Ten to Zip

American Life in Poetry: Column 222

BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE, 2004-2006

Coleman Barks, who lives in Georgia, is not only the English language's foremost translator of the poems of the 13th century poet, Rumi, but he's also a loving grandfather, and for me that's even more important. His poems about his granddaughter, Briny, are brim full of joy. Here's one:




Glad

In the glory of the gloaming-green soccer
field her team, the Gladiators, is losing

ten to zip. She never loses interest in
the roughhouse one-on-one that comes

every half a minute. She sticks her leg
in danger and comes out the other side running.

Later a clump of opponents on the street is chant-
ing, WE WON, WE WON, WE . . . She stands up

on the convertible seat holding to the wind-
shield. WE LOST, WE LOST BIGTIME, TEN TO

NOTHING, WE LOST, WE LOST. Fist pumping
air. The other team quiet, abashed, chastened.

Good losers don't laugh last; they laugh
continuously, all the way home so glad.





American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Poem copyright (c)2001 by Coleman Barks, from his most recent book of poems, "Winter Sky: New and Selected Poems, 1968-2008," University of Georgia Press, 2008, and reprinted by permission of Coleman Barks and the publisher. Introduction copyright (c)2009 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction's author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts.

So. . .

So, we changed the bedtime routine per my earlier entry. It worked like magic.

Now, it doesn't work like magic.

I think it is a teething issue. But, who knows? Izabella can now cruise quite well. She stands and does a little dance. So walking can't be far behind. Maybe it is the walking, a developmental milestone, that is messing up her sleep. What I do know is that she is not happy about sleepy time.

Tonight: after a relatively calm day with a good nap, we performed the entire night time ritual. On time. She was content and relaxed throughout. The moment I placed her down to sleep, a raging toddler erupted. Not just crying, but screams and thrashing. We nursed back in our room. Then back to her room and a return to the crib. Pandemonium. Inconsolable.

So, I think that letting a toddler---a person---cry it out alone is just plain wrong. If I were raging, I would want someone there even if they couldn't solve my problem or right my wrongs. But there was nothing I could "do" to comfort or console her. So, I sat down on the floor next to her crib and just stroked her back while she raged. Occasionally I said comforting words. Mostly I just tried to be a warm human presence. I tried to be all Zen about it. Strange thing happened: after about twenty minutes of standing at the rail in a full-on rage, she laid herself down, hugged her teddy and bunny, and passed out. From rage to sleep almost instantly. I waited there with my hand on her back for a full fifteen minutes to make sure she was deeply asleep. Then I performed a special yoga move to stand up from the floor--I am nine-months-pregnant after all--and was able to leave the room. We'll see how long she sleeps.

Two nights ago she was up from 12:30 - 3:00 am before my husband and I finally just took her into my bed. Last night we realized that she was inconsolable and I slept with her most of the night. She didn't want to nurse. She just didn't want to be alone. I can dig that. How human. I too hate to sleep alone. Especially when I have toothache AND I am working on a major life skill.

So, there is no "sleep solution." These little people are constantly new little people each week. What works now will probably not work next week and certainly will not work in six months. There can only be a sleep solution if you choose to view it as a sleep problem. It is what it is. Fight it in vain.

Merge & Yield

I flipped my car end-over-end and landed in a ditch. I was sixteen. I was probably driving too fast for the rutted dirt road. When the car came to a stop, I was hanging from the ceiling by my seat belt. I crawled out the shattered passenger side window. I was unharmed, but not unscathed. To this day I am a nervous driver and and even more nervous passenger.

In the years after the accident, I was a newly-minted driver when it occurred, I slowly gained more driving experience and incremental confidence. My dreaded driving maneuver: the highway merge. Luckily there were not many occasions in my day-to-day driving that required me to enter the fast lane. If I wanted to partake in the excitements of big-city Wichita, however, the merge became a right of passage. It had to be done. The witness to this feat of nerves was typically my friend Jason. Poor Jason. I didn't trust drivers to yield to incoming traffic. The speed of the metal hurtling toward me nearly left me breathless. Not breathless enough. My coping strategy involved screams. Great, huge, unbridled screams of terror as I merged. This could not have reassured Jason. Yet he hung in there. Gritting his teeth no doubt.

And now as I prepare to enter the fast lane with the arrival of baby number two, I am once again faced with the incontrovertible fact that I must merge. It must be done. There will be screaming. I must merge into a life in which I am a mother of two under two. I will have a son. There will be lots of screaming.

The screams will be functional, I'd like to think. And hopefully mostly metaphorical. I will scream and moan his hot, little, active body into this world (hence, functional). And then there will be the screams involved in allowing my vision of how life proceeds (and the illusion of my control over it) to be dimmed, stripped away, and returned to me in ways I can't hope to imagine. (Thus, metaphorical.)

I have realized that it is not so much the act of merging that is required. It is the fine art of the yield. The merge is me acting on the stream of life. Here what is needed is the realization that I must yield to others what I cannot possibly handle alone. I must give way to the forces of childbirth and allow a baby boy to pass through me. I must slow down and allow others to help me care for my almost-toddling baby girl. I must give way to those who will care for me and my family as we reorient ourselves with a new little one. I must yield.

Yield. My new mantra, for childbirth and for life. Give way.

And not just to give way, but also. . .


to give up possession of

to surrender or submit oneself to another

to bear or bring forth as a natural product

to be fruitful or productive : bear, produce

to give up and cease resistance or contention : submit, succumb

to give way under physical force (as bending, stretching, or breaking)

to give place or precedence


Even though many years have passed since I found myself upside down in a ditch, I am still a nervous passenger when riding in a car. Just ask my husband. But it is true that I have learned to merge, both as driver and passenger, without actually screaming. I believe that I can learn how to deftly, perhaps gracefully, yield too. It is time. If you hear some screaming, however, don't worry. It is just a part of the ride.