Last week, I visited the internist for my annual physical exam. She asked me about my daily exercise. I told her that I rollerbladed almost everyday when the weather permitted. I also told her that I skied and snowboarded in the winter. She asked me about my alcohol consumption and I confessed that I drank almost daily (a beer a day) and whiskey on special occasions. She advised that I should keep up the the sports but drop the spirits. I thought to myself, “I can’t do the sports without the spirits.”

She ordered me a Tdap vaccine and blood tests. My result came back with a high LDL. She suggested lose weight, exercise, and follow low fat diet. My non HDL cholesterol and glucose are also high. Despite drinking and eating steaks, my uric acid is normal. I am glad that my gout is under control. I need to work on other areas, particularly my sugar consumption. I need to cut back drinking instant coffee with cream and sugar.

The annual physical exam gives me a moment of reflection to think about my lifestyle and the way I live. I need to take care of myself better. I am also trying to release my stress. The best way for me to do so is just not giving a fuck.

In Civil Service, Claire Schwartz sheds light onto the dark corner of the world run by power, profit, property, and prisons. Here’s a chilling excerpt from “Lecture on the History of the House”:

Inside the house, a man hits you.
Then you understand:
your body is the window.
Inside, you are already outside.

Next door, the Soloist domesticates a tune.

Poetry is a door without a house.

Theory is productive of the known.
Poetry is productive of the unknown.

How, then, do you know
what is true? These walls, this foundation,
in the pages of glossy magazines.
The newspapers scratch their heads.
Again, the hunters, budgeting.

At the end of the day, you return to what is not common.

It’s a beautiful, powerful collection with some simple line illustrations.

Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in what you your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.

You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
It is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.

Naomi Shihab Nye

Our family went to Liberty today. I skied with Vương on the green terrains and switched to snowboard on the blues and black. Liberty opened its first double black diamond this season. I attempted to try snowboarding down the double black, but I was not sure if I was ready. In addition, too many ski students were there. I switched back to my skis and went down. I also hit the moguls. It was a nice trip with the family including my wife’s mother, her brother’s, and sister’s families. Back to work and school tomorrow.

You must rock your pain in your arms
until it’s asleep, then leave it

in a darkened room
and tiptoe out.

For a moment you will feel
the emptiness of peace.

But in the next room
your pain is already stirring.

Soon it will be
calling your name.

Linda Pastan

My thanks to Matti Tanskanen for buying me two cups of coffee. He shares:

Been enjoying your work for a long time. Thanks for providing design and typography inspiration throughout the years!

I really appreciate it. I also updated my Buy me a Coffee page.

I don’t quite understand her poems. Although she uses plain words, her language is a bit strange. I like a few pieces including “How Kind” and “The Ruins.” I’ll give the collection a reread in the near future.

Poetry, I tell my students,
is idiosyncratic. Poetry

is where we are ourselves
(though Sterling Brown said

“Every ‘I’ is a dramatic ‘I’”),
digging in the clam flats

for the shell that snaps,
emptying the proverbial pocketbook.

Poetry is what you find
in the dirt in the corner,

overhear on the bus, God
in the details, the only way

to get from here to there.
Poetry (and now my voice is rising)

is not all love, love, love,
and I’m sorry the dog died.

Poetry (here I hear myself loudest)
is the human voice,

and are we not of interest to each other?

Elizabeth Alexander

Today my wife and I went on a ski date at Liberty. It was nice to go skiing without the kids once in a while. I taught her how to turn and how to fix her skis from pizza to parallel. She is getting there. I also started to learn carving on the green terrains. Carving was the technique that I had wanted to learn on skiing, but I switched to snowboard. My goal is to learn to carve on ski this season. We haven’t had any snow day this year. I am still holding out hope that we will get some snow this winter.

If you read my brief reviews of poetry books, you can tell that I don’t understand most of the poems. It could be the language barriers or I just don’t get poetry. Fortunately, Richard Blanco, Academy of American Poets education ambassador and Barack Obama’s second inaugural poet, explains the art of reading poetry in the introduction of 100 Poems That Matter, an anthology selected by poets.org. He gives us the license to read poetry without having to understand the meaning behind the work. He writes:

We often listen or sing along to songs without knowing exactly what all the lyrics mean, but we certainly do know how songs make us feel. In other words, we first allow ourselves to experience the feeling of a song, without trying to decipher what it means, precisely. It’s important to initially engage poems in a similar way and accept that, even though we may not fully understand them, we can feel them. If you are deeply moved by even just a few lines from one poem in this book, then you get poetry. Like music, poetry instills in us a complexity of emotions; as we ponder those emotions, we learn the deeper meaning of the poem. What’s more, there are many different styles and periods of poetry, just as there is in music. It would be silly to say that you don’t like music because you heard a song you didn’t like. Yet we often treat poetry this way, as if all poems are the same. Which is to say, give yourself permission to not necessarily love every poem in this collection, though I’m confident you will find at least one that will stir your whole being because we naturally do get poetry in the same way we get music. Read that poem aloud over and over again, the way we repeatedly play our favorite songs and sing along to them. Let the poem sing in you.

I read the entire anthology and found a few favorites. I will be sharing them on this blog. The book design is just lovely. The typesetting is so damn gorgeous.