What kind of times are these

Protest at UVA
A protest of Trump’s immigration and refugee ban at UVA.

I am not sure of many things anymore. I want to write something revolutionary and moving, but I am tired. I am so tired. I am tired of the news, of Trump’s face leering behind the desk in the Oval Office, of self-appointed pundits on the left and the right.

I am not sure how to balance this emotional/intellectual/mental exhaustion with the need to fight back. The threats seem very real and yet the actions seem to be merely theoretical in effect.

I have nothing profound to say in response to this new American order that has not already been said. I take refuge in the flesh-and-blood people in my life and in books.

 

Protest at UVA
Fellow protestors at UVA.

In dark times, at least we still have poetry.

I have been enjoying more poetry lately; it feels especially fitting in a gloomy winter, in a political season that seems to only get more evil with time. At least we still can read Adrienne Rich. At least Trump hasn’t taken our books from us yet. And so I leave you with her.

What Kind of Times Are These

ADRIENNE RICH

There’s a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill
and the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadows
near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted
who disappeared into those shadows.

I’ve walked there picking mushrooms at the edge of dread, but don’t be fooled
this isn’t a Russian poem, this is not somewhere else but here,
our country moving closer to its own truth and dread,
its own ways of making people disappear.

I won’t tell you where the place is, the dark mesh of the woods
meeting the unmarked strip of light—
ghost-ridden crossroads, leafmold paradise:
I know already who wants to buy it, sell it, make it disappear.

And I won’t tell you where it is, so why do I tell you
anything? Because you still listen, because in times like these
to have you listen at all, it’s necessary
to talk about trees.

October with Wei
Trees at a nearby vineyard.

Books for people who believe that women and men are equal

I’m feeling weighed down lately by how deeply and fervently this country of mine hates women. So. Here are some important books I’ve enjoyed, which you should read if you think that women are human and should be treated accordingly.

The Second Sex

  • The Second Sex, Simone de Beauvoir
  • My Life, a Loaded Gun: Female Creativity and Feminist Politics, Paula Bennett
  • Delusions of Gender: How Our Minds, Society, and Neurosexism Create Difference, Cordelia Fine
  • The Feminine Mystique, Betty Friedan
  • Half the Sky, Nicholas D. Kristof and Sheryl Wu Dunn
  • On Lies, Secrets, and Silence, Adrienne Rich
  • A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, Mary Wollstonecraft
  • A Room of One’s Own, Virginia Woolf

A Room of One's Own

Memorize and recite

Let Us Now Praise Famous Men
Started “Let Us Now Praise Famous Men” in the park; words by James Agee, photos by Walker Evans.

Grace asked me for recommendations of poems to memorize and recite for class. I started throwing out suggestions—Elizabeth Bishop! Maxine Kumin! Auden! Everything by Robert Hass and Marie Howe, OMG, Marie Howe!—and I realized: Wow, I do really love poetry. I never thought I did. I always thought poetry eluded my intellect; poems never presented themselves to me in that bold, friendly way like novels did. Poems hid behind veils and shadows; poems could be capricious, malicious. I have never believed that I ever “got” poetry, and I have certainly never believed that I could ever write it (that much has not changed).

Being married to a poet makes you realize how very difficult writing is, and how very miraculous it is when everything comes out well. Poetry is a different animal to me, often alien and shy, but I respect it. I imagine I will always be reading poems, remaining continually and happily mystified by them. I will always love them in the way that you love a humpback whale, because it is so far from being you.

“I have been standing all my life in the/direct path of a battery of signals”

I memorized and recited various poems in my career as an English major, but the one I most remember is “Planetarium,” by Adrienne Rich. It was a difficult, dizzying experience. I mispronounced “Tycho” and only guessed at “Uranusborg.” And those middling couplets were so hard to remember, but that last, fast stanza—it was a delight to proclaim; it made my little sophomore body feel strong, unconquerable, distinct.

We like to talk about the things that “our children” will do, things that we sort of did as children but that we want to elevate to a virtue, to distinguish our offspring from the mundane, materialistic masses. Our children will never watch TV. Our children will play outside every day. Our children will not be pacified with iPhones and iPads. Our children will play with sticks and string. Our children will study Asian languages from birth. All of these things will surely fall by the wayside when and if we actually have babies, but one thing is for sure: Our children WILL memorize poems.