I wanted to be surprised – Jane Hirschfield

I wanted to be surprised

To such a request, the world is obliging.

In just the past week, a rotund porcupine,
who seemed equally startled by me.

The man who swallowed a tiny microphone
to record the sounds of his body,
not considering beforehand how he might remove it.

A cabbage and mustard sandwich on marbled bread.

How easily the large spiders were caught with a clear plastic cup
surprised even them.

I don’t know why I was surprised every time love started or ended.
Or each time anew fossil, Earth-like planet, or war.
Or that one kept being there when the doorknob had clearly—

What should have not been so surprising:
my error after error, recognised when appearing on the faces of others.

What did not surprise enough:
my daily expectation that anything would continue,
and the that so much did continue, when so much did not.

small rivulets still flowing downhill when it wasn’t raining.
A sister’s birthday.

Also, the stubborn, courteous persistence.
That even today please means please,
good morning is still understood as good morning,

and that when I wake up,
the window’s distant mountain remains a mountain,
the borrowed city around me is still a city, and standing.

Its alleys and markets, offices of dentists,
drug store, liquor store, Chevron.
Its library that charges— a happy surprise—no fine for overdue books:
Borges, Baldwin, Szymborska, Morrison, Cavafy.

Jane Hirschfield (1953 -

If we are looking for surprises … being prepared is important … so come on surprise I am waiting. This is the opening ask – a want for a surprise – I wanted to be surprised. But it is wanted not want which means that JH gives a lot of ambiguity in what this might imply. We don’t know if she has had a pleasant surprise, for example something she thought would never happen like peace in the Middle East, or something very personal and quite unpleasant in nature – like a bill through the Post long forgotten.

But let’s face it we never quite know what is going to happen in life. Whether we look for surprise or not life is full of variety in the unknown happenings of daily life whether trivial or monumental in their arrival.

The poem is a list of some surprises that have manifested. Nature always surprises when we least expect as in the first example. I am always surprised in summer when a snake crosses the path. I know it is likely to happen, but infrequently – but when it does it gives a shock.

Next in the list warns us not to do stupid things on the spur of the moment without due thought on the repercussions. Here is another clear event. The spying by Southampton Football Club was such a needless stupid thing to do. I guess they didn’t realise the implications on being found out and the cost of not playing in the Championship Play-Off final.

And it is not surprising how easy it is to do things – if you know the best way (thankyou Google) … like how best to catch a spider.

And as for love well no surprise … there are always associated surprises … and I do like to surprise when giving presents.

But there is no surprise in that we are prone to mistakes … we give surprises away in that way … especially to the listen when we inadvertently use the wrong word … and don’t realise at the time … and we have to be so careful now with electronic help when the wrong word is put in for us …

And it is surprising that so much continues in life with no change … marketeers use this to advantage … saying the same old quality product since early inception … it will be packaged differently, and you are sure to pay more – no surprises there! …

… of course habit keeps us anchored to the same things each day … like always walking round the lake clockwise … and surprise, surprise I have a friend who has been doing this for many years … the other day I met up with her again for lunch … she wanted to tell me that last week she walked anti-clockwise, and told me it was so different (incidentally Jane Hirstfield has another list type poem Habit – personifying Habit which controls our life)

… and some common words have the same intent as they’re always had … and we understand the person immediately – like please

… and interesting that the city viewed from the window is a borrowed city … it may be reclaimed … but it is still there with all the usual elements including a library that doesn’t charge for overdue books … but plenty of cities in the middle east that change dramatically

… but in relation to words and books they have a permanency not like the electronic equivalent which may be lost at the touch of a finger

… a friend recommended a book to me and surprise, surprise it was such a marvel I must mention it … quite often what another finds endearing is not exactly to your taste … but this time it was much appreciated – the book – ‘ All Before Me’ by Esther Rutter … the story of a personal recovery while working as an assistant at Dove Cottage in the Lake District, interwoven with detailed research in connection with the person lives of William and Dorothy Wordsworth and that important relationship with Coleridge.

… in relation to books I must mention ‘Surprised by Joy’ by C. S. Lewis … joy quite often comes as a surprise … so may you find joy from some of the surprises that happen to you!

… another thought that comes to mind … how do we deal with all the surprises that happens in our daily life in relation to providence

I will close by wanting a surprise … and it will be a surprise if it happens … I’m looking for 3 comments on this Post … follow the list-poem-creation-technique as shown by JH … list three things that come to mind in association with your reading of the above … just three very short sentences will suffice.

Jane Hirshfield is a highly respected poet, translator, essayist, and editor.

Here is her Facebook page.

Jane Hirshfield on Wikipedia

Our Father – and Mother … and Mothers’ Day

Our Father

Our Father, Mother of all life living in timeless beauty
your name is sacred,
always to be praised and adored.

You created our world and continue to transform
the wonder of your creation.

We thank you each day for having given us your son.

Forgive our wrong behaviour
as we forgive the wrongs of others.

You know us intimately, guide our lives,
and protect us from harm.

For you are complete good, pure love, and perfect
all honour, power, and glory are yours
now and forever.


Richard Scutter

Rowan Williams in a series of presentations on the nature of Christianity at Canterbury Cathedral stated the view of God … in human terms … that Mother was much more akin to the nature of God rather than Father. Refer- the book Tokens of Trust which detail his presentations.

I must say in line with Rowan Williams family is most important … whatever your comparison … whether Spirit, Wind, Love, …

So looking at Mother in that regard on Mothers’ Day in Australia some equivalent words that mirror the well-known prayer in the Anglican liturgy.

Rowan Williams Wikipedia

ANZAC Day – a tribute to nurses

It is Anzac Day, held annually on April 25. It is a National Day of Remembrance in Australia and New Zealand commemorating all who have served and died in military operations. It marks the anniversary of the 1915 Gallipoli landing, the first major military action fought by Australian and New Zealand Army Corps (ANZAC) forces during World War I.

Too often we hear male oriented war poems. Here are some words as a tribute to nurses, men and women, who care for those that have become victims of war. And trying to capture the emotional weight, compassion and strength of nursing, reflecting on those intimate moments that occur between a nurse and a patient.

I Walk Out Different Every Time

I walk in whole,
but leave absorbed with fragments 
that attach to me.

A patient’s laughter, a family’s grief.
The weight of unspoken words.

I walk out different every time.
Stronger, softer, more tired,
yet more alive.

Every shift leaves a mark
which I take with me.

Richard Scutter.

The Donkey – G. K. Chesterton

The Donkey

With monstrous head and sickening cry
   And ears like errant wings,
The devil’s walking parody
   On all four-footed things.

When fishes flew and forests walked
   And figs grew upon thorn,
Some moment when the moon was blood
   Then surely I was born.

The tattered outlaw of the earth,
   Of ancient crooked will;
Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,
   I keep my secret still.

Fools! For I also had my hour;
   One far fierce hour and sweet:
There was a shout about my ears,
   And palms before my feet.

G. K. Chesterton (1874 -1936)

This is really a poem for Palm Sunday. It always intrigues me to have such a brief one-week contrast from being king with the populace to being crucified by the same.

This poem shows the king of Palm Sunday riding through the streets on a donkey. His kingship articulated in such an obscure way. This is such a contrast from the violent-tank approach of the military taking forced control of the land.

Unfortunately, the donkey is representative of the devil as a ploy. Jesus of course conquers the devil, or should we say sin, so perhaps it is apt that he rides on top. But I must say I feel a little sorry for this poor animal and the way his body features are described in the discredit.

And then on Easter Sunday Jesus becomes the Christian King of love. And again, he is the king of the populace by the cancellation of the debt of sin.

In summary, two very different ways in which he shows his kingship completely independent of guns, tanks, and missiles.

Gilbert Keith Chesterton was an English writer, Christian apologist, and literary critic renowned for his wit, paradoxes, and defense of faith and tradition. Author of influential works like Orthodoxy, The Everlasting Man, and the Father Brown detective stories, he championed Catholic thought, distributism, and common sense in public debates. Converting to Catholicism in 1922, his apologetics profoundly impacted Christian thinkers including C.S. Lewis.

apologetics – reasoned arguments or writings in justification typically a theory or religious doctrine:

Cycling – 20 March 2024 – in memory

Cycling – 20 March 2024
in memory of Alicia Celaya Jauregui

in slow-paced motion
                 in the beauty of the morning …
out on a bike
            in the still
               of a crisp Autumn day
                    opening fresh in offering
in easy slow-paced cyclical motion
               in the beauty of the morning


gracefully gliding
             down the winding bending downhill
                        with effortless inhalation
                                     the air invigorating
in continual easy slow-paced cyclical motion
                        in the beauty of the morning …
       departing in the distance out of sight …
                      travelling onwards, onwards, homeward bound …
                      


Cyclist Alicia Celaya Jauregui died when a speeding car crossed the wrong side of the road at the Lady Denman traffic lights.

This was particularly poignant because I cycled across the lights a few hours before the tragedy and a few hours afterwards. It is a very busy cycling route from Belconnen to the City of Canberra.

Richard Scutter

Scrambled Egg – Kate Cameron – Yass Valley Writers

Time for a touch of humour …


Kate Cameron is a member of The Yass Valley Writers. She is a very talented lady that exudes humour in her contributions to the group. Her creative drawings are always an entertaining addition to many of her poems. I attend the meetings and Kate has given me permission to share her work.

The Yass Valley Writers Group have recently produced their sixth anthology (Voices from the Valley) which is available via Amazon – see below. A diverse range of writing from seventeen of the members.

The Old Stoic – Emily Bronte

The Old Stoic

Riches I hold in light esteem,
And Love I laugh to scorn;
And lust of fame was but a dream,
That vanished with the morn:

And if I pray, the only prayer
That moves my lips for me
Is, "Leave the heart that now I bear,
And give me liberty!"

Yes, as my swift days near their goal:
'Tis all that I implore;
In life and death a chainless soul,
With courage to endure.

Emily Bronte (1818 - 1848)

Stoic = one who tends to endure the trials and tribulations of life without complaint

When a person reaches the later stages of life there are many challenges in daily life due to age the most common concern health rather than finance – but lack of finance may obviate the ability to deal adequately with any health issues.

However, Emily Bronte never reached old age and died young … but had her miseries nevertheless to endure in that dire home life in Haworth. She may have been writing these words in association with an old gentleman that she knew. Assuming male.

Incidentally, I have just watched the latest ‘Wuthering Heights’ movie. A complete imaginary representation and a lot of violence. Revenge never reached such heights – excuse the pun. And when Catherine married into the Linton family against her heart it reminded me of Thomas Hardy’s poem ‘The Ruined Maid’. If you like Margot Robbie go to see it, she is quite brilliant as Catherine. I would give it a 3.5 rating. I liked the scenery of course especially as I lived in Ikley for a while when attending Uni.

And what is important for this old man …

… not riches … seems he is adequately prepared for his daily needs
… not love … well … laughter and scorn = no respect, mockery … as he reflects back with a smile …
… not fame … this was an unrealised dream … something sought in youth perhaps

… but the most important thing, the one prayer … for courage to endure all that is going on in his life … in life and death … as he reaches final days … as he seeks liberty … freedom from the body …

If those reading this poem who are in a similar state … with arthritis and more serious body concerns and medical issues – never give up take courage and endure, persist, and keep going despite … and find some joy out of the shadow of such concerns.

… And of course the young may need such courage too!

This is a Photograph of Me – Margaret Atwood

This is a Photograph of Me

It was taken some time ago.
At first it seems to be
a smeared
print: blurred lines and grey flecks
blended with the paper;

then, as you scan
it, you see in the left-hand corner
a thing that is like a branch: part of a tree
(balsam or spruce) emerging
and, to the right, halfway up
what ought to be a gentle
slope, a small frame house.

In the background there is a lake,
and beyond that, some low hills.

(The photograph was taken
the day after I drowned.

I am in the lake, in the center
of the picture, just under the surface.

It is difficult to say where
precisely, or to say
how large or small I am:
the effect of water
on light is a distortion

but if you look long enough,
eventually
you will be able to see me.)

Margaret Atwood (1939 –

From AI – Margaret Atwood’s “This Is a Photograph of Me” is a haunting, deceptively simple poem that uses the metaphor of a blurry, old photo to explore themes of death, memory, and the marginalization of women. The speaker describes a landscape, only revealing in a chilling, parenthetical stanza that she has drowned and is submerged in the lake, appearing almost invisible to the viewer. 
… And is marginalization an issue?

A poem in two distinct parts … on the life of a person defined in words …

Plenty below the surface to consider, these are my words to invoke thinking   –

 
… the importance of nature to self
… on becoming water and light
… on being absorbed/lost in nature
… on being unrecognised as a woman
… on being a forgotten entity
… on history distorting, not knowing people
… on being identified with place
… on the emphasis of the importance of home
… on being there but unseen
… on wanting recognition
… on having a spiritual existence
… on connection

Do you ever see another person no matter how hard you look … and what does a person leave behind … what does the viewer conjure in the mind.