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What Life Throws at Us
A sentiment can sometimes get the best
Of me and bring hard logic to an end.
I need someone to share my destiny;
Perhaps I need to find a better friend.
Just why I feel this way is still a puzzle,
Despite what certain learnèd doctors say,
And I won’t steer a narrow course because
I’ll likely change my mind from day to day.
I’ll learn to live and die on terms uncertain
And never think about what might have been.
My several body parts all throb and hurt;
In such a game, the old can’t seem to win.
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The Raft of Providence
It’s now the middle part of January.
The snares have been set out to catch unwary
Small animals like winter birds and rabbit.
The cellar’s stocked with parsnip, rutabaga
And carrot, so our winter hopes are mega
For cooking hearty stews, which is our habit.
It’s quite amazing how the earth provides
The means to fortify our own insides
With samples of its overflowing bounty
And satisfies our every pressing need
To meet our deadlines and to sow our seed,
And it’s the same in every nearby county.
The earth is everywhere, and we are part
Of it—have been so from the very start.
Although our lives may sometimes seem a battle,
The world at large has always brought us peace.
And it’s acknowledged: Wonders never cease.
We’re both on board, so let’s each grab a paddle!
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Marking Time
I sometimes think my future is behind me,
But other times I feel I’ve barely lived.
I don’t need any life-coach to remind me
To check the strainer where lost hours are sieved.
I’ve always known that I could use a trainer
To help me learn to bear a heavy load,
But once I paid the man a large retainer,
He said, “It’s easy, pal—just hit the road!”
I told him his approach was much too breezy,
That he should show respect to those who’ve paid,
But he replied that weaklings made him queasy
And pushy clients shouldn’t be obeyed.
It’s not as if I live among those giants
Who rule the world and always get their way,
But somehow that ideal of self-reliance
Has by the wayside fallen, there to stay.
It often seems that life is like a hayride,
A scripted pilgrimage through known terrain,
And I rely on single malt from Speyside
To make things interesting and keep me sane.
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C.B. Anderson was the longtime gardener for the PBS television series, The Victory Garden. Hundreds of his poems have appeared in scores of print and electronic journals out of North America, Great Britain, Ireland, Austria, Australia and India. His collection, Mortal Soup and the Blue Yonder was published in 2013 by White Violet Press.
C.B., I enjoyed these poems. I am particularly intrigued by the rhyming of the first and third lines of “What Life Throws at Us’s” stanzas.
Yeah, Mary, these might be best described as around-the-corner or wrap-around rhymes. It’s idiosyncratic, and I don’t recommend it because it’s risky, but both Evan and I thought the risk worth taking. Your enjoyment (and that of others) is the only reason I keep writing.
Three outstanding poems about life! Thank you, Mr. Anderson.
Life, yes, D.P., but memento mori. I’m glad they stood out for you.
C.B.,
Like Mary, I was struck by what you call the wrap-around rhymes in the first poem. It took me a second reading to catch the best/of me – destiny pair… Whether it’s risk-taking or having fun playing with words, thanks for sharing!
I like The Raft of Providence best, but my favorite lines of all are in the third:
“I sometimes think my future is behind me,
But other times I feel I’ve barely lived.”
Recently I’ve been trying to wrestle my struggle with mortality and finitude into verse, and this turn of phrase seems to really match some of my thoughts.
Thanks, Anna. I think we share a brain on this one. If it’s not fun, then what’s the point? I think it important to confront reality, mortality and finality in every word we write. It doesn’t need to be dead-serious, but it sure better address and attend to the existential issues with which our mortal brains make connections. It has been said by others that there are only two essential stories in all of literature: sex and death. We add humor and self-denigration at our own risk.
All three of these are so masterful, C.B. — and enjoyable to read. In “What Life Throws At Us” I really like “puzzle” and “because I’ll” as an inspired and subtle rhyme in a poem which I relate to. I like the practical message of “The Raft of Providence” (“grab a paddle” indeed!) And boy do I relate to “Marking Time” — especially that “scripted pilgrimage through known terrain”. All three are observant and thought-provoking gems.
I’m always glad when I am accused of provoking thoughts, Brian, and I am especially happy when you and other contributors here provoke them in me, which means that I should be ecstatic almost all of the time. God knows, I spend a lot of time thinking these days, especially when I am working at my gardening trade (which at this point is second nature to me and allows my mind to dwell on other things). I’m not sure what too much thinking would look/feel like, but it’s definitely not the same thing as overthinking.
My favorite imagery: “the strainer where lost hours are sieved”. Kind of like the sands of the hourglass.
My uncle Herbie had an antique hourglass in his study, which afforded me many hours of fascinated attentiveness. The sands of time, indeed. If you happen to know where that sieve is located, then please tell me.
These three poems (all excellent) brought something to mind. Formal poetry of this nature is supremely capable of expressing deep feeling, personal perceptions, troubled thoughts, and all the intense psychological experiences that free-verse partisans claim to be exclusively in their domain.
Kip didn’t have to break the rules to accomplish this. All three of these poems are expertly crafted examples of what a formal poet can do. They are honest, self-revelatory, and moving. They speak in an absolutely straightforward manner, with no decorative fluff. And yet at other times Kip has also written poems of detailed complexity and rhetorical fireworks.
It simply proves that a good poet has a lot of different arrows in his quiver.
I thank you, Joseph, for the kind words, and it will always be my hope to live up to them. Having numerous arrows in a quiver is an Elven thing, here as in Middle Earth. As Paul Christian Stevens once wrote to me, “It’s all grist for the mill.”
Your poems were a great way to begin this day…Thanks…Allegra
But I must ask, Allegra, how did the day end?
I would like to add one more voice to those who appreciate the wrap-around rhymes. The risk was definitely worth taking.
Really, Stephen, the only risk was that no one would figure them out. I once had a poem published where the rhymes came at the beginning, rather than at the end, of the lines. I don’t recommend the practice, but if you are interested, then let me know via our private communication channel, and I will try to dig it out of my archives.