Poetry Time

“Personal” by Tony Hoagland

Don’t take it personal, they said;
but I did, I took it all quite personal—

the breeze and the river and the color of the fields;
the price of grapefruit and stamps,

the wet hair of women in the rain—
And I cursed what hurt me

and I praised what gave me joy,
the most simple-minded of possible responses.

The government reminded me of my father,
with its deafness and its laws,

and the weather reminded me of my mom,
with her tropical squalls.

Enjoy it while you can, they said of Happiness
Think first, they said of Talk

Get over it, they said
at the School of Broken Hearts

but I couldn’t and I didn’t and I don’t
believe in the clean break;

I believe in the compound fracture
served with a sauce of dirty regret,

I believe in saying it all
and taking it all back

and saying it again for good measure
while the air fills up with I’m-Sorries

like wheeling birds
and the trees look seasick in the wind.

Oh life! Can you blame me
for making a scene?

You were that yellow caboose, the moon
disappearing over a ridge of cloud.

I was the dog, chained in some fool’s backyard;
barking and barking:

trying to convince everything else
to take it personal too.

Who's Worth More?

Paper, Scissors, Stone

by Tom Wayman


An executive's salary for working with paper
beats the wage in a metal shop operating shears
which beats what a gardener earns arranging stone.
But the pay for a surgeon's use of scissors
is larger than that of a heavy equipment driver removing stone
which in turn beats a secretary's cheque for handling paper.
And, a geologist's hours with stone
nets more than a teacher's with paper
and definitely beats someone's time in a garment factory with scissors.In addition: to manufacture paper
you need stone to extract metal to fabricate scissors
to cut the product to size.
To make scissors you must have paper to write out the specs
and a whetstone to sharpen the new edges.
Creating gravel, you require the scissor-blades of the crusher
and lots of order forms and invoices at the office.
Thus I believe there is a connection
between things
and not at all like the hierarchy of winners
of a child's game.
When a man starts insistinghe should be paid more than me
because he's more important to the task at hand,
I keep seeing how the whole process collapses
if almost any one of us is missing.
When a woman claims she deserves more money
because she went to school longer,
I remember the taxes I paid to support her education.
Should she benefit twice?
Then there's the guy who demands extra
because he has so much seniority
and understands his work so well
he has ceased to care, does as little as possible,
or refuses to master the latest techniques
the new-hires are required to know.
Even if he's helpful and somehow still curious
after his many years—
Without a machine to precisely measure
how much sweat we each provide
or a contraption hooked up to electrodes in the brain
to record the amount we think,
my getting less than him
and more than her
makes no sense to me.
Surely whatever we do at the job
for our eight hours—as long as it contributes—
has to be worth the same.
And if anyone mentions
this is a nice idea but isn't possible,
consider what we have now:
everybody dissatisfied, continually grumbling and disputing.
No, I'm afraid it's the wage system that doesn't function
except it goes on
and will
until we set to work to stop it
with paper, with scissors, and with stone.


"Paper, Scissors, Stone" by Tom Wayman from The Face of Jack Munro. © Harbour, 1986.

Courtesy of Garrison Keiller's The Writer's Almanac—Not a bad argument in this day and age when people are losing their shirts and livelihoods.

A Poetic Thought

I get this daily emails with poems and literary facts called the Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keiller. It is provided through American Public Media. Today's poem seems apropos to my previous post (The Sound of Silence) about the debate. It is called "Fix" and it is by Alicia Suskin Ostriker.

Here is the last three lines of the poem, if you want the whole thing, go here:

So what is it, this moon-shaped blankness?

What the hell is it? America is perplexed.

We would fix it if we knew what was broken.