The first time I heard Little Gidding was in a secret literary society, a group who met under the cover of night back in college. Just like it sounds, the group was very Dead Poet’s Society, and this particular night was my first time to timidly grace the doors of the unknown literary fervor. As a Robin Williams figure enthusiastically recited and explicated the poem, I was spellbound, letting the words wash over me for the rest of the night.  A few years later I actually visited Little Gidding, an old religious community in England that inspired Eliot’s poem. For years, I’ve found great comfort in Eliot’s questions, his complex desire for simplicity, and his hope that all shall be well. Plus, the poem is breathtakingly beautiful. In the text, Eliot shows the goodness of sacrifice and necessity of suffering to unifying a fractured self and broken society.  What he says about love, time, memory, and suffering resonates with me and at the same time is beyond me. I can read and study it for days and still not completely grasp all the allusions and plumb the depths of its significance. And so it continually draws me back to ruminate on its queries and feed on its hope.

Little Gidding  by T.S. Eliot, section V

What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make and end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from. And every phrase
And sentence that is right (where every word is at home,
Taking its place to support the others,
The word neither diffident nor ostentatious,
An easy commerce of the old and the new,
The common word exact without vulgarity,
The formal word precise but not pedantic,
The complete consort dancing together)
Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning,
Every poem an epitaph. And any action
Is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea’s throat
Or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start.
We die with the dying:
See, they depart, and we go with them.
We are born with the dead:
See, they return, and bring us with them.
The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree
Are of equal duration. A people without history
Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern
Of timeless moments. So, while the light fails
On a winter’s afternoon, in a secluded chapel
History is now and England.

With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, unremembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree

Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always–
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flames are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.

You can read the full poem here.

Bonus: You should check out Makoto Fujimura’s artistic representation of the Four Quartets found here– http://www.makotofujimura.com/works/four-quartets/

I am going to confess something to y’all. I do not read poetry. I just don’t get it. When a customer comes in looking for poetry, I am crossing my fingers that they ask for a poet that I know about, especially if Adie is not working. I am always passing a poetry customer over to Adie (our resident poet) because she will be able to help them so much more than I could ever think about.

Hannah sent an email out asking us to write a poetry blog to celebrate April being National Poetry Month. I immediately broke out in a sweat. I was discussing my dilemma with Jamie saying that really the only poetry I have ever loved was some I had read as a child. He urged me to write about it.

I loved Shel Silverstein when I was young. I had poems memorized and would recite them when I thought the time was right. So today I went in OZ and picked up a copies of Where the Sidewalk Ends and A Light in the Attic and found some poems to share with you.

HUG O’ WAR

I will not play at tug o’ war.
I’d rather play at hug o’ war,
Were everyone hugs
Instead of tugs,
Where everyone giggles
And rolls on the rug,
Where everyone kisses,
And everyone grins,
And everyone cuddles,
And everyone wins.

 

LISTEN TO THE MUSTN’TS

Listen to the MUSTN’TS, child,
Listen to the DON’TS
Listen to the SHOULDN’TS
The IMPOSSIBLES, the WON’TS
Listen to the NEVER HAVES
Then listen close to me —
Anything can happen, child,
ANYTHING can be.

 

NO DIFFERENCE

Small as a peanut,
Big as a giant,
We’re all the same size
When we turn off the light.

Rich as a sultan,
Poor as a mite,
We’re all worth the same
When we turn off the light.

Red, black or orange,
Yellow or white,
We all look the same
When we turn off the light.

So maybe the way
To make everything right
Is for God to just reach out
And turn off the light!

 

CHANNELS

Channel 1’s no fun.
Channel 2’s just news.
Channel 3’s hard to see.
Channel 4 is just a bore.
Channel 5 is all jive.
Channel 6 needs to be fixed.
Channel 7 and Channel 8–
Just old movies, not so great.
Channel 9’s a waste of time.
Channel 10 is off, my child.
Wouldn’t you like to talk awhile?

 

SENSES

A Mouth was talking to a Nose and an Eye.
A passing listening Ear
Said “Pardon me, but you spoke so loud,
I couldn’t help but overhear.”
But the Mouth just closed and the Nose turned up
And the Eye just looked away,
And the Ear with nothing more to hear
Went sadly on its way.

 

I just felt the time was right.

“On the Pulse of Morning” by Maya Angelou. New York, NY: Random House, 1993.

National Poetry Month was established in April 1996 to highlight the achievements of American poets, support teachers, encourage the reading and writing of poems, and increase the attention given to poetry in the media. We’ve been digging through our poetry section at Lemuria, thinking and talking about our favorite poets, and I remembered that we have a collectible edition of the late Maya Angelou’s inaugural poem “On the Pulse of Morning.”

Even though the United States has had 57 presidential inaugurations, we have had only five inaugural poems. John F. Kennedy was the first to have a famous poet read at the ceremony in 1961. Robert Frost was to read a poem called “Dedication” which he had written for the occasion with references to Kennedy’s slim victory over Nixon. When Frost looked down to read, the glare was so strong from the heavy blanket of snow that he could not see the words–even though someone tried to shield the paper with his hat. The 86-year-old Frost simply recited a poem from memory called “The Gift Outright.”

It was not until 1993 that a poem was read again. Maya Angelou read “On the Pulse of Morning” at Bill Clinton’s inauguration. In a 1993 interview with the New York Times, she said that she wanted to communicate “that as human beings we are more alike that we are unalike.” As she prepared to deliver her poem, she admitted that it was an overwhelming honor. Perhaps, Angelou knew of Frost’s trouble at Kennedy’s ceremony. She asked every one to pray for her:

“I ask everybody to pray for me all the time. Pray. Pray. Pray. Just send me some good energies. Last night I said to this group of hundreds of people, I said: ‘Pray for me please, for the inaugural poem. Not in general. Pray for me by name.’ Say: ‘Lord! Help Maya Angelou’ Don’t just say ‘Lord help six-foot-tall black ladies or poets or anything like that. Lord. Help Maya Angelou. Please!’”

So far we’ve had three more inaugural poets: Miller Williams read “Of History and Hope” at the 1997 inaugural of Bill Clinton; Elizabeth Alexander read “Praise Song for the Day” at the 2009 inaugural of Barack Obama; and Richard Blanco read “One Today” at the 2013 inaugural of Barack Obama.

Since Robert Frost’s inaugural poem, most of the poems are published in a special inaugural edition. Random House issued Maya Angelou’s “On the Pulse of Morning” in a signed limited edition of 500 numbered copies. It was also published in a pamphlet format in dark maroon wrappers. Collecting these inaugural poets is a unique way to collect poetry and a piece of American history. It is also curious to see which presidents will carry on this tradition.

This is video footage of Maya Angelou reciting her poem “On the Pulse of Morning” at the 1993 Presidential Inaugural. This footage is official public record produced by the White House Television (WHTV) crew, provided by the Clinton Presidential Library.

This poem by Mississippi native Natasha Trethewey reminds me that my story isn’t the only story in the world.  Trethewey, growing up the daughter of a black mother and white father was sometimes able to “pass” as white.  Yet, she often found herself occupying a strange third world—neither black nor white— and this only added to the awkwardness of growing up.  “White Lies” uses language cleverly (the pun of the title, the nod toward Ivory Soap’s “99.4% Pure” slogan, and the ambiguity at the end) to create something that hangs with me long after I’ve read it.

White Lies

The lies I could tell,

when I was growing up

light-bright, near-white,

high-yellow, red-boned

in a black place,

were just white lies.

I could easily tell the white folks

that we lived uptown,

not in that shanty-fied shotgun section

along the tracks.  I could act

like my homemade dresses

came straight out the window

of Maison Blanche.  I could even

keep quiet, quiet as kept,

like the time a white girl said

(squeezing my hand), Now

we have three of us in this class.

But I paid for it ever time

Mama found out.

She laid her hands on me,

then washed out my mouth

with Ivory soap.  This

is to purify, she said,

to cleanse your lying tongue.

Believing her, I swallowed suds

thinking they’d work

from the inside out.

[from Domestic Work]

Written by Jamie