Monthly Archives: April 2011

Song of the Powers
David Mason

Poetry is the sharing of self and common experience through the celebration of language.

Nancy Glaze, Executive Director
Arts Council Silicon Valley

Song of the Powers

Two Kinds of People
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I discovered this poem when I was in 8th or 9th grade, while working on an English project. When I came across this Ella Wheeler Wilcox poem in the library, it caused me to stop everything. I always felt that I was a doer—a problem solver—a man of action. After I read this poem several times, I realized that I was a lifter. And I was determined to never change from that and also do my part to help others lean less and lift more. I’m forever grateful to Ella Wheeler Wilcox for helping me understand who I really am and for the motivation her poem has brought me throughout my life.

Chuck Page
Vice Mayor, City of Saratoga

Two Kinds of People

There are two kinds of people on earth today;
Just two kinds of people, no more I say.

Not the sinner and the saint, for it’s well understood
The good are half bad and the bad are half good.

Not the rich and the poor, for to rate a man’s wealth,
You must first know the state of his conscience and health.

Not the humble and proud, for in life’s little span,
He who puts on vain airs, is not counted a man.

Not the happy and sad, for the swift flying years
Bring each man his laughter and each man his tears.

No; the two kinds of people on earth I mean
Are the people who lift and the people who lean.

Wherever you go you will find the earth’s masses
Are always divided in just these two classes

And oddly enough, you will find, too, I ween,
There’s only one lifter to twenty who lean.

In which class are you?  Are you easing the load
Of overtaxed lifters who toil down the road?

Or are you a leaner who lets others bear
Your portion of labor and worry and care?

Ella Wheeler Wilcox
1850–1919

Recipe For Happiness In Khabarovsky Or Anyplace
Lawrence Ferlinghetti

I love the profound simplicity of Ferlinghetti’s “Recipe for Happiness…”   He, in very few words, creates a scene, a mood, a contentment that defines the essence of happiness and that resonates in me.  He validates MacLeish’s notion that “a poem should not mean but be.”  This poem is about “being” at its best and the reading of it is so evocative that it re-creates our own moments of happiness.

Bonnie Salera
English teacher, CUHSD, retired

Recipe For Happiness In Khabarovsky Or Anyplace

One grand boulevard with trees
with one grand café in sun
with strong black coffee in very small cups

One not necessarily very beautiful
man or woman who loves you

One fine day

Lawrence Ferlinghetti, from Endless Life: The Selected Poems

The Second Coming
William Butler Yeats

Like many people, I first learned “The Second Coming” in high school(thank you, Ms. Cecile Shea), but it has stuck with me in the two decades since. The imagery of many poems lies flat, waiting for the reader or listener to pick it up. But Yeats’ imagery in this poem stands up and demands attention. It is powerful stuff when you’re 17 years old, and it’s only become more vivid as I’ve gotten older.

Sal Pizarro
Around Town columnist
San Jose Mercury News

The Second Coming

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

W. B. Yeats (1865-1939)

The Man Watching
by Rainer Maria Rilke

I have many favorites, but I’ve selected this one in light of my current role. This is a poem that inspires me to rise above the petty daily battles of politics, to tackle greater challenges.

Sam Liccardo, Councilmember
City of San Jose, District 9

The Man Watching

I can tell by the way the trees beat, after
so many dull days, on my worried windowpanes
that a storm is coming,
and I hear the far-off fields say things
I can’t bear without a friend,
I can’t love without a sister.

The storm, the shifter of shapes, drives on
across the woods and across time,
and the world looks as if it had no age:
the landscape, like a line in the psalm book,
is seriousness and weight and eternity.

What we choose to fight is so tiny!
What fights with us is so great.
If only we would let ourselves be dominated
as things do by some immense storm,
we would become strong too, and not need names.

When we win it’s with small things,
and the triumph itself makes us small.
What is extraordinary and eternal
does not want to be bent by us.
I mean the Angel who appeared
to the wrestlers of the Old Testament:
when the wrestlers’ sinews
grew long like metal strings,
he felt them under his fingers
like chords of deep music.

Whoever was beaten by this Angel
(who often simply declined the fight)
went away proud and strengthened
and great from that harsh hand,
that kneaded him as if to change his shape.
Winning does not tempt that man.
This is how he grows: by being defeated, decisively,
by constantly greater beings.

Rainer Maria Rilke

Concord Hymn
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

My favorite poem of all time is Ralph Waldo Emerson’s “Concord Hymn,” and in particular the first two stanzas. I feel it is an expression of life, longing, and all things people yearn for. As a free country, we probably do not realize the sacrifices people made to make sure we would be safe, secure, and free of tyranny. These lines are still important today with many Middle Eastern and African countries seeking a change in governance. They provide a visualization for all that we see on the news or read in the paper. Emerson’s words ring true for all.

Dr. Penny Kyler, Public Health Analyst, Region 9

Concord Hymn
Sung at the Completion of the Battle Monument, July 4, 1837

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood
And fired the shot heard round the world.

The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set today a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

Spirit, that made those heroes dare
To die, and leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.

Ralph Waldo Emerson, 1803–1882

The Dancing
by Gerald Stern

Gerald Stern’s poem “The Dancing” is one my family includes in our Passover Seder.  It’s a great poem illustrating how grief and joy are intertwined.  And the poem remembers both World War II and Jewish-American history.

Alan Soldofsky
Director of Creative Writing
Professor of English and Comparative Literature
San José State University

The Dancing

In all these rotten shops, in all this broken furniture
and wrinkled ties and baseball trophies and coffee pots
I have never seen a post-war Philco
with the automatic eye
nor heard Ravel’s “Bolero” the way I did
in 1945 in that tiny living room
on Beechwood Boulevard, nor danced as I did
then, my knives all flashing, my hair all streaming,
my mother red with laughter, my father cupping
his left hand under his armpit, doing the dance
of old Ukraine, the sound of his skin half drum,
half fart, the world at last a meadow,
the three of us whirling and singing, the three of us
screaming and falling, as if we were dying,
as if we could never stop—in 1945—
in Pittsburgh, beautiful filthy Pittsburgh, home
of the evil Mellons, 5,000 miles away
from the other dancing—in Poland and Germany—
oh God of mercy, oh wild God.

From Paradise Poems by Gerald Stern

Love Comes Quietly
by Robert Creeley

22 years ago, when I was living in the Upper East Side, I first came upon a book of love poems by Robert Creeley at a rummage sale on First and 65th in New York. I recognized in this poem the feeling I had not yet named, the feeling of love for my boyfriend. I shared the poem with him boldly one evening, and we affirmed our love for one another for the first time.

Sadly, those feelings waned over our 20 year marriage, and our divorce is nearly final. However, I’ve been speaking the words again. And quietly, (happily) love has come again, in the old ways.

Angela McConnell, Executive Director
Montalvo Arts Center

Love Comes Quietly

Love comes quietly,
finally, drops
about me, on me,
in the old ways.

What did I know
thinking myself
able to go
alone all the way.

from For Love: Poems 1950-1960, Robert Creeley

Casey at the Bat
by Ernest Thayer

“Casey at the Bat” by Ernest Thayer has been a favorite poem of mine for the last 20 years, during which time I coached more than 100 boys in baseball, owned a baseball card shop for more than a decade, and put together two baseball sets (each over a 100 years old). This poem does a great job of bringing Casey’s at-bat to life, making the reader feel he or she is at the ballpark, witnessing Casey’s ego and eventual demise, first hand—using humor and rhyme to do so. It’s fun!

Supervisor Mike Wasserman, District 1
Santa Clara County Board of Supervisors

Casey at the Bat

The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;
The score stood four to two with but one inning left to play;
And then, when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go, in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which “springs eternal in the human breast;”
They thought, If only Casey could but get a whack at that,
We’d put up even money now, with Casey at the bat.

But Flynn proceed Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a no-good and the latter was a fake;
So, upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey’s getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball,
And when the dust had lifted and men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second, and Flynn a-huggin’ third.

Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell,
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell,
It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey’s manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey’s bearing and a smile on Casey’s face,
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt ‘twas Casey at the bat. Continue reading →

Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout
by Shel Silverstein

Environmental responsibility makes sense for our community and the economy. San José’s Green Vision sets 10 long-term goals to build a better future for ourselves and our children. Everyone can play a part to ensure that we meet our goals for innovation and sustainability. Shel Silverstein’s classic poem “Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout” humorously illustrates the importance of recycling. It’s a timely and fun reminder for the upcoming Earth Day holiday.

Chuck Reed
Mayor, City of San José

Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout

Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout
Would not take the garbage out!
She’d scour the pots and scrape the pans,
Candy the yams and spice the hams,
And though her daddy would scream and shout,
She simply would not take the garbage out.
And so it piled up to the ceilings:
Coffee grounds, potato peelings,
Brown bananas, rotten peas,
Chunks of sour cottage cheese.
It filled the can, it covered the floor,
It cracked the window and blocked the door
With bacon rinds and chicken bones,
Drippy ends of ice cream cones,
Prune pits, peach pits, orange peel,
Gloppy glumps of cold oatmeal,
Pizza crusts and withered greens,
Soggy beans and tangerines,
Crusts of black burned buttered toast,
Gristly bits of beefy roasts. . .
The garbage rolled on down the hall,
It raised the roof, it broke the wall. . .
Greasy napkins, cookie crumbs,
Globs of gooey bubble gum,
Cellophane from green baloney,
Rubbery blubbery macaroni,
Peanut butter, caked and dry,
Curdled milk and crusts of pie,
Moldy melons, dried-up mustard,
Eggshells mixed with lemon custard,
Cold french fried and rancid meat,
Yellow lumps of Cream of Wheat.
At last the garbage reached so high
That it finally touched the sky.
And all the neighbors moved away,
And none of her friends would come to play.
And finally Sarah Cynthia Stout said,
“OK, I’ll take the garbage out!”
But then, of course, it was too late. . .
The garbage reached across the state,
From New York to the Golden Gate.
And there, in the garbage she did hate,
Poor Sarah met an awful fate,
That I cannot now relate
Because the hour is much too late.
But children, remember Sarah Stout
And always take the garbage out!

from Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein