Making the strings visible: Things My Grandmother Said by Amit Majmudar

"Every kite forgets its string," writes Amit Majmudar, but the poet has not forgotten the strings that tie him to the women in his life--grandmother, mother, wife, friends, and others who feature in his new collection, Things My Grandmother Said. The kite line comes from the title poem, full of pithy aphorisms expressed in a voice so familiar it could belong to anyone's grandmother:

I wasn't crying, I was dicing onions
in a memory in Ahmedabad.

Sure, the Ganges is holy
but who told you to drink from it?

                                Love
should be diving board, marriage
should be lap swim.

I like that old lady! I've written before about how skillfully Majmudar plays with voice, language, poetic forms, and images, but in this collection I was frequently struck by line breaks. In the title poem, for instance, the grandmother says this:

This girl is perfect for you, I know
her aunt.

Look at how the line break shifts the function of "I know": in the first line, it indicates a confidence in the girl's perfection; but "I know / her aunt" suggests that the girl's perfection is contingent upon her connections. 

Or take a look at the ambiguity encouraged by the second line break below: 

What does it mean when the white
man trying to enter me
in a database asks
Sweetie, aren't you hot
under all that
cloth?

These lines appear in "The Migration Diary of Hala Almasi," a long poem dealing with various violations of women's privacy, rights, and bodies. In this context, a man's trying to "enter me" suggests physical violence--but "enter me / in a database" leads to a different type of violence as the veiled migrant from Kabul gets squeezed into a little box on a computer screen. The final stanza plays with permutations of a common phrase to convey the many ways a woman may be denied agency:

The woman undergoes
the marriage. The woman goes under
the man's last name. The woman goes under
the man. The woman undergoes
the parting of the seas so the man
with the staff can enter
her promised land. The woman undergoes
the miscarriage. The woman undergoes
the man's war. The men say they promised
the women nothing. The country
goes under. The men put
the women on a raft and say:
Go. So we go. Some across, some
Under.

Another poem dealing with a woman's pain, "Regeneration," describes a traumatic brain injury:

You shaped and smashed
Your brainstuff flat
On all the scattered
Bits of matter
Gray and white
To piece your anguish
Into language
And write.

"To piece your anguish / Into language" is an apt description of the poet's purpose, especially in a world where, as "Meteorology" insists, humanity seems 

Trapped in chaos
country during
chaos season. 

"Meteorology" wonders whether the butterfly's flapping wing can affect distant weather or chance encounters can change a life:

One summer day
you see a face
in a coffee shop
and chaos pulls
a fire alarm
deep inside you.  

That fire alarm rings in other poems presenting novel images for human connections. "Recourse," for instance, is a lovely sonnet corona dealing with love, time, change, and constancy, in which the ties that bind may be benign or menacing:

I want to weave a crown for you, design
a daisy chain whose threaded stems become
a bracelet that handcuffs your wrist to mine...

And in "Remote Work," a poem decrying the isolation of the perpetually online,

We are kites without strings, strings
desperate to be strummed ...

But how can strings be strummed over the distance imposed by technology? 

Another poem, "School of Witchcraft and Wizadry," recalls the loneliness of a schoolboy who feels isolated until someone sees through his invisibility cloak:

One friend is all it takes,
one person to rhyme with the mysterious
magical word you always were.
Together, you're a spell now,
conjuring happiness
with a wand
no bigger than a No. 2 pencil....

A pencil may be a magic wand in a world where anguish becomes language. Among the poems celebrating connections among friends, relatives, lovers, and others, poems exploring grandmother's words, mother love, and Mother Earth, Majmudar concludes the collection by asserting that "We Are All God's Poems":

We are all first drafts, shy in public
and rhythmically iffy. We are all
orphan lines yearning to become
couplets, willing to rhyme slant
if that means we don't have to be alone.

In a volume full of love that survives beyond loss, Majmudar invites us, in "Cat's Cradle," to recall

how beautiful and necessary beings
who give you love can take their love
but keep on cradling you, unseen  ...

Yes, the kite may forget its string, but that doesn't erase the unseen strings that are strummed so potently in Things My Grandmother Said.

Summertime and the living's sneezy

Sometimes I have to get away from my office, books, and screens and find a place outdoors to sit and breathe some fresh air, which is difficult right now when the air feels saturated with pollen. Yesterday on the drive home I had a sneezing fit so severe that I had to pull off the road until I could see again, but sometimes getting outdoors is worth a little discomfort, especially when campus is abloom with lovely things.

Except wait a minute, what happened to the pollinator gardens? For years now two plots just outside my building have barely contained a riot of sunflowers, dahlias, coneflowers, and more, attracting all kinds of birds, butterflies, and bees. 

They're gone, torn out in favor of neat little rows of marigolds. Someone in a position of authority decided that the pollinator plots looked too messy, that gardens are best when they're neat, tidy, and arranged in straight lines. This is clearly someone who hasn't spent much time in actual woods or meadows or other wild places. I've been cheered to see some sunflowers lined up in rows at the end of the plots, but otherwise, no pollinator gardens this year. How am I supposed to endure six more months of office work without the opportunity to commune with butterflies? 

So today I fled campus and found a quiet space along the Ohio River. Floodwaters have receded so it's a nice time to watch the boats go by. Years ago--can it be 40 years?--when we spent our grad-school summers working in campgrounds near Port Huron, Michigan, we could go to a park on the St. Clair River any day around noon and see a crowd gathered to eat lunch while watching the ships go by, big lakers that the locals knew by name, length, and cargo. Here we see coal barges and sometimes pleasure boats, but it's soothing to sit by the water even when there's nothing going past except our beloved local sternwheeler, the Valley Gem.

I've been working way too hard so far this summer, especially considering that it's only June. But goodness gracious--it's June already! I have to plan grant-related meetings, prep workshops, write syllabi for two or possibly three fall classes, and deal with  aging-related annoyances. Which would you prefer to do: get a cortisone shot in your right knee, get physical therapy for bursitis in your left hip, or navigate the paperwork required to sign up for Medicare? 

Time is flying way too quickly and I'm getting older by the minute, as my aching joints keep reminding me. But a bench next to the river is a catalyst for healing, a place where I can listen to the birds, watch the boats, and breathe deeply. 

But not too deeply--all that pollen makes me sneeze. 

 

 

Friday poetry challenge: Driven to excel at tedious tasks

Halfway through our long drive home from Columbus after my son's weekly chemotherapy treatment, the hospital called asking him to come back--not today but tomorrow AND Sunday. Yes: they want him to make the four-hour round trip three days in a row, and since chemo makes him too dopey to drive, I guess I'll be in the driver's seat.   

I had just been boasting that I'm getting better at managing this challenging task. If I set my alarm for 4 a.m., take an eye-opening shower, and eat or drink nothing before we leave, I can drive straight to The James without GPS and, usually, without a rest-room break. While my son gets his tests and treatment, I eat breakfast in the hospital cafe and suck in some caffeine so that I'm fully alert by the time we're ready to head back home in heavier traffic. 

So here's my reward for boasting about how well I'm doing: I have to do it again, and again, and again. 

It was a snafu not of our own making. His current treatment plan requires him to get a certain drug by injection four days in a row; he received the first shot during today's regular hospital visit and the remaining pre-filled syringes should have been delivered to our house by courier. Then the phone call came: the pharmacy was out of the drug and wouldn't be able to deliver more to our house until Monday. The hospital has enough on hand to give him the shots tomorrow and Sunday, but only if he can show up in person.

It's important that the treatment not be interrupted, and so, after a bit of back-and-forth on the phone, he agreed to get back to The James on Saturday and Sunday, but the hospital sweetened the deal by offering him some gift cards to pay for gas plus a deeply discounted hotel room for the night. Unless he can find someone else eager to take an unexpected junket to Columbus, I'll once again be doing the driving while he does the sleeping, which plays an important part in his recovery. While I'm getting better at driving, he's getting better at surviving. At this point, the tests are all pointing toward eventual success.

I thought he was asleep early this morning as I drove through dark and fog and traffic, but then he chuckled at the Fresh Air podcast I was listening to: an interview with David Sedaris. Near the end the author was asked why he still writes and goes on book tours and revises his work obsessively at the age of 69, and Sedaris said, "Because I want to get better." 

I immediately wished my students could hear--really hear--that message, but at the time I was thinking only in terms of writing. I have no desire to get any better at driving my son to the hospital, but if that's what it takes to help him get better, I guess I'll do it.

Let's wrap some rhymes around road hazards:

Long lines of orange cones
stretch toward the horizon.
Cars swerve--he's got nerve!
I've got to keep my eyes on
"variable speed limit" signs
and follow to the letter.
I'm not so hot on driving, but
at least I'm getting better.

Your turn: pour some pizzazz on a tedious task.

From bird-watching to word-watching.

So how was your holiday, I asked, and my colleague shrugged. I missed the library, she said. I need to be here to write.

Writing during summer break? What a concept. Writing Wednesdays begin tomorrow but meanwhile I've been too distracted to do any serious writing. Time to construct a list of summer priorities! But that feels too much like work. Maybe tomorrow.

Today I'm holding on to the last vestiges of joy from my weekend with the grandkids. I'm recalling how they infuse every moment with energy, how they play the piano with verve and invent silly games and put together Lego blocks in unconventional ways. The youngest showed me how her colorful Lego shark could swallow a swimmer and poop him out the other end. When she and her brother couldn't recall the theme to Jaws, they hummed the Pink Panther theme instead. 

I loved taking the oldest grandkid to riding lessons and seeing that petite person take a great big horse through its paces with confidence and skill. Where did she get that? From her mother, no doubt. Big animals make me nervous.

But that didn't stop me from trying to visit some bison on the drive home. I'd read about the bison herd at the new visitor center at Jesse Owens State Park, which isn't really on the way to anywhere but I didn't mind taking the scenic route down twisty country roads. 

Finally I turned in at the sign pointing to the parking area. I had to haul my wonky knee up multiple flights of steps, through a steep green area that will one day be a pollinator habitat, up to the top of a hill where the Visitor Center sat, and the first thing I saw was another lot where I could have parked to avoid the many steps. 

Today my knee is absolutely screaming, but at least I got to see the place where the herd of bison would have been if they'd been out. We've had rain. The lower part of the bison habitat was flooded. The bison were locked safely away from the mess, so I just enjoyed the view. Saw some killdeer. Heard some orioles. Dashed down the steps as fast as I could to avoid the sudden rain.

On Sunday I'd had lunch with an old friend and stopped by the heron rookery in Cuyahoga Valley National Park, where an idling tourist bus made the place sound and smell like a busy factory floor. When the bus finally left, it was as if someone had opened a door to birdsong. Herons were feeding chicks in many of the nests, but thick foliage obscured the view. So imagine how delighted I was today to stop on the bridge at the end of my driveway and see a great blue heron standing in my own little creek.

Good to get away, nice to be home, but soon I'll need to switch from birdwatching to word-watching. Summer break is here--so it's time for summer writing. Tomorrow.

  

At the heron rookery

 

Yellow warbler looking sweet

Oriole

Tree swallow looking sassy

Friday poetry challenge: Plenty of nothing

You don't have to write good poetry, I tell myself. There's already more good poetry published than you'll ever get a chance to read. 

I'm giving myself a little pep talk: You're not doing this for a grade. There is literally nothing at stake except a promise that you made to yourself. You're not going to stand over the keyboard threatening to slap your own hand with a ruler if you can't produce a little Friday poetry.

But I've got no motivation, no inspiration, not the least thread of an idea worth wrapping words around. I survived four days of meetings this week, dealt gracefully with some unreasonable people, cooked some decent meals, paid some bills, read a book, and failed to find a glossy ibis.

The ibis, a rare visitor to this area, was reported by the local birding group. I read the ibis alert while sitting not eight feet from a photograph I took of a glossy ibis at a wetland in Florida, proof positive that I have seen glossy ibises in person, but if a glossy ibis makes a pit stop at a wetland within an hour's drive of my house, I can't help it: I want to go and see. 

But I couldn't go just then (rain) and then I had more meetings the next day, but yesterday--more than 36 hours after the ibis report--my longsuffering husband agreed to take us on an ibis hunt. Directions were incomplete and GPS was not helpful, but we found the pond, as advertised, right next to the Hallelujah Barn. 

Alas, no ibis. So maybe the high point of my week was going on a long drive in the countryside to see an absence of ibis.

Pond without ibis,

poem without thought,

day with no meetings--

hurrah for what's not.

(And that's all I've got.)

Okay, your turn: wrap some words around a big ol' wad of nothing.

(Hat tip to my adorable daughter, who told me that if I have nothing to write about, I should write about nothing.)

Moving past panic mode

For academics, compliance is a dirty word, evoking visions of Vogons stomping through our lovely courses yelling Resistance is useless! We're happy to insist that students comply with disciplinary conventions regarding format, syntax, citation styles, and so on, and we absolutely insist that students comply with requirements for completing their programs, but we balk at complying with procedures mandated by our own institutions, much less federal mandates.

Which is why I had to try to talk some colleagues down off the ledge this morning. Panic may be an appropriate response to some situations, but it's not my favorite way to start a faculty workshop.

The topic was accessibility--big scary word that means a million different things, but at the moment it means that federal law requires us to make course materials accessible to all kinds of students, including those who are visually impaired. The deadline, thankfully, has been extended until next April, but that doesn't mean we should sit on our hands until the Vogons come stomping through and hold a gun to our heads--or, more likely, a lawsuit. So the Instructional Technologist and I invited faculty to join us for two workdays in a computer-equipped classroom, and we even fed them muffins and lunch. 

The plan was to provide guidelines and techniques for making course materials accessible and then set faculty loose to work on their own materials (documents, presentations, Canvas pages) while we offered one-on-one assistance. But first we had to defuse the panic.

I can understand the source of the panic: if someone told me to insert alternative text descriptions for every image I've ever used in a PowerPoint presentation, I'd panic too. But no one is asking anyone to do that. This workshop was called "Small Change, Big Impact," and the goal was to persuade a few faculty members to, at the bare minimum, make their syllabi fully accessible and to think about accessibility when creating new course materials. We're not interested in the past; we want to make small changes moving forward so that eventually we'll all be in full compliance with the law, though maybe the best we can hope for is that most of us will be closer to partial compliance.

Well this morning you'd have thought we were asking people to sacrifice their firstborns on the altar of Moloch. No one was holding a gun to anyone's head! We were just trying to help! Baby steps, people! Move the needle a few degrees! A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step! And now I'm running out of cliches to describe the minimal changes we're requesting.

At one point I looked at the sea (well, puddle) of angry faces and realized that I don't even need to be there. I'm retiring in December! I could just ignore these new guidelines and fade off into the sunset before the deadline, but instead I was sitting there trying to figure out how to format class readings so they're be comprehensible to a student relying on a text reader. It has to do with formatting headings, and establishing reading order in PowerPoints, and inserting alternative text for images. Not rocket science, in other words, except for the STEM people in the room who have to figure out how to translate complex scientific images into readable text. But we have a year to figure this out! Let's take advantage of the time available and get it done.

(What about a student too visually impaired to be able to see through a microscope? He could become James Thurber is what I want to say, but probably someone else is better equipped to come up with a helpful response.)

By the end of the day we'd all learned a thing or two and made at least a few improvements, and many of us will go back and continue the process tomorrow, keeping the panic at bay as much as possible. Here's what really scares me, though: Less than one-fifth of our faculty showed up for today's workshop. What about the rest? Who will motivate them to make the changes needed to comply with this federal mandate?

Maybe it's time to send in the Vogons.

Finding beauty in a world of hurt

Yesterday in the midst of hanging around the hospital with my son, I kept remembering that it was both my oldest grandkid's 13th birthday and the tenth anniversary of my mother's death. This morning my prosthetic memory showed me adorable baby pictures but also reminded me that on the day after my mother died, I went to a park near her house and saw juvenile anhingas stretching their wings. Birds are good therapy, then and now, but I can't get away to Florida at the moment so I've been outside watching the ordinary birds that visit our yard.

I've been hearing brown thrashers calling but finally caught a glimpse of a handsome one today. And for the first time I saw male cowbirds performing their mating display, puffing up their chests and making that peculiar gurgling sound to attract the attention of a female that seemed profoundly unimpressed. Cardinals, woodpeckers, mourning doves, towhees, finches, sparrows, chickadees, titmice...is there anything more relaxing than sitting in the quiet morning sun while birds flit here and there? Just what I needed after the week I've endured.

A few Sundays ago while I was driving to church a red-tailed hawk slammed into my windshield with a sound as loud as a gunshot. I was so startled I nearly drove off the road. I checked my windshield for cracks and saw only a gooey smear but no other sign of the hawk. I can't imagine that it could have survived such a collision, which really upset me. I love hawks even though I know they often eat smaller birds. 

Anyone who pays attention knows that nature is not always a warm and cuddly place; the juvenile bird stretching its wings today may be a smear on a windshield tomorrow, and the cowbird mating display that amuses me today may result in eggs laid in other birds' nests so that the fledgling cowbirds can destroy the other chicks. Life and death are partners in the grand dance, but as they swirl there's time to celebrate a whole world of beauty.  

Juvenile anhinga

 

Towhee

Male cowbirds vying for the attention of a female.

Brown thrasher

Downy woodpecker

Chickadee

Tulip poplar,  blossoming

Mourning dove