
*FYI – Walmart the worlds largest retailer, has decided to stop tracking any inclusivity or diversity hires or issues in its stores due to conservative pressure.I don’t shop there but – please don’t. They, and this decision, suck.
*a poem By Hauntie from May Yang, May Yang is a first-generation Hmong American artist, writer, and ethnographer from California. Writing under the persona “Hauntie,” she is the author of To Whitey and the Cracker Jack (Anhinga Press, 2017), which won the 2016 Robert Dana Prize in Poetry. I am so, so, so, so grateful for my friends.
That I could be this human at this time breathing, looking, seeing, smelling
That I could be this moment at this time resting, calmly moving, feeling
That I could be this excellence at this time sudden, changed, peaceful, & woke
To all my friends who have been with me in weakness when water falls rush down my two sides
To all my friends who have felt me in anguish when this earthen back breaks between the crack of two blades
To all my friends who have held me in rage when fire tears through swallows behind tight grins
