Born in Milford, Delaware in 1938, Robert Phillips passed away January 21, 2022
W.H. Auden said of artists, “We were put on earth to make things.” We can do so by being generous
as well as by being creative, by becoming a master class to someone else. We all have it within us,
the capacity to make someone else’s luck.
One of the first presenters at the Writers in Performance Series, Lone Star College, Montgomery
and one of my favorites, was Robert Phillips. Robert authored more than 30 volumes of poetry, one of
which is Spinach Days. It’s not easy to select a poem for the Capturing the Word series, since I like
most all Robert’s poetry.
Early Lesson
Her mother brought her down
to the laundry room. Picking
through the wicker clothes basket
she explained, “You must separate
the colored from the white.”
Her mother brought her down
And they did. Their black maid,
ironing in the corner, nodded.
Poetry lovers at a Walt Whitman Reading, the Corner Pub, Conroe, Texas — Image by kenne
That which eludes this verse and any verse, Unheard by sharpest ear, unform’d in clearest eye or cunningest mind, Nor lore nor fame, nor happiness nor wealth, And yet the pulse of every heart and life throughout the world incessantly, Which you and I and all pursuing ever ever miss, Open but still a secret, the real of the real, an illusion, Costless, vouchsafed to each, yet never man the owner, Which poets vainly seek to put in rhyme, historians in prose, Which sculptor never chisel’d yet, nor painter painted, Which vocalist never sung, nor orator nor actor ever utter’d, 10 Invoking here and now I challenge for my song.
— from “A Riddle Song” by Walt Whitman
If you are one of those who think poetry is boring and you can’t relate to it, I suggest you read Robert Pinski’s poem, “Samural Song.” Then watch Akron/Family‘s performance of Pinski’s beautiful poem.
I love poetry. It sings to me — my tongue is my choir singing to my heart and soul.
kenne
Samurai Song
When I had no roof I made Audacity my roof. When I had No supper my eyes dined.
When I had no eyes I listened. When I had no ears I thought. When I had no thought I waited.
When I had no father I made Care my father. When I had No mother I embraced order.
When I had no friend I made Quiet my friend. When I had no Enemy I opposed my body.
When I had no temple I made My voice my temple. I have No priest, my tongue is my choir.
When I have no means fortune Is my means. When I have Nothing, death will be my fortune.
Need is my tactic, detachment Is my strategy. When I had No lover I courted my sleep.
Poetry lovers at a Walt Whitman Reading, the Corner Pub, Conroe, Texas — Image by kenne
