After my husband died and the silence of dying was replaced by the silence of living, I took all of the money we had and bought paintings to fill my house. They still watch over me and speak words of peace into my sadness.
Last night I walked with a small group in the Montague Sandplains in Massachusetts, and we listened for the whip-poor-wills. There was a period during which so many of the rare birds were calling at once that they sounded almost like a chorus of frogs. The experience was something sacred. All of us, strangers, standing near each other in the twilight in the quietness of deep listening. Yes. "As if we had known each other for a long time."
I am imagining deep listening into silence at twilight with strangers, embraced by a chorus of whippoorwills.
Sacred, a gift of feeling into the oneness of the moment.
“For only when we can hear the languages of other beings will we be capable of understanding the generosity of the earth, and learn to give our own gifts in return.”
Later in life I would learn that I am in the 99th percentile for being able to visualize a thing in space. But in the fourth or fifth grade art class I sat in a corner with a big lump of clay and I began to shape it. I then saw a bear emerging. I somehow knew what he looked like from all angles and how deeply his paw was stuck in the honey jar. I loved that bear and that triumphant moment. And when I got home the person I wanted to share it with was my grandmother. She was stability in my house. Silent gray trust worthy. I gave it to her freely with an open heart full of gratitude for my grandma. It was a rare moment of safety connection and love. I recently named my car “Grandma.”
During 2020, I wrote an 85,000-word memoir that remains in a folder on my laptop, unpublished. The book changed in the writing and changed ME in the writing. It allowed me to see and internalize my part in things. It allowed me to see and release my attachment to "being the victim" and "being right." It allowed me to truly forgive and to heal my relationship with my ageing parents and with my ex-husband (who is now, once more, my husband).
This "work of art" changed my past, present, and future. It also changed the past, present, and future of others. No literary agent or book deal required.
How fascinating, Dana - and that enormous story of changing story, forgiveness, change, re-engagement, the past and present and future... that is the true work of art. Thank you.
Dana, this is really inspiring. I wrote about revisiting our stories today and how powerful that can be. I think writing a memoir is so powerful because it forces us to do that. I’m working on mine now and I appreciate the reminder that the greatest gift will be for me.
Thank you, Mary. And, yes, such a gift. I think it could've gone the other way: Addiction to our stories and versions of self and others tends to cement them in place. My own experience of writing a memoir started off that way...but thankfully took on a life of its own and unravelled stories and self in the process.
Poetry has created a world for me that’s simple and potent. Not like the world that’s riddled with complexity and requires endless interpretation. The art of distilling words into their most basic element has supported my mental health in a way no amount of talking ever has. Thank you for this wonderful prompt and reflection 🙏🏼
Music music music - so many examples but will share (2): The Brooklyn Museum - free Saturday night - Afro Cuban band - got the whole world dancing together. Central Park - concert celebrating the centennial of the Statue of Liberty - Jesse Norman singing "He's got the whole world in his hands" accapella - made the whole world stop and listen except the wind which sang with her -
My late husband and I shared poems we had written on our first date and it was clear we were kindred souls. I was 62, he was 68.... there was no time to lose! We had nine sweet years together, he passed 8 months ago. Through the the joy and the loss, I keep writing.
"And my vagina / is not / your Passage to India." This was the last line of a poem read by a poet whose name I cannot remember or locate, but the visceral response I experienced upon hearing this poem, ending with that line, I can so clearly remember! It was the early 90s. I was a college student at the time, at a very, very progressive/lefty college in Olympia, Washington, that was also very, very, very white. It was the kind of place where white folks seemed to want to be Native American, or Indian - or at least dress the part. I had become an outspoken activist on campus, and had drawn the attention of a number of, well, white men, who expressed their desire for me. As someone who mostly grew up a very, very white Judeo-Christian town, not at all progressive, where I felt ashamed of my Indian background, of my grandmother wearing a sari to attend Grandparents Day in elementary school... where I was made fun of for "doing voodoo" (i.e., burning incense. Imagine now, those same folks buying it in bulk! at Costco!!)... where I experienced unrequited crushes on white boys on the regular, and felt like a brown blemish in a sea of vanilla... Now, being at this college, where folks "looooved" Indian clothes, Indian music, jewelry... suddenly being an object of desire by these "same" (not same) white men, led to such a mix of feelings. Part of me liked it. (who doesn't like to be desired?). And yet part of me had a sense - something doesn't feel right here. Do they even know me? So.. traveling to Toronto to attend Desh Pardesh - a progressive South Asian arts festival celebrating the voices of underrepresented communities within the South Asian diaspora -queer-positive, feminist, anti-racist, anti-colonialist, anti-classists, anti-casteist - and hearing this poem, ending with this line, and then the joyful roar of "I-get-you-my-sister!" applause that followed... created a space inside me. A space for what? Even as I returned to my radical-and-nurturing-and-i-am-so-grateful-i-went-there-and-also-super-white college, that line from that poem, so impactful that I am remembering it now nearly 30 years later (thank you Pádraig for bringing me back to this time!), created space for this experience to exist too - and space for this community to exist within me. This poem created a bridge to a part of myself - as poetry and all art really does, or can do - that needed to be acknowledged, seen, heard, winked at, high fived... and having that live in me, changed my field in a way that said, "yes. this too." Eventually, when I chose to share that poem with others, well.... those are other stories! Pádraig - thank you as always for the beauty you share so generously, what you bring to life in me and so many. That Alexander Posey poem and podcast was breathtaking!
I don’t know who, if anyone, is going to read this, but, I simply couldn’t not. When I shared this reflection a few weeks ago, I surprised even myself that a single line from a poem I had not consciously thought of, probably in decades, came to me. Sometimes when I read these invitations, I respond with “first thought, best thought” and write what comes to me immediately. And other times, like this time a few weeks back, I let the question simmer on the back burner while I do something else, and see what comes. And that day, this line from a poem I had heard nearly 30 years ago. So I went back to that time and reflected. Not entirely surprisingly, Chris Cavanagh who I have never met but feel like I am getting to know through this substack, with a shared love of Galeano, and Pádraig, knew of Desh Pardesh. But what shocked me was that he actually knew the poem, the name of the poet - Anurima Banerji - and the book in which it was published! Then, to add to it, Aidan shared a link of an essay in which Banerji’s work was explored, which included the poem containing the line I cited. I looked up the poet, and to my surprise, she is also an Orissi dancer and scholar - a dance form I also studied for a bit and have a close relationship with, and one in which my 11 year old niece is currently studying, and even did a presentation on this for her 5th grade class. I went in to search for the book. It was out of print, but found a used copy online, and ordered it. Okay... fast forward. Last Thursday, I led a movement and meditation practice as part of a daylong retreat of artists and writers here in NYC, “South Asian Feminist Futures.” When I was asked to do this, I had a schedule conflict, but decided to move things around as something in me kept saying “do this, Mona.” The morning of the retreat, I was looking around (in my mind) for a poem, or passage, to include as part of the practice, as I often do. I couldn’t find one that felt right, so I decided it wasn’t necessary. Leaving my place in a rush, having been in the hospital all week with my dad :( (who is out now, thank god)... and finally home for one night, I rushed out the door and nearly exited the building, but remembered I hasn’t checked my mail in days, so backpedaled to check. Awaiting me was a small package, snuggly packed in the mailbox. I tossed it into my bag and flew out the door. On my way to work, I opened the package that was clearly a book. The book! Anurima Bannerji’s, Night Artillery. And with it the poem. Such a joy to read in full! I had a thought - maybe I can read one of these poems in the retreat. But I decided against it - it wasn’t the right note. So I get to NYU and lead the practice. After it ended, I was trying to get out the door quickly to catch a train back to see my dad, but a few participants were offering their appreciation, so I hung around. One of the women standing there, was one whose smile had caught my attention, and her warm presence was a comfort ri connect with during the session. She approached me and said something, exactly what she said is now a blur because of what unfolded after, but she was in some way offering appreciation for the practice. I thanked her for her feedback and then asked her her name. “Anurima.” I paused. I just... “and what’s your last name?” “Banerji.” Pause. Pause. “Are you a poet?” “Well yes, I also...” (more blur given my state of realizing that the world is actually magic). So I said, “umm.. this is, I’m sorry, do you have a moment?” And I walk over to my bag and pull out her book. Her look! What are the chances?!?!? We talked and talked and turns out we are both working in projects related to the body, we had several resonances! What can I say? Who can I thank? This Substack!! Pádraig - you are a witch! A wizard. Or some other “wh” word that’s not too misty for your liking. And Chris, you found the poet!! And Aidan, thank you for being part of this story too! (Three white men to thank for being part of the unfolding of my reflection about being exoticized, culturally commodified, by white men. Lest I fall into essentialising others.. I think it is just perfect!!). And to the desi sister who invited me to participate in the retreat. And my intuition. And all the invisible forces at play ... I can just see them now, quite satisfied with their work, with this delightful movement of the stars! 💫
I don’t know what to say other than great writing. I so look forward to reading your explorations each week. There is so much we can’t know of what it is to be someone...their lived experience...but you really are able to communicate it.
I remember Desh Pardesh fondly, having attended some of the events in the 90s and helped a bit to promote it. Sadly, Desh Pardesh was one of the casualties of funding cuts to the arts and it ended in the early 2000s. I recognize the poem you mention and used to have the book in my collection though it seems to have found other places to be. I believe it's Anurima Bannerji's poem from her collection Night Artillery. And i remember it because the title, i believe, is the same or very similar to EM Forster's novel: Passage to India. Which is partly why it caught my attention.
Yes, the Forster novel and a Walt Whitman poem too. I should have guessed you would know about Desh Pardesh, Chris, but that you maybe know who the poet is? Thank you! I am going to look into....
Omg! Between Chris locating the author and you, Aidan locating this - amazing. Thank you both so much! I had a word wrong.. what memory does. Reading it now, I can actually hear Anurima Banerji’s voice so clearly from that night, all those years ago. And this essay has me look forward to reading more of her work. With lines like - “her fingers skilled in subtle lines” and all its meanings…. Thank you Aidan, and thank you Chris! Hope you’re both safe wherever you are. The air in NYC is thick dusty orange, the sun fire red.
Mona, a GREAT reflection. Your writing is exquisite. I would love as well to learn the name and title of that poet/poem. But you made sense of it for me through your personal story—so maybe that’s all I need.
Jun 4, 2023·edited Jun 4, 2023Liked by Pádraig Ó Tuama
Very interesting and inspiring. As someone who does music and words also it is the silence between the notes - that dynamic tension - which creates the spark. Rarely achieved but worth every part of the process.
Thank you for the prompt, Pádraig; that impromptu music/poetry coming together must have been fabulous!
I am thankful that both my grandma and my mom appreciated and took part in art, and gave me the time and resources to learn and appreciate it, too. And I have continued to share art in my family, and also with the folks who come to this space.
I am fortunate that art is woven into my life through listening to or playing music, singing, dancing, lettering, photography, mosaics, knitting, and now poetry. In fact what I write here was impacted by today’s piece and by comments of those who also read and thought about this way that art comes into our lives and changes it.
My daughter was always so brave and confident with her art - drawing, painting, fashion, singing, playing the piano, double bass, etc. In a 5th grade drawing exercise, they drew a line drawing of one hand with the other while keeping eyes on the hand. They weren’t allowed to look down at the paper. The result was astonishing... their hand, the unique positioning of their slender, small fingers with angles and folds and creases and perspective, unmistakably theirs, floating in the space of white paper. I finally had it framed and hung it last week where I can see it everyday. I never tire of looking at it, studying it, tracing the sure lines and curves of their purpose. Something of their sight, their essence, is in that simple drawing. This little drawing gave me a window into their essence. It is very precious to me.
A dear friend asked me to listen to the piano pieces she was going to play for her portion of a family Passover Seder. I stood in my yard, phone pressed to my ear, as she began a Bartok -dark and slow with notes of hope. And Mozart, its tone and bounce redolent of freedom and Spring. Suddenly I noticed the notes. Every one, I realized, had been heard, caressed, placed carefully under her fingers - wholes and eighths of equal merit - quiet basses no less precious than dancing trebles. A group of notes had been transformed, each one lit from within for having been so carefully witnessed. A blessed community. Guided by her skilled, obedient hands, her presence and her practice, they soared into a moment of transcendence.
Gorgeous! "Every one, I realized, had been heard, caressed, placed carefully under her fingers - wholes and eighths of equal merit - quiet basses no less precious than dancing trebles. A group of notes had been transformed, each one lit from within for having been so carefully witnessed."
Thank you for sharing that scene with us. Such an artistic “trust fall” and I love it.
What immediately comes to mind with this prompt is when I am able to bring poetry into my work as a consultant. For a long time, even though I work with arts organizations, I kept my business and artistic pursuits somewhat separate. A couple of years ago, I was working with a client on change management and they were struggling to articulate the story of what they were experiencing, so I brought in John O’Donohue’s wonderful “Blessing for the Interim Time” as a catalyst of contemplation and sharing. It was unexpected and it really helped. I know that poetry moves me and that it can move others, and it was wonderful to see it resonate in this business context—though I have to remind myself it is all in the context of being human. Any separation between personal and business is artificial, I tend to think. In any event, thank you for the prompt, and perhaps some poetry will be just what I need to tackle this day, which is far too full for a Sunday! Sending all best wishes to everyone.
I remember standing among many others at a VanGogh immersive experience, his artwork moving over the ceiling, floor and walls. Something deep within me surfaced, and I was transported to a different space in my spirit...the creative space, and I felt set free, enlarged and lifted up, enlivened. It is the same space in which I create word art, and I cherish it!
I think the writing I’m doing now is making me a more whole person. In my Sunday post this morning, I write about how revisiting our stories can heal us, lead to better health and change our lives. I truly think writing about some of my struggles with intrusive thought OCD and anxiety and just general struggles of not living up to my expectations of myself, is liberating for me. Writing is leading to more wellness in my life.
After my husband died and the silence of dying was replaced by the silence of living, I took all of the money we had and bought paintings to fill my house. They still watch over me and speak words of peace into my sadness.
That is beautiful Nancy - a conversation with art.
“…the silence of dying was replaced by the silence of living.” Nancy, what a devastatingly beautiful line. Thank you. 🙏🏼
What a wonderful way to create something beautiful from your grief.
How wondrous and brave!
💚
A beautiful Buddhist chant I recently listened, learned, and sang out in chorus with sangha:
Resting, resting deeply,
I return my life
to the one who listens deeply
to the sounds of the world
The art of listening belongs to all equally, no matter age, occupation, cultural background, greater or lessor achievements.
Listening to one another, to all of nature, goes to the heart of things braiding us together as if we had known each other for a long time.
Last night I walked with a small group in the Montague Sandplains in Massachusetts, and we listened for the whip-poor-wills. There was a period during which so many of the rare birds were calling at once that they sounded almost like a chorus of frogs. The experience was something sacred. All of us, strangers, standing near each other in the twilight in the quietness of deep listening. Yes. "As if we had known each other for a long time."
Hannah,
I am imagining deep listening into silence at twilight with strangers, embraced by a chorus of whippoorwills.
Sacred, a gift of feeling into the oneness of the moment.
“For only when we can hear the languages of other beings will we be capable of understanding the generosity of the earth, and learn to give our own gifts in return.”
(Braiding Sweet Grass)
Later in life I would learn that I am in the 99th percentile for being able to visualize a thing in space. But in the fourth or fifth grade art class I sat in a corner with a big lump of clay and I began to shape it. I then saw a bear emerging. I somehow knew what he looked like from all angles and how deeply his paw was stuck in the honey jar. I loved that bear and that triumphant moment. And when I got home the person I wanted to share it with was my grandmother. She was stability in my house. Silent gray trust worthy. I gave it to her freely with an open heart full of gratitude for my grandma. It was a rare moment of safety connection and love. I recently named my car “Grandma.”
That's beautiful Holly, thank you.
What a lovely reflection, Holly. Thank you.
This is a gorgeous memory!
During 2020, I wrote an 85,000-word memoir that remains in a folder on my laptop, unpublished. The book changed in the writing and changed ME in the writing. It allowed me to see and internalize my part in things. It allowed me to see and release my attachment to "being the victim" and "being right." It allowed me to truly forgive and to heal my relationship with my ageing parents and with my ex-husband (who is now, once more, my husband).
This "work of art" changed my past, present, and future. It also changed the past, present, and future of others. No literary agent or book deal required.
How fascinating, Dana - and that enormous story of changing story, forgiveness, change, re-engagement, the past and present and future... that is the true work of art. Thank you.
Dana, this is really inspiring. I wrote about revisiting our stories today and how powerful that can be. I think writing a memoir is so powerful because it forces us to do that. I’m working on mine now and I appreciate the reminder that the greatest gift will be for me.
Thank you, Mary. And, yes, such a gift. I think it could've gone the other way: Addiction to our stories and versions of self and others tends to cement them in place. My own experience of writing a memoir started off that way...but thankfully took on a life of its own and unravelled stories and self in the process.
Good point. Good for you for going deeper. This might interest you. https://pocketfulofprose.substack.com/p/revisioning-revision
What alchemy! Thank you so much for sharing.
Poetry has created a world for me that’s simple and potent. Not like the world that’s riddled with complexity and requires endless interpretation. The art of distilling words into their most basic element has supported my mental health in a way no amount of talking ever has. Thank you for this wonderful prompt and reflection 🙏🏼
Oh how good to hear this Sez... "distilling words into their most basic element" is a lovely way to say it.
Sez, my preference is for the shortest possible poem—the difference between eau de cologne and perfume...
And may the poem that is your life be a long one. And beautiful.
Thank you. May your life fulfill your destiny.
Love this Kert, so true!
Love that differentiation, Manuel - we speak the same language friend!
Music music music - so many examples but will share (2): The Brooklyn Museum - free Saturday night - Afro Cuban band - got the whole world dancing together. Central Park - concert celebrating the centennial of the Statue of Liberty - Jesse Norman singing "He's got the whole world in his hands" accapella - made the whole world stop and listen except the wind which sang with her -
I feel like I was with you in both of these experiences Sarah!
Wonderfully put. Oh how jealous I am for haing the gift of writing beautifully that so many here have
Giving me goosebumps!
My late husband and I shared poems we had written on our first date and it was clear we were kindred souls. I was 62, he was 68.... there was no time to lose! We had nine sweet years together, he passed 8 months ago. Through the the joy and the loss, I keep writing.
Oh what sweet language, and what loss too. My heartfelt thoughts to you Fran, and hopes for the joys and losses to be echoed in language.
"And my vagina / is not / your Passage to India." This was the last line of a poem read by a poet whose name I cannot remember or locate, but the visceral response I experienced upon hearing this poem, ending with that line, I can so clearly remember! It was the early 90s. I was a college student at the time, at a very, very progressive/lefty college in Olympia, Washington, that was also very, very, very white. It was the kind of place where white folks seemed to want to be Native American, or Indian - or at least dress the part. I had become an outspoken activist on campus, and had drawn the attention of a number of, well, white men, who expressed their desire for me. As someone who mostly grew up a very, very white Judeo-Christian town, not at all progressive, where I felt ashamed of my Indian background, of my grandmother wearing a sari to attend Grandparents Day in elementary school... where I was made fun of for "doing voodoo" (i.e., burning incense. Imagine now, those same folks buying it in bulk! at Costco!!)... where I experienced unrequited crushes on white boys on the regular, and felt like a brown blemish in a sea of vanilla... Now, being at this college, where folks "looooved" Indian clothes, Indian music, jewelry... suddenly being an object of desire by these "same" (not same) white men, led to such a mix of feelings. Part of me liked it. (who doesn't like to be desired?). And yet part of me had a sense - something doesn't feel right here. Do they even know me? So.. traveling to Toronto to attend Desh Pardesh - a progressive South Asian arts festival celebrating the voices of underrepresented communities within the South Asian diaspora -queer-positive, feminist, anti-racist, anti-colonialist, anti-classists, anti-casteist - and hearing this poem, ending with this line, and then the joyful roar of "I-get-you-my-sister!" applause that followed... created a space inside me. A space for what? Even as I returned to my radical-and-nurturing-and-i-am-so-grateful-i-went-there-and-also-super-white college, that line from that poem, so impactful that I am remembering it now nearly 30 years later (thank you Pádraig for bringing me back to this time!), created space for this experience to exist too - and space for this community to exist within me. This poem created a bridge to a part of myself - as poetry and all art really does, or can do - that needed to be acknowledged, seen, heard, winked at, high fived... and having that live in me, changed my field in a way that said, "yes. this too." Eventually, when I chose to share that poem with others, well.... those are other stories! Pádraig - thank you as always for the beauty you share so generously, what you bring to life in me and so many. That Alexander Posey poem and podcast was breathtaking!
What a reflection - yes. The experienced of being looked at as a cultural commodity (that brilliant line from a poem, my god)
Thanks, too, for the kindness about the Alexander Posey poem. I love those beautiful verses.
🙏🏾 such an act of generosity to read - and comment on! - our reflections.
I don’t know who, if anyone, is going to read this, but, I simply couldn’t not. When I shared this reflection a few weeks ago, I surprised even myself that a single line from a poem I had not consciously thought of, probably in decades, came to me. Sometimes when I read these invitations, I respond with “first thought, best thought” and write what comes to me immediately. And other times, like this time a few weeks back, I let the question simmer on the back burner while I do something else, and see what comes. And that day, this line from a poem I had heard nearly 30 years ago. So I went back to that time and reflected. Not entirely surprisingly, Chris Cavanagh who I have never met but feel like I am getting to know through this substack, with a shared love of Galeano, and Pádraig, knew of Desh Pardesh. But what shocked me was that he actually knew the poem, the name of the poet - Anurima Banerji - and the book in which it was published! Then, to add to it, Aidan shared a link of an essay in which Banerji’s work was explored, which included the poem containing the line I cited. I looked up the poet, and to my surprise, she is also an Orissi dancer and scholar - a dance form I also studied for a bit and have a close relationship with, and one in which my 11 year old niece is currently studying, and even did a presentation on this for her 5th grade class. I went in to search for the book. It was out of print, but found a used copy online, and ordered it. Okay... fast forward. Last Thursday, I led a movement and meditation practice as part of a daylong retreat of artists and writers here in NYC, “South Asian Feminist Futures.” When I was asked to do this, I had a schedule conflict, but decided to move things around as something in me kept saying “do this, Mona.” The morning of the retreat, I was looking around (in my mind) for a poem, or passage, to include as part of the practice, as I often do. I couldn’t find one that felt right, so I decided it wasn’t necessary. Leaving my place in a rush, having been in the hospital all week with my dad :( (who is out now, thank god)... and finally home for one night, I rushed out the door and nearly exited the building, but remembered I hasn’t checked my mail in days, so backpedaled to check. Awaiting me was a small package, snuggly packed in the mailbox. I tossed it into my bag and flew out the door. On my way to work, I opened the package that was clearly a book. The book! Anurima Bannerji’s, Night Artillery. And with it the poem. Such a joy to read in full! I had a thought - maybe I can read one of these poems in the retreat. But I decided against it - it wasn’t the right note. So I get to NYU and lead the practice. After it ended, I was trying to get out the door quickly to catch a train back to see my dad, but a few participants were offering their appreciation, so I hung around. One of the women standing there, was one whose smile had caught my attention, and her warm presence was a comfort ri connect with during the session. She approached me and said something, exactly what she said is now a blur because of what unfolded after, but she was in some way offering appreciation for the practice. I thanked her for her feedback and then asked her her name. “Anurima.” I paused. I just... “and what’s your last name?” “Banerji.” Pause. Pause. “Are you a poet?” “Well yes, I also...” (more blur given my state of realizing that the world is actually magic). So I said, “umm.. this is, I’m sorry, do you have a moment?” And I walk over to my bag and pull out her book. Her look! What are the chances?!?!? We talked and talked and turns out we are both working in projects related to the body, we had several resonances! What can I say? Who can I thank? This Substack!! Pádraig - you are a witch! A wizard. Or some other “wh” word that’s not too misty for your liking. And Chris, you found the poet!! And Aidan, thank you for being part of this story too! (Three white men to thank for being part of the unfolding of my reflection about being exoticized, culturally commodified, by white men. Lest I fall into essentialising others.. I think it is just perfect!!). And to the desi sister who invited me to participate in the retreat. And my intuition. And all the invisible forces at play ... I can just see them now, quite satisfied with their work, with this delightful movement of the stars! 💫
I don’t know what to say other than great writing. I so look forward to reading your explorations each week. There is so much we can’t know of what it is to be someone...their lived experience...but you really are able to communicate it.
Elaine, that is so kind and generous of you! Thank you. 🙏🏾
I remember Desh Pardesh fondly, having attended some of the events in the 90s and helped a bit to promote it. Sadly, Desh Pardesh was one of the casualties of funding cuts to the arts and it ended in the early 2000s. I recognize the poem you mention and used to have the book in my collection though it seems to have found other places to be. I believe it's Anurima Bannerji's poem from her collection Night Artillery. And i remember it because the title, i believe, is the same or very similar to EM Forster's novel: Passage to India. Which is partly why it caught my attention.
Yes, the Forster novel and a Walt Whitman poem too. I should have guessed you would know about Desh Pardesh, Chris, but that you maybe know who the poet is? Thank you! I am going to look into....
I found this reference https://canadianpoetry.org/volumes/vol57/tagore.html which might help your search.
Omg! Between Chris locating the author and you, Aidan locating this - amazing. Thank you both so much! I had a word wrong.. what memory does. Reading it now, I can actually hear Anurima Banerji’s voice so clearly from that night, all those years ago. And this essay has me look forward to reading more of her work. With lines like - “her fingers skilled in subtle lines” and all its meanings…. Thank you Aidan, and thank you Chris! Hope you’re both safe wherever you are. The air in NYC is thick dusty orange, the sun fire red.
Mona, a GREAT reflection. Your writing is exquisite. I would love as well to learn the name and title of that poet/poem. But you made sense of it for me through your personal story—so maybe that’s all I need.
that’s extremely generous, Kert. thank you 🙏🏾.
Very interesting and inspiring. As someone who does music and words also it is the silence between the notes - that dynamic tension - which creates the spark. Rarely achieved but worth every part of the process.
Thank you for the prompt, Pádraig; that impromptu music/poetry coming together must have been fabulous!
I am thankful that both my grandma and my mom appreciated and took part in art, and gave me the time and resources to learn and appreciate it, too. And I have continued to share art in my family, and also with the folks who come to this space.
I am fortunate that art is woven into my life through listening to or playing music, singing, dancing, lettering, photography, mosaics, knitting, and now poetry. In fact what I write here was impacted by today’s piece and by comments of those who also read and thought about this way that art comes into our lives and changes it.
I love your last sentence🌱
My daughter was always so brave and confident with her art - drawing, painting, fashion, singing, playing the piano, double bass, etc. In a 5th grade drawing exercise, they drew a line drawing of one hand with the other while keeping eyes on the hand. They weren’t allowed to look down at the paper. The result was astonishing... their hand, the unique positioning of their slender, small fingers with angles and folds and creases and perspective, unmistakably theirs, floating in the space of white paper. I finally had it framed and hung it last week where I can see it everyday. I never tire of looking at it, studying it, tracing the sure lines and curves of their purpose. Something of their sight, their essence, is in that simple drawing. This little drawing gave me a window into their essence. It is very precious to me.
That's fantastic Holly - what a thing to do... to draw from seeing, and not from watching the paper.
A dear friend asked me to listen to the piano pieces she was going to play for her portion of a family Passover Seder. I stood in my yard, phone pressed to my ear, as she began a Bartok -dark and slow with notes of hope. And Mozart, its tone and bounce redolent of freedom and Spring. Suddenly I noticed the notes. Every one, I realized, had been heard, caressed, placed carefully under her fingers - wholes and eighths of equal merit - quiet basses no less precious than dancing trebles. A group of notes had been transformed, each one lit from within for having been so carefully witnessed. A blessed community. Guided by her skilled, obedient hands, her presence and her practice, they soared into a moment of transcendence.
That's beautiful Thayer - I love the attention toward your friend's hands.
“presence and practice” -- Yes!
Gorgeous! "Every one, I realized, had been heard, caressed, placed carefully under her fingers - wholes and eighths of equal merit - quiet basses no less precious than dancing trebles. A group of notes had been transformed, each one lit from within for having been so carefully witnessed."
Thank you for sharing that scene with us. Such an artistic “trust fall” and I love it.
What immediately comes to mind with this prompt is when I am able to bring poetry into my work as a consultant. For a long time, even though I work with arts organizations, I kept my business and artistic pursuits somewhat separate. A couple of years ago, I was working with a client on change management and they were struggling to articulate the story of what they were experiencing, so I brought in John O’Donohue’s wonderful “Blessing for the Interim Time” as a catalyst of contemplation and sharing. It was unexpected and it really helped. I know that poetry moves me and that it can move others, and it was wonderful to see it resonate in this business context—though I have to remind myself it is all in the context of being human. Any separation between personal and business is artificial, I tend to think. In any event, thank you for the prompt, and perhaps some poetry will be just what I need to tackle this day, which is far too full for a Sunday! Sending all best wishes to everyone.
I always celebrate whenever there is a shout out to John O’Donohue. Thank you Tom!
Thanks Tom - and how interesting (and apt) to bring John O'D's words into your work. I love that Interim Time one too.
I remember standing among many others at a VanGogh immersive experience, his artwork moving over the ceiling, floor and walls. Something deep within me surfaced, and I was transported to a different space in my spirit...the creative space, and I felt set free, enlarged and lifted up, enlivened. It is the same space in which I create word art, and I cherish it!
Art--various genres and forms of high art and low art and all of the in between art--has saved my life in so many ways. Art has helped me stay alive.
Great comment. The spark of creativity lights the creative spark of life at its best.
Yes. I love how you worded that.
Thanks so much. Occasionally even us lowly wordsmiths make sense. lol.
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I think the writing I’m doing now is making me a more whole person. In my Sunday post this morning, I write about how revisiting our stories can heal us, lead to better health and change our lives. I truly think writing about some of my struggles with intrusive thought OCD and anxiety and just general struggles of not living up to my expectations of myself, is liberating for me. Writing is leading to more wellness in my life.
aka “cathartic.” Thank you Mary, your story resonates within my heart. May you keep writing…and healing.