Door full of poetry

The nourishment that comes from words

In graduate school, one of my professors would tape the poems she came across and loved to her office door. The poems flapped like so many birds’ wings when anybody walked by. She was the type to brew you tea the minute you sat down, to buy you the book when she passed it and thought of you, to bring oranges and cookies to workshop to share, to cook dishes from scratch for you in her home. She nourished us, with food, with encouragement, with words. Lately, I have been thinking of her door full of poetry, the way you got to walk alongside the ghosts of so many artists, so many people and the thoughts they left you in the form of poetry if you only dared to read them, on your way to discuss your own words. I have been wanting to create my own poetry door, a collection of poems that I’ve stumbled upon and appreciated. First, I must decide upon a door. But before I do, I will share my own poetry door here, with you.

“Open Door” by Matisse

This month, I attended a wedding and a funeral, both beautiful, both coursing with poetry. The wedding took place outside on a crisp and sunny October afternoon, yellow trees and mountain bikers in the background, the bride in an autumnal flower crown, the groom in a warm brown suit. They had each one of us hold their rings, wrapped in a grandmother’s handkerchief, and say a little prayer or give a moment’s thought to the couple, before passing them on to our neighbor. While we “warmed” their rings, friends read poems. This one stood out to me.

Northwood Path by Louise Glück

For my part

we are as we were

on the path

that afternoon:

it is

October, I can see

the sun sink

drawing out 

our parallel

shadows. And you,

for example what

were you thinking, so

attentive to your 

shoes? I recall

we spoke of

your car

the whole length

of the woods:

in so much withering

the pokeweed had

branched into its

purplish berry—so

desire called

love into being.

But always the choice

was on both sides

characteristic,

as you said, 

in the dark you came

to need,

you would do it again

And yesterday, I went to the funeral of a family member. I did not know my father’s cousin well, but his mother is someone I treasure very dearly, and it was moving to learn more about her son in such a thoughtful, symbolic celebration of his life. He lived in France and came home often to the north woods of Minnesota; in both places, he could often be found paddling a canoe. A musician and a poet, he was full of profound and silly lyrics, many of which were shared yesterday. He had been in a book club in France where they all read Emily Dickinson. He chose this poem to read to the group, and it was shared yesterday.

I’m Nobody!

Who Are You? By Emily Dickinson

I’m Nobody! Who are you? Are you – Nobody – too? Then there’s a pair of us! Don't tell! they'd advertise – you know!

How dreary – to be – Somebody! How public – like a Frog – To tell one’s name – the livelong June – To an admiring Bog!

At first glance, this might seem an odd poem for a funeral, but it speaks so clearly to the humility and straightforward simplicity with which he seemed to live. My impression is that he loved words, in English and French, he loved nature, he loved music, and so he filled his world with all of it, quietly, steadily, without great fanfare, but with deep gratitude. “Are you Nobody too? Then there’s a pair of us! Don’t tell!” How lovely. It reminds me to stand in my own life and cherish the treasures around me, namely the other people in my close orbit, and especially the two people with whom I live my extraordinary ordinary days. I don’t need to call out my place on this earth over and over so that everyone can hear me. I can just be. Here. Gratefully and happily.

Wherever you are and whatever you’re doing this October, I hope you find nourishment—in food, in company, and in words.

One quick and fun aside—yesterday, this newsletter reached 100 subscribers! I am so thankful for every one of you. Thank you for letting me share my words with you. I hope that in some way, large or small, they bring you joy or comfort. It is certainly a comfort and joy to write here and to share it with you. Thank you for reading.

With love from my kitchen table,

Kaia