Click here to listen to Meanwhile, the world goes on in the season 2 archives on buzzsprout
“Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile, the world goes on…”
–Mary Oliver, “Wild Geese”
The world that you and I knew has ended and many things are changing and yet, the sun still rises and sets, and the spring flowers are blooming here in the Mojave Desert. The earth— our source and ground—is beneath our feet.
Here is a program of poetry to connect you with all the life and beauty that remains despite the great changes underway. I’ve included poems by:
Eleanor Lerman, James Wright, Czeslaw Milosz, W.S. Merwin, Billy Collins, Wallace Stevens, Eavan Boland, David Whyte, Pat Mora, and Mary Oliver.
Poetry can be a doorway into a reflective space and peace of mind. I’ll include poetry in future podcasts, and invite you to email me poems that you’d like to hear, or better yet, email me a recording of you reading a poem that you like.
Share your voice and a moment of connection with the Myth Matters story circle by emailing your recording (or poem) to me at drcsvehla@gmail.com. I will mention your name unless you ask to be anonymous.
In celebration of National Poetry month here in the United States– and of all the good that remains.
“Poetry is not a luxury. It is a vital necessity of our existence.” —Audre Lorde
Transcript of “Meanwhile, the world goes on…”
00:00
Hello everyone and welcome to Myth Matters, storytelling and conversation about mythology and why myth matters to our lives today. I’m your host and personal mythologist Catherine Svehla. Wherever you may be in this wide, beautiful, crazy world of ours, you are part of this story circle.
00:30
Well friends, here we are two weeks later, and there’s a lot of talk now about the fact that the world has ended. Many people saying that the world has ended, there’s no going back, and everything has changed. That is probably, largely, true. True of the world that humans have created, of our world of institutions and mechanisms and concepts and ideas. And yet the world that is the earth, the source, the origin, the ground–she’s here. The spring flowers are blooming here in the desert. The sun is still rising and setting. The stars are still in the sky.
When I take my morning walks, I find myself repeating these words from the poet Mary Oliver, “Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile, the world goes on…”
01:57
Well, April is National Poetry Month here in the United States and today I have a handful of poems that I want to share with you, poems that speak of the world and its constancy, of the beauty and the belonging, and of the sustenance that is available now to you, to each of us, in the earth and her generosity, and in poems that can be a portal into remembering that wealth. So I’m going to read each one of the poems twice just to give us a better chance to sink into that space. And I will post links to these poets with the transcript of this podcast on my mythic mojo website.
03:01
Without further ado, I invite you to relax and listen, and let the sound of the words as much of the meaning, take you someplace peaceful. This first poem is “The Mystery of Meteors” by Eleanor Lerman, and if that name sounds familiar, it’s because I shared her poem “Starfish” with my email subscribers last November around Thanksgiving.
03:35
“The Mystery of Meteors” by Eleanor Lerman, from The Mystery of Meteors
“I am out before dawn, marching a small dog through a meager park
Boulevards angle away, newspapers fly around like blind white birds
Two days in a row I have not seen the meteors
though the radio news says they are overhead
Leonid’s brimstones are barred by clouds; I cannot read
the signs in heaven, I cannot see night rendered into fire.
And yet I do believe a net of glitter is above me
You would not think I still knew these things:
I get on the train, I buy the food, I sweep, discuss,
consider gloves or boots, and in the summer,
open windows, find beads to string with pearls
You would not think that I had survived
anything but the life you see me living now
In the darkness, the dog stops and sniffs the air
She has been alone, she has known danger,
and so now she watches for it always
and I agree with the conviction off my mistakes.
But in the second part of my life, slowly, slowly,
I begin to counsel bravery. Slowly, slowly,
I begin to feel the planets turning, and I am turning
toward the crackling shower of their sparks
These are the mysteries I could not approach when I was younger:
the boulevards, the meteors, the deep desires that split the sky
walking down the paths of the cold park
I remember myself, the one who can wait out anything
So I caution the dog to go silently, to bear with me
the burden of knowing what spins on and on above our heads
For this is our reward: Come Armageddon, come fire or flood
come love, not love, millennia of portents—
there is a future in which the dog and I are laughing
Born into it, the mystery, I know we will be saved”
08:25
“A Blessing” by James Wright
“Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl’s wrist.
Suddenly, I realize
that if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.”
11:13
” Gift” by Czeslaw Milosz from New and Collected Poems 1931-2001
“A day so happy.
Fog lifted early, I worked in the garden.
Hummingbirds were stopping over honeysuckle flowers.
There was no thing on earth I wanted to possess.
I knew no one worth my envying him.
Whatever evil I had suffered, I forgot.
To think that once I was the same man did not embarrass me.
In my body I felt no pain.
When straightening up, I saw the blue sea and sails.”
12:35
“By the Mango Trees” by W. S. Merwin from Finding the Islands
“A little higher// the green hill hides// in rain.
The trees bow with the wind// but the houses// forget
Rain on the tin roof// lizard hands on the tin ceiling// listening
In the evening sunlight// the hill pasture// is ripening
Lizard just hatched// such a hurry//tail gets in front of the head
A spider hangs// from a new thread// in the light from the window
Lizard runs out on a beam// shits and// looks down
White balsam flowers// moons in// full moonlight
Late at night//the dogs bark for hours//then the rain comes
Great dipper stands// on its handle//leaning against the paling sky
When the rooster crows//a rat shakes// the orange tree
Old dry banana leaf//one of my aunts// but I can’t remember which
Loud yellow truck passes// the yellow lilies// in the wind
Living at the farm//she airs her baby//up and down the road
How time disappears// while we live under// the big tree.”
15:43
A little change of pace here with Billy Collins. This poem is called “The Order of the Day” from Aimless Love.
“A morning after a week of rain
and the sun shot down through the branches
into the tall, bare windows.
The brindled cat rolled over on his back,
and I could hear you in the kitchen
grinding coffee beans into a powder.
Everything seemed especially vivid
because I knew we were all going to die,
first the cat, then you than me,
then somewhat later, the liquefied sun
was the order I was envisioning.
But then again, you never really know.
The cat had a fiercely healthy look,
his coat so bristling and electric
I wondered what you had been feeding him
and what you had been feeding me
as I turned a corner
and beheld you out there on the sunny deck
lost in exercise, running in place,
knees lifted high, skin glistening—
and that toothy, immortal-looking smile of yours.”
18:18
” Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird” by Wallace Stevens
“1 Among twenty snowy mountains,// The only moving thing// Was the eye of the blackbird.
2 I was of three minds,// Like a tree// In which there are three blackbirds.
3 The black bird whirled in the autumn winds.// It was a small part of the pantomime.
4 A man and a woman// Are one. //A man and a woman and a blackbird//Are one.
5 I do not know which to prefer,// The beauty of inflections// Or the beauty of innuendos,// The blackbird whistling// Or just after.
6 Icicles filled the long window// With barbaric glass.// The shadow of the blackbird// Crossed it, to and fro.// The mood// Traced in the shadow// An indecipherable cause.
7 Oh, thin men of Haddam,//Why do you imagine golden birds? //Do you not see how the black bird// Walks around the feet// Of the women about you?
8 I know noble accents// And lucid, inescapable rhythms;// But I know, too, //That the blackbird is involved// In what I know.
9 When the black bird flew out of sight,//It marked the edge//Of one of many circles.
10 At the sight of black birds//Flying in a green light,// Even the bawds of euphony// Would cry out sharply.
11 He rode over Connecticut//In a glass coach.//Once a fear pierced him,//In that he mistook//The shadow of his equipage// For blackbirds.
12 The river is moving. //The black bird must be flying.
13 It was evening all afternoon.// It was snowing// And it was going to snow. //The black bird sat//In the cedar limbs.
22:55
Next I want to read a poem titled “As” By Eavan Boland. I really like this poem because Boland speaks about those two worlds, the world of the earth and the world that we have constructed on top of it. And I’m going to read this in the hope that it might also lend some sense to the experiment that I have proposed to you in the last couple of podcasts. I’m not going to repeat the details again, so if you don’t know what I’m talking about, go listen to the last couple of podcasts for details about this experiment of being with something in the world. I think it’s kind of synchronistic that I discovered this poem recently, while I myself have been practicing that little experiment.
“As” by Eavan Boland, from “A Woman Without A Country”
“A squeak of light. Ocean air looking
to come inland, to test its influence on
the salty farms waking.
Mist lifts. The distance
reappears. In an hour so
someone will say crystal clear
even though there is
no truth in it since even now
the ground is clouding its ions and atoms.
The sun is up; day begins.
Someone else says dry as dust.
But this is outside Dublin in
summer: last night’s storm
left clay and water mixed together.
The afternoon is long and warm.
The branch of one tree angles to
its own heaviness. While everywhere,
everywhere it continues: language
crossing the impossible
with the proverbial—
until no one any longer wants
a world where as is not preferred
to its absence. Nor a fiddle not fit,
nor a whistle not clean,
nor rain not right again.
I am walking home. A quarter moon
rises in the white beams.
At the next turn houses appear,
mine among them.
I walk past leaves,
grass, one bicycle. I put my key in the lock.
In a little while, I will say, safe as.”
25:40
If you have a habit of writing yourself, I hope that you are indulging it. While it may seem trivial, or your reflections may seem too small or ordinary to matter, I have a sense that what we’re noticing about this time, about our response to it and about the world–both worlds, all worlds— is very important. It is certainly part of the raw material, of the making of something new. I’d like to read a poem for you by David Whyte that somehow captures a little bit of that spirit for me, of being both small and also necessary to some great story that is in the making, in the moment.
28:33
“Mameen” and this is by David Whyte, from River Flow
“Be infinitesimal under that sky, a creature
even the sailing hawk misses, a wraith
among the rocks where the miss part slowly.
Recall the way mere mortals are overwhelmed
by circumstance, how great reputations// dissolve with infirmity and how you,
in particular, live a hairsbreadth from losing
everyone you hold dear.
Then, look back down the path as if seeing
your past and then south over the hazy blue
coast as if present to a wide future.
Remember the way you are all possibilities
you can see and how you live best
as an appreciator of horizons,
whether you reach them or not.
Admit that once you have got up
from your chair and opened the door,
once you have walked out into the clean air
toward that edge and taken the path up high
beyond the ordinary, you have become
the privileged and the pilgrim,
the one who will tell the story
and the one coming back
from the mountain,
who helped to make it.”
31:09
I have long admired the poet Pat Mora and I recently got a book of her poems titled “Chants.” I’d like to read one of these to you as a way of sharing my love for my particular corner of the earth, which is the Mojave Desert, a place that has an inexplicable hold on my heart and my spirit. Mora describes a way of being with the desert in such beautiful language, that I can’t resist reading this one to you. It’s called
“Curandera” by Pat Mora, from Chants
“They think she lives alone
on the edge of town, in a two room house
where she moved when her husband died
at thirty-five of a gunshot wound
in the bed of another woman. The curandera
and the house have aged together to the rhythm
of the desert.
She wakes early, lights candles before
her sacred statues, brews tea of yerbabuena.
She moves down her porch steps, rubs
cool morning sand into her hands, into her arms.
Like a large black bird, she feeds on
the desert, gathering herbs for her basket.
Her days are slow, days of grinding
dried snake into powder, of crushing
wild bees to mix with white wine.
And the townspeople come, hoping
to be touched by her ointments,
her hand, her prayers, her eyes.
She listens to their stories, and she listens
to the desert, always, to the desert.
By sunset, she’s tired. The wind
strokes the strands of long gray hair,
the smell of drying plants drifts
into her blood, the sun seeps
into her bones. She dozes
on her back porch. Rocking, rocking.
At night she cooks chopped cactus
and brews more tea. She brushes a layer
of sand from her bed, sand which covers
the table, stove, floor. She blows
the statues clean, the candles out.
Before sleeping, she listens to the message
of the owl and the coyote. She closes her eyes
and breathes with the mice and snakes
and wind.”
35:46
Poetry can be a portal to a particular reflective space, a space that I feel it’s very important for us to visit right now. I’d like to share more poetry with you in future podcasts, and I want to invite you to send me a poem that you would like to hear as part of a podcast. Or better yet, record yourself reading a poem Email me the recording and I will include it as part of a podcast. If you are willing, and I certainly hope that some of you are, send me a recording of yourself reading a poem, and I will include it as part of the podcast.
Terry Tempest Williams says, “Your voice is the wildest thing that you own.” Your voice is the wildest thing that you own, and when so many of us are locked down, and closed in, and feeling like our world is very small, now is the time to call in our wildness. That is an essential ingredient in this “making” that I am referring to, and voice, voice my friends, is an important part of it. So share yours. Pick a poem that holds meaning for you right now. It doesn’t have to be original. Record yourself reading it. You can record it on your phone and email it to me. If you go to the Mythic Mojo website (www.mythicmojo.com), you will find the email address. I will include your name in the podcast unless you tell me that you prefer to be anonymous.
37:47
Before I close, let’s turn to Mary Oliver and the poem that contains the line I shared with you at the outset of this podcast, and so come for now, full circle.
“Wild Geese” by Mary Oliver, from Dream Work
“You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile, the world goes on.
Meanwhile, the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile, the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination.
Calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting–
over and over, announcing your place
in the family of things.”
40:26
And that’s it for me, Catherine Svehla and Myth Matters. I invite you to email me with your comments and questions and please send me poems, or send me recordings of yourself reading problems! Welcome to all of the new subscribers and a special shout out to Jeff Bernstein and Micael Kemp, both of whom became patrons of Myth Matters. Thank you so much, Jeff and Micael. If you are finding value here and you have the means to support Myth Matters financially, I would very much appreciate that right now. Your $5 or $10 a month contribution to this podcast on Patreon goes a very long way.
Please tune in next time, and until then, happy mythmaking and keep the mystery in your life alive.
Links to information about the poets in this podcast
Eleanor Lerman: http://www.eleanorlerman.com
James Wright: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/james-wright
Czeslaw Milosz: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/czeslaw-milosz
W.S. Merwin: https://merwinconservancy.org/about-w-s-merwin/
Billy Collins: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/billy-collins
Wallace Stevens: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/wallace-stevens
Eavan Boland: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/eavan-boland
David Whyte: https://www.davidwhyte.com
Pat Mora: http://www.patmora.com
Mary Oliver: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/mary-oliver
AND Mary Oliver reading “Wild Geese” as part of an interview with Krista Tippet at On Being Studios: https://soundcloud.com/onbeing/wild-geese-by-mary-oliver
