Today My Eyebrows

Some weeks ago I had a thing to go to—a poetry reading or speaking engagement or somewhere that I couldn’t wear dog-walking attire and I had to be presentable. Which meant I also had to make my face right. Ever since my actual eyebrows became annoyed with my constant plucking and decided to up and leave my face, I have to carefully sketch them in. (Well, “carefully” when an audience of humans might be staring at my face.)

So on this day, when my eyebrows had to be even and correct, it gave me pause. And I asked for help… from the spirit of my mother. And at the completion of that request, as I embarked upon the task of sketching, I began composing a poem in my head, a poem about my mom and my relationship with my mom (if you read between the lines). I will include the poem below (if you’re interested; no pressure). But before you get there, dear Reader….

My mother attended beauty school, as she liked to tell us, and in writing the poem, and remembering that, I also recalled seeing a certificate for such a school in her papers after she passed away. So I went back looking for it, and this is what I found:

 

Where do I begin? Illinois had a “Beauty Culture Act” in 1950? I need a historian from Illinois to enlighten me! Whose idea was that? What was the intent of such an act? And what in heaven’s name is a beauty culturist?

But yes, she did indeed have her bona fides for hacking away at my hair when I was a child.

Deeper in her folder of treasured papers was this:

It’s a letter to her “Dady” thanking him for sending her some candy. Given that it’s in cursive, but she had not yet embarked on her elementary school crusade of being the top speller at the spelling bee, I reckon her to have been about third-grade age. The year would have been 1926. One hundred years ago. Holy smokes…. How sweet and sentimental that she kept it all her life (and how unlike my mother it was to be sweet and sentimental). I wonder… Did she ever send it? Was it returned to her when her father passed away? As I’ve said before, I hate when age brings me around to questions about her life, about my grandmother’s life, that can never be answered… because it’s too late.

Anyway, here’s the poem. (Thanks, Mom!) The title is “Today My Eyebrows” and the subtitle is “A Poem Wherein I Reiterate My Childhood Nickname an Inordinate Number of Times.” Enjoy!

 

Today my eyebrows

Had to be

Perfect.

So I stepped

Back from the mirror,

Brush hovering

Over brow,

And prayed

 

To my mother,

Who always insisted

“I went to beauty school,

Damn it,”

Even when

For the hundredth time

She cut my bangs

Too short

And crooked,

Then cut them

Even shorter

“To even them out,

Damn it,”

As she reiterated,

“I know what I’m doing,

Damn it,

I went to beauty school.”

 

And damn if I didn’t find

Among her papers,

Posthumously,

That certificate

With her name, and

“Registered Beauty Culturist

Under the provisions of

The Illinois Beauty Culture Act

Of 1950,

Adlai Stevenson, Governor.

 

Well then.

Now’s your chance, Mom,

I say to my own face

In the mirror.

Guide my hand,

Damn it,

Make them perfect.

 

And so they were.

A Few Lines Written About Lilacs

 

Very early one morning in this past week, Miss Maudie and I did a quiet walk in Bogart Regional Park, one of our favorite places to chase squirrels and dreams and lizards. A half mile in, we came upon a lilac in bloom. (See above photo, shot with an iPhone too early in the morning to capture the soft periwinkle color.)

These trees are portals for me. I cannot draw near them or smell their sweet scent without being transported back to 1983….

During the last summer of my marriage (when my husband was off in China and the kids and I felt like we were on a happy, relaxing vacation for two months), I attended a local writers group where I met a gentleman ten years my senior, a published poet and occasional college professor. I often called him "Prof," but will refer to him here as GK. We became casual friends as he shared his poetry and I shared my essays, and we talked about how our circumstances kept us from writing more. His constraint was that he had returned to Chino to live with and care for his dying mother. My constraint was my failing marriage and the anxiety that came with trying to find a way out of it. I was 29. I had never worked outside the home, had no education beyond a high school diploma and one college-level creative writing class. And I would have four kids to support, should I choose to leave.

One hot, humid summer evening while a thunderstorm was rumbling its way through the city, GK showed up at my door.

“I brought a poem,” he stated, by way of introduction. Then he seated himself in my living room and commenced reading William Wordsworth’s “A Few Lines Written Above Tintern Abbey” while I sat on the floor, enthralled. Any avid hiker will understand the inciting depiction of this poem. In it, the poet tells of returning to his birthplace after five years away, only to find the “beauteous forms” of nature—the hills, the trees, the streams, the blooms—are all exactly as he had remembered them. He had left during a time of revolution, a time of political upheaval and turmoil. But upon his return, nature remained static.

I loved it.

“I thought you would appreciate it,” GK said. “You have so much insight….” He went on to gently suggest that I consider studying literature and teaching as a means of supporting myself and my children. “You have so much to share,” he said.

In high school, I had been told that I wasn’t “college material.” But I took this man at his word. Months later, I found the means to separate myself from my husband and upon doing so, I enrolled as a fulltime college student.

The upheaval in my life was monumental, the stress nearly overwhelming. GK called, in the midst of it all, and I told him how I barely slept at night. At the time, he was staying in Cherry Valley, at a large property that overlooked Bogart Regional Park. He invited me to visit, to stay in the guest house and rest for a weekend if I could find a sitter for the kids. I did, then readily accepted—and was so exhausted when I arrived, he took one look at me and suggested I simply lie down and nap in the peace and quiet of the place. When I woke, the little room where I’d slept was filled with a delicious and unfamiliar fragrance. I sat up and discovered on the nightstand a glass jar filled with blossoms.

“They’re lilacs,” GK told me as he brought me a cup of tea. “They grow wild all around here.”

In my second year of college, I was introduced to the work of Walt Whitman. A favorite poem, “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d,” expresses the poet’s grief at the loss of Abraham Lincoln. The poem always reminded me of GK’s encouragement and care, how with a single poem he had managed to convince me that I had what it took to earn a college degree. In my senior year, I wrote an expository essay on Whitman’s poem, and an English teacher admired my work enough to submit it for Ideas of Order, the literary journal of the university’s humanities department. It was accepted and subsequently published in the journal, a great honor. That accomplishment—for me—is one of my greatest successes as a writer.

I finished my undergrad work in four years, continued a fifth year to earn my teaching credential, and as soon as I began teaching, I began a graduate program in literature, earning my master’s degree two years later.

Amazing what a man can do with a few words and a handful of sweet-smelling flowers.

So when I see lilacs in bloom, I have to stop, as I did this week, Maudie panting at my side, to review the mileposts that marked my path as I moved forward on my journey to becoming the teacher, writer, poet, and, as much as I can be, authentic human that I am today.

With love and gratitude, Prof. You are ever in my heart.

In Memoriam: Brian Doyle

A star has quietly blinked out in the heavens.

A surging river has reached the end of its tumultuous journey and transitioned into the eternity of the sea.

A voice as clear and pure as a crystal bell has rung out its last metaphor and repetition, leaving behind a resounding silence.

One of "the Good People," in the purest Irish sense of the word, has left us.

The first poem I read by Brian Doyle left me weeping and asking aloud, "Who is this man?" One of the finest writers of our time, it turns out. A man of love and life and laughter and more love and more laughter. A dreamy poet and even dreamier novelist who crafted words with the same playfulness as Yeats, the same passion as Dylan Thomas, but with a style so unique it could only have been a gift to us from the Universe.

And oh, how I will miss him. How we all will, his wife, his family, his friends, and all the thousands of us who read his work and reeled from its beauty.

I miss him already. As I write this, I'm halfway through his novel, Mink River (a novel I put off reading for too long, it turns out), and I don't want it to end, so I'm dragging my feet, reading a couple of pages a day, savoring the words, the poetry, the longing, the deep love, the impossibly long lists of flora and fauna, the archetypes, the archaic languages—Gaelic, Latin, "American"—the innocence of the children, the mystic wisdom of the non-human characters. What a book.

What a writer. What a voice. What a short life for someone so filled with it, so willing to offer it.

I am bereft. We are bereft. There are no words for this loss. Here, then, are some of Brian's:

Last Prayer 

by Brian Doyle

Dear Coherent Mercy: thanks. Best life ever. Personally I never thought a cool woman would come close to understanding me, let alone understanding me but liking me anyway, but that happened! And You and I both remember that doctor in Boston saying polite but businesslike that we would not have children but then came three children fast and furious! And no man ever had better friends, and no man ever had a happier childhood and wilder brothers and a sweeter sister, and I was that rare guy who not only loved but liked his parents and loved sitting and drinking tea and listening to them! And You let me write some books that weren't half bad, and I got to have a career that actually no kidding helped some kids wake up to their best selves, and no one ever laughed more at the ocean of hilarious things in this world, or gaped more in astonishment at the wealth of miracles everywhere every moment. I could complain a little right here about the long years of back pain and the occasional awful heartbreak, but Lord, those things were infinitesimal against the slather of gifts You gave mere me, a muddle of a man, so often selfish and small. But no man was ever more grateful for Your profligate generosity, and here at the very end, here in my last lines, I close my eyes and weep with joy that I was alive, and blessed beyond measure, and might well be headed back home to the incomprehensible Love from which I came, mewling, many years ago. But hey, listen, can I ask one last favor? If I am sent back for another life, can I meet my lovely bride again? In whatever form? Could we be hawks, or otters maybe? And can we have the same kids again if possible? And if I get one friend again, can I have my buddy Pete? He was a huge guy in this life—make him the biggest otter ever and I'll know him right away, okay? Thanks, Boss. Thanks from the bottom of my heart. See You soon. Remember—otters. Otters rule. And so: amen.

—from A Book of Uncommon Prayer: 100 Celebrations of the Miracle & Muddle of the Ordinary (Ava Maria Press, 2014)

This is why I teach poetry to high school students

Because I can teach all the literary devices I want them to learn throughout the year by using poems for examples:

Metaphor in "Dreams" by Langston Hughes:

"For if dreams die, life is a broken-winged bird that cannot fly."

Repetition in the same poem:

"Hold fast to dreams... Hold fast to dreams...."

Theme (with perhaps a life lesson thrown in):

What is the poet saying here? Don't let go of your dreams or you become, in a sense, crippled, unable to move forward. Is there something important that you want to do in your life? Whatever it is, you can do it. The path to your goal may not proceed in a straight line, but keep that end destination in your sights; you'll get there. How did the poet know this? He lived it.

A more challenging theme in a different poem by Langston Hughes:

"What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun?"

Point of view and tone in "Bike Ride with Older Boys" by Laura Kasischke.

(I do this one early in the year with my freshmen because I want them to learn that reading a poem is sometimes like unlocking a small cupboard door to find a bit of truth just sitting on the shelf, waiting to be discovered, and to show them that in poetry, titles can be an essential key.)

The first line of the poem is this: "The one I didn't go on."

The next two lines are: "I was thirteen/and they were older."

In this poem I love "My afternoons/were made of time and vinyl" and "I have been given a little gift." We don't know what the gift is until we're nearly finished reading the poem. Some students are mystified by the lines "When I/stand up again, there are bits of glass and gravel/ground into my knees." They ask hesitantly, "What happened? Did she fall off the bike?" Others, when the impact of the narrative hits them, say, "ohhhh" in soft tones, and I know they are moved by it, perhaps even warned by it.

(As an aside here, that 'title as key' concept can also be seen in "Another Reason Why I Don't Keep a Gun in the House" by Billy Collins, which never references a gun at all in the poem, but does reference a dog that barks incessantly.)

Some poems should just be fun, so we do "Summer" by Walter Dean Myers, but they're still learning assonance, alliteration and internal rhyme as we go:

"Bugs buzzin from cousin to cousin/juices dripping/running and ripping" and

"Lazy days, daisies lay/beaming and dreaming...."

And there must be classics because, well, if you don't know Frost, you're not American.

"Whose woods these are, I think I know."

"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood."

"Something there is that doesn't love a wall."

Billy Collins is my hero, of course, and sometimes it's fun, especially with high school students, to discuss extended metaphor by reading "Schoolsville."

("Their grades are sewn into their clothes/like references to Hawthorne./The A's stroll along with other A's./The D's honk whenever they pass another D.")

And speaking of classics, we read "To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time" so that we can discuss the concept of carpe diem, but I introduce it to them by showing them the scene from the movie Dead Poets Society in which Robin Williams as Mr. Keating has one of his new students read the poem.

I follow that by teaching them "O Captain! My Captain!" (because, in my humble opinion, Whitman was the most courageous American poet of his time), and then we watch the heartbreaking scene in Dead Poets in which Keating's students stand upon their desks in deference and respect, each one proclaiming "O captain my captain!"

I have shared tears with some students after such a lesson.

I allow Emily Dickinson to teach them that "hope is the thing with feathers" and also that "I'm nobody" can be a strong statement of defiance for an introvert. 

I teach them "Richard Cory" by Edwin Arlington Robinson toward the end of the school year because I want them to understand how subtle poets can be:

"He was a gentleman from sole to crown/clean favored and imperially slim," but mostly because I want them to fully understand what isolation can do to people, how desperate and alone it can render someone who feels incapable of making a human connection with anyone else. I tell them to consider the folks around them... and who might be suffering despite walking among them as if everything is fine. At fourteen and fifteen, they are still challenged to find empathy and compassion. ("If he killed himself, he's stupid. That's just stupid.") But we work on it. We work on it.

Generally we end the year with Frost's declaration that "Nothing gold can stay" because I want to remind them about that whole "seize the day" attitude and that, while they are perfect—just as they are—life is going to lob some considerably large stones at them, which may alter them. But that's ok. Because "hope springs eternal."

What it's like teaching high school, Part 4

In a Facebook post in September, I mentioned that a very shy boy I'd taught as a freshman returned, now in his junior year, to say hello, and to tell me that life had gotten better, that he talks more now. In response, I received this comment from Donny Rios, a student from class of—2004, perhaps:

S. Kay Murphy, my fav teacher ever! The effect you had on me is everlasting. Because of you and your class my junior year I fell in love with writing. I write songs for a living because of you, my enormous interest in pursuing law school can be traced back to your class. To this day I still talk about the lessons you've taught me and also that damn red balloon movie lol. You have touched many lives and I have always promised myself that if I were ever to win some award or give a thank you speech somewhere I would include you. If that doesn't happen just know that you helped mold me into who I am today.

Are there words to express how deeply his heartfelt sentiment touched me?

For days afterward, Donny's comment floated before my teary eyes as I stood in front of this year's crop of potential poets, songwriters and attorneys. And then something even more miraculous happened.

In anticipation of retirement and downsizing, I have been slowly working through my files, discarding reams of unnecessary paper. A few days after Donny posted his comment, I began to sift through some poems I'd written years ago, evoking memories in the same way paging through a photo album might. And then, BAM. I pulled out a poem entitled "Reading Billy Collins," with a dedication to Donny Rios.

Oh my gosh, I remembered writing the poem but hadn't remembered who inspired it. The flood of memories became a torrent—days we spent in class, me ranting about the beauty of words, my students dutifully resisting anything that threatened a commitment to deep reading. For me, it is always akin to convincing a five-year-old that salad, with all its green foliage, is really tasty. I suggest, nudge, wheedle and plead until they just try a little of it, just to see if they might someday develop an appetite for it. At times—very, very rare times—they do.

Donny Rios did. How incredibly validating for me—especially in this final year of teaching. And then to find this poem, which not only mentions Donny but mentions retirement as well, written all those years ago... I can only say that this special blessing was brought to us today by the Universe. Oh, and thank you. I can certainly say thank you.

Now if you don't mind reading a little further, here is that poem:

Reading Billy Collins

S. Kay Murphy

for Donny Rios

I shake my head from side to side

Chuckling as I turn the page.

Occasionally I don't move on

To the next poem because

I want to savor the one on my tongue.

"How can you sit around and read books of poetry?" my students ask.

"Because he writes about what he is in love with," I tell them,

"and they are the same things that I am in love with."

The hush that follows is familiar;

They are afraid that I will be swept

Over the edge once again with my ranting.

"Like what?" 

The lone voice in the crowd

Is the brown-eyed boy, Donny,

Who hated poetry in September but now in May

Has admitted openly that he loves Robert Frost.

(Can I retire now? Are there accolades that teachers earn for such an achievement as this? A Purple Heart from the President with his warm handshake and a salute, accompanied by an honorable discharge, a hard-earned respite at long last from gum on the desks, phone calls from D grade parents and the ten thousandth essay on Hamlet?)

I digress

As I am wont to do while teaching,

Often choosing to lead my students down

The other path in that yellow wood.

"Mice!" I proclaim, "Dead brown mice!

Dogs! Dreams! Words like they are people! And readers as if they are words!

John Keats! And tea! Billy Collins drinks tea!"

By now I am shouting in my jubilation,

And they are convinced of my lunacy at last.

Remembering Mark Strand

Pulitzer Prize winning poet laureate Mark Strand died yesterday.

When I was a deeply depressed graduate student, I composed a pastiche of Strand's poem, "Courtship." I did not do so because I was a fan of Strand's esoteric work. I dashed it off while meeting with some fellow students. We were supposed to assemble a presentation of "a Twentieth Century poet." In the midst of a bitter, anyone-can-write-like-this-guy moment, I switched the point of view in the poem from male to female and celebrated both the difference and the opposition. A year or so after graduation, I was going through my poems one day and found it. On a whim, I tracked down where Strand was teaching (Utah, of all places) and sent him a copy.

Some weeks later, I received a handwritten reply which begins "Dear S. Kay Murphy! You have written an absolutely stunning pastiche." I was at once delighted and humbled. His letter went on to ask about my plans for the future and whether I would eventually pursue poetry writing or teaching. Classy. With all his accolades, he took the time to respond to a quirky stranger.

And he did so again when I wrote to him a second time, asking permission to pursue publication of the pastiche along with his original (since he seemed to enjoy mine so much). His reply, again handwritten, began "Thanks for writing back. Of course you have my permission...." What a sweetheart.

I had addressed him in the letters as "Dr. Strand," assuming that he'd earned (or been given) the PhD long ago. At the end of his second letter, he closed with this: "Dept. of Clarification: I'm not a doctor. No PhD. Wouldn't think of having one." Somehow, it made me like him all the more.

Strand lived to be 80. He was named the United States poet laureate in 1990, and in 1999 he won the Pulitzer for his poetry collection, Blizzard of One.  Our hope, as writers, is that our work will continue to live on after us, offering us a type of immortality. I have no doubt that Strand's work will continue to be included in anthologies for years to come. Somewhere out there is a young grad student in a 20th C poetry class struggling to make sense of the moderns, the confessionals, et al. May she land upon a poem of Strand's that hits her right between the intellectual eyes.

Note: "Courtship," by Mark Strand, can be found easily with an internet search.  "Courtship: A Pastiche," by S. Kay Murphy, cannot, as mine (thankfully) never made it into print.

My sincerest condolences to Strand's son and daughter, Thomas and Jessica. Your dad was a pretty cool guy.