Tina Cane serves as the Poet Laureate of Rhode Island, where she lives with her husband and their three children. She is also the founder and director of Writers-in-the-Schools, RI and is an instructor with the writing community, Frequency Providence. Her poems and translations have appeared in numerous publications, including The Literary Review, Two Serious Ladies, Tupelo Quarterly, Jubliat and The Common. She also produces, with Atticus Allen, the podcast, Poetry Dose.
Cane is the author of The Fifth Thought (Other Painters Press, 2008), Dear Elena: Letters for Elena Ferrante, poems with art by Esther Solondz (Skillman Avenue Press, 2016) and Once More With Feeling (Veliz Books, 2017) and Body of Work (forthcoming in 2019, Veliz Books). In 2016, Tina received the Fellowship Merit Award in Poetry, from the Rhode Island State Council on the Arts.
A Sermon by Tina Cane
(author’s note: this piece is spaced in accordance with my recitation style)
Part 1
To listen to Tina’s present Part 1 of her sermon, click on the arrow below:
Good morning and thank you all for welcoming me into your church and
for inviting me to share in this worship service with you One of the
joys of serving as poet laureate of our state has been occasions such as this
in which I find myself brought into the fold of a community that I might
not otherwise have had access to and I am very grateful to be here
So…I am a poet Not a preacher And while I have been called “evangelical”
when it comes to certain issues and I was baptized Catholic I was not raised
within a religion and so speaking here today fills me with a degree of
reverence the kind of reverence that is probably reserved for those on the
outside of something that they perceive to be intimate and powerful
which is what I imagine your faith is to you which is what poetry is to me
since over time I have come to realize that I turn to poetry much in the way
that people turn to spiritual practice
It was my friend the poet Karen Donovan who once called the work of Walt
Whitman her scripture a phrase that captured how I too rely on poems—
Whitman’s in particular—to guide and instruct me to comfort or challenge me
on a daily basis for even if one is not affiliated with an organized religion
we all still need many of the values and lessons religions have to offer
I have found some of those in poetry
There’s a portion of the preface to Whitman’s Leaves of Grass that I keep taped
above my desk—a poetic commandment of sorts that I would like to share
with you:
This is what you shall do: Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give
alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and
labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence
toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or
number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with
the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of
your life, re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss
whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the
richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and
between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body.
I love these lines because they’re all-encompassing brimming with urgency
and aspiration as they capture not the life I lead but the life I wish to lead
a life that rendered in Whitman’s exuberant but accessible language feels
like it just might be possible if I can set my sites on truth and compassion
and not be moved by the superficial or temporal most of us cannot claim
to function like this every day but Whitman’s message contains no
judgment only urges us to deploy love where we can to thus become
a very poem of life a rich manifestation of humanity
But how to be an overflowing font of love in this rapid-fire and violent world
where truth is elusive and the suffering of others makes itself known
in real-time at distances too vast and paralyzing for any meaningful action?
I wish I knew.
To listen to Tina present part 2 of her sermon, click on the arrow below:
Recently, I’ve been spending time with a particular stanza by W.H. Auden,
searching—I guess for clues It goes like this:
All I have is a voice
To undo the folded lie,
The romantic lie in the brain
Of the sensual man-in-the-street
And the lie of Authority
Whose buildings grope the sky:
There is no such thing as the State
And no one exists alone;
Hunger allows no choice
To the citizen or the police;
We must love one another or die
So, Auden wrote this poem which is called September 1, 1939 on the day that
Nazi troops first entered Poland prompting what is considered the start of the
Second World War it’s said that Auden disillusioned by the horrors that
would unfold later changed that last line from We must love one another or die
to We must love one another and die a move which was effectively a
commentary on the ineffectiveness of poetry to have made any impact
whatsoever on the state of the world but ever the poet Auden thought
that this shift from “or” to “and” lacked rhetorical power and he decided to
remove the line altogether when it was found years later in his drafts
Auden was convinced by editors to include it as he had originally written it
perhaps because enough time had passed perhaps because he wanted to
preserve the poem’s integrity in accordance with his intention rather than
with the world’s reality he put the line back in such is the freedom
he enjoyed as a poet for not all poets enjoy such freedom
This backstory resonates with me because in April I was invited to write
a short essay for the This I Believe series on RI NPR just like today the task
was both an honor and a challenge because like a one-woman debate team
I have a tendency to contest my own views as I write them which makes
pinning down and expressing my beliefs needlessly-problematical
I thought I’d read that essay which I both believe wholeheartedly
and which I dismiss summarily:
I believe that poetry saves lives—not the way that paramedics do, as
they rush to restore a patient’s breath or shock a stopped heart back to beating—but
slowly, over time, poetry can alter the texture and course of a life—and that change can
be something of a salvation—by which I mean an opening—by which I mean
the making of essential space for reflection and connection–for I believe
that poetry—through its fusion of intellect and emotion–compels us
to consider more deeply our experience in the world and to cultivate connection.
If, as Socrates said, The unexamined life is not worth living—then poetry
can only enrich us, because the effects of an unexamined life exert their own kind
of urgency—one that a doctor may not readily recognize and that medicine will not
remedy—but which undermine as steadily as any pathogen.
I believe that just as everyone should have an annual check-up, we should
also check in with ourselves and others—through poetry—and more than
once a year–for there is a poetry out there for each of us, for every day of our lives.
I once heard of a doctor who prescribed poems to his patients—a radical and ingenious
practice that, for some, might conjure a 19th century lady sprawled on a fainting couch—
since poets and poetry are often mistakenly considered delicate of composition—like
snowflakes or butterflies. But I believe–to quote the intrepid explorer Ernest
Shackleton—that poetry is “vital mental medicine”–and that poetry builds grit, for poets
are among the most resilient, determined people I know–because writing poetry is really
an attempt to engage intensely with humanity, and to embrace what John
Keats called negative capability—which is the ability to endure uncertainty and mystery,
to accept not having answers. I believe that presidents, like Abraham Lincoln,
Vaclav Havel, and Barack Obama–who read and wrote poetry—were better equipped
as leaders–in an uncertain world–for having grappled with meaning and nuance,
for having tackled intricacy of thought, and for attempting intimacy through words.
I believe that–while poems won’t block malignant cells or stop a hail of bullets—
poetry is an antidote to the alienation of the unexamined existence–that through poems
we can save lives–our own and each other’s– by which I mean expand —both our inner
and outer lives—by which I mean entire lives, by which I mean: the point.
So, the day before I was to submit this piece seventeen people were murdered
at Marjory Stoneman High School in Parkland, Florida and like everyone
I was stunned and horrified yet again and I grappled I grappled
with the absurdity of claiming that poetry saves lives when not a single poem
has managed to save a single life in any of our schools on any battlefield
or on any of the NY streets where I grew up such an assertion seemed vain-glorious
and frankly kind of infuriating and so for 30 hours I mulled and grieved and tried to
figure out what I really believe in the end I added the line while a poem won’t block
malignant cells or stop a hail of bullets poetry is the antidote to alienation if you’re
thinking the phrase hail of bullets does no justice to the lives lost you are right and
really nothing that I write ever could such are the frustrating limits of language
I grapple with this essay still some days I do believe that poetry saves lives
some days I don’t every day though I know that poetry saved me by offering itself
as a form through which to explore and understand my experiences in the world
A couple of months ago the wonderful poet Michael Klein put out a call on social
media for thoughts on how poets and poetry could actively mount a viable resistance
movement against the Trump administration he was offering free tickets to see the
poets Sharon Olds and Ocean Vhong read in NYC to the person whose response he
liked best I don’t think I won but I sent Michael the This I Believe essay with the
following email in which I think I get closer to my real point:
Hi Michael,
I was invited to write an essay for the This I Believe Series on RI NPR
to air during National Poetry month. I did and I think, at its heart, is has to do
with resistance. The illness at the core of this seemingly global tilt towards
nativism, fascist tendencies, and general hostility seems to me about alienation—
the breakdown of connections between communities and individuals. For all our
supposed connectedness through digital media–some of which can be very
positive–people on the whole are increasingly lonely and isolated. The boy
joining ISIS and the boy shooting up the movie theatre are not so different.
The man in the White House and any other charismatic leader are not so
different; they prey on people’s yearning and purport to give them purpose.
The only way to collectively resist, the only practical way to resist–other than
bloody revolution–is to rebuild and reinforce genuine connection where we can-
as individuals, in our families, in our workplace, as poets, as people. When
people feel connected to other people, they see more clearly, they stay open,
they tend towards reciprocity. This makes it more difficult for them to shun their
neighbor, to shoot a child. I do believe that poetry saves lives. But it’s people
really. Because people make the poems. For other people.
xoTina
P.S. I was stuffed up when we recorded so I am kind of whispering,
because I was afraid of snuffling into the super sensitive mic 🙂
smiley face emoji
So, there’s a line from that Auden poem which keeps coming back to me:
All I have is a voice how true this is for every one of us and therefore
how devastating to be silenced whatever the circumstance
Just as it’s said that prejudice is an emotional commitment to ignorance I think
that to accept being silenced is to make an emotional commitment to inequality
and that to silence is to make unequal
because to use one’s voice is to proclaim one’s right to exist and it’s to make an
offering to seek the possibility of response and maybe even of conflict
either way words make bridges it’s about connection
It’s what the Parkland survivors felt compelled to do to undo the folded lie
to love one another or die to proclaim that love in the form of protest
so that perhaps fewer people would die down the line
Part 3
To listen to Tina present part 3 of her sermon, click on the arrow below:
So, my only real experience with organized religion came in the form of Quaker
Silent Meeting which I observed with students and colleagues at a Friends
school in downtown NYC where I worked for many years as a French and
English teacher it’s difficult to overstate the power that silence had in my life
at that time long periods of silent reflection in a meeting house filled with
people generated a kind of energy I had never experienced before and
when children mustered the courage to break the silence and speak
it never failed to be a moment of deep truth and hearing the adults
sometimes use that right as a chance to pontificate as I fear I may be doing
here 🙂 was a lesson in how the process of growing up can sometimes lead us
away from the truth of our voices
So, my years teaching at this school were a kind of second education
for me I saw what mindful and loving edification entailed I saw how
time for deep reflection created a sense of peace many of you may already
know this from your faith but for me it was a revelation
One aspect of silent meeting that I particularly love is the importance of
expression for if as is often the case you have something you are moved
to say but miss the chance or feel too shy to stand you are invited
urged even to share your message privately with someone after meeting
it’s a beautiful exercise of giving voice which I practice still today meaning
that when I have been carrying a deeply felt sentiment I make a point of
sharing it and sometimes that sharing takes the form of a poem like this one
in which I am reflecting on my experiences reading the newspaper and also
of being a woman:
DAILY BEAST
I commit to reading accounts of the torture before the beheadings
as a form of emotional engagement with world turmoil a juncture
at which to decide which side of the dream I am on one side being
to study the invention of women by men by which I mean to understand
women as men’s vision of the female version of themselves
mistakenly
I typed remale just now flickering on the screen another side of the dream
to remake things to put the head back on the body to commit to reading
loving accounting for
the body of each man as my own
So, the public high school I attended in the Bronx was nothing like the private
Quaker school where I taught in fact it was quite literally the opposite
an impersonal concrete block teeming with thousands of kids it had a great
reputation but its vastness prevented a feeling of connection at least for me
A few weeks ago a man named Milton Kopelman passed away he was
the principal of my high school and well into his eighties he had
enjoyed a long and respected career in education stunned I shook my fist
when I read the news over social media not because it was shocking or
untimely but because I had kept his home address scrawled on a yellow
post-it in my wallet for months
finally losing it somewhere in New Hampshire
See, I had been meaning to write Mr. Kopelman a letter not because I knew
him well I had in fact only met him once when I was summoned to his
office a couple of weeks before graduation which was kind of a big deal since
our school had close to 4,000 students and only a handful of us had ever even
seen Mr. Kopelman up close in all our years from what I could tell across the
immense auditorium he looked kind of like my Uncle Marty
When I entered his office he was holding a piece of paper filled with
grids and numbers “Tina,” he said “I am looking here and it says
you haven’t attended enough school days this year to graduate “Whoa,”
I said “I didn’t know there were rules about that” “Do your parents know
that you’ve been absent this much? “he asked “Well, I said I live with my dad
who’s really my stepdad but he and my mom were never married so he’s
technically not my guardian but my mom’s not around and the college
counselor wanted me to be an “emancipated minor” so I could apply for
more aid but I don’t earn enough money and my dad works nights so
he doesn’t really know and…
“Stop” said Mr. Kopelman “Why don’t you like to come to school?” “I don’t
know,” I said “I mean, I like English and I love my friends…”
“I see you’ve managed to keep a B average without being here most of the time.
And it says here you are going to the University of Vermont Is that true?”
“Yes,” I said “I got a full scholarship” “Okay, Tina, “ he said, placing the
paper on a stack, “You can go back to class now”
So, when I was allowed to receive my diploma at the Felt Forum in Madison Sq.
Garden with the other 974 students—I thought in in my adolescent
foolishness that I had gotten over on Mr. Kopelman that I had gotten away with
something not that I had been given something it was through my many years
of teaching that I came to realize that Mr. Kopelman was not just reading my
record he was reading me seeing me as a young person who was grappling
but who might come out on the other side if allowed to find her way
I procrastinated and missed my chance to write to Mr. Kopelman —so I am
breaking the silence of thirty years and telling you I am sure that even if
prompted Mr. Kopelman would have not have remembered me and my
penchant for truancy but I wanted him to know that I remembered him
and the gift of his compassionate judgment at a time when my own judgment
was pretty poor I doubt that I am the only student whose case he took into his
own hands as we know the world is filled with kids who need someone on
their side I just happened to be in the right place with the right guy
So where am I going with this?
The writer Annie LaMott once wrote “I’ve decided that the most subversive
and revolutionary thing I could do was to show up for my life and not be
ashamed.”
I realize now that I was quite literally not showing up for my life at that time
What Mr. Kopelman gave me was another chance to do so
And I did and I am still trying because it’s a process never stops and it’s
important for me to honor my luck
just like it’s important for us to also resist what we oppose by showing up
to commit to reading more poetry sure but each other
and for us to practice compassionate judgment born not from authority
but from opportunity for us to find those opportunities where we can
to seek them out
Part 4
To listen to Tina’s present the fourth and final part of her sermon, click on the arrow below:
So, when asked to give a title to this service, I called it “The One Living Poem”
which is how I refer to my husband and our three children in a poem of mine
I write “the one living poem I’ve made” which is to say
the most important thing I’ve managed to do which is to say they are
the poem of the richest fluency to me by which I mean my life
by which I mean a creative act by which I mean like Whitman
that life is a poem and when I think of how I make poems the kind written
on paper I realize that they take shape from fragments—bits scrawled on
shopping lists and bank receipts– which I gather and read and which
often reveal a system of communication of a message I want to send
in the form of a poem that I may be heard
When I am teaching I assert that a poem is largely defined by intention since
poetry is a most flexible form the only way a piece of writing can be
definitively a poem is if the poet says so
So where I’m going with this is
What if we built our lives the way a poem is sometimes built? Not through
sentimental yearning or deep thoughts but through a precision of intention
What if we all step back and look at the fragments our acts and
accomplishments and seek a system? a coherence of purpose ?
desired intention? what messages do the disparate fragments hold?
What if like writers of our lives we work each line with care and attention
what if we forgive but correct our own clichés and awkward turns
And what if vigilant in our assessment we cut the stanzas that are not working
strive for a leaner integrity of expression and purpose?
Would we be like Walt Whitman? I don’t know Would we be heroes?
Hardly But we might be more like Mr. Kopelman who preserved enough
humanity to see possibility where others might not have which is akin
to living with an open hand rather than a clenched fist and as we know
the world needs more of this ……but important questions persist
as I wrote in one of my own poems:
proof that I am American is my callousness I care but how much do I spare
anything with which I am reluctant to part
This is a question that haunts me and should I believe haunt all of us
which is why I voiced it in a poem and broke the silence to share it
with you with what I hope is an open hand for that is my intention