Poem from Sunday

This last week, a friend and I dropped into the poetry bookstore near Harvard Square, and I spent some time talking with the proprietor about his recommendations (Galway Kinnell and Franz Wright amongst others). I explained to him that I am constantly on the prowl for new poets, especially as they might be useful in my work. I told him that I look especially for a poem from which people can take some meaning even if they only hear it read once. This brought us to talking about different ways to approach the problem of having to understand a poem that is offered in a service without getting to hear it twice or getting to read it on your own. I wondered out loud if it would be good to print the poems in the order of service. My friend suggested that I could post them here on my blog the Friday before the service, so that you would have a chance to look at them and wonder about them in advance. I figured the very least I could do is put them here after the fact, so that you get another pass at them. Below is the reading from last Sunday's service. It's from Katha Pollitt's newest book of poems "The Mind-Body Problem." I picked up at the poetry book store.

What I Understood--Katha Pollitt

When I was a child I understood everything

about, for example, futility. Standing for hours

on the hot asphalt outfield, trudging for balls

I'd ask myself, how many times will I have to perform

this pointless task, and all the other? I knew

about snobbery, too, and cruelty--for children

are snobbish and cruel--and loneliness: in restaurants

the dignity and shame of solitary diners

disabled me, and when my grandmother

screamed at me, "Someday you'll know what it's like!"

I knew she was right, the way I knew

about the single rooms my teachers went home to,

the pictures on the dresser, the hoard of chocolates,

and that there was no God, and that I would die.

All this I understood, no one needed to tell me.

the only thing I didn't understand

was how in the world whose predominant characteristics

are futility, cruelty, loneliness, disappointment

people are saved every day

by a sparrow, a foghorn, a grassblade, a tablecloth.

This year I'll be

thirty-nine, and I still don't understand it.