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I’ve been reading Container Gardening<\/strong><\/a><\/em>, the latest collection of poetry from journalist, poet, and playwright Ellen Steinbaum<\/strong><\/a> (published last year by CustomWords<\/strong><\/a>). Ellen also, until very recently and for almost a decade, was a columnist for the Boston Globe<\/em>, writing at “City Type,” conversations with Boston-area writers and poets. (Those columns are archived, for those interested, at her site<\/strong><\/a>.)<\/p>\nEllen’s poetry is new to me, but I ripped right through this collection and I’m even currently re-reading it. I find many of these poems—whose themes often swirl around life’s most perplexing elements, memory, the rush of time, loss, and hope—to be moving. At her site, she writes, “I think of my new book,<\/em> Container Gardening, as a collection of poems about what is perishable, what endures, and what makes us who we are. After my first book, <\/em>Afterwords<\/strong><\/a> {pictured below}, which dealt very specifically with loss, these speak of how we pick up the pieces and go on to create the private and public worlds we inhabit.”<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n And I think the final poem, “One Photograph,” fits snugly with these other two, what with the longing and searching at its center, but I also want to share it now, since we are edging up to Mother’s Day. I couldn’t help but think of my own mother in “One Photograph,” and it got me. Got me good. From one poet’s experience to paper to a random reader like me, getting all verklempt: We take it for granted all the time, but isn’t it all simply splendid? <\/p>\n Thanks to Ellen for letting me share. I’m not going to ask folks to share their one “Question” (see the second poem below) today, as that’s way too private and, for many, might be painful. But if anyone wants to share in the comments their “favorite bauble” (see the first poem)—if it’s one not too terribly private for you—you’d pretty much make my day. <\/p>\n My favorite bauble, or baubles<\/em>, in my case: When my daughters each (separately, of course) came out of my body and into this world and were handed to me. <\/p>\n The Time Emporium<\/p>\n And which was your favorite More poems from Container Gardening<\/em> are here<\/strong><\/a> at CustomWords’ site. <\/p>\n The Poetry Friday round-up today is being hosted by Maya Ganesan over at allegro<\/strong><\/em><\/a>. <\/p>\n CONTAINER GARDENING \u00a9 2008 Ellen Steinbaum. Published by CustomWords, Cincinatti, Ohio. Poems posted here with permission of Steinbaum. All rights reserved. <\/p>\n![](\"http:\/\/blaine.org\/jules\/afterwords.jpg\")
I asked Ellen if I could post two of her poems in their entirety today, and then I pushed my luck—since I found it difficult to choose favorites—and asked for three. Fortunately, she gave me the green light. These three poems, particularly the first two, struck me with their sharply-observed and inherent reverence for the mysteries of our emotional lives — yet Ellen pulls it all off without insufferable navel-gazing and just the right balance of introspection and acceptance. Rilke once (famously) instructed someone<\/strong><\/a> to “try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language.” I think Ellen echoes the same here in these poems I’m sharing today. <\/p>\n
\nbauble—the perfect summer evening,
\nsky just darkening amethyst,
\na scattering of fireflies for props?
\nOr maybe the birthday
\nwhen you were six, everyone
\nclose around you singing, you
\nfeeling beloved and fortunate?
\nThe child’s birth, first heart-stopping
\nsmile, cheeks pink and damp from
\nsleep? The love, the passion,
\nintimate exchange, secret look in
\nthe offhand moment? What was
\nthat instant when you soared beyond
\nyour skin, felt your benevolent soul
\nstretch outward? Which trinket catches
\nlight, which jewel is bright with fire?
\nWhich, looking back, would you never
\nexchange for what was coming next?<\/p><\/blockquote>\n![](\"http:\/\/blaine.org\/jules\/ellen.jpg\")
\n![](\"http:\/\/blaine.org\/jules\/onephotograph.jpg\")
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