Life

I wanted to be surprised – Jane Hirschfield

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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

ANZAC Day – a tribute to nurses

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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.

Church Going – Philip Larkin – Analysis

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Church Going

Once I am sure there’s nothing going on
I step inside, letting the door thud shut.
Another church: matting, seats, and stone,
And little books; sprawlings of flowers, cut
For Sunday, brownish now; some brass and stuff
Up at the holy end; the small neat organ;
And a tense, musty, unignorable silence,
Brewed God knows how long. Hatless, I take off
My cycle-clips in awkward reverence,

Move forward, run my hand around the font.
From where I stand, the roof looks almost new –
Cleaned, or restored? Someone would know: I don’t.
Mounting the lectern, I peruse a few
Hectoring large-scale verses, and pronounce
‘Here endeth’ much more loudly than I’d meant.
The echoes snigger briefly. Back at the door
I sign the book, donate an Irish sixpence,
Reflect the place was not worth stopping for.

Yet stop I did: in fact I often do,
And always end much at a loss like this,
Wondering what to look for; wondering, too,
When churches fall completely out of use
What we shall turn them into, if we shall keep
A few cathedrals chronically on show,
Their parchment, plate and pyx in locked cases,
And let the rest rent-free to rain and sheep.
Shall we avoid them as unlucky places?

Or, after dark, will dubious women come
To make their children touch a particular stone;
Pick simples for a cancer; or on some
Advised night see walking a dead one?
Power of some sort or other will go on
In games, in riddles, seemingly at random;
But superstition, like belief, must die,
And what remains when disbelief has gone?
Grass, weedy pavement, brambles, buttress, sky,

A shape less recognisable each week,
A purpose more obscure. I wonder who
Will be the last, the very last, to seek
This place for what it was; one of the crew
That tap and jot and know what rood-lofts were?
Some ruin-bibber, randy for antique,
Or Christmas-addict, counting on a whiff
Of gown-and-bands and organ-pipes and myrrh?
Or will he be my representative,

Bored, uninformed, knowing the ghostly silt
Dispersed, yet tending to this cross of ground
Through suburb scrub because it held unspilt
So long and equably what since is found
Only in separation – marriage, and birth,
And death, and thoughts of these – for which was built
This special shell? For, though I’ve no idea
What this accoutred frowsty barn is worth,
It pleases me to stand in silence here;

A serious house on serious earth it is,
In whose blent air all our compulsions meet,
Are recognised, and robed as destinies.
And that much never can be obsolete,
Since someone will forever be surprising
A hunger in himself to be more serious,
And gravitating with it to this ground,
Which, he once heard, was proper to grow wise in,
If only that so many dead lie round.

Philip Larkin (1922 - 1985)

I have broken this poem into seven parts for discussion, I am not sure whether Philip Larkin intended to have such a breakdown.

Part 1 …
First I will say this is something I did as a teenager. I cycled around the local rural area and if I came to a church and there was nothing happening I ventured in to have a look around. Musty is so apt as a choice in words. And brewed God over many centuries. And the silence is indeed unignorable. It is always a still space for solitude. One thing I appreciated was that many of the churches had unlocked doors to allow a wandering cyclist to enter. The doors are usually very heavy with beautiful wood so it was always a time to admire the architecture and the craftsmanship. Cycle helmets were not in use in those days, so the removal of cycle clips was equivalent to hat removal – in a sort of relevance.

Part 2 …
Philip Larkin was rather game to step into the lectern and read a few verses. Lucky that no one was around at the time to witness his short sermon! He thinks he has wasted his time with this church so a meaningful donation is out of the question. An Irish Sixpence is a good luck token.

Part 3 …
Why does he continually go into churches? What is he searching for?  And then he thinks to the future when many of these buildings might fall into ruin and become derelict. The weather and sheep might dictate rent free. More likely to be sold off though.

Part 4 …
The Church building because of its sacred nature might encourage those to seek miracles based on superstition. Dubious people suggest a shift from the original spiritual significance. And to use the church more mundane purposes – to pick simples, herbs. The practical uses for a former religious space, symbolizing the only use and the declining relevance of the church and its traditions in a secular world. 


Part 5 …
Who will be the last to use the Church for what it was built for. A shape les recognizable, representing the decline of congregation. But is this representative of the decline in spiritual awareness independent of Christianity? The last line – will He be my representative.

Part 6 …
True, churches are often only used for key social events – marriage, and death in the main seemingly needing some kind of Church sanction. Often attendees never come to other services. In that sense only a shell. But surviving over so many years while new housing estates are spilt upon the land with little architectural merit. Churches increase in land value as well as holding testimony to the Christian message. Approproate interpretation of that message is another matter. It is hard to value in anyway the worth in keeping such buildings on our landscape.


Part 7 …
In whose blent air all our compulsions meet … always a place to seek understanding of life … purpose … the spirit within in that implores us for an understanding of our existence … and what a peaceful still place to grow wise in … unfortunately so many are dead around the Church … the living dead who don’t understand.

There is a wonderful You Tube video of a conversation between Philip Larkin and John Betjeman in which he describes his Hull (UK) life, and in this 1964 video he reads his Church Going poem.

Here is the link – https://jmarriott.substack.com/p/a-youtube-education … you will have to scroll down to reach the video,

Philip Larkin on Wikipedia

Made to Measure – Stephen Edgar – Comments

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Made to Measure

Impossible to wield
The acreage of the fabric that unfolded,
Slung from his shoulders like a crumpled field:
The distance from one Christmas to the next
When he was only seven
Was aching there; a foreign city flexed
Among the ripples; a face, the star-shocked heaven
About his flailing arms were shrugged and moulded.

Too heavy to outrun,
Too slow to measure what it underwent,
Though gradually the passage of the sun,
Unmanageable in its train of light,
Seemed almost to respond
As he yanked the yards of stuff in like a kite
And gathered the brocade that trailed beyond
His arms' reach to the scale of measurement,

However strange the weave
That writhed about the working of his hands:
The footage too atrocious to believe,
Printed with corpses; Greece; the falls of salmon;
Her upturned silken wrist
He would have torn out history to examine;
His father's final blessing, which he missed.
However far he comes or where he stands,

At last, and limb by limb,
Contour by contour, that unfolded cape
Settles ever more fittingly on him.
His forehead is the line of the sky's vault,
His shoulders trace the ground,
His palms the ways he wandered by default,
And in his gestures those he knew are found.
What shape the day discovers is his shape.

Stephen Edgar (1951 -

I became interested in the poetry of Stephen Edgar, a prominent Australian poet, after we discussed some of his poems at a recent University of the Third Age meeting. This poem meant little to me on a first reading. It is the sort of poem that is easy to dismiss unless you have time and are willing to apply some thought to the metaphoric meaning. It was only when Stephen Edgar explained how this poem came into being on his Website that I started to value the poem. This is his explanation from his Website –

… the key concept is “experience”, learning about the world, and how children learn to cope with it.

The “brilliant” new image from which the poem took off was the notion of experience as a cape slung from the shoulders. To the young child this cape is far too big and unwieldy: the world is too big to deal with. As the child grows the cape becomes more manageable, even though, as the third stanza details, some of the experience on the cape is cruel and wounding. Eventually, as he ages, he grows into the cape, as it were, his experience and himself are one and the same, a perfect fit. You ultimately make your own world, even as you are made by it.

I found it interesting to equate the life path of experience to that of acquiring a cape. The material continually added to the cape as it is woven with each colourful event to eventual completion. In other words the cape is a metaphoric representation of the life of a person. It is your unique world; it is what you have woven from life. But I question whether it is a perfect fit. Is it comfortable to wear?

The first stanza details the early experiences of childhood. And there is such an acreage nowadays with the flood of information that is readily available for comprehension. Childhood questioning can now be addressed so readily by use of the internet. And influence and undue influence is another matter. So made to measure may not at all be the best fit.

But – what shape the day discovers is his shape (or her shape of course). And I guess the world makes us as much as we make the world. But are we all changing the world for the better. All I can say is may your clothing fit you to the core so that you are satisfied with the product that is you!

Perhaps a cloak would be a better choice. Both are sleeveless overgarments that drape over the shoulders, but the cloak offers more substantial coverage and function, whereas the cape is a more decorative or ceremonial accessory.

Well, you must leave it behind anyway. Or perhaps take it with you metaphorically depending on your spiritual outlook.


Stephen Edgar on Wikipedia

Human Life – Matthew Arnold

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Human Life

What mortal, when he saw,
Life's voyage done, his heavenly Friend,
Could ever yet dare tell him fearlessly:
"I have kept uninfringed my nature's law ;
The inly-written chart  thou gavest me,
To guide me, I have steer'd by to the end"?

Ah! let us make no claim,
On life's incognisable  sea,
To too exact a steering of our way;
Let us not fret and fear to miss our aim,
If some fair coast have lured us to make stay,
Or some friend hail'd us to keep company.

Ay! we would each fain drive
At random, and not steer by rule.
Weakness! and worse, weakness bestow'd in vain
Winds from our side the unsuiting consort rive,
We rush by coasts where we had lief remain;
Man cannot, though he would, live chance's fool.

No! as the foaming swath
Of torn-up water, on the main,
Falls heavily away with long-drawn roar
On either side the black deep-furrow'd path
Cut by an onward-labouring vessel's prore, 
And never touches the ship-side again;

Even so we leave behind,
As, charter'd by some unknown Powers
We stem  across the sea of life by night
The joys which were not for our use design'd;--
The friends to whom we had no natural right,
The homes that were not destined to be ours.

Matthew Arnold (1822 – 1888)

When I first read this poem I was taken with the first stanza and thought about the words and interpreted the text according to my spiritual understanding of life. And gave my own personal meaning to the words inly written chart thou gavest me to be the purpose of my life given to me on the way I should live, in other words a spiritual connection made by the God within linked by Jesus. I must have been thinking about what a friend we have in Jesus. And it would be nice at the end of life to be able to have followed – I have steer’d by to the end.

But Matthew Arnold is articulating his mission in life defined by his gift as a writer. That inward pulse that he identifies as his purpose in life. The journey of life is likened to a ship ploughing through the sea. Life is incognisable; never knowing what we might experience. I remember those Beatle (John Lennon) words – Life is what happens to you when you are making other plans. The sea is quite a challenge depending on the weather.

An interesting word chosen for our journey we stem across the sea at night; implying becoming fruitful. Stem defined in the dictionary as – a  central part of something from which other parts can develop or grow or something that forms a support. So metaphoricaly it is all about finding out how we should blossom. Knowing our individual purpose and responding in order to be more than just a stem.

The last stanza emphasises ownership; in that life is not designed as a me-only event. It has a deeper and wider more purposeful intent. The mystery left unanswered.

As a side comment when John Lennon was asked as a child what he wanted to be he said one word happy. And I do believe that life was designed to be an enjoyable event. So whatever you do enjoy your day!

Matthew Arnold on Wikipedia – Matthew Arnold – Wikipedia

Anointing Ann Anonymous – leaving words

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Anointing Ann Anonymous
when she was a child
and she was quite sure
that no one was looking
she picked up a stick
to scratch in concrete
                          ‘I was here’
each day
as she walked to school
she would see her work
and laugh to herself
no one would know it was her
in her teenager years
she had that teenage crush
and melting against his name
cleared the dust on his car
with words that only she could write
                                     ‘I love you’
She thought he really knew
but she would never tell,
in later years
when thinking about him
she would laugh inside
with a little embarrassment
she had a long and ordinary life
a husband, children
and memories to drown
and if she could paint the sky
these would be her words
                                       ‘life is beautiful’
before she died
and with a knowing smile
she left these words
especially for you …

          ‘I was here
                  I love you
                      life is beautiful’
© Ann Anonymous

The following poem was included in a Yass Valley Writers anthology … Voices From the Valley.

I wanted to honour those that are not writers and have no prominent life in connection with using words, hence the title. Choice words are usually expressed by everybody at various critical times in the progression of life.

It does allude to consider what important words have been part of your life. And generally, if indeed words are important to you, what words would you like to leave behind? And what words do you think others remember you by. I still hear words my parents frequently used when I was growing up. And friends are often known by certain words they repeatedly use. To use the current vernacular enjoy your life today!



Poppies in October – Sylvia Plath and AI

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Poppies in October
Even the sun-clouds this morning cannot manage such skirts.
Nor the woman in the ambulance
Whose red heart blooms through her coat so astoundingly –

A gift, a love gift
Utterly unasked for
By a sky

Palely and flamily
Igniting its carbon monoxides, by eyes
Dulled to a halt under bowlers.
Oh my God, what am I
That these late mouths should cry open
In a forest of frosts, in a dawn of cornflowers.
Sylvia Plath (27 October 1962)

Analysis …

Nothing in sun and sky can match the poppy skirts (petals) in their colour … nor the woman (reference to herself) in the ambulance whose red heart is amazingly kept alive … the woman (SP) close to death … others not so lucky … she has been rescued and will survive.

This late showing is out of context with the season … and is a gift unasked for …and in this regard, SP could be talking about her astoundingly good luck in surviving her earlier suicide attempt … her red heart did bloom … how come she was saved? … how come she was given a second chance? … SP did not ask for this … to be re-born … at least she acknowledges this gift as a ‘love-gift’ … even if she is not thankful.

… the medicos that saved her did not know her … see her red passion, her emotional state … how could they … they wear bowler hats … head-centric on their work

… and then the lament of not knowing who she is … the poppy in October … out of context … but still alive … she cries aloud for some understanding … why should she be alive in a ‘forest of frosts’ (in a deep tangle where growth is unlikely – how she saw her life) and in a ‘dawn of cornflowers’ (emerging against the bland mass of the common … a little arogance perhaps)

Note … this poem was written on SP’s last birthday (27 Oct 1962) … her 30th birthday … at a time when she was living by herself (with the two children) in London – separated from Ted Hughes  … she also wrote another poem ‘Ariel’ on the same day … so she had time to herself on this day to devote to poetry … and to question her existence … to question why she has survived out of season (like the poppy) … and to ask why she is still alive … and inferred – why is live so hard … it is a cry for an explanation from the deep intensity of her being for a meaning in her troubled world … questioned in a state of mental unrest.

… and whether any physical poppies were around on this her birthday is open to question … they could be mind-poppies … (refer also to a previous poem ‘Poppies in July’ written in Devon in the summer … when times were different.)

And this is what AI (CHATgpt) had to say about this poem illustrating the dangers of using AI without careful attention to the response …

“Poppies in October” is one of Sylvia Plath’s poignant poems, reflecting her complex relationship with nature, life, and death. In this poem, she explores themes of beauty, transience, and the inevitable decay that accompanies life.

The imagery of poppies, often associated with remembrance and sleep, takes on multiple layers of meaning in Plath’s hands. They are portrayed as fragile and ephemeral, yet their vibrant red hue contrasts sharply with the barrenness of autumn, suggesting a defiance against mortality.

Plath’s use of language is characteristic of her poetic style—rich in symbolism and laden with emotion. The juxtaposition of “scarecrow” and “blood-burned barns” evokes a sense of desolation and decay, while the “golden mummies” suggest a haunting beauty amidst the inevitable march of time.

The poem’s closing lines, “Now she is flying / More terrible than she ever was, red / Scar in the sky, red / Comet / Over the engine that killed her— / The mausoleum, the wax house,” hint at the speaker’s acceptance of death as a transformative force. The image of the poppy as a “red / Scar in the sky” suggests a lingering presence even in death, a reminder of the fragility and resilience of life.

Overall, “Poppies in October” is a powerful meditation on mortality, capturing both the beauty and sorrow inherent in the cycle of life and death. Plath’s adept use of imagery and language imbues the poem with a haunting quality that lingers in the mind of the reader long after the final lines have been read.

Quite clearly the text that I have highlighted in red above refers to the different SP poem Stings.

Here is the last stanza of Stings ...

Now she is flying
More terrible than she ever was, red
Scar in the sky, red comet
Over the engine that killed her ----
The mausoleum, the wax house.

It is interesting that AI picked up these lines. The red scar in the sky could have association with a poppy. And after her suicide attempt in the cellar she had a scar on her face enhancing personification. Stings was written in early October 1962. That month SP was really flying in terms of her poetic creativity.

… and here is a poppy from the Australian spring a poppy very much in season.


The Bright Field – R. S. Thomas – Analysis

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The Bright Field
I have seen the sun break through
to illuminate a small field
for a while, and gone my way
and forgotten it. But that was the
pearl of great price, the one field that had
the treasure in it. I realise now
that I must give all that I have
to possess it. Life is not hurrying
on to a receding future, nor hankering after
an imagined past. It is the turning
aside like Moses to the miracle
of the lit bush, to a brightness
that seemed as transitory as your youth
once, but is the eternity that awaits you.
R. S. Thomas (1913 – 2000)

R. S. Thomas was a Welsh poet and Anglican priest; so, it is not surprising that there are religious references. Moses and the ‘burning bush’ was the spectacular interaction where God defined the plan for Moses to lead the Israelites out of Egypt. So, ‘The Bright Field’ could be considered, metaphorically speaking, that spectacular event in life that defines a personal focus to living.

The poem asks the reader to consider such personal turning points that define purpose. And to stay focus on that purpose, independent of a religious high being part of the equation. And to concentrate on the now; for indeed – life is not hurrying on to a receding future, nor hankering after an imagined past.

And the sun breaking through has that latent son religious thought of a spiritual connection whether or not so glaringly stated as in the case of Moses and the burning bush.

It is nice to carry those ‘golden moments’ with us especially if they are of such significance that they define purpose and meaning to life! Especially to remind ourselves when we are overwhelmed by modern day lock-downs and stress; and to continue to follow our dreams regardless.

Enough of the didactic! … here is a special moment from my youth when I had the whole wide world before me (forgive the pun) …

Stopping One Day
I remember one day in June.
The height of summer and the sun
still rising on one of those days
that calls all nature into song.

Biking the back lanes of the Hampshire countryside.
Stopping on a bridge over a stream
the clear sparkling chatter below, while beyond
the fields praising their contentment.

Footnote …

It was one of those startling English summer days in June.  The sun stretching and all nature responded as I cycled down a country lane thinking of my future. I stopped on a narrow bridge over a little stream totally intoxicated with the joy of life.

On Wikipedia – R. S. Thomas – Wikipedia