Garlic And Sapphires In The Mud

I've never really understood much poetry - I'm far too literal-minded for it. But in casting my eyes over the bookshelves in the living room as my mother lay dying, the poetry shelf beckoned to me, because it's a short form that can be read aloud without much overt comprehension. The flow of the words washes past, the prosody of the text provides its own delight. And for all my posturing about my lack of understanding, I've long had a sneaker for The Four Quartets, quite possibly solely for the "garlic and sapphires in the mud" line - which I love for its juxtaposition of the earthy and the frou-frou, the pungent and the refined.

Imagine, then, my bemusement at the poetic expressions of sympathy offered up by friends and relatives and commenters.

Herewith a couple of poems that didn't come as comments:

A friend sent this by email:

Days

What are days for?
Days are where we live.
They come, they wake us
Time and time over.
They are to be happy in:
Where can we live but days?

Ah, solving that question
Brings the priest and the doctor
In their long coats
Running over the fields.

--Philip Larkin

And my sister-in-law (on the other side, not the one that just had a baby) put this on the private family blog:

Things Shouldn’t Be So Hard


A life should leave

deep tracks:

ruts where she

went out and back

to get the mail
or move the hose

around the yard;

where she used to

stand before the sink,

a worn-out place;

beneath her hand,

the china knobs

rubbed down to

white pastilles;

the switch she

used to feel for

in the dark

almost erased.

Her things should

keep her marks.

The passage

of a life should show;

it should abrade.

And when life stops,

a certain space

—however small—

should be left scarred

by the grand and

damaging parade.

Things shouldn’t

be so hard.


--Kay Ryan

I am deeply appreciative of the support I've received from you sturdy readers; thank you for being there.