Anna Ursyn, Symbols in Nature
Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude
An In-titled Poem after Ross Gay
Stephanie L. Harper
Although this stolen title has no double-
u, I go on, i.e., forth; that is, I abide–
a fine self, indeed, double-u-h-o
has no need to grouse, no desire
to hob-nob in glee clubs to get noticed
and be authenticated, as if that
constituted a real rationale for being . . .
But there are other things I find ideal
to do: In October, for instance, if
it’s not too hot or too cold outside, I
delight in boasting the teal, lace-fringed scarf
I got as a gift, and a faded-old, red T-shirt,
stretched-out (to flaunt strategic contours),
and, adorned thus, as a bird, roost on a
slatted bench in the sun near the courthouse,
noshing on a frosted donut. I find
it nice, too, to trudge about the garden
on these huge-and-hideous-but-also-
sort-of-darling, bare feet, under the gnarled
redbud against the cedar fence, as I could
tread on a leafcutter bee and be no
gladder than to score a taste of that nectar-
eater’s dander-coated butt-ful of insect
attitude . . . That, right there, is the sugar! –
a giant throb of candid rage on fire
in one toe, bleating through the blood its tonic
that foghorns a double-u-hole sea of
feelings, not one being hatred or dread.
No, this hurt is the first song the night-herald
belts after a gale’s final, treacherous
belch. Its burn is our earth clouded in
its igneous-fire’s breaths as the buntings’
seed-scattering teaches it to green again.
And its entire to-do, in the end, is nothing
but a bee going about its bee duties!
Double-u-e can’t fault it for being
underfoot . . . Friends, this life is one
treeborne abacus-bead after another
of fortune or defeat–for each fig-stone
that tangs of hesitance, there’s sure to be
one to ride in on a steed, gloating.
In either case, its fate is tied to sunlight,
soil, foraging rodents and birds, and enough
rain. So, too, is our indenture to the earth
to dig into her crags and fashion footholds.
Shelter and endure, together. Hunger.
Touch the rutabaga’s casing, florid,
rough; then, cut in, learn of its butter,
and feast. Sing foolish arias, the nuttier
the better. Choose an artist as a hero,
and let the idols to ensue, though false,
be charitable! Listen for that singular
silence of a child’s absence. Hear cherubs’
choirs in the cries of the reunited.
Test outlandish beliefs. Elude the bother
of failures and griefs that can be eluded.
Though, if heartache should thunder
into the garden in a sudden flood of sun,
don’t forget to be grateful. Don’t doubt
the grace of getting stung.
The In-titled Poem, [this author’s] invented poetry form, is composed exclusively of the letters appearing in its title, with no letter occurring within any single word in the poem more times than it does in its title.
“Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude” assumes its title from Ross Gay’s poetry collection, Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude(University of Pittsburgh Press, 2015)
An In-titled Poem after Ross Gay
Stephanie L. Harper
Although this stolen title has no double-
u, I go on, i.e., forth; that is, I abide–
a fine self, indeed, double-u-h-o
has no need to grouse, no desire
to hob-nob in glee clubs to get noticed
and be authenticated, as if that
constituted a real rationale for being . . .
But there are other things I find ideal
to do: In October, for instance, if
it’s not too hot or too cold outside, I
delight in boasting the teal, lace-fringed scarf
I got as a gift, and a faded-old, red T-shirt,
stretched-out (to flaunt strategic contours),
and, adorned thus, as a bird, roost on a
slatted bench in the sun near the courthouse,
noshing on a frosted donut. I find
it nice, too, to trudge about the garden
on these huge-and-hideous-but-also-
sort-of-darling, bare feet, under the gnarled
redbud against the cedar fence, as I could
tread on a leafcutter bee and be no
gladder than to score a taste of that nectar-
eater’s dander-coated butt-ful of insect
attitude . . . That, right there, is the sugar! –
a giant throb of candid rage on fire
in one toe, bleating through the blood its tonic
that foghorns a double-u-hole sea of
feelings, not one being hatred or dread.
No, this hurt is the first song the night-herald
belts after a gale’s final, treacherous
belch. Its burn is our earth clouded in
its igneous-fire’s breaths as the buntings’
seed-scattering teaches it to green again.
And its entire to-do, in the end, is nothing
but a bee going about its bee duties!
Double-u-e can’t fault it for being
underfoot . . . Friends, this life is one
treeborne abacus-bead after another
of fortune or defeat–for each fig-stone
that tangs of hesitance, there’s sure to be
one to ride in on a steed, gloating.
In either case, its fate is tied to sunlight,
soil, foraging rodents and birds, and enough
rain. So, too, is our indenture to the earth
to dig into her crags and fashion footholds.
Shelter and endure, together. Hunger.
Touch the rutabaga’s casing, florid,
rough; then, cut in, learn of its butter,
and feast. Sing foolish arias, the nuttier
the better. Choose an artist as a hero,
and let the idols to ensue, though false,
be charitable! Listen for that singular
silence of a child’s absence. Hear cherubs’
choirs in the cries of the reunited.
Test outlandish beliefs. Elude the bother
of failures and griefs that can be eluded.
Though, if heartache should thunder
into the garden in a sudden flood of sun,
don’t forget to be grateful. Don’t doubt
the grace of getting stung.
The In-titled Poem, [this author’s] invented poetry form, is composed exclusively of the letters appearing in its title, with no letter occurring within any single word in the poem more times than it does in its title.
“Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude” assumes its title from Ross Gay’s poetry collection, Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude(University of Pittsburgh Press, 2015)