Ode to the West Wind

The first thing I do (consciously) in the morning is read a poem. This is now a habit, acquired the week after Trump won the presidency. The idea of having Trump as my leader was so disconcerting at first--and it still is, we cannot afford to accept it as 'normal'--that I not only did not want to open my eyes, I did not want to get out of bed for fear I'd find that either Trump was still president or that he'd resigned the office to go back being the big businessman & reality-show tv host he was, handing the job to the odious Mike Pence as president.

This morning I selected the late, redoubtable Bill Knott, reading from his new book, I Am Flying Into Myself: Selected Poems, 1960-2014 (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2017)--

Poem

They say the universe is expanding,

not staying in one place.

I, though, have a small rental room

somewhere in it.

This is the first stanza of Bill Knott's poem, "Poem"; four other stanza's follow. There are, by the way, seven other poems in Knott's book titled, "Poem." 

Reading a poem first thing is a great way to get out into the world, while staying comfortably indoors where it's warm and there's the possibility of having coffee. Reading a poem quietly with as empty a mind as I'm likely to have (upon waking) is the equivalent of watching Roger Federer play tennis: I am, after reading a poem and upon rising, more than ever aware of my footwork and its importance in moving through the day with as much grace as I can muster. A good poem creates in me something like joy, reeling in just for me the pleasure I take in being human, without raising the same old false prospects of hope I once had for others.