The value of HOPE, part II

We can all HOPE for outdoor temperatures to indicate an early Spring this year. This is the meaning of HOPE that something will happen, as we usually have a good reason to think that it might. Sometimes, however, the HOPEFUL situation may seem more unlikely to occur. In my Part 2 on the subject of HOPE, I will introduce you to two more beautifully constructed poems, this time written 100 years later than the poems in Part 1. Both poems were written in the 20th century and are non-rhyming forms of poetry.

1. “A Portrait of a Dog as an Older Guy,” written by a Russian poet, Katia Kapovich, (1960-presently 62 years old) tells of the sad later years of Rex, the shepherd dog, who has recently lost his old master to death. Through reliving the years of the pet’s shared memories with his master, however, Rex becomes Hopeful in keeping himself alive as he becomes the “Older Guy.”

When his owner died in 2000 and a new family
moved into their Moscow apartment,
he went to live with mongrels in the park.
In summer there was plenty of food, kids
often left behind sandwiches, hotdogs and other stuff.
He didn’t have a big appetite,
still missing his old guy.
He too was old, the ladies no longer excited him,
and he didn’t burn calories chasing them around.
Then winter came and the little folk abandoned the park.
The idea of eating from the trash occurred to him
but the minute he started rummaging in the
overturned garbage container, a voice
in his head said: “No, Rex!”
The remnants of a good upbringing lower
our natural survival skills.

I met him again in the early spring of 2001.
He looked terrific. Turning gray became him.
His dark shepherd eyes were perfectly bright,
like those of a puppy.
I asked him how he sustained himself
in this new free-market situation
when even the human species suffered from malnutrition.
In response he told me his story;
how at first he thought that life without his man
wasn’t worth it, how those
who petted him when he was a pet
then turned away from him, and how one night
he had a revelation.

His man came to him in his sleep,
tapped him on his skinny neck and said:
“Let’s go shopping!” So the next morning he took the subway
and went to the street market
where they used to go together every Sunday and where
vendors recognized him and fed him
to his heart’s content.
“Perhaps you should move closer to that area?”
I ventured.—”No, I’ll stay here,” he sighed,
“oldies shouldn’t change their topography. That’s
what my man said.”
Indeed, he sounded like one himself.

2. “Yellow Glove,” written by Naomi Shihab Nye (1952 – present, 71 years old) explores the autobiography life of the poet as a youngster who has lost one of a pair of her beloved Christmas gifted yellow gloves. Her deepest HOPE is that through good behavior and a prayer, the missing glove will be discovered. We begin reading Ms. Nye’s story of youth, its distractions, and its connections with adulthood, always in search of HOPE and looking upward.

What can a yellow glove mean in a world of motorcars and governments?

I was small, like everyone. Life was a string of precautions: Don’t kiss the squirrel before you bury him, don’t suck candy, pop balloons, drop watermelons, watch TV. When the new gloves appeared one Christmas, tucked in soft tissue, I heard it trailing me: Don’t lose the yellow gloves.

I was small, there was too much to remember.  One day, waving at a stream – the ice had cracked, winter chipping down, soon we would sail boats and roll into ditches – I let a glove go. Into the stream, sucked under the street. Since when did streets have mouths?  I walked home on a desperate road.  Gloves cost money. We didn’t have much. I would tell no one. I would wear the yellow glove that was left and keep the other hand in a pocket. I knew my mother’s eyes had tears they had not cried yet, I didn’t want to be the one to make them flow. It was the prayer I spoke secretly, folding socks, lining up donkeys in windowsills. To be good, a promise made to the roaches who scouted my closet at night. If you don’t get in my bed, I will be good. And they listened. I had a lot to fulfill. 

The months rolled down like towels out of a machine. I sang and drew and fattened the cat. Don’t scream, don’t lie, don’t fight – you could hear it anywhere. A pebble could show you how to be smooth, tell the truth. A field could show how to sleep without walls. A stream could remember how to drift and change – next June, I was stirring the stream like a soup, telling my brother dinner would be ready if he’d only hurry up with the bread, when I saw it. The yellow glove draped on a twig. A muddy survivor. A quiet flag.

Where had it been in the three gone months? I could wash it, fold it in my winter drawer with its sister, no one in that world would ever know. There were miracles on Harvey Street. Children walked home in yellow light. Trees were reborn and gloves traveled far, but returned. A thousand miles later, what can a yellow glove mean in a world of bankbooks and stereos?

Part of the difference between floating (looking upward) and going down.

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