3.75 miles 47th ave loop 47 degrees Deaths from COVID-19: 221 (MN)/ 50,031 (US)
Wow, what a glorious morning! Soft light, hardly any wind, singing birds, uncrowded paths. Everything felt calm, relaxed. I don’t remember looking at the river that often, but I do remember the sky over the gorge and the view on the bluff near Folwell. Beautiful.
Anything else I remember from my run? I’ve noticed–today and yesterday, at least–that the morning sun makes it hard for me to see people sometimes. It also makes it almost impossible for me to determine if people are coming towards me or are moving away from me–is that the cone dystrophy or my near-sightedness? Not sure.
I recited Emily Dickinson’s “It’s all I have to bring today” again and I’m liking it more. The second line with the anapest–“This, and my heart beside”–is still awkward, but I like running to “this, my heart, and all the fields/and all the meadows wide” and “this, and my heart, and all the bees, which in the clover dwell.”
When I got back from my run, I started thinking about changing the words of Dickinson’s poem to fit with my run:
It’s all I have to bring today— This, and my knee beside— This, my knee and all the trees— And all the river wide Be sure to count — should I forget Some one the sum could tell — This, and my knee, and all the Birds whose songs can cast a Spell.
Not totally happy with my words, but I’ll work on it some more. I struggle to understand “some one the sum could tell.” It mostly makes sense, but it still trips me up.
more wild turkey sightings!
Yesterday on our walk, near the tree graveyard, we saw 2 more wild turkeys! Scott took some video and posted it on instagram:
Finally, looking back through my log posts from 2018, I found this beautiful poem. It will be the next one that I memorize. So many lines I am looking forward to learning and keeping.
4.2 miles river road path, north/seabury, south/edmund, south 40 degrees Deaths from COVID-19: 200 (MN)/ 46,859 (US)
Such a strange, scary time. For now, managing to keep the terror at a low simmer. Relieved that the governor announced today that schools are closed for the rest of the year. It’s awful, but necessary. Not sure if it’s all my training in being present on the path and paying attention to everyday delights in the midst of mess, but I’m doing okay. I know, without any doubt, that the gorge–being able to run and walk near it every day–is making all of this bearable. What a gift this river and trails and trees and ancient boulders are!
A beautiful morning! Started at 8:25 and there was hardly anyone out yet. For the first time in several weeks, I was able to run through the tunnel of trees, above the floodplain forest! The bare brown trees had a low soft glow and the dirt path winding through to the river looked quiet and lonely. Thought about how nice it would be to take Delia the dog on that trail but then I remembered how narrow the old stone steps are–difficult to keep 6ft of distance on them. Kept running north, glancing down at the river every few minutes. Mostly pale blue with a few spots of shining, sparkly brightness, almost white, or would you call it silver? Heard lots of birds, the low rumble of fast moving cars on a far away freeway, some music coming out of a bike radio. Enjoyed feeling and hearing the scratch scratch scratch of my feet striking the grit on the road.
Recited the Emily Dickinson poem, “It’s all I have to bring today,” a few times. It’s a beautiful poem, but not satisfying to recite. Why? Not sure. I’m thinking I should try memorizing and reciting “Before I got my eye put out” next. How will that poem move, I wonder?
Listened to Danez Smith’s Homie yesterday. Beautiful and uncomfortable, which is good and necessary. Heard this poem and felt it, having lived in California and longed for Minnesota:
O California, don’t you know the sun is only a god if you learn to starve for him? I’m bored with the ocean
I stood at the lip of it, dressed in down, praying for snow I know, I’m strange, too much light makes me nervous
at least in this land where the trees always bear green. I know something that doesn’t die can’t be beautiful.
Have you ever stood on a frozen lake, California? The sun above you, the snow & stalled sea—a field of mirror
all demanding to be the sun too, everything around you is light & it’s gorgeous & if you stay too long it will kill you
& it’s so sad, you know? You’re the only warm thing for miles & the only thing that can’t shine.
Love the line, “I know something that doesn’t die can’t be beautiful.” And the description of standing on a frozen lake, the stalled sea, the field of mirror all demanding to be the sun. What a beautiful poem!
walk: 5 miles longfellow neighborhood + gorge 65 degrees
note: I am posting this one day late, so I don’t have the stats for deaths from COVID-19.
Took a break from running because my right knee was sore. A shorter walk in the morning with Delia the dog, a much longer one in the afternoon with Scott and Delia the dog. On my first walk, I traveled through the neighborhood before ending up on Edmund, then crossing over to the river road trail and the overlook, just past the welcoming oaks. While high (or higher, nothing’s too high here) on a hill on Edmund, looking down at the tunnel of trees, the forest, and the river, I recorded what I heard: birds, leaf blowers, a walker approaching, my own rustling, the wind.
sounds above the gorge
At the overlook, admiring how the sun looked on the surface of the river, I noticed several painted rocks on the ledge. I love how people leave these gifts for others.
Later, in the afternoon, Scott and I walked with Delia the dog in the grassy strip between Edmund and the parkway, watching all the bikers and runners and walkers and cars. We talked about how important this grassy space and the gorge is for us as we struggle to endure this pandemic.
3.7 miles 47th ave loop, short 34 degrees Deaths from COVID-19: 160 (MN)/ 42,458 (US)
Sunny and bright. Looked down at the river and noticed it sparkling. Encountered a few runners and walkers and bikers. Heard some birds–a few geese, a woodpecker, some cardinals. Noticed a wild turkey hanging out in someone’s front yard–on Edmund, across from the tree graveyard. Nice! Always a good day when I see a wild turkey in the neighborhood. Here’s some turkeys that Scott and I saw on our walk on Saturday:
Recited the poem I memorized this week, Emily Dickinson’s “It’s all I have to bring today.” Kept noticing how awkward the second line was as I tried to keep my running rhythm while I said it in my head. Reading the prowling bee’s analysis, I realized it’s because every other line follows an iambic meter–da dum/da dum da/dum da dum or unstressed stressed/unstressed stressed–but the second line is strange: THIS and my HEART BEside–at least that’s how I hear it. “and my HEART” is an anapest (unstressed unstressed stressed). Found this basic description:
This poem consists of two four-line stanzas of ballad meter. In most of her poem, Dickinson typically uses ballad meter, which consists of four-line stanzas (or quatrains) of iambic tetrameter alternating with iambic trimeter: the syllable count of the four lines is therefore 8, 6, 8, 6. Ballad meter is similar to common meter, which is the meter of many Protestant hymns, such as “Amazing Grace.” In common meter the first and third lines of each stanza rhyme as do the second and fourth, making the rhyme scheme ABAB. Common meter also tends to be strictly metrical because it forms the basis of hymns sung in church. However, because Dickinson tends to rhyme only the second and fourth lines of each stanza (resulting in a rhyme scheme of ABCB) and is less strictly metrical, it is more accurate to say she uses ballad meter.
For some reason, I often struggle to recognize meter and to identify when syllables are unstressed or stressed. Not sure why. Slowly, I’m learning the terms–like tetrameter (4 feet) and trimeter (3 feet). I like thinking about this in relation to my running rhythms. Which rhythms work best for me? Which ones get me in a good groove, make running easier or faster or more fun? I’m not sure if the ballad works. I should experiment with it more. I’m also thinking about how breath fits into all of this. On easy runs, I might breathe every 4 or 3, on harder runs, every 2. How does breathing shape these lines? How does breath work in Dickinson? Here’s a source: The Breath of Emily Dickinson’s Dashes
After reciting Dickinson’s poem dozen of times, I decided to return to Richard Siken’s “LOVESONG FOR THE SQUARE ROOT OF NEGATIVE ONE.” For some reason, I enjoyed reciting it more than the Dickinson. Was it because there were more words, more ideas, more rhythms to untangle? Possibly.
Yesterday, I encountered the opening lines from this poem and was delighted. I’d like to memorize at least the first few stanzas, but maybe all of it.
Come into the garden, Maud, For the black bat, night, has flown, Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone; And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, And the musk of the rose is blown.
For a breeze of morning moves, And the planet of Love is on high, Beginning to faint in the light that she loves In a bed of daffodil sky, To faint in the light of the sun she loves, To faint in his light, and to die.
All night have the roses heard The flute, violin, bassoon; All night has the casement jessamine stirr’d To the dancers dancing in tune; Till a silence fell with the waking bird, And a hush with the setting moon.
I said to the lily, “There is but one With whom she has heart to be gay. When will the dancers leave her alone? She is weary of dance and play.” Now half to the setting moon are gone, And half to the rising day; Low on the sand and loud on the stone The last wheel echoes away.
I said to the rose, “The brief night goes In babble and revel and wine. O young lord-lover, what sighs are those, For one that will never be thine? But mine, but mine,” so I sware to the rose, “For ever and ever, mine.”
And the soul of the rose went into my blood, As the music clash’d in the hall; And long by the garden lake I stood, For I heard your rivulet fall From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood, Our wood, that is dearer than all;
From the meadow your walks have left so sweet That whenever a March-wind sighs He sets the jewel-print of your feet In violets blue as your eyes, To the woody hollows in which we meet And the valleys of Paradise.
The slender acacia would not shake One long milk-bloom on the tree; The white lake-blossom fell into the lake As the pimpernel dozed on the lea; But the rose was awake all night for your sake, Knowing your promise to me; The lilies and roses were all awake, They sigh’d for the dawn and thee.
Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, Come hither, the dances are done, In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, Queen lily and rose in one; Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls, To the flowers, and be their sun.
There has fallen a splendid tear From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear; She is coming, my life, my fate; The red rose cries, “She is near, she is near;” And the white rose weeps, “She is late;” The larkspur listens, “I hear, I hear;” And the lily whispers, “I wait.”
She is coming, my own, my sweet; Were it ever so airy a tread, My heart would hear her and beat, Were it earth in an earthy bed; My dust would hear her and beat, Had I lain for a century dead, Would start and tremble under her feet, And blossom in purple and red.
4.1 miles river road path, north/seabury, south/river road path, south/edmund, south 46 degrees Deaths from COVID-19: 143 (MN)/ 40,724 (US)
Started my run at 8:41. Not very crowded at all. Only a few runners and bikers. I think I remember glancing down at the river, but I don’t remember what I saw. Heard lots of birds at the beginning, don’t remember any during the run. Noticed lots of activity down by the rowing club–many cars. Will there be any rowers on the river today? Running on the walking path between the trestle and Franklin, a biker called out thanking me for staying on the proper path. I called back “you’re welcome!” and felt good for the rest of the run. What a difference such a small gesture makes! Focusing on these moments, instead of other annoying ones helps me.
A Freaked Out Runner
Yesterday, Scott, Delia the dog, our daughter, and I took a 4 mile walk around the neighborhood. Walking in the grass between the boulevard and the parkway, we witnessed a runner running in the road (on the part designated for pedestrians), getting increasingly upset as bikers (who are not supposed to bike on this part of the road) whizzed by her. When the first one passed her, she yelled “this is not the bike lane!” and then muttered to herself in anger. When the next one passed, she shrieked frantically “read the FUCKING signs!” (the city has signs posted all over the road/path identifying who should be in what lane). I could understand her anger–in other situations, I’ve been her, maybe not screaming “fuck!” but feeling that upset–but I could also see how difficult it was for the bikers, trying to find room to move when it was so crowded and when walkers were also ignoring the signs and taking over the bike paths. I’m not sure how to make this situation with crowded paths any easier, so I try to avoid it by running early, before it gets crowded.
Periodically during my run, I sang out in my head the delightful lines from Emily Dickinson I learned a few days ago: “In the name of the bee—and the butterfly—and the breeze—Amen!”
Speaking of Dickinson, I have decided the poem I will memorize for this week is:
It’s all I have to bring today— This, and my heart beside— This, my heart, and all the fields— And all the meadows wide— Be sure to count—should I forget some one the sum could tell— This, and my heart, and all the Bees which in the Clover dwell.
Such a beautiful poem. I think it will be fun to recite as I run on these early spring mornings. A poet and gardener decided in 2011 to systematically read through and analyze each of Dickinson’s poems. She’s still working on it now, in 2020. Here’s her post on this poem. In her discussion, she mentions Marianne Moore’s poem about imaginary gardens. I think I’d like to memorize this one too–if not this week, then for next week:
I too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond all this fiddle. Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers that there is in it after all, a place for the genuine. Hands that can grasp, eyes that can dilate, hair that can rise if it must, these things are important not because a
high-sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because they are useful; when they become so derivative as to become unintelligible, the same thing may be said for all of us—that we do not admire what we cannot understand. The bat, holding on upside down or in quest of something to
eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless wolf under a tree, the immovable critic twinkling his skin like a horse that feels a flea, the base- ball fan, the statistician—case after case could be cited did one wish it; nor is it valid to discriminate against “business documents and
school-books”; all these phenomena are important. One must make a distinction however: when dragged into prominence by half poets, the result is not poetry, nor till the autocrats among us can be “literalists of the imagination”—above insolence and triviality and can present
for inspection, imaginary gardens with real toads in them, shall we have it. In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand, in defiance of their opinion— the raw material of poetry in all its rawness, and that which is on the other hand, genuine, then you are interested in poetry.
2.5 miles river road path, north/32nd st, west/43rd ave, south/38th st, east/45th ave, north 43 degrees Deaths from COVID-19: 121 (MN)/ 37,708 (US)
A short run in the sun and the wind. Heard at least one woodpecker. I think I remember seeing my shadow. Got a brief glimpse of the river. Breathed in fresh outdoor air. It feels like spring is coming back. I bet the trails will be very crowded in a few hours. (update, 3 hours later: yes, they were very crowded. Went walking with Scott and Delia the dog and the path was packed with bikes, the road jammed with cars).
Found a thread on twitter about abecedarians. I love abecedarians. Here are two with interesting takes on the form that I’d like to try.
Fainting sky today pulls at the ground, trying to find color.
Why is saw blade made? Zig-sag of teeth against my grain, my gain, my rain, my rein.
Nailing words on trees in the forest, leaves sursurrate like pages, but can’t read for themselves.
Trembling upward, wing-over-wing, all the birds called home, Halving the music, having it fly upward with them, they bother the stratosphere with all warbling and winging— quilling sky.
Xanthic eyes pored over every memory of you. Poured myself. Poored my own memory operating away from itself. Kindling catches, but there’s no more wood for this fire. This fire exacerbates the cold, cakes itself all over these hands until they’re not hands.
Re-enter. Something can be worked out. Justification by feint, by faint, by fifth, by filth.
Love me past and forward, but not now. Now I’m a demon for saw-teeth and nails instead of words. When we were younger we read poets, we were bright versions of our jaundiced selves.
I like how this poem has 26 lines, each starting with a different letter of the alphabet, but they’re not in order. This could be fun to try.
4.4 miles 47th ave loop 37 degrees Deaths from COVID-19: 111 (MN)/ 33,325 (US)
What a beautiful morning! Hardly any wind, lots of sun, uncrowded paths! Ran south right above the river. Pale blue. At one point, heard a woodpecker and thought about stopping to record it but didn’t. Looked longingly at the lone bench near Folwell with the clear, unobstructed view to the other side. Recited my poem of the week, LOVESONG OF THE SQUARE ROOT OF NEGATIVE ONE. I am the wind and the wind is invisible! Thought about the rhythm in the later lines:
As the hammer / 1 2 / ♫♫ is a hammer / 1 2 / ♫♫ when it hits the nail / 1 2 3 4 / ♫♩♩♩
and the nail / 1 2 / ♫ ♩ is a nail / 1 2 / ♫ ♩ when it meets the wood / ♫ ♩♩♩
Running on the road, after turning off of Edmund, I saw my shadow ahead of me. Hi friend! She led me until I turned again. Listened to my feet shuffle on the grit and my ponytail brush against the collar of my vest. Don’t remember hearing any crows or squirrels or geese–did I? Ran too early to see Dave, the Daily Walker. Didn’t see any roller skiers, but did see 1 or 2 bikers. 2 runners, one with a bright red shirt on.
Thought about the poem I’m working on and that I posted yesterday about sinking. I’m thinking of changing goo to jelly. Also, I’m not sure I like starting with think–I did it partly as a rhyme with sink but I’m not sure now. Here’s different version, in a different form. Instead of cinquains, I’m using couplets:
How to Sink/ Sara Lynne Puotinen (draft 2)
with Paul Tran
Try to recall when your son was young and so upset all he could do was turn to jelly and ooze
down the couch in surrender — not giving in but giving up control, a puddle of body parts
pooled at your feet. Learn to retreat like this. Go to the gorge. Let your bones dissolve,
your legs liquefy. Submit to gravity. Slide down. Reach the ground first, then seep deeper
through layers of loam, sandstone, shale. Drop lower and lower, burrow through cracks and fissures, carve
out a way in and follow it farther. Go so far inside that outside is another idea.
I think I like this version better, especially how some lines can stand alone and make interesting poems by themselves. Like, “out a way in and follow it farther” or “but giving up control, a puddle of body parts.”
It’s warmer today. Maybe spring is finally, actually coming?! Soon there will be flowers and green grass and bees. In honor of the bees, here are 2 wonderful poems by Emily Dickinson (found on this twitter thread about bee poems):
bike: 20 minutes, bike stand run: 1.45 miles, treadmill Deaths from COVID-19: 94 (MN)/ 31,628 (US)
It’s not too cold or windy outside today but I decided to workout in the basement anyway. Watched more of the Agatha Christie movie on Netflix. I’m really enjoying it so far. Then ran for about 10 minutes on the treadmill while I listened to a playlist.
Right now I’m working on a poem tentatively titled, “How to Sink.” It’s inspired by all the sinking and keeping and dripping I’ve noticed running beside the gorge and by the current need to retreat/withdraw/go deep inside.
How to Sink/ Sara Lynne Puotinen (draft 1)
Think of that time when your young son was so mad all he could do was turn to goo
and slowly ooze down the couch in surrender to the floor. Not giving in but giving up control,
a puddle of body parts pooled at your feet. Go to the
gorge. Let your bones dissolve, your legs liquefy, submit to gravity sliding
down reaching ground seeping deeper through layers of loam, sandstone, limestone, shale.
Drop lower and lower burrow through cracks and fissures carve out a way in
and follow it further inside so far that outside is another idea.
note: “follow it further inside so far that outside is another idea” is taken from a Paul Tran poem, The Cave.
Read it to Scott and he mentioned that “goo” stood out too much. I’m having trouble thinking of another word that fits the idea and the syllable count of the line so I’m keeping it in for now.
