Is there a better way to celebrate the first day of spring than with a poem? How about one from Rumi:

The Music We Are

Did you hear that winter’s over? The basil
and the carnations cannot control their

laughter. The nightingale, back from his
wandering, has been made singing master

over the birds. The trees reach out their
congratulations. The soul goes dancing

through the king’s doorway. Anemones blush
because they have seen the rose naked.

Spring, the only fair judge, walks in the
courtroom, and several December thieves steal

away, Last year’s miracles will soon be
forgotten. New creatures whirl in from non-

existence, galaxies scattered around their
feet. Have you met them? Do you hear the

bud of Jesus crooning in the cradle? A single
narcissus flower has been appointed Inspector

of Kingdoms. A feast is set. Listen: the
wind is pouring wine! Love used to hide

inside images: no more! The orchard hangs
out its lanterns. The dead come stumbling by

in shrouds. Nothing can stay bound or be
imprisoned. You say, “End this poem here,

and wait for what’s next.” I will. Poems
are rough notations for the music we are.

I love that final sentence. Rumi knew how to write a good poem.

Here we are, closing in on the end of March, one quarter of the year nearly gone already. Back in January I had big plans. From the thirteen classics I set out to read this year I have thus far read one, Three Men in a Boat. Instead of focusing on classics, I’ve been focusing on ancient classics, reading Hesiod and still reading Homer as well as Herodotus (did one’s name have to begin with “H” in order to be a famous ancient Greek writer?) Perhaps my classics plan just needs revision to match what I am reading.

One thing I have noticed looking back over these three months, is how much poetry I have read so far. Two books of contemporary poetry, Hesiod’s poetry, and of course, Homer’s poetry. And I’ve picked up my book of Rumi’s poetry again. But if my well-laid reading plan appears at the moment to be falling apart, at least it is falling apart in a poetic way instead of a mindless entertainment way.

Poetry has even popped up in To Say Nothing of the Dog, a time travel novel. Ned is sent back to Victorian times and he ends up in a boat on the Thames with Terence and Cyril the dog. They are rowing along and Ned quotes a line of poetry about the river going on and on. His companion quotes the line following and then:

“Although actually it doesn’t,” Terence said. “After this next bit it’s mostly all fields till Iffley. It doesn’t flow along forever, either, of course, only as far as London. That’s the thing about poetry, it’s scarcely ever accurate. Take the Lady of Shalott. ‘She loosed the chain and down she lay; the broad stream bore her far away.’ She lies down in the boat and goes floating down to Camelot, which couldn’t possibly happen. I mean, one can’t steer lying down, can one? She’d have ended up stuck in the reeds a quarter of a mile out. I mean, Cyril and I always have trouble keeping the boat headed in a straight line, and we’re not lying down in the bottom of the boat where one can’t see anything, are we?”

This made me laugh. I never thought about it, but he is right. Whenever I’ve read the poem I usually get stuck wondering where she gets her food and the wood for her fire and everything else a person a needs to live in any kind of comfort. We think about suspending our disbelief for fiction, I never think about doing it for poetry too. But poetry tells stories just like novels. Then again, I wonder if we are more accepting of unlikely situations in poetry? I mean, if the Lady of Shalott were a novel, would we be willing to overlook the details of how she ate and how she steered the boat? I think I’d be mad at the author for neglecting the fine points.

Okay, I feel as though I am beginning to ramble. So I will wrap up by wishing everyone happy spring!