LIFE/LINES: Hopelessly Corny Post

On Lines by W. S. Merwin

....and each waking to you

when I open my eyes you are what I wanted to see.

From "A Birthday" by W. S. Merwin (Flower & Hand)

After only three months, my boyfriend proposed to me, at dawn, with these lines. I'd turned him down six times before, but this time…what an aubade! Ten years later, early one Saturday morning, he repeated these lines to me on the birth of our daughter, Raleigh.

Elizabeth Bishop writes in "Filling Station," that "somebody loves us all." When I recall these lines of Merwin and Harvey's earnest face, I remember who and when and always.

Centennial Celebration Day 1: Jezebel

Con fuoco: Ending my Dissertation

Zaftig

Interrogative?

A Post I’ve Asked My 10-Year-Daughter Not To Read

Open Response to a Certain Correspondant:

I have given serious consideration to the wording of this post. I have tried to be prayerful, to be polite, and to be private in my response. This tactic has failed miserably, though, so here goes blunt: I am 50 years old. I don’t have more wrinkles than a Sharpei, but I certainly show my age. If anyone looks at my blog photo, there are lines and bags, undereye circles worthy of any raccoon, and pallor caused by my extremely bookwormish lifestyle.

I’ve made no secret in numerous posts that I am monogamously married to my husband of 21 years (whom I adore physically, mentally, and spiritually). Blogger information page shows I categorize myself as Wife and Mom. These are the roles that are most important to me. My husband, my son, and my daughter read this blog regularly.

I don’t talk about my sex life because, well, it’s private. I am not a Puritan, and I don’t support any form of censorship in creative writing, or any ban on any sort of relationships between consenting adults, including sexual ones.

With that being said, please note the following, to which I don’t consent:

I don’t want to be called any diminutive, sexist names by you.

I'm not interested in sending any private messages to you.

I'm not going to exchange poems about sex with you, or comments about sex with you. Quite frankly, your attempts in this direction I find jejune.

I'm not interested in exchanging photographs of any ilk with you.

I'm offended by your posts and e-mails that contain sexually debasing innuendo. My husband and my 23-year-old son are offended by them, as well. (I hope that my 10-year-old daughter doesn’t see them). I shared some of your comments with another trusted blogger, who was also offended.

As I state above, I emphatically don't support any type of censorship. You are welcome to your thoughts and to your words. I ask that you respect my lifestyle choices and refrain from posting such comments, here or anywhere else I blog.

Pamela

Aizuri-e: Azure

Trade Day: Bauble , Bauble, Toile and Trouble

Trifari jelly belly angelfish pin
Burgundy Bakelite bangle
Toile pillow shams
Lemony Snicket: The Trouble Begins book set

Not a bad haul for $2.00, eh?

March Madness--The best game of the tournament?

My beloved Louisville Cardinals crushed Oklahoma in an offensive and defensive exhibit: nearly 60% from the floor, over 50% from 3-point land, and three masterful defenses--man-to-man, zone, and a press that shut down the Sooners.

Next, it's time to turn the Tennessee Vols On into Orange Crush(ed).

Mark my words. Louisville is a Final 4 team. Prediction: They'll beat UCLA in the finals.

In bracket news: I have 11 of the Sweet 16 Teams. Pretty good odds for me to win this thing, as the next closest person only has 8.


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Memorization Poem #3: Transfiguration

The Explosion--Philip Larkin

On the day of the explosion
Shadows pointed towards the pithead:
In the sun the slagheap slept.

Down the lane came men in pitboots
Coughing oath-edged talk and pipe-smoke,
Shouldering off the freshened silence.

One chased after rabbits; lost them;
Came back with a nest of lark’s eggs;
Showed them; lodged them in the grasses.

So they passed in beards and moleskins,
Fathers, brothers, nicknames, laughter,
Through the tall gates standing open.

At noon, there came a tremor; cows
Stopped chewing for a second; sun,
Scarfed as in a heat-haze dimmed.

The dead go on before us, they
Are sitting in God’s house in comfort,
We shall see them face to face–

Plain as lettering in the chapels
It was said, and for a second
Wives saw men of the explosion

Larger than in life they managed–
Gold as on a coin, or walking
Somehow from the sun towards them,

One showing the eggs unbroken.

- - -

Blooming here are over 250 daffodils and over 50 crocus (purple, yellow and the long-awaited white, big as lightbulbs). There are spears on the tulips, buds on the hydrangeas, and a new nest being built by cardinals in the water maple. Grape hyacinth are through the earth but not blooming. (I wish we had more of these--they're usually a gorgeous silvery purple). The moss we transplanted is really doing well on the brick walls. (I really wonder what the neighbors thought when they saw Harvey using a spatula to transplant moss--it worked a treat, though). I have tips about moving japonica from a fellow blogger. We'll be doing this later, after the ground's a little less soggy.

PS The hat was a big success. One little girl said she liked my "halo." To quote Bugs, "She don't know me very well, do she?"

Happy Easter from Harv, Pamela, and Raleigh

In Memoriam: Anthony Minghella and Dr. Wayne Beasley

The fabulous Anthony Minghella died unexpectedly after surgery. I mourn the loss of this great artist. Although many people prefer The English Patient, I think that The Talented Mr. Ripley is his masterwork. Matt Damon and Jude Law give perfect turns in The Talented Mr. Ripley, and it takes a superb director to coax an adequate performance out of Gwyneth Paltrow.

____________



Here's the obituary of one of the greatest lecturers and teachers I've ever had the privilege to know. Dr. Beasley was my history adviser as an undergraduate. He was the most fabulous, entertaining lecturer. His specialties were diverse--English History, Modern Europe, Ancient History--and his interests were wide. Everyone at MSU will miss his glowing green eyes and his sarcastic Southern voice. My sympathies are with his family, and it was my honor to know him and love him.

Dr. T. Wayne Beasley, 69, Murray, died Sunday, March 16, 2008, at 9:15 p.m. at his home.

He was a history professor at Murray State University for 42 years. He received his Ph.D. and master's degree from the University of Georgia and his bachelor's degree from Austin Peay State University.

Survivors include his wife, Mai Dinh Beasley; three daughters, Catina Coleman and husband, Curtis, Watsonville, Calif., Kayne Rogers and husband, Joe, New Hyde Park, N.Y., and Layne Causey and husband, Tim, Nashville, Tenn.; one sister, Wanda Ferebee and husband, James, Dickson, Tenn.; two grandchildren.

Visitation will be at Imes-Miller Funeral Home from 4 to 8 p.m. Wednesday. Online condolences may be made to www.imesmiller.com

Expressions of sympathy may be made to the Calloway County Humane Society, P.O. Box 764, Murray, KY 42071.

Orbit

Connect the dots...Here's a preview of my Easter hat. I only hope I wake up with the confidence to wear it in public. (And it's going to be cold so I may wear a black suit instead).

This hat is so well made--sinamay fine as a sieve.

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Happy St. Patrick's Day

March Madness: See Photograph

See this great photo--Battier shutting down Bryant? Exactly what happened as the Rockets defeat the Lakers and extend their streak to 22! Battier is among the reasons I am in FIRST PLACE now in my fantasy league! Read and weep, oh, other league members.

Brackets are out. Louisville has a great draw, and they are my emotional pick. Geographically, #15 Austin Peay (winners in my OVC conference) take on #2 Texas. I'd love to see the Peay defeat them, as this would play havoc with all brackets.

My friends and I draw this afternoon--wish me luck.

Free Verse is Less Free than Fixed Verse: True-False?

Stop!

I would never suggest that poets abandon this rhetorical device, or any other. But in the last several decades, poets have come practically to identify such laconic formulations and portentous amputations with poetic speech—poetic diction—itself. In consequence, a poet is encouraged not to make much discursive sense. Poetry should be, and has always been composed of grammatical sentences that have the added sophistication wrought by the demands of meter and, sometimes, rhyme. It should be, in that sense, prose with something extra grafted to the bone. But contemporary poets frequently suggest, by example, that what is to be considered poetic is specifically that which is not prose because it is less than prose. It is prose without the grammar. Prose without the coherence. Prose without the self-evident order of left-to-right progression across the page and unassuming columns of text. It is prose on the verge of slipping off into non-being and capable of emitting only that last terrible whimper:

I’m melting.

Rather, I insist that grammar is essential to poetry because it offers one freedom, in the same way our speech offers us more freedom of communication than the grunts of a hog or the barks of a dog. And grammatical poetry, in order not to be merely lineated prose, really does depend on the backbone of meter and, in our language, most often, the forked legs of rhyme.

Lovers

Priorities--569

569

I reckon—when I count it all—
First—Poets—Then the Sun—
Then Summer—Then the Heaven of God—
And then—the List is done—

But, looking back—the First so seems
To Comprehend the Whole—
The Others look a needless Show—
So I write—Poets—All—

Their Summer—lasts a Solid Year—
They can afford a Sun
The East—would deem extravagant—
And if the Further Heaven—

Be Beautiful as they prepare
For Those who worship Them—
It is too difficult a Grace—
To justify the Dream—

Blush

Poem Worth Memorizing--Day 1

The Three Oddest Words

When I pronounce the word Future,
the first syllable already belongs to the past.

When I pronounce the word Silence,
I destroy it.

When I pronounce the word Nothing,
I make something no non-being can hold.


Wislawa Szymborska

Epaulet

Catalogue of Wonders

WANTED--Frank Stanford

A white bull, a cassock, an antique mirror
The famous ones have passed hours in front of,
A midnight blue tuxedo, a fainting couch, a key
To a box of lewd photographs, a swastika,
Twelve bales of hay, three grave plots, a statue
Of Christ holding a heart pierced by a dagger,
A black patch, all kinds of utensils for the sick—
Including thirty-nine feet of catheter tubing,
A houseboat, a dog, a baby grand, an oar
Said to have been carved from a lovely river
And a woman’s hat by Alfred Jarry, a mattress,
A shotgun, a diving helmet, an essay on The Art
Of Taxidermy, and a clitoris mounted on a ring
Like quartz, a crescent wrench, a bulldozer.

List poem? Sonnet? You decide.

Sprung!