Still no Ceasefire: Margie reads poems

In August I started building an anthology of my favorite poems, and I made one trial copy of it, a kind of rough draft to proof-read, problem-solve, and to see about the quality of self-published “trade” books. I learned they’re comparable to mass-produced paperback books, pretty cheap (under $8 each). Bonus: black and white photos print very well. Today I took Margie my draft version, and she received it as a marvel. She read the front and back covers as if it were the first book she ever touched, each word a revelation, a delight.

She opened to “The Great Sea,” and I wish I had a video of her reading it aloud to me. She read slowly, one word at a time, savoring each word as a pleasure in the mouth. Sometimes she would read the same line three times before moving on. You may know David Whyte’s way of reading poetry. Margie’s reading is like that, but slowed down, down, down, 10 revolutions per minute to his 75. My wish for every poet is to have their work read aloud by Margie, aged 97.


The Great Sea

The great sea has set me in motion
set me adrift,
moving me like a weed in a river.
The sky and the strong wind
have moved the spirit inside me
till I am carried away 
trembling with joy.
—Uvavnuk, Inuit woman shaman (translated by Stephen Mitchell, 1922).

The other poem she read several times over is by a Maori poet, about a sudden death. I think one of you Blippers turned me onto this poet. As she read it, she paused, looked at me over the top of the book, and said, “I should be so lucky.”

Prelude?

Suddenly
He felt tired
Lay down
And died.

Shared no regrets
His soul freed
From a broken shell
Stepped sprightly
As a new-born chick:

Gave no heed
Nor feather turned
To the shocked cry
Heart-wails
The shattered tea-cup
And milk
Spilling on the floor.
          —Hone Tuwhare (1986).


We didn’t speak about the horrors unfolding in Gaza. She doesn’t remember it, and she doesn’t need to remember it. But for the record, Ceasefire. Now.