No One Will Worry a Bit

On the front page of the Washington Post this morning is a picture of a young soldier who lost both his legs to an IED in Afghanistan. One leg was amputated above the knee and another at the hip. Certainly puts my own recent temporary disability into perspective.

Does anyone know anymore what we are doing in Afghanistan, besides killing and injuring young Americans? What would victory there even look like?

Thank God we now have a president who thinks before he acts.

My daughter shared the following poem with me some time ago:

by Siegfried Sassoon.

Does it matter? – Losing your legs? . . .
For people will always be kind,
And you need not show that you mind
When the others come in after hunting
To gobble their muffins and eggs.

Does it matter? – Losing your sight? . . .
There’s such splendid work for the blind;
And people will always be kind,
As you sit on the terrace remembering
And turning your face to the light.

Do they matter? – those dreams for the pit? . . .
You can drink and forget and be glad,
And people won’t say that you’re mad;
For they’ll know you’ve fought for your country
And no one will worry a bit.

Paradise Lost

Today I have two poems about change. Enjoy what you have, and if things change, find a way to enjoy that, too.


Otherwise

Jane Kenyon

I got out of bed
on two strong legs.
It might have been
otherwise. I ate
cereal, sweet
milk, ripe, flawless
peach. It might
have been otherwise.
I took the dog uphill
to the birch wood.
All morning I did
the work I love.

At noon I lay down
with my mate. It might
have been otherwise.
We ate dinner together
at a table with silver
candlesticks. It might
have been otherwise.
I slept in a bed
in a room with paintings
on the walls, and
planned another day
just like this day.
But one day, I know,
it will be otherwise.


The Expulsion

Katha Pollitt

Adam was happy -- now he had someone to blame
for everything: shipwrecks, Troy,
the gray face in the mirror.

Eve was happy -- now he would always need her.
She walked on boldly, swaying her beautiful hips.

The serpent admired his emerald coat,
the Angel burst into flames
(he'd never approved of them, and he was right).

Even God was secretly pleased: Let
History begin!

The dog had no regrets, trotting by Adam's side
self-importantly, glad to be rid

of the lion, the toad, the basilisk, the white-footed mouse,
who were also happy and forgot their names immediately.

Only the Tree of Knowledge stood forlorn,
its small hard bitter crab apples

glinting high up, in a twilight of black leaves.
How pleasant it had been, how unexpected

to have been, however briefly,
the center of attention.

Think Watch Think

My daughter has a website Thinkwatchthink.com on which she summarizes and analysis television show episodes. She is really a good writer and quite thoughtful about what she sees and writes about. I don't watch most of these shows, but I enloy reading about them on her site.

I ran across this poem today on the Poetry 180 website and it reminded me of my daughter's television analysis.


Sidekicks

Ronald Koertge

They were never handsome and often came
with a hormone imbalance manifested by corpulence,
a yodel of a voice or ears big as kidneys.

But each was brave. More than once a sidekick
has thrown himself in front of our hero in order
to receive the bullet or blow meant for that
perfect face and body.

Thankfully, heroes never die in movies and leave
the sidekick alone. He would not stand for it.
Gabby or Pat, Pancho or Andy remind us of a part
of ourselves,

the dependent part that can never grow up,
the part that is painfully eager to please,
always wants a hug and never gets enough.

Who could sit in a darkened theatre, listen
to the organ music and watch the best
of ourselves lowered into the ground while
the rest stood up there, tears pouring off
that enormous nose.

The Peace of Wild Things

I was feeling miserable and sorry for my self today. I caught some kind of intestinal bug, probably at the surgery center, and was sick at both ends. Just what I need when I can barely get to the bathroom.

My ankle is doing well. I now have a "boot" on it that can be removed for brief periods of time starting in a day or two. This will allow me to finally get in the shower. What happiness a shower will be!

I quit eating, took some Immodium, and lay on the couch to listen to my ipod until I started to feel better. I listened to Nora Jones, Enja, Lyle Lovett & a little Bob Dylan. I can feel my son rolling his eyes at Enja, but I enjoy her. I was going to include some some lyrics from the songs I liked, but changed my mind after talking to my daughter who asked for a happy poem. This is not quite happy, but is peaceful and that's the best I can do today.

The Peace of Wild Things

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Wendell Berry

Will it Get Any Worse?

I was going to write about something global, like Obama getting the Nobel Peace Prize, presumably because he is not George W. Bush, but I found the following poem today and I just had to share. Once again a poem has influenced the way I look at events, both global and local.

Can you imagine waking up to the news that you had won the Nobel Prize and thinking to yourself, "Crap. Now I'll have to come up with a speech." I almost expected Obama to pull out a list and say "There are a few people I'd like to thank..." as if he had just gotten a Golden Globe Award.

My ankle is healing. The pain meds made me throw up, so I'm doing without. I will definitely have a scar, but hopefully won't lose my job.

Afraid So

Is it starting to rain?
Did the check bounce?
Are we out of coffee?
Is this going to hurt?
Could you lose your job?
Did the glass break?
Was the baggage misrouted?
Will this go on my record?
Are you missing much money?
Was anyone injured?
Is the traffic heavy?
Do I have to remove my clothes?
Will it leave a scar?
Must you go?
Will this be in the papers?
Is my time up already?
Are we seeing the understudy?
Will it affect my eyesight?
Did all the books burn?
Are you still smoking?
Is the bone broken?
Will I have to put him to sleep?
Was the car totaled?
Am I responsible for these charges?
Are you contagious?
Will we have to wait long?
Is the runway icy?
Was the gun loaded?
Could this cause side effects?
Do you know who betrayed you?
Is the wound infected?
Are we lost?
Will it get any worse?

Jeanne Marie Beaumont

More My Left Ankle

I had surgery on Monday to pin my ankle back together. Everything went well, I guess. I don’t remember much of it, thanks to some very good drugs. Someone dressed me in a paper gown that had an air hose attached to it, blowing warm air up my crotch and over my chest. It felt pretty good. My voice is hoarse today so I’m assuming they put me completely out and inserted an air tube down my throat. The ankle hurts quite a bit, even with narcotics, and I am supposed to keep my leg elevated above the level of my heart unless I get up to the pot by the couch. Tom continues to cook for me, keep ice on the ankle and track my medications. A good mate is a blessing.

There is a cherry tree outside my living room window so I can watch the birds come to the bird feeder. I found this poem several months back and have been waiting for a chance to share it. It really is addressed “for Carol”.

Cardinals

for Carol

I had seen them in the tree,
and heard they mate for life,
so I hung a bird feeder
and waited.
By the third day,
sparrows and purple finches
hovered and jockeyed
like a swarm of bees
fighting over one flower.
So I hung another feeder,
but the squabbling continued
and the seed spilled
like a shower
of tiny meteors
onto the ground
where starlings
had congregated,
and blue jays,
annoyed at the world,
disrupted everyone
except the mourning doves,
who ambled around
like plump old women
poking for the firmest
head of lettuce.

Then early one evening
they came,
the only ones—
she stood
on the periphery
of the small galaxy of seed;
he hopped
among the nuggets,
calmly chose
one seed at a time,
carried it to her,
placed it in her beak;
she, head tilted,
accepted it.
Then they fluffed,
hopped together,
did it all over again.

And filled with love,
I phoned to tell you,
over and over,
about each time
he celebrated
being there,
all alone,
with her.

by John L. Stanizzi

My Left Ankle

Last Sunday I broke my left ankle. My husband and I were grilling bratwurst and fresh pineapple on the barbecue. Tom said as he came from lighting the fire, “Be careful, the deck is slippery”. I wish I had paid attention. I put the pineapple skewers on the grill, came back across the deck, slipped on a wet leaf and went down. I landed on my butt with my left leg twisted under me.

When I tried to move my leg I discovered two things: It hurt like hell, and my ankle was flopping in unnatural directions. Tom tried to get me into the house, but the flopping and screaming convinced him to call 911 instead. A fire rescue truck and an ambulance soon showed up. Some nice young medics carefully got me onto a stretcher and on the way to the hospital.

Let me say that if you arrive in an ambulance, the ER will let you by-pass the waiting room. A nurse showed up pretty much right away to make sure I wasn’t dying and to take my medical history. It saves time if you have a list of your medications with you, but I spent some time explaining why in the last six months I had seen a dermatologist and plastic surgeon (skin cancer), a neurologist (ophthalmic migraines), an internal medicine doctor and a vascular doctor (cellulitis and swelling in my right leg). I sounded like a hypochondriac even to me, but the flopping ankle could not be ignored.

A portable x-ray machine showed up to take some pictures and I was told that my ankle was broken in at least two places. (Later x-rays showed three breaks.) The resident doctor said not to eat or drink, then ordered an oral pain medication. I took it with water. No one started an IV, probably just as well considering my uncooperative veins. I was shaking with cold and asked for a heated blanket. The nurse promptly produced two of them, bless her heart. I’d have given her more points if she’d thought of it herself.

There was talk of a shot of morphine, but it never materialized. An orthopedic doctor showed up to “put a splint” on my ankle. This seemed to involve dripping strips of plaster and a great deal of pain. You can’t put a splint on until the bones are maneuvered back into place, although this wasn’t mentioned by the doctor ahead of time. When I say a great deal of pain, I mean really real pain: having-a-baby pain, having-a-gall-bladder-attack pain, I’m-being-tortured-and-I’m-screaming-about-it pain. The splint did stop the flopping.

I was given a pain pill prescription, a pair of crutches, and a referral to an orthopedic surgeon, and sent home. The pain pills work well, the crutches are useless and I found my own orthopedic surgeon. The surgery is scheduled for Monday.

My husband is a saint. I can’t make it up and down the stairs, so he has fixed up the living room for my crippled self and is waiting on me hand and ankle.

This poem is a little dark, but seems to fit.


After great pain a formal feeling comes--
The nerves sit ceremonious like tombs;
The stiff Heart questions--was it He that bore?
And yesterday--or centuries before?
The feet, mechanical, go round
A wooden way
Of ground, or air, or ought,
Regardless grown,
A quartz contentment, like a stone.
This is the hour of lead
Remembered if outlived,
As freezing persons recollect the snow--
First chill, then stupor, then the letting go.

Emily Dickinson