(Maggie, if you'd like me to move this to another section, just say)
After a conversation between Anna and I on Trish's Lonely River poem, I got to wondering, what got you all interested in poetry?
As I mentioned, I've only been writing for a few years. I wrote my first poem on a flight home from work one night. I was watching a film (can't remember what) and randomly felt the urge to stop and write down how I was feeling, into a poem. Wasn't much of a poem, but still, I was hooked, and began reading more. I really didn't know where to start, so would buy random books in second hand stores, from well known poets to the obscure, and write and read at every opportunity until I found poets and a style I was comfortable with. I joined poetry circle which I found reasonably useful at the time, it was there I first came across Anna and Tom, however I don't use PC at all anymore. I don't why, but I remember being surprised at how much bickering went on. Now I know the poet's ego is a sensitive thing! I later joined a writing group, who would meet weekly, but unfortunately haven't found anything similar since moving back to Ireland.
I remember when I got my first poem accepted, I told my mum, who didn't know I had developed an interest in poetry. She got up and left the room, returning a few minutes later with a mint condition copy of Seamus Heaney's Haw Lantern, with a personal dedication to me from Seamus. He had visited the primary school where she taught, some 20 years previous, and he signed a few books. She thought then was the perfect moment to give it to me. I've attached a pic of it.
I don't know what drives me to write, I just enjoy it immensely, and feel a release or accomplishment each time I finish a poem, even if the poem itself is not very good. I'm not a prolific writer, at this point in my life anyway, and read more than I write. I don't believe I'll ever have multiple collections published but I would like to have one, even if I publish it myself, just to have. Also if time permits, at some point I'd like to study poetry, formally.
I would love to hear how the rest of you started out. If you don't want to share that's absolutely fine. I'm just intrigued.
I could have posted this to anyone's poem, but thought this space would be the most appropriate, so to speak... Sabbaths 1999, VII
by Wendell Berry
Again I resume the long lesson: how small a thing can be pleasing, how little in this hard world it takes to satisfy the mind and bring it to its rest. With the ongoing havoc the woods this morning is almost unnaturally still. Through stalled air, unshadowed light, a few leaves fall of their own weight. The sky is gray. It begins in mist almost at the ground and rises forever. The trees rise in silence almost natural, but not quite, almost eternal, but not quite. What more did I think I wanted? Here is what has always been. Here is what will always be. Even in me, the Maker of all this returns in rest, even to the slightest of His works, a yellow leaf slowly falling, and is pleased.
-- from Given: Poems, by Wendell Berry
/ Image by Mark Grant-Jones /
View All Poems by Wendell Berry
It's been a while since we've had a poem by Wendell Berry. And, yes, maybe this poem is for a misty autumn morning, but it suits today just as well...
Again I resume the long
lesson: how small a thing
can be pleasing...
That's the "long lesson," the slow realization of a lifetime lived with attention: the deep satisfaction of simple moments. Grand experiences may serve as important punctuation marks to life, but it is only when we deeply engage with the gentle flow of small events that we come to know our lives. Remember, real magic is hidden; it is hidden in those quiet moments.
how little
in this hard world it takes
to satisfy the mind
and bring it to its rest.
And nature is our constant teacher and guide, again and again bringing us back to ourselves.
With the ongoing havoc
the woods this morning is
almost unnaturally still.
When we walk well among the woods, with the quiet attention that comes only when self is left behind, we glide through the eternal moment.
What more did I
think I wanted? Here is
what has always been.
Here is what will always
be.
And we just might come to recognize the Source of "all this" -- right here, within this moment, within our own breast.
Even in me,
the Maker of all this
returns in rest...
Berry's title tells us this poem is about the Sabbath. He understands the real meaning of the Sabbath. It is not the one day out of seven when one goes to church or synagogue. Sabbath is the living moment of sacred rest. It isn't a question of how often we sit within a steepled hall. Until the mind quiets and comes to rest in the heart, we have not yet honored the Sabbath.
The image of the falling leaf, the reference to the day of rest, this also gently suggests something of death to us. The poet is walking through the woods in autumn and contemplating the how things end, how our own lives play out and come to a close, and there is a quiet contentment. We might find a fullness in that moment of awareness when we simply allow ourselves to be at rest in the natural rhythm of things. Death is not a horror or a source of dread but, in its right time, a strangely sweet yielding, a sabbath.
Whichever day of the week you read this, have a beautiful day of rest and contemplation!