Lucky Words

Recorded live on location at... my backyard. It was a lovely morning, and so I decided to read a poem. I didn't mention it in the recording because, well because I didn't think about it. I was thinking about Ryan's great poem. And so I recorded a nice short podcast about it. I love this poem. It's one that I've copied out, longhand, in my own notebook that I'm carrying around right now. It's nice and short, for one, and it's fun to read out loud. "It's a pickle, this life" is a great opener, and everyone knows that "pickle" is one of the funniest words in English. Most critically, it's got some intellectual oomph to it as well, and is good for me to think about a while. Since recording this, I've been thinking a lot more about the contrast between the jolly rhyme and the seriousness of what Ryan's talking about. The unextinguishable component of life, according to the poem, is strife. So when life is nearly gone ("shut down to a trickle") there's still the particles of suffering in it. And while the trials may shrink, they are still more than enough to eat you. _And yet_ there's something great in it, too. It's life, after all. We never reach the end, only cut the remainder in half (again!), even while we are encouraged by some coach to just end the race, we don't. And so while strife is always there, so it life itself. And that's pretty great, I think. What do you think? Is this poem hopeless or ultimately hopeful? Also, what word is more fun than "pickle"? #### TEXT OF POEM "This Life" by Kay Ryan It's a pickle, this life. Even shut down to a trickle it carries every kind of particle that causes strife on a grander scale: to be miniature is to be swallowed by a miniature whale. Zeno knew the law that we know: no matter how carefully diminished, a race can only be _half_ finished with success; then comes the endless halving of the rest -- the ribbon's stalled approach, the helpless red-faced urgings of the coach.

Recorded on West Mountain, just west of Spanish Fork, Utah. It was blustery and cold, but kind of weirdly beautiful regardless. Beautiful in its desolate ugliness, I guess. The painting I mentioned is indeed by Francisco Goya, but I got the name of the painting wrong. It is "Saturn Eating His Children" which you can see and read about [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saturn_Devouring_His_Son). It's still a perfect painting to accompany this, I think. I will be sending out a weekly email soon. Please sign up below so you can keep up on things (poetry!). #### TEXT OF POEMS Three poems by Stephen Crane **"I Saw A Man Pursuing the Horizon"** I saw a man pursuing the horizon; Round and round they sped. I was disturbed at this; I accosted the man. "It is futile," I said, "You can never --" "You lie," he cried, And ran on. **"In the Desert"** In the desert I saw a creature, naked, bestial, Who, squatting upon the ground, Held his heart in his hands, And ate of it. I said, "Is it good, friend?" "It is bitter--bitter," he answered; "But I like it "Because it is bitter, "And because it is my heart." **"In Heaven"** In Heaven, Some little blades of grass Stood before God. "What did you do?" Then all save one of the little blades Began eagerly to relate The merits of their lives. This one stayed a small way behind Ashamed. Presently God said: "And what did you do?" The little blade answered: "Oh, my lord, "Memory is bitter to me "For if I did good deeds "I know not of them." Then God in all His splendor Arose from His throne. "Oh, best little blade of grass," He said.

Recorded by the shore of Utah Lake on a windy but pleasant day, though not as pleasant as what Wordsworth described what with his green bower and all. My favorite part of this recording is the sounds of the killdeer, which I wish were louder, but of course every time I got close they decided to fly away. #### TEXT OF POEM "Lines Written in Early Spring" by William Wordsworth I heard a thousand blended notes, While in a grove I sate reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind. To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man. Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes. The birds around me hopped and played, Their thoughts I cannot measure:-- But the least motion which they made It seemed a thrill of pleasure. The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there. If this belief from heaven be sent, If such be Nature's holy plan, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?

Recorded on the Watchman Overlook in Zion National Park. There are always too may people at Zion, but I found a spot where I could have some quiet privacy and record a poem. Unfortunately, technology was conspiring against me, and so this sounds kinda lousy. Sorry. Also, I referred to the trail as "The Watchman" but what I meant was the Watchman _Overlook_: a much less ambitious undertaking. This is another one of those poems that is popular with people who don't really like poetry. That's not fair, even if Walter Scott kinda deserves his reputation. It makes me sad that my own children have very little positive to say about the United States. This is where they were born and where they have always lived, and I want them to love it (even if they're not big fans of the government or the political parties). I grew up saying the Pledge of Allegiance, and I think it made an impact on my thinking. I am a pretty standard educated-liberal guy, who votes with the bloc of educated-liberal people -- but I refuse to give up the symbol of the flag to other people. I refuse to make patriotism a partisan issue. Which is kind of funny that my analysis of this poem focuses on the landscape more than the government. #### TEXT OF POEM "Innominatus," by Sir Walter Scott Breathes there the man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, "This is my own, my native land!" Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd As home his footsteps he hath turn'd From wandering on a foreign strand? If such there breathe, go, mark him well; For him no Minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung.

Recorded in a tiny little canyon that I never learned the name for, but it was peaceful and quiet. Everyone should have a peaceful, quiet little place to read a poem every now and again. As I mention in the commentary, this is interesting because it's simultaneously modern -- I mean, it's talking about an event in the 20th century! -- but also has something older about it. All of Thomas Hardy does, I think, and this in particular. We don't worry much about the role that Fates play in our lives these days. #### TEXT OF POEM "The Convergence of the Twain" by Thomas Hardy (Lines on the loss of the "Titanic") I In a solitude of the sea Deep from human vanity, And the Pride of Life that planned her, stilly couches she. II Steel chambers, late the pyres Of her salamandrine fires, Cold currents thrid, and turn to rhythmic tidal lyres. III Over the mirrors meant To glass the opulent The sea-worm crawls -- grotesque, slimed, dumb, indifferent. IV Jewels in joy designed To ravish the sensuous mind Lie lightless, all their sparkles bleared and black and blind. V Dim moon-eyed fishes near Gaze at the gilded gear And query: "What does this vaingloriousness down here?" ... VI Well: while was fashioning This creature of cleaving wing, The Immanent Will that stirs and urges everything VII Prepared a sinister mate For her -- so gaily great -- A Shape of Ice, for the time far and dissociate. VIII And as the smart ship grew In stature, grace, and hue, In shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too. IX Alien they seemed to be; No mortal eye could see The intimate welding of their later history, X Or sign that they were bent By paths coincident On being anon twin halves of one august event, XI Till the Spinner of the Years Said "Now!" And each one hears, And consummation comes, and jars two hemispheres.