Cecilia Beaux--Illustrator and Painter

On Portraiture

since light falls like light
rain, search out those places where
the head would get wet

"You are an Elizabeth, you are one of them"

Mar(avi)ch Madness

No. 44 was my favorite player during my teenage years--Beatles mop-hair, lucky socks flopping around skinny ankles, and those eyes that were dark as coffee. He's remembered as a shooter, but he was one of the best passers I've ever seen--his rhythm for the game was unbelievable, and this video reflects it. Johnny Cash doesn't hurt either. Such a poignant pairing there.

I've tried and tried to write a poem about watching him play. He and David Thompson--two of my favorites. I almost have the Thompson poem finished. Maybe it'll be ready by Final Four time.

By the way I have drawn two good teams in my office pool (we drew at Sweet Sixteen, $10 per draw) Florida and Georgetown. I feel pretty good about that selection.

I think it's Florida, Georgetown, UCLA, and Texas A/M (I think they're on a roll) for the Final Four. What's your pick? My Cinderella is Butler.

What's It? How Does it Work?

Peter--Marianne Moore

Strong and slippery, built for the midnight grass-party confronted by four cats,
he sleeps his time away -- the detached first claw on his foreleg which corresponds
to the thumb, retracted to its tip; the small tuft of fronds
or katydid legs above each eye, still numbering the units in each group;
the shadbones regularly set about his mouth, to droop or rise

in unison like the porcupine's quills -- motionless. He lets himself be flat­
tened out by gravity, as it were a piece of seaweed tamed and weakened by
exposure to the sun; compelled when extended, to lie
stationary. Sleep is the result of his delusion that one must do as
well as one can for oneself; sleep -- epitome of what is to

him as to the average person, the end of life. Demonstrate on him how
the lady caught the dangerous southern snake, placing a forked stick on either
side of its innocuous neck; one need not try to stir
him up; his prune shaped head and alligator eyes are not a party to the
joke. Lifted and handled, he may be dangled like an eel or set

up on the forearm like a mouse; his eyes bisected by pupils of a pin's
width, are flickeringly exhibited, then covered up. May be? I should say,
might have been; when he has been got the better of in a
dream -- as in a fight with nature or with cats -- we all know it. Profound sleep is
not with him, a fixed illusion. Springing about with froglike ac­

curacy, emitting jerky cries when taken in the hand, he is himself
again; to sit caged by the rungs of a domestic chair would be unprofit­
able -- human. What is the good of hypocrisy? It
is permissible to choose one's employment, to abandon the wire nail, the
roly-poly, when it shows signs of being no longer a pleas­

ure, to score the adjacent magazine with a double line of strokes. He can
talk, but insolently says nothing. What of it? When one is frank, one's very
presence is a compliment. It is clear that he can see
the virtue of naturalness, that he is one of those who do not regard
the published fact as a surrender. As for the disposition

invariably to affront, an animal with claws wants to have to use
them; that eel-like extension of trunk into tail is not an accident. To
leap, to lengthen out, divide the air -- to purloin, to pursue.
to tell the hen: fly over the fence, go in the wrong way -- in your perturba­
tion -- this is life; to do less would be nothing but dishonesty.


____________________________________________

"A Brief History of My Self-Image"

This is Section II from my six-decade poem, along with the ephemeral objects I treasured most at that time. (Note: I am 49 and holding on by broken fingernails, but this is the sixth decade in which I've lived).

The Sixties: Age 10, What I Wanted Was

my name to be poppy and not pamela;
wanted a mouth that wet, and a paper mini
dress and an Indian gauze skirt crinkly
as those petals; wanted a flop-brim hat and
go-go boots of white leather, wanted kohl
eyeliner and a black velvet choker,
a mary quant flower; a wiglet and lace
stockings; wanted baby doll-pajamas;

wanted to be straight as a sleeve, thin as
a twig; wanted tabs for all my clothes; nights
I wanted to be tucked inside a flap,
filed in a folder, flat as a flitter;
didn't want wavy hair so i ironed it,
didn't want breasts; they sprouted anyway.

Coming Soon, to a Library Near You!

Poets at Work and Dr. Pereira

A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language.

“Why do you want to write poetry?” If the young man answers: “I have important things I want to say,” then he is not a poet. If he answers: “I like hanging around words listening to what they say,” then maybe he is going to be a poet.

Auden, from Poets at Work

As I read What's Written on the Body,I realized that no matter what other labels he may wear in life--physician, partner, gardener, Scrabble sensei, sports buff--Dr. Pereira is a poet, by Auden's definition or any other. Passion for language and deep wordplay illuminate every single poem. I look forward to the second read, which I am sure won't be the last time I return to this book. It's amazing.

I Ain't Missing You: A Free-Written Exercise

Fact of the Day: Earth's dimensions (from Reference.com)
It is believed that the earth is, at the very least, 4.6 billion years old. It is an oblate spheroid, bulging at the equator and flattened at the poles. The earth's equatorial circumference is 24,901 miles and its equatorial diameter is 7,926 miles; its polar diameter is 7,900 miles. The earth's radius is 3,963 miles, its mass is 5,973,700,000,000,000,000,000,000 kg or 5.9737 x 1024 kg, and its surface area is 196,937,500 square miles.

With all those numbers, all that space, it's hard for me to believe that I have no sister on this earth. Karen, I remember you, on your birthday, and also the day you died. I remember how you always rubbed it in that you shared your birthday with Einstein, and I shared mine with Elias Howe, whose wife invented the sewing machine he took credit for. I can remember how we laughed at 40 about turning into trees, all those rings, all that thickening around the middle. I can remember thinking we'd age together.

It's hard for me to believe that I have no best friend on this earth. Samuel, I remember you and how ironic your birthday (March 17) is always thought of an Irish holiday. I remember your campaign to start a Jews for Saint Patrick movement. I remember the block we sewed in your favorite green for a local AIDS quilt. I haven't forgotten your hands, the deft needle moving in and out, over and under. I still wear the last ring you gave me.

It's hard for me to believe that I will never read another poem written by Joe, who left this earth too soon. I miss your fingers counting the beats in a line of Vallejo, tapping like roots underground, like roots underwater, your knuckles knobby as cypress. I remember the stillness of Reelfoot Lake, the rumors that love shook the earth. I remember our common ground, more faults than New Madrid running under everything. I remember you telling me that when the great quake came, compass needles gyrated and birds flew backwards; church bells were ringing as far away as Boston, a knell that came out of nowhere.

Aaron Smith is the Reason: My Latest Temptation/Acquisition

I'd never even heard of this brand before: I just ordered them. I'm going to wear them on my birthday and feel like Dorothy. Minus the gingham, minus the anklets.

The NY Times' Top 25 of the Last 25 Years

This was done as a response to a post on Jewishy-Irishy's blog, which apparently was a response to the link above, Wot-What.

I bolded the ones I've read completely through and asterisked my top five (strictly based on the experience of a first read, all of which I've returned to with love and bemusement at the strength of the language).

Beloved–Toni Morrison *
Underworld–Don DeLillo
Blood Meridian–Cormac McCarthy
Rabbit Angstrom: The Four Novels–John Updike– Rabbit, Run, Rabbit Redux, Rabbit Is Rich, Rabbit at Rest
American Pastoral–Philip Roth
A Confederacy of Dunces–John Kennedy Toole
Housekeeping–Marilynne Robinson *
Winter’s Tale–Mark Helprin
White Noise–Don DeLillo
The Counterlife–Philip Roth
Libra–Don DeLillo
Where I’m Calling From–Raymond Carver
The Things They Carried–Tim O’Brien *
Mating–Norman Rush
Jesus’ Son–Denis Johnson
Operation Shylock–Philip Roth
Independence Day–Richard Ford
Sabbath’s Theater–Philip Roth
Border Trilogy–Cormac McCarthy—
All the Pretty Horses*, The Crossing, Cities of the Plain
The Human Stain–Philip Roth

The Known World–Edward P. Jones *
The Plot Against America–Philip Roth

Confession #1: I like to think I'm a patient reader, but I have not been able to make it through any work of Don Delillo. I'm going to try again, because certainly the fault may be on my part.

Confession #2: I adore Philip Roth's sentences, yet I'd have to put Portnoy's Complaint and Goodbye, Columbus ahead of these works.

Confession #3: Who is Norman Rush? I am shamed.

Confession (and Praises)#4: Beloved is a masterpiece. I'd love to teach it, to spend more time studying it. I told everyone I knew about Housekeeping .
The Known World is an awesome first novel. Maybe this time I'll have time for his short story collection. He's a writer whom I'd like to meet. I just ordered his book. Here's its lovely cover.



Confession/Question #5: I don't understand C. McCarthy sometimes, but I love to go back and puzzle out the lovely carnage of his language. (Am I a patient reader after all?).

Question #6: Where the frost is Lee Smith? (ADT, that "frost" is for you!)

Confession #7: I have read only 4 or 5 "serious" novels since I started teaching. I have read over 20 poetry collections, and several essays on poetry, but I miss that head-long fall into the world of a novel. I'm craving a read of Anna Karenina.

The Writer's Almanac Sneaks In an Anti-War Poem

"Prayer Requests at a Mennonite Church" by Todd Davis
from Some Heaven. © Michigan State University Press.

Prayer Requests at a Mennonite Church

Pray for the Smucker family. Their son Nathaniel's coat and shirt were
caught in the gears while grinding grain. Nothing would give, so now
he is gone. We made his clothes too well. Perhaps this is our sin.

Pray for the Birky family. Their son Jacob fell to his death in the
granary. He was covered in corn before they could stop the pouring—
chest crushed by the weight, seed spilling from his mouth. We hope
something will grow from this, besides our grief.

Pray for the Hartzler family. Their youngest has left the church and no
longer believes that Christ died for her sins. She buys clothes at the
mall. Tongue pierced, nose as well. Her shirt shows her belly where a
ring of gold sprouts. We pray she will remember that her Lord's side
was pierced, that His crown held no gold, only the dried blood of His
brow.

Pray for the Miller family. Last week their daughter, who lives in
Kalona, lost her baby at birth. Child only half-formed: head turned the
wrong way; heart laid on the outside of her chest; one leg little more
than an afterthought. Lord, help them know that life may come again,
that we are all made whole in heaven.

Pray for the Stutzman family. Their son fights in the war. We call him
back to the Prince of Peace, to our Savior who knelt to gather the
slave's ear, brushed the dirt away, lifted it to the side of his flushed face.
May we leave no scars. May we ask no blessing for the killing done in
His name.

I Am Miranda

I bet I scored the same for height, too. We petite ladies need to stick together, although she is 5 feet tall and I claim an additional 3-3/4 inches.

Off to AWP! Having A Wonderful Time--Wish I was already there....

I'm excited! All the readings--and all the books--and maybe even a Peachtree martini!