I love November for its lack of leaves, its bare ground, and the poems it has inspired, like:
And, perhaps my favorite:
The Crazy Woman/ Gwendolyn Brooks
I shall not sing a May song.
A May song should be gay.
I’ll wait until November
And sing a song of gray.
I’ll wait until November
That is the time for me.
I’ll go out in the frosty dark
And sing most terribly.
And all the little people
Will stare at me and say,
“That is the Crazy Woman
Who would not sing in May.”
I decided to explore what it might mean to “sing a song of gray.” This month’s challenge was all about gray.
The Gray Themes of the Day
- gray hair and old age
- the brain, the little gray cells, gray matter
- gray as fuzzy and in-between black and white
- gray as (the absence of?) color
- gray area (I’ve grown accustomed to the Gray…)
- duck duck gray duck
- the everydayness of gray
- Vincent Van Gogh and the endless variety of grays
- fog and mist
- tombstones and spirits
- gray dreams/ gray visions
- gray breath
- gravel and a balance between white and black
- Echo/ Pura López-Colomé (gray matter — a poem about hearing/thinking about a line from Emily Dickinson as she drifts off from narcotics right before surgery)
- Ode to Gray
- Silver/ Walter de la Mare
- A Bird, came down the Walk (359)/ Emily Dickinson
- from Grayed In/ Martha Collins
- from My Private Property/ Mary Ruefle
- from To Theo van Gogh (a letter from Vincent Van Gogh to his son)
- [Here on this edge I have had many diminutive visions.]/ Diane Seuss
- Fog/Giovanni Pascoli
- In the Fog/ Giovanni Pascoli
- Mist/ Alice Oswald
- Spirits of the Dead/ Edgar Allen Poe
- Little Grey Dreams/ Angelina Weld Grimké
- First Grade/ Ron Koertge
- nunatak/ Jane Lovell
- from “Gravel” in The Leaf and the Cloud/ Mary Oliver
- That Bright Grey Eye/ Hilda Morley
- The Small Hours/ Dorothy Parker
- Lines for Winter/ Mark Strand (recording)
elephants, mice, mold, ash, the South (in the Civil War), rocks, sidewalks, skies heavy with storm, The Picture of Dorian Gray, sweatshirts, geese, most cars
Other Gray Resources
everything gray, an account
Yesterday afternoon, in the chapel at Gustavus, which was not dim but not bright either, I started to notice that looking one direction, toward the far window on the other side, the only color I could see was an occasional red square embedded in the walls (I double-checked with Scott; there were also a bunch of blue squares too). The hymnals 15-20 feet away, which I know are red, looked dark but colorless. Staring out at the crowd of people, everyone looked like they were dressed in dark or light — not quite black or white, just dark clothes or light clothes. No variation, no purples or blues or oranges or anything but dark and light. It was strange, partly because it didn’t feel strange. It wasn’t like I thought, where is all the color? It felt more like when I wake up in the dark and, after my eyes adjust, I see the room and it looks like the room, but just darker, dimmer and without color. And, usually I don’t think there’s no color — sometimes I might even think I see color because I know my robe is purple or the pillow is yellow, or I don’t see yellow, but I recognize the pillow on the couch as that yellow pillow because I already know it’s yellow. Hope this description makes sense to anyone reading this, including future Sara.
only gray, a poem
Looking through past log entries containing “gray” I encountered this poem:
Listen/ Didi Jackson
Like a hundred gray ears
the river stones are layered
in a pile near the shed where mourning
doves slow their peck and bobble to listen
to a chorus of listening.
Small buds on the lilac perk up.
A cardinal’s torpedoed call comes
in slow waves of four,
round after round. It’s a love call;
a call to make him known to himself.
The stones listen harder,
decipher the song; attempt
to offer back its echo.
This is not a poem of coming Spring.
This is a poem well aware
that gray flesh is dead flesh.
All of the ripe listening
comes at a cost. The first
sky is in all skies.
The first song
is in all songs.
Only gray is mentioned, and twice. Then it ends with this line, The first song/is in all songs. Is the first song, the song of gray? In this poem, that song of gray seems to be the song of death/the dead. I love the idea of the stones being gray ears.
a note about the process
As is usually the case with my monthly project, I did not begin the month intending to focus on gray and to explore what it might mean to sing a song of gray. Did I have a plan? I can’t remember because my first week of entries were accidentally erased (see 1 nov). I wanted to look at some November poems and memorize Brooks’ “The Crazy Woman,” and I’d been slowly, since September, thinking about how to return to my larger project of writing about my vision and how it feels to be losing the central part of it.
On November 6th, after thinking about gray as I ran and connecting it with gray hair, I wrote about getting older. After that, most days I didn’t have a plan of how to explore gray. Usually I searched for poems about gray or just started thinking about gray. At first, I didn’t explicitly connect my focus on gray with vision, but it kept coming up in relation to color. By mid-month (see 14 nov) I was working on 2 projects: singing a song of gray and figuring out how to use Ishihara’s colorblind plates as a form for poems about not/seeing color. Often these projects overlapped, sometimes they just happened beside each other. Now, at the end of the month, I’m working on them together. Having figured out the Ishihara form, and having created one poem so far (about yellow), I’m working on a gray poem, or a few gray poems.
I love these monthly challenges. They are so much fun, and often very helpful for my writing. But, they are tricky too. I rarely begin the month with a plan, and sometimes I never figure out a challenge. It’s more about being open to the process and waiting for a compelling theme to find me. That requires faith and patience and persistence.
Speaking of persistence, I began this running log in January of 2017. The official goal was to do a story project about running and training for a marathon. But, from the beginning, it was also about learning how to use words in better ways in order to describe how it feels to be losing my vision. On jan 23, 2017 I wrote the following:
A gray day. Warmish, but gloomy. Days like today make it hard for me to see. It’s not really dark outside, just overcast. But because of my macular dystrophy, overcast feels a lot darker. And it makes everything look fuzzy, like I’m seeing it through a slightly dirty piece of plastic.
Running really isn’t a problem when my vision feels limited like this. I can see well enough. And, since I’m mostly running on paths, I only rarely have to worry about cars. But it still feels…weird.
I wish I could articulate the sense of disconnection I feel when my sight is fuzzy. It’s as if I’m running in my own bubble.
Later that spring — in late March, early April — I used this entry in an assignment for my first ever poetry class: A Gray Day, 8 Versions. I was trying to find better words to express how I see strangely (and less clearly) on gray days. It has taken me this long, almost 6 years!, to return to this gray project.