As a little change of pace, I’m going to share with you two poems from one of my favorite poets, Anne Porter. If you’ve never read any of her poems, find her book Living Things. You’ll be glad you did. You will find at least a few poems that speak to you – and of you – directly. Here are two that speak to – and of – me:
Music
by Anne Porter
When I was a child
I once sat sobbing on the floor
Beside my mother’s piano
As she played and sang
For there was in her singing
A shy yet solemn glory
My smallness could not hold
And when I was asked
Why I was crying
I had no words for it
I only shook my head
And went on crying
Why is it that music
At its most beautiful
Opens a wound in us
An ache a desolation
Deep as a homesickness
For some far-off
And half-forgotten country
I’ve never understood
Why this is so
But there’s an ancient legend
From the other side of the world
That gives away the secret
Of this mysterious sorrow
For centuries on centuries
We have been wandering
But we were made for Paradise
As deer for the forest
And when music comes to us
With its heavenly beauty
It brings us desolation
For when we hear it
We half remember
That lost native country
We dimly remember the fields
Their fragrant windswept clover
The birdsongs in the orchards
The wild white violets in the moss
By the transparent streams
And shining at the heart of it
Is the longed-for beauty
Of the One who waits for us
Who will always wait for us
In those radiant meadows
Yet also came to live with us
And wanders where we wander.
FOR MY SON JOHNNY
July 11th, 1980
The maker of worlds and tender father of sparrows
Who told us what’s done to the smallest is done to him, Told us also, the least will be greatest in heaven,
And since it was he who told us we know it’s true.
So Johnny, now you’re one of the greatest,
Because here on earth you were certainly one of the least.
You called yourself “a man without money or power,”
You seemed only to ask to drink countless cans of soda, Though it did have to be one special brand.
You seemed only to ask
To tell your difficult puns with a delighted smile
To friends and acquaintances and even strangers,
And to stand in front of your house and rock and wave your arms And sing, varying it with whoops and growls
Of wild ecstatic joy,
And later to inquire of shopkeepers and policemen
If they could hear you at the other end of town.
You seemed to ask only to spend hours in the woods and fields Alone, “talking to God.”
But you also loved to go swimming
Especially in thunderstorms,
Especially in autumn “under the colored leaves”
And if the leaves weren’t there you pretended they were there. You loved napping in the “messy attic
With filing cabinets and old comic books
And empty cartons saying B&M BAKED BEANS.”
And passionately you loved the thunder
With all its “fancy sounds”
In which you detected all kinds of subtleties. “Did it sound like a subway train?
Did it say Relinquish Relinquish?
Did it shake the ground?”
And you loved women, most of whom you admired Quite regardless of age,
And whom you hugged with great abandon, Particularly the ones in flowered dresses
And the ones with curly hair,
Knowing you’d never marry because
“A wife might be hard to please.”
This may have hurt.
Perhaps that’s why you asked to be excused from weddings, Saying that they were boring.
A little girl once asked you, “Johnny, How does it feel to be retarded?”
And you answered gently,
“I don’t know dear, I’m not retarded.” Which you were not.
Though light-heartedly you described your outbursts of temper As “just a little jump and a babyish roar,”
Far oftener, your scruples attacked you:
“Am I the worst person in the world?”
Though your shoelaces were hardly ever tied And you seldom wore matching socks
You tried to behave with dignity in the village “So as not to embarrass my little sisters.”
There was a father in you too somewhere
Though you never corrected other people’s children
“I don’t want to act like a staff member!”
If you saw a baby in town you’d smile
And with just the tip of one finger
You’d carefully touch the tiny hands and feet.
With the Child in the Christmas manger you did the same.
You told us that “In heaven the angels kid and joke.”
Quite casually you’d mention seeing St. Michael the Archangel, “That’s who I just waved to.”
We couldn’t see him, so we asked what he was like.
You told us, “Just a friendly man in a business suit,”
And said “Next time I see an Archangel
Would it be all right to ask him his name?”
Often you visited our parish church,
First splashing on much holy water.
Inside the church you went down hard on both knees And then, dropping a lot of flaming matches,
You lighted almost a full row of candles
To pray for “blind and deaf and crippled children.”
“And when the church is locked,” you said, “I just go up to it and touch the wall.”
Your family sent you away to live on a farm in Vermont,
And for years your times at home were so short and so far apart That hearing them once called “visits” you turned white,
So deep was your speechless fear
That you might be only a guest at home, and have no home. But in your humility you knew how to forgive,
Growing kinder and kinder as you grew older.
“I’m not afraid of dying,” you said, “just of getting hurt.” Johnny, now you’re a staff member!
And now you’re home.
Now you’re with Mary, whose starry veil you loved,
And of whom you said, “She won’t get bored with my puns,” And, “She won’t mind if I touch her dress.”
While your mother, who sometimes did get bored with your puns, Cries here on earth
And asks you, now that you’re one of the greatest, To grant her a portion of your littleness.