Category: To Occupy my Time

There was a feature in the Oregonian today about Oregon’s Poet Laureates. Edwin Markham was one from 1923-1940. He was born in Oregon, but lived in California after age five. I was delighted to reacquaint myself with his poem “Outwitted” which I’m sure was in some textbook I read in junior high or high school.

Outwitted
He drew a circle that shut me out–
Heretic, rebel, a thing to flout.
But Love and I had the wit to win:
We drew a circle that took him in!

You can read a bit more about him in the Oregonian’s article “Oregon’s Poet Laureates: A sample of their work, a bit about their lives.” published May 10, 2010 and (for right now) available here.

CHICAGO

Carl Sandburg

HOG Butcher for the World,

Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,

Player with Railroads and the Nation’s Freight Handler;

Stormy, husky, brawling,

City of the Big Shoulders:

They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I

have seen your painted women under the gas lamps

luring the farm boys.

And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it

is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to

kill again.

And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the

faces of women and children I have seen the marks

of wanton hunger.

And having answered so I turn once more to those who

sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer

and say to them:

Come and show me another city with lifted head singing

so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.

Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on

job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the

little soft cities;

Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning

as a savage pitted against the wilderness,

Bareheaded,

Shoveling,

Wrecking,

Planning,

Building, breaking, rebuilding,

Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with

white teeth,

Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young

man laughs,

Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has

never lost a battle,

Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse.

and under his ribs the heart of the people,

Laughing!

Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of

Youth, half-naked, sweating, proud to be Hog

Butcher, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with

Railroads and Freight Handler to the Nation.

Having lived on the East Coast, where they think they are the be-all end-all of the country, I love the adolescent spit-in-your-face nature of this poem. There is a lot of swagger in this, which makes it fun to recite.

February
Margaret Atwood

Go here* to read it. Then come back.

From the first line I loved this poem. As stated repeatedly, I’m not the biggest fan of winter and February happens to be my most hated month of the year. It is the shortest month in days, but in actual “time served” time it is seemingly 6-8 weeks worth of freezing cold weather, dark and drear, all packed into 28 “short” days. When I lived in Massachusetts it was even worse because the very long month of February was followed by March which was another seemingly 8-12 weeks of snow, ice, cold winds and no sign of spring all packed into 31 very long days. My mother used to call from relatively balmy Idaho and talk about the crocuses popping up and I would shrivel.

So comparably, February in Portland is lovely, but of course I have acclimated, so it seems still miserable. Will it ever stop raining? Can the sun come out maybe for more than 4 hours? For me, February is a very dark time, both in terms of daylight hours and internally. This poem captures my mental state perfectly, from the need to stay in bed longer to the incredible amount of fortitude it takes to get me through the day with any measure of cheer. And I know I’m not the only one. One of my workmates was having a miserable time at the same time I happened to be committing these lines to memory:

I recited them to her dramatically one day before school started and we both laughed.

I also love how this poem mirrors the journey through February. In the beginning, the days are short and dark, the rains come heavily and we are all still paying off our Christmas bills. By the end, the days are longer, the spring flowers have popped up and there is hope that perhaps the easy living of the summer months is something that isn’t terribly far away. The poem moves through a black period that ends on a note of hope for spring. The month of February ends the same way. Unless, of course, you live in Massachusetts.

*http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=177285