The way you walk is slash and burn.
Like understatement’s now a crime.
You leave a wake of men who turn
to make sure they were right first time.
It was a more than decent weekend for wedding reads, even beyond the Chelsea Clinton and Lisa Simpson news. The Post wrote about a wedding proposal involving a dog in a musical Santa costume. Googling for future blogging turned up the Scrabble proposal NPR’s Melissa Block received. Best of the bunch, a Post wedding story ended in the bride and groom’s friends reading from Whitman’s “Song of the Open Road.”
I give you my hand!
I give you my love more precious than money,
I give you myself before preaching or law;
Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me?
Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?
I’d never read the poem before.
Good thing my beloved Poetry Foundation had the full text. I read the work aloud to myself — more like whispered because a louder reading would have slowed me and I wanted to consume it quickly, for myself and for Whitman, whom one can’t imagine in his lists and exclamations recited slowly. I had a suspicion the wedding passage was the poem’s conclusion, and it was. But my suspicion and minimal surprise at such were rooted in similar reasons, so I wasn’t disappointed. On the open road, as so often in Whitman as he’s always on an open road of some kind, the journey is more important. Let’s see that case at a wedding.
No, really, let’s see it. Read us the hard road, prime us for celebration. There are more difficult, unread sections in the poem, parts where you have to keep moving and not let the world’s demands get hold of you.
Bring it. Early in the poem, the start of the second section:
You road I enter upon and look around, I believe you are
not all that is here,
I believe that much unseen is also here.
The Poetry Foundation’s daily feed has made me quickly, recently fall deep into the works of Tony Hoagland. I’ve posted a few of his poems in this blog already, and believe me, many more are bookmarked.
Today’s poem squarely connects with where my mind has been this afternoon. On my mind, in broadening circles… Memorial Day honors those we’ve lost in battle. Veterans Day honors those who’ve served. Labor Day honors all those who work. Thanksgiving, when you think about it, honors the land. And the Fourth of July, almost a pair with Thanksgiving, honors our life on the land. Thanksgiving is where we are. The Fourth of July is about who we are and what we do here.
Citizens, not subjects, indeed…
So, good for Hoagland for making that point in a way that couldn’t be more indirect. He takes the hard way to explain that as complicated, convoluted, comfortable, and challenging as the United States may be today, it is still our country, our responsibility and our opportunity.
The opening stanzas lay out the challenge of our American success:
Then one of the students with blue hair and a tongue stud
Says that America is for him a maximum-security prison
Whose walls are made of RadioShacks and Burger Kings, and MTV episodes
Where you can’t tell the show from the commercials,
And as I consider how to express how full of shit I think he is,
He says that even when he’s driving to the mall in his Isuzu
Trooper with a gang of his friends, letting rap music pour over them
Like a boiling Jacuzzi full of ballpeen hammers, even then he feels
Buried alive, captured and suffocated in the folds
Of the thick satin quilt of America
Read the full poem here. There is no resolution — only possibility. But that’s fine with me and hopefully you. That’s how we’ve come this far.
The beginning of “Personal,” by Tony Hoagland.
Don’t take it personal, they said;
but I did, I took it all quite personal–
the breeze and the river and the color of the fields;
the price of grapefruit and stamps,
the wet hair of women in the rain–
And I cursed what hurt me
and I praised what gave me joy,
the most simple-minded of possible responses.
Happiness, Joe says, is a wild red flower
plucked from a river of lava
and held aloft on a tightrope
strung between two scrawny trees
above a canyon
in a manic-depressive windstorm.
Don’t drop it, Don’t drop it, Don’t drop it–,
And when you do, you will keep looking for it
everywhere, for years,
while right behind you,
the footprints you are leaving
will look like notes
of a crazy song.
“Ode to Hangover” as only Dean Young can write it.
You don’t seem to get the whole concept of yielding, or even slowing down at a blind corner to see if one should yield. You make me want to stand behind the waterfall from Mary Oliver’s “The Poet with His Face in His Hands” (deep in the April 4 New Yorker.) Next to the weeping poet there, I have less tearful and more annoyed things to say to you. If the poet is bothered — and having in his place before, I suspect he may be — I can wait until he is done. Your honk and hand-wave are enough to hold me in this mood a bit, and your bumper karma may do the job anyway.