The Caring Catalyst

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FAMOUS IN YOUR U NIVERSE

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U  NIVERSE
It might as well be useless
I mean 
What exactly is a 
NIVERSE
Nary another nothing until a
U
Is brought not just to it
                    but for IT
Who would think
(Not Many)
That it takes a U
your simply perfectly imperfect 
You-est  U
To not just complete 
                     include
But actually create 
The Universe
with the best part being 
that it is evermore being 
Created/Recreated because of
Oh the holiest of holies 
U

 

THE YEAR OF NO GRUDGES

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I love this slap you in the face, gut punch, knee to the crotch, raw poem. I couldn’t find the written words to this poem so that you could read it, but it makes you listen a little bit more intently as the words of this poem appear as they are read and more importantly defined in you; seen through your lenses.

So what’s your favorite line? Which one resembles you the most?  Do you need to listen to it again, feel it in another way, with the lights on or off, or with or without sound canceling headphones?  How do you finish this poem that is now begun in you?  These are not questions I’m asking you so that you can gain some kind of special insight. I am asking these questions because you’ve asked yourself so many times before and the answers are there and here’s the best part about those answers: They change with time; they take on different meanings under different circumstances with different people.   So how do you answer them now or 20 years ago or next year or 20 years in the future, or now in this moment.  How do you answer them?

“THE YEAR OF NO GRUDGES” was written as a love letter to a friend Andrea was furious at. Several months ago, in the thick of anger, she reluctantly began writing down what she most appreciated about her friend. By the time she stopped typing she was so overwhelmed by gratitude she had no room in my heart for a single grudge against him. So this past week, again, quite by accident when I wasn’t even searching this came in my INBOX from another poet/writer, Phyllis Cole-Dai who was moved enough to move it my way, i.e. ONE BEGGAR SHOWING ANOTHER BEGGAR WHERE THEY GOT THE FOOD.  So Miss Andrea is sharing this poem now as a writing/feeling prompt for all of us, and for herself, in hopes that we move through our days vigilantly awake to the fact that none of us are ever promised a tomorrow. Whatever needs healing, today is the perfect day. (Music by Chris Pureka)

 

SIFTER

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I really love this poem by Naomi Shihab Nye for many different reasons by mainly because it makes us ask:

WHAT KIND OF KITCHEN UTENSIL (IMPLEMENT) WOULD YOU BE?

I thought of being a
DISH TOWEL
not just because I spend a lot of my professional and personal time of “Cleaning up messes” of all the ‘spills of sadnesses, dashed hopes, lost loves and unanswered prayers’ but never feeling too saturated enough to SOAK UP all the moisture that absorbs and goodnesses and peace, too.

SO.         .         .what kind of kitchen implement are you?
KNOW YOUR USE
and then
BE IMPLEMENTED

EVERYTHING THAT WAS BROKEN

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Mary Jane Oliver was an American poet who won the National Book Award and the Pulitzer Prize. Her work is inspired by nature, rather than the human world, stemming from her lifelong passion for solitary walks in the wild. It is characterized by a sincere wonderment at the impact of natural imagery, conveyed in unadorned language. In 2007, she was declared to be the country’s best-selling poet.

Everything that was broken has
forgotten its brokenness. I live
now in a sky-house, through every
window the sun. Also your presence.
Our touching, our stories. Earthy
and holy both. How can this be, but
it is. Every day has something in it
whose name is Forever.

This poem by Mary Oliver expresses a sense of profound healing and renewal. The speaker reflects on a state where all the past brokenness has been left behind, and now they reside in a sky-house, symbolizing a higher, expansive perspective. Through every window of this sky-house, they witness the sun’s presence and feel the presence of someone dear (presumably a loved one). The poem highlights the significance of connection and touch, as well as the power of personal stories. The speaker finds both earthly and sacred qualities in these connections. Despite the wonderment and disbelief, the poem emphasizes that this state of renewal and eternity is indeed present in everyday life, in the form of moments that carry a sense of foreverness.

I have read this poem like a sacred psalm hundreds of times but I experienced it so powerfully differently when I heard it READ TO ME like this; there’s an ache in the reader’s voice that makes you feel your own brokenness but not in a rough, jagged way so much as feeling the stitches on a smooth baseball that was given to you by your favorite player as a gift more than just some souvenir to be put up on Ebay someday after your passing when no one really wants what was once special to you.
A little over a year ago, I was at conference at The Gathering Place where I was scheduled to speak last on the program that day.  I was there, sitting in the back of the room listening to a speaker talk about our own grief and grieving and how it often leaves us feeling BROKEN; this poem of Mary Oliver’s came to mind as did these words right before I spoke.  I used them as a conclusion to the presentation I gave: HOLDING SPACE–WALKING EACH OTHER HOME:

PROTECTED PRESENCE

I’m Broken
and I’ve lost a lot of my pieces
I don’t exactly remember when I
Humpty-Dumptied if off the wall
No recollection of all the Kings men
and all of the horses they rode in on
But I know. . .ohhh how I know
How I’ve not been put back together again
and when you dare to
provide protective presence
and choose to hold me
It’s not so much of an Embrace
as a specific piece that never existed
You’ve brought to me
A wholeness I’ve not known
but now never want to forget
or ever want to be without
BROKEN PIECES
PLAY A SYMPHONY ALL OF THEIR OWN
LISTEN
(or better still, bring your broken piece and play along)

FROM THE SOUL TO THE THROAT TO THE PAGE

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Photo by Hannah Wright on Unsplash

My emptiness
has a fullness
that is hard to carry
It’s a thick sludge in my veins
that refuses to pump
through my soul’s heart
while it oxygenates the darkest
parts of me I wish dead

Consider these words from Richard Rohr, excerpted from his meditation on “The Sacred in the Concrete”:

Robert Frost said, “A poem begins with a lump in the throat; a home-sickness or a love-sickness.”¹ If a poem doesn’t give us a lump in the throat, is it really great poetry? My final theological conclusion is that there’s only one world and that it’s all sacred. However, we have to be prepared to know what we’re saying when we say that. If we say too glibly that the trees are sacred, along with our dog, a friend, and the roses, then we don’t really believe it. We first need to experience “a lump in the throat” to have encountered the sacred. The sacred is something that inspires awe and wonder, something that makes us cry, something that gives us the lump in the throat. We must first encounter the sacred in the concrete and kneel before it there, because we can’t start with the universal.

Poets . . . make the connection between the concrete and the universal. When we make that connection, there’s suddenly a great leap of meaning, an understanding that it’s one world. The very word “metaphor,” which comes from two Greek words, means to “carry across.” A good metaphor carries us across, and we don’t even know how it’s occurred.

. . . If we’re reading a poem too quickly, between two urgent meetings or other hurried spaces, we probably won’t get it, because we don’t have time to release ourselves. We need quiet, solitude, and open space to read poetry at greater depth. Then and only then do poems work their magic.

(My thanks to Fr. Richard Rohr, via the Center for Action and Contemplation 

Robert Frost, “Some Definitions,” in Collected Poems, Prose, and Plays (New York: Library of America, 1995), 701.

It’s not that the Sun doesn’t gloriously melt through the clouds so much as we just don’t take time to NOTICE; which kind of means that the worst poem of all isn’t the one not yet written, just the one not recognized or read.         .           .p o n d e r e d

JUST FOR THE RECORD

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Maybe it’s not so much for what we reach for as what stretches out for us; sometimes that’s a hand, sometimes it’s an idea, a thought, a story, a poem, but it’s undeniable when it makes contact and causes not even ever so slightly to move us ever so powerfully.

THE NOTHINGNESS OF THERE


Sometimes I grieve

Where I once was

that no longer exists

The house I grew up

The jobs in the town that I had

Friends either gone or dead

The Nothingness of There

is a void with an abyss of its own

And now stronger than a memory

Is a Feeling

With sticky tentacles that intertwine

onto thoughts of what once were

that raspily whispers distinctly

‘You’re not learning to live without 

as much as understanding 

to live with the love left behind’ 

THE ART OF DOING NOTHING

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THERE IS AN ART TO DOING NOTHING.     .     .
I MEAN
N O T H I N G
that means, not listening to music or doodling or meditating or yoga or breath work or daydreaming or conniving or scheming or once-upon-a-timing or, Or, OR, ORRING
N                   O                    T                    H                   I                    N                    G
HUGE STACKED BOXES OF
n o t h i n g

.       .       .and so when I recently read I WANT TO BE UNPRODUCTIVE, a little piece from Danielle Coffyn, who has ever reason to be doing everything but NOTHING. Danielle is a writer, mother, teacher, mental health advocate, eating disorder survivor, and outdoor enthusiast. She started her poetry account @musingsonbeing in 2021 where she worked through her perfectionism by sharing rough drafts of her work. Her main themes include healing, feminism, rewilding, mental health, and reclaiming the body. She is a co-founder of The Superbloom Society, a community for anyone looking to build authentic, intentional connection through writing workshops and retreats.

I WANT TO BE UNPRODUCTIVE

to ponder the meaning of yellow. to listen as summer cicadas sing their final symphony of the season. to dine with friends. to savor course after course. to inhale the scent of San Marzano tomatoes bathed in balsamic brine. to taste vanilla bean gelato and espresso marry on my tongue. to study the morning habits of a neighborhood robin. to plunge blistered toes into sun-ripened sand. to float in the sea. to feel my heartbeat slow to the rhythm of the tide. to memorize the laugh lines of a California redwood. to spend a morning rereading stories from childhood. to determine which song most resembles a honey bee collecting lavender pollen. to observe a spider spinning her web. to chart freckled constellations along my child’s spine. to taste test every croissant in the city. to rest for the sole purpose of slowing down. to savor stillness. to allow myself the gift of being.
Psssssssssssssssssst:
WE ALL KNOW WHERE TO GET OUR WAX.      .      .
but the best is when you do a
SACRED NOTHINGNESS
that’ll have
THE FLAME
coming to the WICK
instead of the candle chasing it in the wind.    .     .

 

YOUR VERSE

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Dead Poets Society is a wonderful film, obviously filled with a lot of references to English and American poetry. In this scene, John Keating (Robin Williams) teaches his pupils the reason for reading and writing poetry, quoting Whitman’s Leaves of Grass:

O ME! O life!… of the questions of these recurring; Of the endless trains of the faithless—of cities fill’d with the foolish; Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?) Of eyes that vainly crave the light—of the objects mean—of the struggle ever renew’d; Of the poor results of all—of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me; Of the empty and useless years of the rest—with the rest me intertwined; The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?

Answer. That you are here—that life exists, and identity; That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.      .      .

AND JUST WHAT IS YOUR VERSE.          .          .          ?

Sometimes I feel
like an unfinished poem
Looking for just the right
word or phrase

Sometimes I feel the most
incomplete without a final punctuation mark
searching for a word

It doesn’t exist or come from me
But you,
Oh how you bring what
I don’t possess but desperately need

So _____quickly
before the paper blows away
and the ink runs low
or the pencil point breaks

Finish me so we can start
a new verse worthy of the both of us

MARY MERRY

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INVITATION

OH do you have time
to linger
for just a little while
out of your busy

and very important day
for the goldfinches
that have gathered
in a field of thistles

for a musical battle,
to see who can sing
the highest note,
or the lowest,

or the most expressive of mirth,
or the most tender?
Their strong, blunt beaks
drink the air

as they strive
melodiously
not for your sake
and not for mine

and not for the sake of winning
but for sheer delight and gratitude –
believe us, they say,
it is a serious thing

just to be alive
on this fresh morning
in the broken world.
I beg of you,

do not walk by
without pausing
to attend to this
rather ridiculous performance.

It could mean something.
It could mean everything.
It could be what Rilke meant, when he wrote:
You must change your life.

MARY MERRY

Mary has a way of 
making Merry
that allows a 
marrying between 
Who we are
and Who we’ve yet to Recognize
The Who we are now
in a Forest yet to be walked
A Lake yet to be swam
A bird, an animal yet to be 
Observed or named
A Universe yet to know 
Another Sun’s rays
A poem 
not yet to be written
even as it ever is being 
composed
not so deeply within us
as it rises to surfaces 
waiting to support
new Foundations

It was the birthday of best-selling poet Mary Oliver, on September 10; she was born in Maple Heights, Ohio (1935). As a child, she spent most of her time outside, wandering around the woods, reading and writing poems.

Oliver went to college in the ’50s at Ohio State University and Vassar, but dropped out. She made a pilgrimage to visit Edna St. Vincent Millay’s 800-acre estate in Austerlitz, New York. The poet had been dead for several years, but Millay’s sister Norma lived there along with her husband. Mary Oliver and Norma hit it off, and Oliver lived there for years, helping out on the estate, keeping Norma company, and working on her own writing. In 1958, a woman named Molly Malone Cook came to visit Norma while Oliver was there, and the two fell in love. A few years later, they moved together to Provincetown, Massachusetts.

Oliver said: “I was very careful never to take an interesting job. Not an interesting one. I took lots of jobs. But if you have an interesting job you get interested in it. I also began in those years to keep early hours. […] If anybody has a job and starts at 9, there’s no reason why they can’t get up at 4:30 or 5 and write for a couple of hours, and give their employers their second-best effort of the day — which is what I did.”

She published five books of poetry, and still almost no one had heard of her. She doesn’t remember ever having given a reading before 1984, which is the year that she was doing dishes one evening when the phone rang and it was someone calling to tell her that her most recent book, American Primitive (1983), had won the Pulitzer Prize. Suddenly, she was famous. She didn’t really like the fame — she didn’t give many interviews, didn’t want to be in the news. She once wrote in an introduction to a poetry collection, “I have felt all my life that I was wise, and tasteful, too, to speak very little about myself — to deflect the curiosity in the personal self that descends upon writers, especially in this country and at this time, from both casual and avid readers.”

When editors called their house for Oliver, Cook would answer, announce that she was going to get Oliver, fake footsteps, and then get back on the phone and pretend to be the poet — all so that Oliver didn’t have to talk on the phone to strangers, something she did not enjoy. Cook was a photographer, and she was also Oliver’s literary agent. They stayed together for more than 40 years, until Cook’s death in 2005.

Oliver said: “I’ve always wanted to write poems and nothing else. There were times over the years when life was not easy, but if you’re working a few hours a day and you’ve got a good book to read, and you can go outside to the beach and dig for clams, you’re okay.”

Oliver’s books of poems include No Voyage (1963), The River Styx, Ohio, and Other Poems (1972), Twelve Moons (1978), The Leaf and the Cloud (2000), Owls and Other Fantasies (2003), Red Bird (2008), Dog Songs (2013), and Velocity (2015). Her most recent collection, Devotions, comes out in October of this year.
#TheWritersAlmanac

 

I’ve always been a Mary Oliver fan
but I’ll also admit that I’ve read much more of her
now that she’s dead
than when she was alive
I suppose which not only makes her
not only more Alive
than ALIVE
but still doing
what she did the best
(and still is)
S      H      A      R      E
As I page
through this Anthology
I often have a rainbow of  feelings
as she gently pulls off the scabs
of some of my most tenderest wounds:

The Uses of Sorrow | Mary Oliver

(In my sleep I dreamed this poem)

Someone I loved once gave me
a box full of darkness.

It took me years to understand
that this, too, was a gift.


No matter what the poem,
Mary has a way of letting us know that
when you need a prayer
notice that nothing all around you
is miraculously short of that
with the worldly unspoken invitation:
WHEN YOU DON’T HAVE A PRAYER
B E
O N E
(The only true prayer you’ll ever need
is the one you are)

S U M M E R I N G

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I am not the only one who
THINKS
or most certainly
F          E          E          L          S
I    T.          .          .

But I keep looking for the rest of Summer
as soon as the last sparkler loses its sparkle
on the 4th of July
which got me to thinking about things
a little beyond Summer
and this one Summer of 2023
being the last one any of us will
ever live.        .       .
h      e      n      c      e:

100 Summers                                               

100 Summers from now
I’ll be gone
and so will everyone
I know and love
(and you too, dear reader)
My name won’t be
remembered or spoken
The Okay-ness
of this is that after
100 Summers gone
is there’ll be as many
Falls, Winters and Springs
taking their places as
100 Seasons before
without much explanation
(recently written for a 15 poems in 10 day challenge for local gems)

Uhhhhhhhhh
days gone by
are never really days
g  o  n  e.        .        .        .

Professional Speaker, Author, Assurance Man