For this meme, you are supposed to quote a great swath of Shakespeare on your blog, as soon as you can.
Here's a poem we discussed in our workshop, which I just memorized, and another poem that to me seems inextricably linked to it. Maybe it's the elegiac...
SONNET 73
That time of year thou mayest in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou seest the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.
This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
__________
Meditations at Lagunitas--Robert Hass
All the new thinking is about loss.
In this it resembles all the old thinking.
The idea, for example, that each particular erases
the luminous clarity of a general idea. That the clown-
faced woodpecker probing the dead sculpted trunk
of that black birch is, by his presence,
some tragic falling off from a first world
of undivided light. Or the other notion that,
because there is in this world no one thing
to which the bramble of blackberry corresponds,
a word is elegy to what it signifies.
We talked about it late last night and in the voice
of my friend, there was a thin wire of grief, a tone
almost querulous. After a while I understood that,
talking this way, everything dissolves: justice,
pine, hair, woman, you and I. There was a woman
I made love to and I remembered how, holding
her small shoulders in my hands sometimes,
I felt a violent wonder at her presence
like a thirst for salt, for my childhood river
with its island willows, silly music from the pleasure boat,
muddy places where we caught the little orange-silver fish
called pumpkinseed. It hardly had to do with her.
Longing, we say, because desire is full
of endless distances. I must have been the same to her.
But I remember so much, the way her hands dismantled bread,
the thing her father said that hurt her, what
she dreamed. There are moments when the body is as numinous
as words, days that are the good flesh continuing.
Such tenderness, those afternoons and evenings,
saying blackberry, blackberry, blackberry.
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Brain Rattled, Nerves Shaken, and Queen Mary
Happy birthday, Jerry Lee Lewis.
________
I'm in the midst of a big decision about an MFA program.
Answers from the Magic 8-Ball (who unfortunately is not Paul Guest, Oracle at Arkadelphia) include 5 abstentions.
Today's answer, amidst a blue froth: Reply hazy, try again.
_________
To the Bob Dylan question: Resounding Yes. From the 8-Ball Oracle and from me.
The first album I ever bought (in 3rd grade, when I was my daughter Raleigh's age) had these lyrics:
Till she sees finally that she's like all the rest
With her fog, her amphetamine and her pearls.
I defy anyone to find a better zeugma.
________
I'm in the midst of a big decision about an MFA program.
Answers from the Magic 8-Ball (who unfortunately is not Paul Guest, Oracle at Arkadelphia) include 5 abstentions.
Today's answer, amidst a blue froth: Reply hazy, try again.
_________
To the Bob Dylan question: Resounding Yes. From the 8-Ball Oracle and from me.
The first album I ever bought (in 3rd grade, when I was my daughter Raleigh's age) had these lyrics:
Till she sees finally that she's like all the rest
With her fog, her amphetamine and her pearls.
I defy anyone to find a better zeugma.
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
READ A BANNED BOOK THIS WEEK (September 24-October 1)
“[I]t’s not just the books under fire now that worry me. It is the books that will never be written. The books that will never be read. And all due to the fear of censorship. As always, young readers will be the real losers.” — Judy Blume
______
Julie of the Wolves by Jean Craighead George is on the list of most frequently challenged books (#38). This book (and meeting Ms. George) was the impetus for my son to choose his own books and form his own opinions about books. I cannot believe any parent would challenge this book.
______
Julie of the Wolves by Jean Craighead George is on the list of most frequently challenged books (#38). This book (and meeting Ms. George) was the impetus for my son to choose his own books and form his own opinions about books. I cannot believe any parent would challenge this book.
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Trying for Grateful...Again
Gratitude Journal (again--I'm struggling)
1. My workshop poem for next week is already written and has (according to the assignment) a barn, a silo, a season of the year, and an animal. It's also very morbid--since we are supposed to focus on tone.
2. Pink Fiesta. Just taking a cup out of the cabinet these chill mornings is, for an instant, a little daybreak.
3. Boston Legal. I never thought I'd enjoy watching William Shatner this much, and James Spader, James Spader, James Spader. What an actor. (And grateful and surprised that Spellcheck wants to change these actors into STAMMER and SPIDER).
4. Cowboy quilt, into which I'm huddled this morning.
5. "A Diamond as Big as the Ritz." F. Scott takes on Dante.
And again, this morning, I'm grateful for the poetry of William Matthews. Here's one of my favorites. I remember reading this first in The Atlantic (I think--it was the periodical publication) and copying it out freehand into my journal. This poem obviously isn't new to me (like yesterday's poem), but it's a revelation every time I read it.
Loyal--William Matthews
They gave him an overdose
of anesthetic, and its fog
shut down his heart in seconds.
I tried to hold him, but he was
somewhere else. For so much love
one of the principals is missing,
it's no wonder we confuse love
with longing. Oh I was thick
with both. I wanted my dog
to live forever and while I was
working on impossibilities
I wanted to live forever, too.
I wanted company and to be alone.
I wanted to know how they trash
a stiff ninety-five-pound dog
and I paid them to do it
and not tell me. What else?
I wanted a letter of apology
delivered by decrepit hand,
by someone shattered for each time
I'd had to eat pure pain. I wanted
to weep, not "like a baby,"
in gulps and breath-stretching
howls, but steadily, like an adult,
according to the fiction
that there is work to be done,
and almost inconsolably.
1. My workshop poem for next week is already written and has (according to the assignment) a barn, a silo, a season of the year, and an animal. It's also very morbid--since we are supposed to focus on tone.
2. Pink Fiesta. Just taking a cup out of the cabinet these chill mornings is, for an instant, a little daybreak.
3. Boston Legal. I never thought I'd enjoy watching William Shatner this much, and James Spader, James Spader, James Spader. What an actor. (And grateful and surprised that Spellcheck wants to change these actors into STAMMER and SPIDER).
4. Cowboy quilt, into which I'm huddled this morning.
5. "A Diamond as Big as the Ritz." F. Scott takes on Dante.
And again, this morning, I'm grateful for the poetry of William Matthews. Here's one of my favorites. I remember reading this first in The Atlantic (I think--it was the periodical publication) and copying it out freehand into my journal. This poem obviously isn't new to me (like yesterday's poem), but it's a revelation every time I read it.
Loyal--William Matthews
They gave him an overdose
of anesthetic, and its fog
shut down his heart in seconds.
I tried to hold him, but he was
somewhere else. For so much love
one of the principals is missing,
it's no wonder we confuse love
with longing. Oh I was thick
with both. I wanted my dog
to live forever and while I was
working on impossibilities
I wanted to live forever, too.
I wanted company and to be alone.
I wanted to know how they trash
a stiff ninety-five-pound dog
and I paid them to do it
and not tell me. What else?
I wanted a letter of apology
delivered by decrepit hand,
by someone shattered for each time
I'd had to eat pure pain. I wanted
to weep, not "like a baby,"
in gulps and breath-stretching
howls, but steadily, like an adult,
according to the fiction
that there is work to be done,
and almost inconsolably.
Monday, September 26, 2005
Gratitude Journal Entries
1. Raleigh's beautiful profile, sharp and clean as a cameo.
2. Daniel's voice. It never cracked, just deepened.
3. Husband's hands, bringing me coffee to stir with a chocolate Tootsie-Pop. (YUM).
4. Catapulting cats, cracking me up all morning.
5. This poem (from Poetry 180: A Poem a Day for High School Students)
Herd Of Buffalo Crossing The Missouri On Ice--William Matthews
If dragonflies can mate atop the surface tension
of water, surely these tons of bison can mince
across the river, their fur peeling in strips like old
wallpaper, their huge eyes adjusting to how far
they can see when there's no big or little bluestem,
no Indian grass nor prairie cord grass to plod through.
Maybe because it's bright in the blown snow
and swirling grit, their vast heads are lowered
to the gray ice: nothing to eat, little to smell.
They have their own currents. You could watch a herd
of running pronghorn swerve like a river rounding
a meander and see better what I mean. But
bison are a deeper, deliberate water, and there will
never be enough water for any West but the one
into which we watch these bison carefully disappear.
______
And I wonder if this was deliberate homage: From Elizabeth Bishop's "The Fish"
...Here and there
his brown skin hung like strips
like ancient wall-paper
Both of these are visually correct.
2. Daniel's voice. It never cracked, just deepened.
3. Husband's hands, bringing me coffee to stir with a chocolate Tootsie-Pop. (YUM).
4. Catapulting cats, cracking me up all morning.
5. This poem (from Poetry 180: A Poem a Day for High School Students)
Herd Of Buffalo Crossing The Missouri On Ice--William Matthews
If dragonflies can mate atop the surface tension
of water, surely these tons of bison can mince
across the river, their fur peeling in strips like old
wallpaper, their huge eyes adjusting to how far
they can see when there's no big or little bluestem,
no Indian grass nor prairie cord grass to plod through.
Maybe because it's bright in the blown snow
and swirling grit, their vast heads are lowered
to the gray ice: nothing to eat, little to smell.
They have their own currents. You could watch a herd
of running pronghorn swerve like a river rounding
a meander and see better what I mean. But
bison are a deeper, deliberate water, and there will
never be enough water for any West but the one
into which we watch these bison carefully disappear.
______
And I wonder if this was deliberate homage: From Elizabeth Bishop's "The Fish"
...Here and there
his brown skin hung like strips
like ancient wall-paper
Both of these are visually correct.
Friday, September 23, 2005
Wang Ping Reading
Syntax (Taken from Of Flesh & Spirit )
She walks to a table
She walk to table
She is walking to a table
She walk to table now
What difference does it make
What difference it make
In Nature, no completeness
No sentence really complete thought
Language, like woman,
Look best when free, undressed.
Wang Ping
)))))))))))))))
Wang Ping read at Murray State last night--to a packed art gallery. Her books sold out. No wonder--the reading was excellent. I had only encountered excerpts from Aching for Beauty before last night. I've bought both her poetry collections. She read one poem from each, and then focused primarily on her new work. She read one poem in Chinese, which was hauntingly beautiful though incomprehensible.
The mysterious grace of a language I cannot understand is something I've tried to capture in poems myself. (Russian is the language I most want to learn to read, followed very closely by improving the Spanish and German that I have pretty much taught myself, and the French where I'm still passable. I can translate French okay, and also Greek/Latin, if my dictionaries don't fail me).
As Ann Neelon, who introduced Wang Ping, pointed out, it was so serendipitous that Wang Ping read on the autumn equinox because of the culture and language concerns, plus the mother-child concerns, she balances so deftly in her own work.
She walks to a table
She walk to table
She is walking to a table
She walk to table now
What difference does it make
What difference it make
In Nature, no completeness
No sentence really complete thought
Language, like woman,
Look best when free, undressed.
Wang Ping
)))))))))))))))
Wang Ping read at Murray State last night--to a packed art gallery. Her books sold out. No wonder--the reading was excellent. I had only encountered excerpts from Aching for Beauty before last night. I've bought both her poetry collections. She read one poem from each, and then focused primarily on her new work. She read one poem in Chinese, which was hauntingly beautiful though incomprehensible.
The mysterious grace of a language I cannot understand is something I've tried to capture in poems myself. (Russian is the language I most want to learn to read, followed very closely by improving the Spanish and German that I have pretty much taught myself, and the French where I'm still passable. I can translate French okay, and also Greek/Latin, if my dictionaries don't fail me).
As Ann Neelon, who introduced Wang Ping, pointed out, it was so serendipitous that Wang Ping read on the autumn equinox because of the culture and language concerns, plus the mother-child concerns, she balances so deftly in her own work.
Musings 23:5: Self-Amemement
1. Go to your archives.
2. Pull up the 23rd post (or its equivalent).
3. Copy the fifth sentence (or its equivalent)
4. Post the fifth sentence, along with these instructions on your blog.
While this lovely story is not absolutely impossible, it turns out to be something worse -- unnecessary.
2. Pull up the 23rd post (or its equivalent).
3. Copy the fifth sentence (or its equivalent)
4. Post the fifth sentence, along with these instructions on your blog.
While this lovely story is not absolutely impossible, it turns out to be something worse -- unnecessary.
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Autumn Equinox--Time to Plant Tears, Says the Almanac
Sestina by Elizabeth Bishop
September rain falls on the house.
In the failing light, the old grandmother
sits in the kitchen with the child
beside the Little Marvel Stove,
reading the jokes from the almanac,
laughing and talking to hide her tears.
She thinks that her equinoctial tears
and the rain that beats on the roof of the house
were both foretold by the almanac,
but only known to a grandmother.
The iron kettle sings on the stove.
She cuts some bread and says to the child,
It's time for tea now; but the child
is watching the teakettle's small hard tears
dance like mad on the hot black stove,
the way the rain must dance on the house.
Tidying up, the old grandmother
hangs up the clever almanac
on its string. Birdlike, the almanac
hovers half open above the child,
hovers above the old grandmother
and her teacup full of dark brown tears.
She shivers and says she thinks the house
feels chilly, and puts more wood in the stove.
It was to be, says the Marvel Stove.
I know what I know, says the almanac.
With crayons the child draws a rigid house
and a winding pathway. Then the child
puts in a man with buttons like tears
and shows it proudly to the grandmother.
But secretly, while the grandmother
busies herself about the stove,
the little moons fall down like tears
from between the pages of the almanac
into the flower bed the child
has carefully placed in the front of the house.
Time to plant tears, says the almanac.
The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove
and the child draws another inscrutable house.
_______
Since this poem is written about the autumn solstice, I think it's appropriate to post today. I've been reading Bishop for class, and she continues to amaze me. The orbit of the grandmother and the child around the stove (the sun) and the equal division between the grandmother and the grandchild are so well done. The fact that the autumn equinox is the time to settle accounts also adds another layer to this poem.
I love this sestina, but on this go-round of reading Bishop it's "The Moose" with its ENVOI in the middle of the poem, which is astounding to me. Every time I return to Bishop, a new poem cracks open for me like a geode.
___________
From today's Farmer's Almanac (yes I have one on a string in my kitchen, right by the telephone but away from my stove, which is marvelous and a Jenn-Air):
Crow on the Fence--rain will go hence
Crow on the Ground, rain's coming down
The crows are on the ground today, pecking at birdseed I spilled on the way to the feeder. So I guess I can blame myself for the weather!
September rain falls on the house.
In the failing light, the old grandmother
sits in the kitchen with the child
beside the Little Marvel Stove,
reading the jokes from the almanac,
laughing and talking to hide her tears.
She thinks that her equinoctial tears
and the rain that beats on the roof of the house
were both foretold by the almanac,
but only known to a grandmother.
The iron kettle sings on the stove.
She cuts some bread and says to the child,
It's time for tea now; but the child
is watching the teakettle's small hard tears
dance like mad on the hot black stove,
the way the rain must dance on the house.
Tidying up, the old grandmother
hangs up the clever almanac
on its string. Birdlike, the almanac
hovers half open above the child,
hovers above the old grandmother
and her teacup full of dark brown tears.
She shivers and says she thinks the house
feels chilly, and puts more wood in the stove.
It was to be, says the Marvel Stove.
I know what I know, says the almanac.
With crayons the child draws a rigid house
and a winding pathway. Then the child
puts in a man with buttons like tears
and shows it proudly to the grandmother.
But secretly, while the grandmother
busies herself about the stove,
the little moons fall down like tears
from between the pages of the almanac
into the flower bed the child
has carefully placed in the front of the house.
Time to plant tears, says the almanac.
The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove
and the child draws another inscrutable house.
_______
Since this poem is written about the autumn solstice, I think it's appropriate to post today. I've been reading Bishop for class, and she continues to amaze me. The orbit of the grandmother and the child around the stove (the sun) and the equal division between the grandmother and the grandchild are so well done. The fact that the autumn equinox is the time to settle accounts also adds another layer to this poem.
I love this sestina, but on this go-round of reading Bishop it's "The Moose" with its ENVOI in the middle of the poem, which is astounding to me. Every time I return to Bishop, a new poem cracks open for me like a geode.
___________
From today's Farmer's Almanac (yes I have one on a string in my kitchen, right by the telephone but away from my stove, which is marvelous and a Jenn-Air):
Crow on the Fence--rain will go hence
Crow on the Ground, rain's coming down
The crows are on the ground today, pecking at birdseed I spilled on the way to the feeder. So I guess I can blame myself for the weather!
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Thrift Store Plunder
Cowboy quilt (50s) for $5.00--this is a fabulous bargain. I am so in love with it.
Two old Raggedy Ann/Andy Huggers. Value on these is between 30 and 50 bucks. They were $1.00.
Old copy of Frazier's The Golden Bough--1922. FIFTY CENTS!
A Picture Dictionary of Symbols
Another Dictionary of Symbols (well worth the dime each)
Tiny McCoy squirrel planter--burgundy-one dollar.
Pink (metal) toy stove and refrigerator--five dollars.
Fiesta (pink) creamer 50 cents.
Lunch from Subway 2.80.
Copper mold in the shape of a crab (to add to my shells)50 cents.
Toy giraffe from Gund--irresistable with tags and free with purchase in the stuffed toy bin where once I found a Steiff porcupine. I wish I'd kept it, but I swapped it with another collector...
I still had money to spare from my $20 a week mad money, so after lunch, I returned and bought a pair of brand-new jeans for $2.00. Got them home and they fit perfectly.
With tax this was exactly $20.00. So I am broke till Thursday...but enjoying my finds. More fun than half a tank of gas--or whatever 20 dollars will purchase at the pump.
Any other scavengers out there?
Two old Raggedy Ann/Andy Huggers. Value on these is between 30 and 50 bucks. They were $1.00.
Old copy of Frazier's The Golden Bough--1922. FIFTY CENTS!
A Picture Dictionary of Symbols
Another Dictionary of Symbols (well worth the dime each)
Tiny McCoy squirrel planter--burgundy-one dollar.
Pink (metal) toy stove and refrigerator--five dollars.
Fiesta (pink) creamer 50 cents.
Lunch from Subway 2.80.
Copper mold in the shape of a crab (to add to my shells)50 cents.
Toy giraffe from Gund--irresistable with tags and free with purchase in the stuffed toy bin where once I found a Steiff porcupine. I wish I'd kept it, but I swapped it with another collector...
I still had money to spare from my $20 a week mad money, so after lunch, I returned and bought a pair of brand-new jeans for $2.00. Got them home and they fit perfectly.
With tax this was exactly $20.00. So I am broke till Thursday...but enjoying my finds. More fun than half a tank of gas--or whatever 20 dollars will purchase at the pump.
Any other scavengers out there?
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Poetry Workshop, Week 4
I am having an incredible time, I'm learning so much about poetry, and I have written something I actually like.
I enjoy being the crone. (Can be sung to the tune of I Enjoy Being a Girl).
I enjoy being the crone. (Can be sung to the tune of I Enjoy Being a Girl).
Monday, September 19, 2005
One Word--Retrospect
In retrospect, what about Lot's wife? What if it rained? Seriously...would she be the salt of the earth?
If you dress inappropriately for your age, have you made a retrospectacle of yourself, or are retrospectacles the proper name for the wireframes popularized by John Lennon?
If you dress inappropriately for your age, have you made a retrospectacle of yourself, or are retrospectacles the proper name for the wireframes popularized by John Lennon?
Saturday, September 17, 2005
I Heart Elizabeth, Too (From The New Yorker)
KEATON by Elizabeth Bishop
I will be good; I will be good
I have set my small jaw for the ages
and nothing can distract me from
solving the appointed emergencies
even with my small brain
--witness the diameter of my hatband
and the depth of the crown of my hat.
I will be correct; I know what it is to be a man.
I will be correct or bust.
I will love but not impose my feelings.
I will serve and serve
with lute or I will not say anything.
If the machinery goes, I will repair it.
If it goes again I will repair it again.
My backbone
through these endless etceteras painful.
No, it is not the way to be they say.
Go with the skid, turn always to leeward,
and see what happens, I ask you, now.
I lost a lovely smile somewhere,
and many colors dropped out.
The rigid spine will break they say--
bend, bend.
I was made at right angles to the world
and I see it so, I can only see it so,
I do not find all this absurdity people talk about.
Perhaps a paradise, a serious paradise where lovers hold hands
and everything works.
I am not sentimental.
I will be good; I will be good
I have set my small jaw for the ages
and nothing can distract me from
solving the appointed emergencies
even with my small brain
--witness the diameter of my hatband
and the depth of the crown of my hat.
I will be correct; I know what it is to be a man.
I will be correct or bust.
I will love but not impose my feelings.
I will serve and serve
with lute or I will not say anything.
If the machinery goes, I will repair it.
If it goes again I will repair it again.
My backbone
through these endless etceteras painful.
No, it is not the way to be they say.
Go with the skid, turn always to leeward,
and see what happens, I ask you, now.
I lost a lovely smile somewhere,
and many colors dropped out.
The rigid spine will break they say--
bend, bend.
I was made at right angles to the world
and I see it so, I can only see it so,
I do not find all this absurdity people talk about.
Perhaps a paradise, a serious paradise where lovers hold hands
and everything works.
I am not sentimental.
I Heart Henry
I'm reading "The Jolly Corner," again--and wonder if this is a retelling of Narcissus, with a happy ending, because he refused to look?
Another Rejection Slip, Unique of Its Kind
Dear Pamela,
Thank you for your submission. Unfortunately, we receive so many good poems that we are unable to accept them all. We look forward to seeing more of your poetry.
Sincerely,
__________________, Editor
This would be a perfectly fine, perfectly kind rejection slip, except for the fact that I sent them A SHORT STORY for consideration. This rejection didn't come from the poetry editor or the fiction editor of this particular journal.
Moving up "Talk Like a Pirate Day" to the present and saying AARGH AARGH AARGH.
Thank you for your submission. Unfortunately, we receive so many good poems that we are unable to accept them all. We look forward to seeing more of your poetry.
Sincerely,
__________________, Editor
This would be a perfectly fine, perfectly kind rejection slip, except for the fact that I sent them A SHORT STORY for consideration. This rejection didn't come from the poetry editor or the fiction editor of this particular journal.
Moving up "Talk Like a Pirate Day" to the present and saying AARGH AARGH AARGH.
Friday, September 16, 2005
One Word--from birth to death...
Delivery--stork, package from UPS, relief, redeemed, signed sealed delivered I'm yours--stevie weevie--proof of purchase--sign for delivery--autograph--bill of lading--deliverance--oh james dickey
How does one get from the stork to James Dickey in less than 60 seconds? I guess through this tortuous route above.
I love the one word site.
How does one get from the stork to James Dickey in less than 60 seconds? I guess through this tortuous route above.
I love the one word site.
Wotthehell, a Villanelle
One Art--Elizabeth Bishop
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.
---Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
_______
I have a weird talent for finding things--except for car keys--so I am not surprised that my first attempt at dowsing was successful. (Water witching is the folklore term). I was able to find the water main at a house in Oklahoma by holding two thin wires. Maybe there is a poem in there somewhere.
_______
Monday, according to my son and to C. Dale Young's blog, is "Talk Like a Pirate Day." I feel pretty sure Daniel and Harvey will inflict this lingo on on me all day long. I don't know how much AARGH MATEY I can stand, before I screech like a parrot myself. I can wear hoop earring, a headwrap, and a striped shirt, even a patch, but I draw the line at buckled shoes...
_______
The poetry workshop is, in the words of my sister, fabu. I am going to post my first exercise this weekend--maybe revised, maybe not. It's Matisse.
Next week in class, we're discussing Elizabeth Bishop: Casabianca, The Armadillo, The Fish, The Moose, Filling Station (Esso-so-so-so), In the Waiting Room, Sestina, and One Art--wish we were discussing "Crusoe in England," which is possibly my favorite.
What I noticed this time when reading "One Art"--the slant rhymes of fluster and gesture, and isn't "aster" a star? I know in the Victorian language of flowers, aster symbolizes missed opportunities, afterthoughts...Which adds a little horticulturally to this poem for me...
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.
---Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
_______
I have a weird talent for finding things--except for car keys--so I am not surprised that my first attempt at dowsing was successful. (Water witching is the folklore term). I was able to find the water main at a house in Oklahoma by holding two thin wires. Maybe there is a poem in there somewhere.
_______
Monday, according to my son and to C. Dale Young's blog, is "Talk Like a Pirate Day." I feel pretty sure Daniel and Harvey will inflict this lingo on on me all day long. I don't know how much AARGH MATEY I can stand, before I screech like a parrot myself. I can wear hoop earring, a headwrap, and a striped shirt, even a patch, but I draw the line at buckled shoes...
_______
The poetry workshop is, in the words of my sister, fabu. I am going to post my first exercise this weekend--maybe revised, maybe not. It's Matisse.
Next week in class, we're discussing Elizabeth Bishop: Casabianca, The Armadillo, The Fish, The Moose, Filling Station (Esso-so-so-so), In the Waiting Room, Sestina, and One Art--wish we were discussing "Crusoe in England," which is possibly my favorite.
What I noticed this time when reading "One Art"--the slant rhymes of fluster and gesture, and isn't "aster" a star? I know in the Victorian language of flowers, aster symbolizes missed opportunities, afterthoughts...Which adds a little horticulturally to this poem for me...
Thursday, September 15, 2005
A Darling I Didn't Kill
I don't really have a favorite poem, but here's my oldest extant poem. For some reason I still like it, flaws and all. The first stanza is a variant on Nietzske's Ecce Homo.
ANYTHING IN THE THICKET
What I touch illumes
and flashes; what I leave
turns into ashes....
And I'm sorry for myself,
I disagree with myself,
I miss my last lover--
cold, stoned, and partial to me.
Now he doesn't come anymore,
now it's night, now here
you and this fire come,
best of all and worst of all.
I don't much like fire tonight,
and the same goes for breath.
I like you smoking in bed,
your dark thoughts
of consumption and the dark,
which I don't agree to.
Smoking, your hands are strangers.
Again, our fever, stoked,
goes up. I learn some things
here--a lot of your words,
all of them welcoming
heartbreak, welcoming all
the things that do the breaking,
as our cigarettes wither
in their trays. I understand
the ends of elegies better now.
ANYTHING IN THE THICKET
What I touch illumes
and flashes; what I leave
turns into ashes....
And I'm sorry for myself,
I disagree with myself,
I miss my last lover--
cold, stoned, and partial to me.
Now he doesn't come anymore,
now it's night, now here
you and this fire come,
best of all and worst of all.
I don't much like fire tonight,
and the same goes for breath.
I like you smoking in bed,
your dark thoughts
of consumption and the dark,
which I don't agree to.
Smoking, your hands are strangers.
Again, our fever, stoked,
goes up. I learn some things
here--a lot of your words,
all of them welcoming
heartbreak, welcoming all
the things that do the breaking,
as our cigarettes wither
in their trays. I understand
the ends of elegies better now.
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
One Word: Sense
IT'S THE THIRD GRADE AND WE ARE
LEARNING ABOUT THE BODY AND
I am so confused by the five senses:
The walls have ears, and the potatoes
Have eyes, there are needle-nopliersars
In the tool shed, and the shoes are all wagging
Their tongues at hand-me-downs in my closet--
Teacher, please tell me, what's the sense in that?
(for Mrs. Gladys Hendrix)
LEARNING ABOUT THE BODY AND
I am so confused by the five senses:
The walls have ears, and the potatoes
Have eyes, there are needle-nopliersars
In the tool shed, and the shoes are all wagging
Their tongues at hand-me-downs in my closet--
Teacher, please tell me, what's the sense in that?
(for Mrs. Gladys Hendrix)
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
Elizabeth Bishop's Poetics
The Sandpiper—Elizabeth Bishop
The roaring alongside he takes for granted,
and that every so often the world is bound to shake.
He runs, he runs to the south, finical, awkward,
in a state of controlled panic, a student of Blake.
The beach hisses like fat. On his left, a sheet
of interrupting water comes and goes
and glazes over his dark and brittle feet.
He runs, he runs straight through it, watching his toes.
Watching, rather, the spaces of sand between them
where (no detail too small) the Atlantic drains
rapidly backwards and downwards. As he runs,
he stares at the dragging grains.
The world is a mist. And then the world is
minute and vast and clear. The tide
is higher or lower. He couldn't tell you which.
His beak is focussed; he is preoccupied,
looking for something, something, something.
Poor bird, he is obsessed!
The millions of grains are black, white, tan, and gray
mixed with quartz grains, rose and amethyst.
The roaring alongside he takes for granted,
and that every so often the world is bound to shake.
He runs, he runs to the south, finical, awkward,
in a state of controlled panic, a student of Blake.
The beach hisses like fat. On his left, a sheet
of interrupting water comes and goes
and glazes over his dark and brittle feet.
He runs, he runs straight through it, watching his toes.
Watching, rather, the spaces of sand between them
where (no detail too small) the Atlantic drains
rapidly backwards and downwards. As he runs,
he stares at the dragging grains.
The world is a mist. And then the world is
minute and vast and clear. The tide
is higher or lower. He couldn't tell you which.
His beak is focussed; he is preoccupied,
looking for something, something, something.
Poor bird, he is obsessed!
The millions of grains are black, white, tan, and gray
mixed with quartz grains, rose and amethyst.
Katrina and Words for Loss
I haven't been blogging much lately because of a personal loss (my sister's death). This has been overwhelming. I've been (and still am) very depressed and doubtful, but I've also tried to be more like my sister, to have faith and to be generous in responding to others' needs.
At the company where I work, we are trying to assist co-workers--19 of whom have lost their homes--in each of the three states hit hardest by Katrina. Here's what our work force has done: Donated money (matched by the company), cashed in vacation time to donate (matched by the company), given relief items to help those evacuated, worked extra and donated the salary (a fund my company is matching 2 to 1), and offered to tutor children who've been relocated. As we work in community, we learn from the generosity of others--through example. At my company, we've all prayed some. Given some. Prayed some more. Given some more.
Do I need to be more articulate about what's wrong? Frankly, I just can't. I cannot articulate my personal loss, much less describe the national tragedy, at this time--maybe ever. I don't yet have the words to describe what's in my own heart, much less the devastation and decimation caused by Katrina and the governmental incompetence and idiocy that have increased suffering exponentially. Seth of The Suburban Ecstasies has a magnificent series of posts outlining this in a passionate form. I refer you to his blog and also ask you to give as you are able, in whatever form you are able.
At the company where I work, we are trying to assist co-workers--19 of whom have lost their homes--in each of the three states hit hardest by Katrina. Here's what our work force has done: Donated money (matched by the company), cashed in vacation time to donate (matched by the company), given relief items to help those evacuated, worked extra and donated the salary (a fund my company is matching 2 to 1), and offered to tutor children who've been relocated. As we work in community, we learn from the generosity of others--through example. At my company, we've all prayed some. Given some. Prayed some more. Given some more.
Do I need to be more articulate about what's wrong? Frankly, I just can't. I cannot articulate my personal loss, much less describe the national tragedy, at this time--maybe ever. I don't yet have the words to describe what's in my own heart, much less the devastation and decimation caused by Katrina and the governmental incompetence and idiocy that have increased suffering exponentially. Seth of The Suburban Ecstasies has a magnificent series of posts outlining this in a passionate form. I refer you to his blog and also ask you to give as you are able, in whatever form you are able.
Beautiful, Beautiful, Beautiful
Night Marriage
When I turn off the light
and the dark mile between us
crumples and falls,
you slip from your self
to wait for me in my sleep,
the face of the moon sinking into a cloud;
or I wake bereaved
from the long hours
I spend in your dreams,
an owl in the forest crying its soft vowels,
dark fish swimming under the river’s skin.
Night marriage. The small hours join us,
face to face as we sleep and dream;
the whole of the huge night is our room
Carol Ann Duffy, from Rapture
________________
This may be my favorite of hers, ever, although "Warming Her Pearls" is hard to beat
When I turn off the light
and the dark mile between us
crumples and falls,
you slip from your self
to wait for me in my sleep,
the face of the moon sinking into a cloud;
or I wake bereaved
from the long hours
I spend in your dreams,
an owl in the forest crying its soft vowels,
dark fish swimming under the river’s skin.
Night marriage. The small hours join us,
face to face as we sleep and dream;
the whole of the huge night is our room
Carol Ann Duffy, from Rapture
________________
This may be my favorite of hers, ever, although "Warming Her Pearls" is hard to beat
Monday, September 12, 2005
All about Me-Me MEME
Seven Things I Plan To Do Before I Die:
1. Finish this garden book, which is a novel in stories.
2. Earn an MFA.
3. Build my husband a studio. Blast the cost.
4. Have a small weekend house by water (the runoff in our back yard does not count).
5. Go to a hockey game with my son and a ballet with my daughter. (Or hockey if that's her interest later).
6. Convince my husband to watch the Super Bowl all the way through. (There's not much possibility on this one).
7. Visit Venice, Italy.
Seven Things I Can Do:
1. Transcribe medical reports at 200+ words per minute (last clocked rate 263).
2. Quote 10 Elizabeth Bishop poems and great swathes of Dickinson and Tennyson by heart.
3. Make the best seafood sauce for pasta--my friend Chop even likes mine better than his Italian mother's. (I know this is heresy).
4. Kiss. My husband wrecked his car after I kissed him goodnight on our first date.
5. Strike a deal/bargain/haggle with the best of them.
6. Find lost objects. I have a weird talent in this direction. My own set of car keys, however, is exempt.
7. Say the alphabet backwards in less than 15 seconds. (This wows my daughter).
Seven Things I Can't Do:
1. Tap-dance. (This may go on the to-do list above as #8).
2. Give up my addiction to magazines (embarrassing).
3. Tolerate the Bush administration/vote Republican. I am proud to say that I have NEVER supported them.
4. Give up caffeine.
5. Feel comfortable in flats. I wear 'em, but I still prefer wearing heels or going barefoot.
6. Style my hair. Thankfully, it's low-maintenance, as among my friends I still have the last virgin hairstyle--no dyes, no perms, and absolutely no curling irons.
7. Sing anything but "Happy Birthday" and a few Beatles songs on-key.
Seven Things That Attract Me to People of the Opposite Sex:
1. Sense of humor (the quirkier the better).
2. Great hands. (There's a reason I married a sculptor)
3. Not afraid to debate. I cannot abide someone who agrees just to end a conversation.
4. Great voice--singing and reading.
5. Black Irish looks.
6. Glasses. (I like guys who look smart yet are capable of being dumbfounded. For some reason, I have NEVER been in a serious relationship with a man who has perfect vision).
7. Love of books and art. (This, like the glasses, is non-negotiable).
My husband meets all of these qualifications. Plus innumerable others.
Seven Things I Say Most:
1. "Do you have any idea what time it is?" (Then proceed to tell the sleepyheads exactly the time).
2. "Tell me about it."
3. "SHUT WAY UP." Directed at all presidential press conferences, and the Fox News announcers.
4. "Die a virgin." I have stolen this from Emily Lloyd's blog, and the mosquitoes here are afraid of that curse--works better than citronella. All of my relatives in Texas and Oklahoma are now joining in the chorus.
5. "No way, Zo-hay." (Based on a childhood mispronunciation by my son).
6. "Say it like you mean it." (Sure to evoke the response from my children and husband of "It like you mean it.")
7. "Bandsaws whine, not little girls/people/husbands."
Seven Celebrity Crushes:
1. Robert Urich (not now, but he was THE ONE, especially when he wore glasses).
2. John Cusack (quite possibly the one now. I am sure he has glasses, and he makes me laugh uproariously).
3. James Mason. (I would listen to him read the phone book. And he aged perfectly).
4. Pistol Pete Maravich (my first crush ever--I'm getting worried about this necrophiliac crush thing).
5. Clyde the Glide Drexler (the best smile in professional sports. And he's alive, which unfortunately does not seem to be a prerequisite for this list).
6. That guy on BBC's Cash in the Attic, Paul, who is so knowledgeable about antiques. He's the only one on this list who's exempt from my no-blonde rule. His hands are fabulous, too, very, er, deft.
7. All the boys from Kentucky--like Johnny Depp (glasses!) and George Clooney (great, great hands and voice). I have been a Clooney fan since The Facts of Life. Many, many men in this end of the state start out looking like Johnny Depp--but it's aged better on Johnny.
UPDATE: Spell check replaced necrophiliac with microfilm. Go figure...
1. Finish this garden book, which is a novel in stories.
2. Earn an MFA.
3. Build my husband a studio. Blast the cost.
4. Have a small weekend house by water (the runoff in our back yard does not count).
5. Go to a hockey game with my son and a ballet with my daughter. (Or hockey if that's her interest later).
6. Convince my husband to watch the Super Bowl all the way through. (There's not much possibility on this one).
7. Visit Venice, Italy.
Seven Things I Can Do:
1. Transcribe medical reports at 200+ words per minute (last clocked rate 263).
2. Quote 10 Elizabeth Bishop poems and great swathes of Dickinson and Tennyson by heart.
3. Make the best seafood sauce for pasta--my friend Chop even likes mine better than his Italian mother's. (I know this is heresy).
4. Kiss. My husband wrecked his car after I kissed him goodnight on our first date.
5. Strike a deal/bargain/haggle with the best of them.
6. Find lost objects. I have a weird talent in this direction. My own set of car keys, however, is exempt.
7. Say the alphabet backwards in less than 15 seconds. (This wows my daughter).
Seven Things I Can't Do:
1. Tap-dance. (This may go on the to-do list above as #8).
2. Give up my addiction to magazines (embarrassing).
3. Tolerate the Bush administration/vote Republican. I am proud to say that I have NEVER supported them.
4. Give up caffeine.
5. Feel comfortable in flats. I wear 'em, but I still prefer wearing heels or going barefoot.
6. Style my hair. Thankfully, it's low-maintenance, as among my friends I still have the last virgin hairstyle--no dyes, no perms, and absolutely no curling irons.
7. Sing anything but "Happy Birthday" and a few Beatles songs on-key.
Seven Things That Attract Me to People of the Opposite Sex:
1. Sense of humor (the quirkier the better).
2. Great hands. (There's a reason I married a sculptor)
3. Not afraid to debate. I cannot abide someone who agrees just to end a conversation.
4. Great voice--singing and reading.
5. Black Irish looks.
6. Glasses. (I like guys who look smart yet are capable of being dumbfounded. For some reason, I have NEVER been in a serious relationship with a man who has perfect vision).
7. Love of books and art. (This, like the glasses, is non-negotiable).
My husband meets all of these qualifications. Plus innumerable others.
Seven Things I Say Most:
1. "Do you have any idea what time it is?" (Then proceed to tell the sleepyheads exactly the time).
2. "Tell me about it."
3. "SHUT WAY UP." Directed at all presidential press conferences, and the Fox News announcers.
4. "Die a virgin." I have stolen this from Emily Lloyd's blog, and the mosquitoes here are afraid of that curse--works better than citronella. All of my relatives in Texas and Oklahoma are now joining in the chorus.
5. "No way, Zo-hay." (Based on a childhood mispronunciation by my son).
6. "Say it like you mean it." (Sure to evoke the response from my children and husband of "It like you mean it.")
7. "Bandsaws whine, not little girls/people/husbands."
Seven Celebrity Crushes:
1. Robert Urich (not now, but he was THE ONE, especially when he wore glasses).
2. John Cusack (quite possibly the one now. I am sure he has glasses, and he makes me laugh uproariously).
3. James Mason. (I would listen to him read the phone book. And he aged perfectly).
4. Pistol Pete Maravich (my first crush ever--I'm getting worried about this necrophiliac crush thing).
5. Clyde the Glide Drexler (the best smile in professional sports. And he's alive, which unfortunately does not seem to be a prerequisite for this list).
6. That guy on BBC's Cash in the Attic, Paul, who is so knowledgeable about antiques. He's the only one on this list who's exempt from my no-blonde rule. His hands are fabulous, too, very, er, deft.
7. All the boys from Kentucky--like Johnny Depp (glasses!) and George Clooney (great, great hands and voice). I have been a Clooney fan since The Facts of Life. Many, many men in this end of the state start out looking like Johnny Depp--but it's aged better on Johnny.
UPDATE: Spell check replaced necrophiliac with microfilm. Go figure...
Saturday, September 10, 2005
Back Home
After eight days, three memorial services, two funerals, and one interment, my sister is finally at rest. I am so glad to be home and still so sad to not be able to pick up the phone and call her.
I appreciate so much all of you who have supported me with emails and posts during this difficult time.
While on the road, I wrote an epic goldfish poem (199 lines--whew!). After my workshop on Tuesday, I will post it--I should have e-mailed it to a couple of you for commentary before turning it in, since it needs major cuts. Unfortunately, I was more of a "putter-inner" than a "taker-outer" (the phrase my American Lit professor used for Fitzgerald vs. Hemingway).
Off to read Bishop and blogs (not necessarily in that order).
I appreciate so much all of you who have supported me with emails and posts during this difficult time.
While on the road, I wrote an epic goldfish poem (199 lines--whew!). After my workshop on Tuesday, I will post it--I should have e-mailed it to a couple of you for commentary before turning it in, since it needs major cuts. Unfortunately, I was more of a "putter-inner" than a "taker-outer" (the phrase my American Lit professor used for Fitzgerald vs. Hemingway).
Off to read Bishop and blogs (not necessarily in that order).
Saturday, September 03, 2005
One word--snow
Watching snow falling down, slow loris slow loris slow loris and sleep, sometimes I dream that you are still alive sometimes I dream that you are reaching out for me, moving slow as snow first starting to fall, slow as underwater, slow as your breath in the night Sam, sam, even your name means soaked
Friday, September 02, 2005
MSU Teacher Homages--Continued
Easter Vigil--Ann Neelon (buy this book, too!)
The Patriot Christopher Davis
Hannah's Travels--Richard Speakes (buy this book!)
Black Riviera--Mark Jarman
To A Friend Going Blind--Jorie Graham
Hematite Lake--James Galvin
_______________
These are sample poems/books that you can find on-line. I don't have the time to post anymore links now.
I'm leaving for Oklahoma for my sister's funeral ceremony, then coming back to Kentucky for her burial service.
Keep the people of the Gulf in your prayers, and please support the Red Cross.
Pamela
The Patriot Christopher Davis
Hannah's Travels--Richard Speakes (buy this book!)
Black Riviera--Mark Jarman
To A Friend Going Blind--Jorie Graham
Hematite Lake--James Galvin
_______________
These are sample poems/books that you can find on-line. I don't have the time to post anymore links now.
I'm leaving for Oklahoma for my sister's funeral ceremony, then coming back to Kentucky for her burial service.
Keep the people of the Gulf in your prayers, and please support the Red Cross.
Pamela
Homage to Teachers, Day 2
Camera Lucida--Claudia Keelan (in Jacket)
Though the photograph deceives
The viewer is drawn to its light,
Vision itself a device
Where the world becomes
An animated drawing.
The lover, for example, is hollow in the middle,
Standing beside the skeleton bones
Of a 19th century hoopskirt.
And though you can’t believe it,
She’s you.
_______
I love this poem. Claudia is a wonderful writer and teacher.
Though the photograph deceives
The viewer is drawn to its light,
Vision itself a device
Where the world becomes
An animated drawing.
The lover, for example, is hollow in the middle,
Standing beside the skeleton bones
Of a 19th century hoopskirt.
And though you can’t believe it,
She’s you.
_______
I love this poem. Claudia is a wonderful writer and teacher.
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