Ode to Poetry (Original)

New Web Address

2010-03-03T20:47:00.001-07:00

Dear Reader,

First of all, let me say this, you are great. Thank you for your comments, insight, and suggestions. I have loved sharing my love of poetry with you and look forward to continue doing so!

Just so you know, I imported this blog into the new www.odetopoetry.blogspot.com, as the name of www.teaganlynnpoetry.blogspot.com is leading to some unnecessary confusion. I suppose I should explain Teagan Lynn. I was in high school. Is that enough of an explanation? Teagan also happens to mean "little poet."

The content of this blog has been imported into the new Ode to Poetry, and this blog will not be deleted. Sure, visit here any time you'd like, but I will not be posting new posts here.

The only hitch is that you, dear readers, are not included in the import.

So, if you enjoy following here, please follow www.odetopoetry.blogspot.com as well.

And since I'm changing things up a little bit, any suggestions? What would you like to see more of? Less of? Who are some poets or what are some poems you'd like to see posted? Any suggested changes with layout?

I apologize for any unnecessary confusion and look forward to sharing the sheer joys of poetry at a new web address!

Gravely Poetic

2010-02-28T16:52:00.002-07:00

The other day, in conversation with roommates, the topic of favorite poems came up. My roommate, Hillary, pulled up the following picture as her favorite poem:

She then proceeded to share her experience of visiting Hemingway's grave every fall and how perfectly the poem encapsulated.

I love this idea of poetic epitaphs. One of my favorite's is the words upon Keat's grave.

In searching poetic gravestones, I was delighted to stumble upon the website, Poets' Graves. Call me a nut job, but I think a roadtrip of famous cemetery's and grave sites would be awesome.

Have any favorite epitaphs to share?

Simply Because You Asked

2010-02-24T21:54:00.001-07:00

Tonight, I am in love with this gem, as found in Billy Collins' 180 More. Please, enjoy.

“The Russian Greatcoat”
Theodore Deppe

While my children swim off the breakwater,
while my wife sleeps beside me in the sun,
I recall how you once said you knew
a sure way to paradise or hell.
Years ago, you stood on the Covington bridge,
demanded I throw my coat into the Ohio--
my five dollar “Russian greatcoat,”
my “Dostoevsky coat,” with no explanations,
simply because you asked.

From that height, the man-sized coat fell
in slow motion, floated briefly,
one sinking arm bent at the elbow.
At first, I evade the question when my wife asks,
as if just thinking of you were an act of betrayal.
The cigarette I shared with you above the river.
Our entrance into the city, your thin black coat
around both our shoulders. Sometimes I can go
weeks without remembering.

Pages of Rain

2010-02-19T22:46:00.002-07:00

I love L-O-V-E as much as the next person, but two weeks of L-O-V-E poems was a bit much. Lesson learned: Never celebrate the month of L-O-V-E in such a manner ever again. Thank goodness, dear reader, we can now move onward.

What poetry I've recently read or I am currently reading:

Eireann Corrigan's poetic memoir, You Remind me of You. It is the story of Corrigan's struggle with anorexia, her relationship with her boyfriend, and his struggles with depression. Upon first read, I loved it. The book combines three loves of mine: poetry, memoirs, and young adult literature. It was a gorgeous, fast, emotional read. But, the more I come back to it, the less impressed I am. Corrigan over-uses shock value. Her writing is occasionally heavy handed and her attempts at irony often fall flat. Crucial events are rehashed half a dozen times throughout the book. I applaud Corrigan for what she has overcome and the work she has produced, but it is not a work I'd recommend for more than a quick read.
Billy Collins' 180 More Extraordinary Poems for Every Day. There seems to be this cult of lovers of Billy Collins. I do not want to join the following, because I'm stubborn like that. But dang, I'd have to admit the man is terrific. I own a copy of Collins' anthology Poetry 180: A Turning Back to Poetry and I love it. It's just such a fun collection. While I have not yet had the time to really familiarize myself with 180 More, my initial impression is one of full approval. I must give a nod to Collins for spreading accessible poetry across America.
Ted Kooser's Delights and Shadows, winner of the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry. To be fair to Mr. Kooser, I will refrain from commentary on the work as a whole until I have finished it. But tonight, I'd like to share with you one poem of Kooser's that I just love.

A Rainy Morning
Ted Kooser

A young woman in a wheelchair,
wearing a black nylon poncho spattered with rain,
is pushing herself through the morning.
You have seen how pianists
sometimes bend forward to strike the keys,
then lift their hands, draw back to rest,
then lean again to strike just as the chord fades.
Such is the way this woman
strikes at the wheels, then lifts her long white fingers,
letting them float, then bends again to strike
just as the chair slows, as if into a silence.
So expertly she plays the chords
of this difficult music she has mastered,
her wet face beautiful in its concentration,
while the wind turns the pages of rain.

Valentine's Day 2010

2010-02-13T23:20:00.003-07:00

Happy Valentine's Day, dear reader.
Here is a chaotic mess of love quotes, links, and poems.
Enjoy what you'd like to, ignore what you don't.

"I heard what you said. I’m not the silly romantic you think. I don’t want the heavens or the shooting stars. I don’t want gemstones or gold. I have those things already. I want…a steady hand. A kind soul. I want to fall asleep, and wake, knowing my heart is safe. I want to love, and be loved."
~ Shana Abé

Those Who Love
Sara Teasdale

Those who love the most,
Do not talk of their love,
Francesca, Guinevere,
Deirdre, Iseult, Heloise,
In the fragrant gardens of heaven
Are silent, or speak if at all
Of fragile inconsequent things.

And a woman I used to know
Who loved one man from her youth,
Against the strength of the fates
Fighting in somber pride
Never spoke of this thing,
But hearing his name by chance,
A light would pass over her face.

"I, with a deeper instinct, choose a man who compels my strength, who makes enormous demands on me, who does not doubt my courage or my toughness, who does not believe me naïve or innocent, who has the courage to treat me like a woman."
~ Anaïs Nin

Check out the July 3, 2008 post, Crazy Little Thing called Love, for more love quotes.

Sometimes with One I Love
Walt Whitman

Sometimes with one I love, I fill myself with rage, for fear I effuse unreturn’d love;
But now I think there is no unreturn’d love—the pay is certain, one way or another;
(I loved a certain person ardently, and my love was not return’d;
Yet out of that, I have written these songs.)

Love love poetry? Check out the works of John Donne here, love poems among others.

"I do not want to be the leader. I refuse to be the leader. I want to live darkly and richly in my femaleness. I want a man lying over me, always over me. His will, his pleasure, his desire, his life, his work, his sexuality the touchstone, the command, my pivot. I don’t mind working, holding my ground intellectually, artistically; but as a woman, oh, --- , as a woman I want to be dominated. I don’t mind being told to stand on my own feet, not to cling, be all that I am capable of doing, but I am going to be pursued, ------, possessed by the will of a male at his time, his bidding."
~ Anaïs Nin

Photo by: Valerie Owens. Please do not use without permission.

Click here for a favorite love quote of mine, orignally posted in June 2008.

"There are three possible parts to a date, of which at least two must be offered: entertainment, food, and affection. It is customary to begin a series of dates with a great deal of entertainment, a moderate amount of food, and the merest suggestion of affection. As the amount of affection increases, the entertainment can be reduced proportionately. When the affection IS the entertainment, we no longer call it dating. Under no circumstances can the food be omitted."
~ Judith Martin

True Love
Judith Viorst

It is true love because
I put on eyeliner and a concerto and make pungent observations about the great issues of the day
Even when there's no one here but him,
And because
I do not resent watching the Green Bay Packers
Even though I am philosophically opposed to football,
And because
When he is late for dinner and I know he must be either having an affair or lying dead in the middle of the street,
I always hope he's dead.

It's true love because
If he said quit drinking martinis but I kept drinking them and the next morning I couldn't get out of bed,
He wouldn't tell me he told me,
And because
He is willing to wear unironed undershorts
Out of respect for the fact that I am philosophically opposed to ironing,
And because
If his mother was drowning and I was drowning and he had to choose one of us to save,
He says he'd save me.

It's true love because
When he went to San Francisco on business while I had to stay home with the painters and the exterminator and the baby who was getting the chicken pox,
He understood why I hated him,
And because
When I said that playing the stock market was juvenile and irresponsible and then the stock I wouldn't let him buy went up twenty-six points,
I understood why he hated me,
And because
Despite cigarette cough, tooth decay, acid indigestion, dandruff, and other features of married life that tend to dampen the fires of passion,
We still feel something
We can call
True love.

Check out the L-O-V-E label for more love poetry, both recent and past posts.

"I am only responsible for my own heart, you offered yours up for the smashing my darling. Only a fool would give out such a vital organ"
~ Anaïs Nin

Love Poem With Toast
Miller Williams

Some of what we do, we do
to make things happen,
the alarm to wake us up, the coffee to perc,
the car to start.

The rest of what we do, we do
trying to keep something from doing something,
the skin from aging, the hoe from rusting,
the truth from getting out.

With yes and no like the poles of a battery
powering our passage through the days,
we move, as we call it, forward,
wanting to be wanted,
wanting not to lose the rain forest,
wanting the water to boil,
wanting not to have cancer,
wanting to be home by dark,
wanting not to run out of gas,

as each of us wants the other
watching at the end,
as both want not to leave the other alone,
as wanting to love beyond this meat and bone,
we gaze across breakfast and pretend.

In Love Again and Always

2010-02-12T23:39:00.000-07:00

My apologies for slacking on L-O-V-E posts. Thank you, dear readers, for sharing your favorite love poetry with me. I will be sure to post your suggestions on Valentine's Day or shortly prior to. If you have any more love poems, quotes, or even songs to share, please do!

I've posted before from Carol Lynn Pearson's In Love Again and Always. It's a beautiful little collection love poems, a little fluffy, but enjoyable. I particularly like the definition of love this simple gem presents.

Like The Weather
Carol Lynn Pearson

Drenched and dripping
I tell you
That love is rather
Like the weather--

Something you can
Report on,
But not very well
Control.

Response

2010-02-09T23:14:00.000-07:00

In yesterday's post, I shared two poems about the anxiety a wife might feel waiting for the return of a husband. Tonight, let me share with you what perhaps might be on the mind of the husband during time apart.

When Will I Be Home?
Li Shang-Yin (813?-858)
Trans. Kenneth Rexroth

When will I be home? I don't know.
In the mountains, in the rainy night,
The Autumn lake is flooded.
Someday we will be back together again.
We will sit in the candlelight by the West window.
And I will tell you how I remembered you
Tonight on the stormy mountain.

And one more, along the same lines, this time translated from Sanskrit.

My Husband before Leaving
Anonymous
Trans. J Moussaieff Masson and W.S. Merwin

My husband
before leaving on a journey
is still in the house speaking
to the gods and already
separation is climbing like
bad monkeys to the windows.

Both poems were found, again, in Enduring Ties, edited by Grant Hardy. I love the way these poems show emotion without spelling it out. It's beautiful.

You Have Been Gone Five Months

2010-02-08T22:04:00.001-07:00

Tonight, I present to you Ezra Pound's translation of an eighth century poem by Li Po, "The River-Merchant's Wife: A Letter." What strikes me most particularly about this poem is that it tells a love story without ever mentioning love. Rather than simply post the poem, I will accompany it with a great reading by Jodie Foster through Poetic Touch's YouTube channel.

The River-Merchant's Wife: A Letter
Ezra Pound, translated from the work of Li Po

While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead
Played I about the front gate, pulling flowers.
You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse,
You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums.
And we went on living in the village of Chokan:
Two small people, without dislike or suspicion.

At fourteen I married My Lord you,
I never laughed, being bashful.
Lowering my head, I looked at the wall.
Called to, a thousand times, I never looked back.

At fifteen I stopped scowling,
I desired my dust to be mingled with yours
Forever and forever and forever.
Why should I climb the look out?

At sixteen you departed,
You went into fat Ku-to-yen, by the river of swirling eddies,
And you have been gone five months.
The monkeys make sorrowful noises overhead.

You dragged your feet when you went out.
By the gate now, the moss is grown, the different mosses,
Too deep to clear them away!
The leaves fall early in autumn, in wind.
The paired butterflies are already yellow with August
Over the grass in the West garden;
They hurt me. I grow older.
If you are coming down through the narrows of the river Kiang,
Please let me know beforehand,
And I will come out to meet you
As far as Cho-fu-Sa.

By Rihaku

I was reminded as well of a small poem originating from the Baule tribe of the Ivory Coast, as found in Grant Hardy's anthology, Enduring Ties. I will share that with you as well. The message, to me, seems to be the same, yet told in fewer words. Interesting that such themes stretch across cultures.

Song of a Woman Whose Husband Had Gone to the Coast to Earn Money

Whenever I go out of the village
and see a stone
or a tree in the distance,
I think:
It is my husband.

Anonymous
(Twelfth Century)
Adapted from a German translation of the original Baule by Willard R. Trask

Love Poetry? There's An App for That

2010-02-06T22:54:00.001-07:00

The month of L-O-V-E continues...

This was a poem shared to me via telephone this evening...as a demonstration of the astounding capabilities of Ipod Apps. Love poetry? There's an app for that. And the poem just happens to be beautiful. So, I'm sharing it with you.

Longing
Matthew Arnold

Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again!
For so the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.

Come, as thou cam’st a thousand times,
A messenger from radiant climes,
And smile on thy new world, and be
As kind to others as to me!

Or, as thou never cam’st in sooth,
Come now, and let me dream it truth,
And part my hair, and kiss my brow,
And say, My love why sufferest thou?

Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again!
For so the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.

Care to Share?

2010-02-06T14:34:00.000-07:00

I'd LOVE to read your favorite love poems. Don't have a favorite love poem? How about favorite love quotes or lyrics? Please share!

L-O-V-E... Kind of.

2010-02-06T14:32:00.000-07:00

I want to share with you poems in celebration of love. But the poems that seem draw me in are not those of celebratory praise, but those of melancholy longing. So, this isn't much a love poem, but I hope you like it nonetheless.

Fight

Laurel Blossom

That is the difference between me and you.
You pack an umbrella, #30 sun goo
And a red flannel shirt. That's not what I do.

I put the top down as soon as we arrive.
The temperature's trying to pass fifty-five.
I'm freezing but at least I'm alive.

Nothing on earth can diminish my glee.
This is Florida, Florida, land of euphoria,
Florida in the highest degree.

You dig in the garden. I swim in the pool.
I like to wear cotton. You like to wear wool.
You're always hot. I'm usually cool.

You want to get married. I want to be free.
You don't seem to mind that we disagree.
And that is the difference between you and me.

Jenny Kissed Me

2010-02-04T21:32:00.000-07:00

Tonight's selection is a simple, adorable classic.

Jenny Kissed Me
Jenny kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in:
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,
Say that health and wealth have missed me,
Say I'm growing old, but add,
Jenny kissed me.

~ Leigh Hunt (1784 - 1859)

I also like this YouTube clip of the same poem. Brief and sweet, like the poem itself.

Poetry Valentines

2010-02-03T21:10:00.000-07:00

POETRY VALENTINES, free to print, link, or attach.

How cool is that?

Click here to check it out.

Share the L-O-V-E

2010-02-02T21:57:00.001-07:00

I have an idea.

On February 14, 2010 I would like to barrage this poor blog with love poetry--your favorite love poetry. Please share! Comment with a poem title and poet and a link if available or feel free to email me at owensval@gmail.com. Ask your family, friends, and lovers for their favorite love poetry and share that as well. I will post all poetry suggestions on Valentine's Day.

(Please keep it G rated).

Twelve days? I think we can gather plenty of love poetry. What do you think?

And now for today's love poem.

Midsummer
Sidney King Russell

You loved me for a little,
Who could not love me long;
You gave me wings of gladness
And lent my spirit song.
You loved me for an hour
But only with your eyes;
Your lips I could not capture
By storm or by surprise.
Your mouth that I remember
With rush of sudden pain
As one remembers starlight
Or roses after rain...
Out of a world of laughter
Suddenly I am sad...
Day and night it haunts me,
The kiss I never had.

A Little L-O-V-E

2010-02-01T22:58:00.001-07:00

Happy February, the month of L-O-V-E. Please, don't gag. Love is a beautiful thing. It is such a beautiful thing, in fact, that I'm devoting fourteen days to love poetry. (That can be read two ways--neat.) Don't worry, it won't be all gushy. There are lots of different love poems.

To start off the month, please welcome Richard Brautigan to the blog.

It's Raining In Love

Richard Brautigan

I don't know what it is,
but I distrust myself
when I start to like a girl
     a lot.

It makes me nervous.
I don't say the right things
or perhaps I start
      to examine,
            evaluate,
                  compute
      what I am saying.

If I say, "Do you think it's going to rain?"
and she says, "I don't know,"
I start thinking:  Does she really like me?

In other words
I get a little creepy.

A friend of mine once said,
"It's twenty times better to be friends
        with someone
than it is to be in love with them."

I think he's right and besides,
it's raining somewhere, programming flowers
and keeping snails happy.
      That's all taken care of.

BUT
if a girl likes me a lot
and starts getting real nervous
and suddenly begins asking me funny questions
and looks sad if I give the wrong answers
and she says things like,
"Do you think it's going to rain?"
and I say, "It beats me,"
and she says, "Oh,"
and looks a little sad
at the clear blue California sky,
I think: Thank God, it's you, baby, this time
       instead of me.

A Find

2010-01-31T17:00:00.000-07:00

Listen

Miller Williams

I threw a snowball across the backyard.
My dog ran after it to bring it back.
It broke as it fell, scattering snow over snow.
She stood confused, seeing and smelling nothing.
She searched in widening circles until I called her.

She looked at me and said as clearly in silence
as if she had spoken,
I know it's here, I'll find it,
went back to the center and started the circles again.

I called her two more times before she came
slowly, stopping once to look back.

That was this morning. I'm sure that she's forgotten.
I've had some trouble putting it out of my mind.

Photo by: Valerie Owens

A Loss (And a Find)

2010-01-27T20:30:00.001-07:00

Dear Reader,

It has been snowing constantly all day long. It snowed all last weekend. It snowed the week before that as well. I have had a poem gnawing at the back of my mind. It is a poem about a confused dog searching for a shattered snowball in a sea of white. But, for the life of me I can remember neither title nor poet. I turned to the world wide web for help. After a Google search of "snow poems" and various other terms failed me, I searched for the index of the book I thought it might be in, Garrison Keillor's brilliant Good Poems. This led me to a list of sixteen snow poems. The title refused to give any hints, thus I began Google-ing them, one by one, each proving harder to find than the last.

Amidst this process I stumbled upon Bob's Road Raps of the CKUA Radio Network. Bob's Road Raps is, among other things, a rich plethora of poetry readings, including the works of Billy Collins, Sharon Olds, Emily Dickinson, James Tate, even Richard Brautigan, among many others. I did not find the poem I sought, but I will in due time. And when I do, I will share with you, dear reader, as well as photography of this snowy winter. For tonight, please enjoy the poetry within Bob's Road Raps.

Photo by: Valerie Owens

These are Not the Times to Come to Poetry

2010-01-17T18:11:00.000-07:00

This is the face of Patrick Rosal:

Nice face, huh?

This is the work of Patrick Rosal:

The Woman You Love Cuts Apples for You

Patrick Rosal

and stirs them in sea salt and vinegar
She takes a drag from her Silk Cut

eases again through the fruit's flesh
the blade stopping short of her thumb

You are both sweating at the shoulder
(East Ham's hottest summer) And you realize

these are not the times to come to poetry
You have everything you need

and your father's bone-hard stare
can't reach across the Atlantic

so you save yourself for another day
because there is this woman slicing apples

stirring them in vinegar reminding you
of an afternoon twenty-five years ago when

you knelt with your brothers at your mother's
feet to pluck apple slices from a small basin

pinched between her legs And one of you
would lift that bowl—almost completely empty

except for a sour clouded liquid
and a few seeds shifting at the bottom

You'd just taste at first but soon you're handing it
from brother to brother gulping lung-fulls

of that tart cider You'd sweat sniffle gasp chug
'til your lips turned white and numb

And before you went out into those Jersey streets
you'd rinse your chin You'd soap your hands

because the girls would hold their breath
for every reason and stink on your fingers and neck

You won't dare tell anyone you've learned
to love the taste of something so strange until this

woman cuts apples for you in vinegar
and the familiar fumes fill your nostrils and gullet

She will lift the bowl to drink She'll twist her face
and laugh when she offers it and you will drink

and she will drink and you will drink again
She will kiss your cut knuckle She'll kiss your eyes

Of course the vinegar stings
It's the hottest summer ever in London

And you and the woman you love fall asleep side by side
like this—reeking and unwashed—breathing in

each other's dreams of open skin

Thank you, dear reader, for the suggestion of this amazing poet. Did you have any particular favorites by him?

You Can Stop Shouting Now

2010-01-06T22:00:00.000-07:00

This semester in college includes three literature courses, which means a hefty amount of reading! Fortunately, some of that reading is poetry. Here's one poem introduced to me today in British Literature. Click here for a reading of the poem from the poet himself.

The Shout
Simon Armitage

We went out
into the school yard together, me and the boy
whose name and face

I don't remember. We were testing the range
of the human voice:
he had to shout for all he was worth,

I had to raise an arm
from across the divide to signal back
that the sound had carried.

He called from over the park—I lifted an arm.
Out of bounds,
he yelled from the end of the road,

from the foot of the hill,
from beyond the look-out post of Fretwell's Farm—
I lifted an arm.

He left town, went to be twenty years dead
with a gunshot hole
in the roof of his mouth, in Western Australia.

Boy with the name and face I don't remember,
you can stop shouting now, I can still hear you.

Simon Armitage is a popular poet of England, still currently writing. "The Shout" was published in a book by the same title in 2005. I like to find poets, new to me, who have a solid career in the past and more to come in the future. I think Mr. Armitage and I could become good friends. I am eager to read more of his work.

Feel free to visit the Simon Armitage Web Site to peruse his impressive work, which expands well beyond the world of poetry.

Sarah Kay

2010-01-05T20:24:00.000-07:00

A little more performance poetry from Sarah Kay, the same poet I highlighted in a recent post on Def Poetry. My sister introduced me to this gem. Thanks, Lisa.

Oh I just love her work. She doesn't leave you a moment to dwell on any of her lines, just whisks you on to the next one. And for me, that means I've got to watch it again and again, just trying to catch it all.

Who are some of your favorite performance poets?

Poetic Escapades

2010-01-04T22:28:00.000-07:00

More adventures with Poem in Your Pocket. I rather enjoy this tearing and sharing of poetry.

Today, I slipped the following poem into a journal at Staples, again requesting the finder email me their favorite poem. The world will have poetry if I have to travel the whole planet over to share it.

(To see the first Poem in Your Pocket escapade, click here.)

ANIMALS
Frank O'Hara

Have you forgotten what we were like then
when we were still first rate
and the day came fat with an apple in its mouth

it's no use worrying about Time
but we did have a few tricks up our sleeves
and turned some sharp corners

the whole pasture looked like our meal
we didn't need speedometers
we could manage cocktails out of ice and water

I wouldn't want to be faster
or greener than now if you were with me O you
were the best of all my days

[1950]

And who is Frank O'Hara? I was not familiar with him until tonight. He lived only a short time, 1926 to 1966, but during these forty years he put out a dozen and half books of poetry, a handful of prose books, and even a play. From the limited selection of poetry on his site, I still haven't formed an opinion yet of what I think. I do, however, like "Animals." Click here for the link to his website.

The Rain is Full of Ghosts Tonight

2010-01-03T21:45:00.000-07:00

I recently moved back to a college town I lived in last school year. It's good to be back, really good to be back, but this place is a ghost town of memories. This poem doesn't really have much to do with my move, but the lines "...the rain / Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh / Upon the glass and listen for reply" keep running through my mind. So tonight, I give you a little Millay. I tend to turn to her when I am, as Wordsworth would describe, "in vacant or in pensive mood."

Edna St. Vincent Millay

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply;
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in the winter stands a lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet know its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone;
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.

Def Poetry

2010-01-01T17:29:00.002-07:00

If you, as a poetry lover, are not yet familiar with Def Poetry, please become acquainted. The poetry presented is passionate, powerful, emotional, and often humorous. Just search for Def Poetry on YouTube to open a world of amazing poetry or visit the Def Poetry episode guide on the HBO site.

Here are two shows, among many others, I particularly enjoyed.

Adventures with Poem in Your Pocket

2009-12-31T13:14:00.000-07:00

Christmas miracles do occur!

Or maybe Santa reads my blog...

Either way, I am now the delighted owner of Poem in Your Pocket, an awesome collection of poems to tear and share.

I began my tearing and sharing of poetry by leaving this poem:

Grown-Up

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Was it for this I uttered prayers,
And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs,
That now, domestic as a plate,
I should retire at half-past eight?

On this shelf, in an undisclosed location.

I left a note on the back of the poem with an email address, requesting the favorite poem of whomever should find it. And hopefully, I will someday hear back.

This poetry tearing and sharing is quite thrilling.

On the To-Read Shelf

2009-12-09T21:13:00.001-07:00

Starting this post, I have no set agenda, just the mood to blog about poetry.

Currently I'm reading a poetry anthology called Enduring Ties, edited by Grant Hardy. Okay it could be that Grant Hardy gave me the book and I think very highly of Grant Hardy, but I must say I am loving the anthology. It is a collection of "poems of family relationships." Poetry about family usually gets a bad rap for being overly sentimental, but Hardy has put together a solid collection, far from gushy Hallmark sentiments. It includes work by the poets Whitman, Bronte, Blake, Plath, Milton, Shakespeare, and Dickinson, just name a few, even one by quirky favorites of mine, James Tate (!). The work also includes a substantial amount of translations of Chinese poetry, which is kind of new to me, and I like it. The organization, notes, and biographical tidbits are terrific. My only suggestion would be a new title, a revamped cover, and an emphasis on the gems this work has to offer.

And, its not poetry, but I've just began The Age of Innocence, by Edith Wharton. Thus far, I love the wit, satire, and humor of the work.

I was also reading (and loving) James Tate's newest, The Ghost Soldiers, but a necessary return to the library cut my pleasure short. Still, I recommend it to you, dear reader.

My long list of what to read doesn't include much poetry, but here's a sample of what it does include: Atlas Shrugged, Ayn Rand; Fountainhead, Ayn Rand; Selected Poems 1934-1952, Dylan Thomas; 1984, George Orwell; The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, Douglas Adams; Boy's Life, Robert C. McCammon, all Jane Austen novels; Jesus the Christ, James E. Talmage; and a work of Dickens.

I promise though, poetry will wind up in the mix. It always does. I owe you a posting of an awesome poem. I'll give you one soon. I'd also like to share with you more Performance Poetry, as well as some great YouTube videos.

I'm curious for any opinions on the works on my list, particularly those of Ayn Rand and Dylan Thomas. And, any suggestions of what to add to my ever growing long to-read list?

You've Just Got to Hear This

2009-11-27T12:43:00.000-07:00

This you've got to hear.

Click here for an audio clip of Jared Singer performing his poem, "When Contemplating Super Powers (The Letter to Sarah)."

Click here for the Performance Poetry website, where you can find more fabulous poetry.

Amazing, wouldn't you agree?

When I am Suddenly Wealthy

2009-11-19T19:54:00.001-07:00

When I am suddenly a very, very wealthy woman, here are just a few (a very small few) the poetry books I'd like to own:

Poem in Your Pocket: 200 Poems to Read and Carry, The Academy of American Poets. This nifty little collection is poems to tear out, and just as the title suggest, read and carry. There is something immensely appealing to me about this whole idea.

Seven Poets, Four Days, One Book, multiple authors. Another quirky idea for a poetry book! I'm just going to copy Amazon's little blurb to explain the idea behind the project. I think you'll agree, it sounds pretty awesome.

Lauded poet Christopher Merrill hatched a brilliant plan: invite six other poets to join him in four days of writing in Iowa City. The poets would write for 30 minutes, creating a poem of 15 lines, and then read it aloud to the group. As poets heard the poems, they noted memorable words, images, and lines, which they would borrow to insert in subsequent poems of their own. These rounds continued, until, in a process of call and response and unprecedented collaboration, 80 poems had been composed. Those 80 poems are collected in this book, penned by authors who represent some of the best and brightest the world of poetry has to offer. Transcending differences of generation, gender, language, and vision, these poets have invented an entirely new facet of the poet's creative process.

~ Amazon product description

Richard Brautigan poetry. I am hoping to find a book of his in a moment of sweet serendipity in a used book shop or receive in some quirky fashion. It would be too easy to simply order off of Amazon.

What's on your list?

You're Wondering If I'm Lonely

2009-11-18T19:55:00.001-07:00

For months, Adrienne Rich's The Fact of a Doorframe has been sitting on my shelf, waiting until it was time to study Rich in my Modern Poetry class. I skimmed the book once or twice and decide Rich is not for me. Well, the time has come to study Adrienne Rich, and I have to say I was sorely mistaken that Rich is not for me. Her work is something impressive! I love her charged her imagery is, how passionate her passages can be, and how bold the body of work is.

This is the young Adrienne Rich.

You most often see images of her in her later years, but I think

I can relate with this younger woman better.

Image found at http://poetry4u.net

The fact of a Doorframe is a good introduction to Rich, as it presents poetry spanning half a century from a dozen different books. It is interesting to see her work progress as the reader moves chronologically through the segments of each book.

I have not read enough to give a comprehensive recommendation, but tonight, I'd like to offer just one, "Song." I had to read through that final stanza a few times, trying to wrap my mind around the imagery presented. Please, I beg of you, try reading this poem out loud.

"Song"
Adrienne Rich

You're wondering if I'm lonely:
OK then, yes, I'm lonely
as a plane rides lonely and level
on its radio beam, aiming
across the Rockies
for the blue-strung aisles
of an airfield on the ocean.

You want to ask, am I lonely?
Well, of course, lonely
as a woman driving across country
day after day, leaving behind
mile after mile
little towns she might have stopped
and lived and died in, lonely

If I'm lonely
it must be the loneliness
of waking first, of breathing
dawn's first cold breath on the city
of being the one awake
in a house wrapped in sleep

If I'm lonely
it's with the rowboat ice-fast on the shore
in the last red light of the year
that knows what it is, that knows it's neither
ice nor mud nor winter light
but wood, with a gift for burning.

Brautigan, Again

2009-11-07T19:19:00.003-07:00

Tonight, trying to find which Brautigan poem I wanted to share, I stumbled on a gold mine. Brautigan Bibliography and Archive is an awesome resource I have only begun to touch.

Below is a nibble of Brautigan. Also, check out other poems of Brautigan I've posted in the past. If you like what you see, check out the above posted website.

"Alas, Measured Perfectly"
Richard Brautigan

Saturday, August 25, 1888. 5:20 P.M.
is the name of a photograph of two
old women in a front yard, beside
a white house. One of the women is
sitting in a chair with a dog in her
lap. The other woman is looking at
some flowers. Perhaps the women are
happy, but then it is Saturday, August
25, 1888. 5:21 P.M., and all over.

Click here to listen to recordings of Brautigan reading his poetry. Scroll towards the end until you reach Side 1, number 6 to listen this particular poem in a collection with others. Brautigan doesn't sound at all like he thought I did. Also, the recording is slightly distorted, but still, how incredible is it to hear the words of the poet from the poet himself?

Brautigan's work is almost entirely out of print. However, cheap used copies are available on Amazon. When I get a little extra cash, I think it would be a very worthy investment for my library. I've gone through a love/hate relationship with Brautigan, but now I must simply consent to love.

P.S. This is my 99th post! 9 being my eternally lucky number, this is a particularly good day!

Apologies Dear Reader

2009-11-06T23:38:00.000-07:00

Sorry to be neglectful of this dear little blog.

I have just been having so much fun with a new project,

365 Days of Twenty.

Please, check it out. Hope you enjoy.

But alas, don't worry. I am still an avid poetry lover.

What am I reading these days? Well, in a class I'm taking I've been examining the works of Elizabeth Bishop, Adrienne Rich, Wallace Stevens, and William Carlos Williams.

But, these last couple nights, I've been feeling a little blue and I can't help but turn to old favorites, particularly Edna St. Vincent Millay and Richard Brautigan.

Who are your particular favorites? And what are you reading these days?

Forgive me, its a quarter to two in the morning, but I promise to share poetry soon. Tomorrow? Its a deal.

Bright Star

2009-10-16T08:27:00.001-06:00

Hey poetry lovers, I think you'll enjoy this beautiful new film, detailing the love story of the poet John Keats and his "bright star," Fanny Brawne.

What a breathtaking story of poetic romance.
Watch. Weep. Love.

Wing by Wing

2009-10-06T21:37:00.001-06:00

We have recently begun to study William Carlos Williams in Modern Poetry. I think he is a poet I shall quite enjoy. Rather than offering a deep interpretation of his work, tonight I simply offer a bit of Williams for you to enjoy.

Aux Imagistes
William Carlos Williams

I think I have never been so exalted
As I am now by you,
O frost bitten blossoms,
That are unfolding your wings
From out the envious black branches.

Bloom quickly and make much of the sunshine
The twigs conspire against you
Hear them!
They hold you from behind

You shall not take wing
Except wing by wing, brokenly,
And yet—
Even they
Shall not endure for ever.

Photo by: Valerie Owens

Poetry 180

2009-10-02T09:20:00.001-06:00

Last year, Santa Claus, or maybe my mother gave me the terrific gift of a book entitled, Poetry 180. This book is actually a printing of a fabulous project also called Poetry 180 which offers a poem a day for American high school students. The project is the work of Billy Collins, former Poet Laureate of the United States. Collins started the project in hopes of creating a turning back, a 180, if you will, to poetry, an art so often forgotten in these days. For more about the project, click here.

Today, I'd like to post just one of the poems of Poetry 180. The poem is by Ted Kooser, whose project American Life in Poetry, I highlighted in my last post. Hopefully, by highlighting a few of the phenomenal poetry projects out there, I can perhaps encourage a few more people into incorporating poetry into their daily lives. Also, its a good example of just what the Poet Laureate of the United States actually does. We live at an age where poetry is perhaps more accessible that it has ever been. Why not take advantage of it?

Selecting a Reader
Ted Kooser
First, I would have her be beautiful,
and walking carefully up on my poetry
at the loneliest moment of an afternoon,
her hair still damp at the neck
from washing it. She should be wearing
a raincoat, an old one, dirty
from not having money enough for the cleaners.
She will take out her glasses, and there
in the bookstore, she will thumb
over my poems, then put the book back
up on its shelf. She will say to herself,
"For that kind of money, I can get
my raincoat cleaned." And she will.

from Sure Signs, 1980
University of Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh, Pa.

American Life in Poetry Project

2009-09-19T21:23:00.004-06:00

I recently stumbled upon a fabulous project, American Life in Poetry. The project, a pet child of Ted Kooser, is aimed at promoting poetry. Each week, a new poem is posted. I have three main reasons to love the project:

It's free!
The poems are brief!
It's contemporary poetry from all ranges and talents of poets; anywhere from a 12 year old beginner to a budding college student to a middle aged old pro.

Below, I have posted the link as well as the column of one week. Feel free to check out the project for yourself. And forgive me if I post a few more of these poems. I, for one, am a fan!

Self-Portrait by Zozan Hawez : American Life in Poetry

American Life in Poetry: Column 198

BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE

This column has had the privilege of publishing a number of poems by young people, but this is the first we’ve published by a young person who is also a political refugee. The poet, Zozan Hawez, is from Iraq, and goes to Foster High School in Tukwila, Washington. Seattle Arts & Lectures sponsors a Writers in the Schools program, and Zozan’s poem was encouraged by that initiative.

Self-Portrait

Born in a safe family

But a dangerous area, Iraq,

I heard guns at a young age, so young

They made a decision to raise us safe

So packed our things

And went far away.

Now, in the city of rain,

I try to forget my past,

But memories never fade.

This is my life,

It happened for a reason,

I happened for a reason.

American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Poem copyright ©2007 by Seattle Arts & Lectures. Reprinted from “We Will Carry Ourselves As Long As We Gaze Into The Sun,” Seattle Arts & Lectures, 2007, by permission of Zozan Hawez and the publisher. Introduction copyright © 2009 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction's author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts.

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Collections

2009-09-18T12:55:00.002-06:00

10 Things I Have Collected In my Past (And some in the present)

Quotes: I have pages and pages of quotes on every topic imaginable. I don't know what it is I love so much about quotes. Perhaps it is the view of a quote as the best possible use of a sentence.
Book lines: You know those lines that you hit when reading a novel that just wow you? Those lines that linger on your mind after you've put the book down? I write those down in a small book. I'm selective in my book lines. It's got to really be something to make it into my book.
Books: There are few things I love more than books. I am not a particular fan of buying new books, and not just because of the cost. There is a certain thrill in finding the well-loved book you've been searching for amidst cluttered shelves of used books. It is nice to know someone else loved the book once too (or at least I'd like to believe). I am picky about my books. I want my shelves to be filled with books I have not only read, but loved. It's a beautiful lifetime project.
Rocks: What child didn't collect rocks? And with my father being a geologist, it was my fate. I was always pretty choosy when it came to my rocks. Nothing boring or ordinary in my collection. I think I've still got my rocks on a shelf somewhere. Thinking back now, I realize the best ones were probably actually discovered by my dad, who was kind enough to let me claim them. Parents are great.
Sea shells: I still collect sea shells. Since I've been to the beach so little, the few shells I have are memories of good times. In my collection I also have a few collected by good friends, and those mean even more.
Stickers: As a child I loved, loved, loved stickers. The odd thing is I never actually did anything with my stickers. I found stickers to be messy and difficult to remove when off of their original sheet. So, I just had pages and pages of unused stickers. Long after my collecting days were over, I eventually used my stickers in craft projects with kids. I gave some away to kids I babysit, and some to a friend's little sister who collects stickers. What was the appeal of those things?
Erasers: Another really odd childhood obsession of mine. I actually did use the erasers. I wonder what happened to all of those... I think I donated them to a thrift shop or gave them away to some little kids. The stupidest one I owned was an enormous pink eraser that read, "My Dad Never Makes Mistakes. This Is only A Paperweight." I didn't know what a paperweight was. I'm finicky about erasers. So many are too rubbery or leave unattractive streaks across the page. For years I have preferred the soft pink erasers found atop a good Ticonderoga #2. They don't call them The World's Best Pencil for nothing.
Butterfly hair clips and assorted hair accessories: I was a victim of the nineties. I plead silence.
Stuffed animals: I had the whole dang animal kingdom. There are still teddy bears on my bed (great to cuddle with). My favorite stuffed animals are in a drawer in my closet. Someday, they'll go to my kids. ]
Barbies: Raise of hands please, who hates the Bratz dolls?

What is it about human nature that compels us to collect?

Poetic Snippets

2009-09-12T21:52:00.002-06:00

Snippets, because who says you have to like the whole poem?

From "Song of Myself"
Walt Whitman

Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.

From "Why Regret?"
Galway Kinnell

Doesn't it outdo the pleasures of the brilliant concert
to wake in the night and find ourselves
holding hands in our sleep?

Yeah. That's all for tonight.

Something in me...

2009-09-08T18:10:00.004-06:00

Millay tonight, because I'm in the mood. This is a particular favorite of mine--primarily the first two stanzas. I have often felt that urge to get out, to go, anywhere, just go. I always return. Unlike Millay, I have no romantic notions of a lonely death. I never desire not to return home. I only need an hour or so alone. My preferred method of transportation is the car, as it is the fastest way to escape the city. But this fall I am without a car. The roads are calling to me and I am itching to drive, to explore, and to go. For now, I retreat on foot to the groves and gardens nearby, grateful for trees, river, and the solitude.

Photo by: Valerie Owens

Departure
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

It's little I care what path I take,

And where it leads it's little I care;

But out of this house, lest my heart break,

I must go, and off somewhere.

It's little I know what's in my heart,

What's in my mind it's little I know,

But there's that in me must up and start,

And it's little I care where my feet go.

I wish I could walk for a day and a night,

And find me at dawn in a desolate place

With never the rut of a road in sight,

Nor the roof of a house, nor the eyes of a face.

I wish I could walk till my blood should spout,

And drop me, never to stir again,

On a shore that is wide, for the tide is out,

And the weedy rocks are bare to the rain.

But dump or dock, where the path I take

Brings up, it's little enough I care;

And it's little I'd mind the fuss they'll make,

Huddled dead in a ditch somewhere.

"Is something the matter, dear," she said,

"That you sit at your work so silently?"

"No, mother, no, 'twas a knot in my thread.

There goes the kettle, I'll make the tea."

Purple. Lovely. Inconceivable.

2009-08-31T20:11:00.007-06:00

Tonight's mood: Odd. Restless. Anxious. Melancholy. Stubborn. Contemplative.

Today I checked out a few books of Richard Brautigan's. I'd briefly explored his poetry last year, gave up on him, and once again I have returned. It's not that I think his work is particularly good. In fact, I think most of it's pretty pathetic, cheap, and of no literary merit whatsoever. And yet, I like it. So there.

I Live in the Twentieth Century
Richard Brautigan

I live in the Twentieth Century
and you lie here beside me. You
were unhappy when you fell asleep.
There was nothing I could do about
it. I felt hopeless. Your face
is so beautiful that I cannot stop
to describe it, and there's nothing
I can do to make you happy while
you sleep.

15%
Richard Brautigan

She tries to get things out of men
that she can't get because she's not
15% prettier.

April 7, 1969
Richard Brautigan

I feel so bad today
that I want to write a poem.
I don't care: any poem, this
poem.

And this last one, he wrote for me. Hey thanks Brautigan! Forgive my editing.

All Girls Should Have a Poem
For Valerie
Richard Brautigan

All girls should have a poem
written for them even if
we have to turn this ***** world
upside down to do it.

New Mexico
March 16, 1969

I Praised What Gave Me Joy

2009-08-23T18:32:00.004-06:00

Tonight, I praise that which gives me joy. This poem was introduced to me in a modern poetry class I recently enrolled in. (You, dear reader, will likely be hearing much of this class these next few months!) The poem of this evening is Tony Hoagland's "Personal." It is refreshingly new-sprung, published originally in the July/August 2009 issue of Poetry. How beautiful to see good poetry alive and flourishing! Three cheers for Hoagland!

All week long Hoagland's line, "Oh Life! Can you blame me / for making a scene?" has been running through my mind. It is my recent call out to the world; my mental mantra for the week. So now, dear reader, I give you the fabulous Tony Hoagland.

Personal

by Tony Hoagland

Don’t take it personal, they said;

but I did, I took it all quite personal—

the breeze and the river and the color of the fields;

the price of grapefruit and stamps,

the wet hair of women in the rain—

And I cursed what hurt me

and I praised what gave me joy,

the most simple-minded of possible responses.

The government reminded me of my father,

with its deafness and its laws,

and the weather reminded me of my mom,

with her tropical squalls.

Enjoy it while you can, they said of Happiness

Think first, they said of Talk

Get over it, they said

at the School of Broken Hearts

but I couldn’t and I didn’t and I don’t

believe in the clean break;

I believe in the compound fracture

served with a sauce of dirty regret,

I believe in saying it all

and taking it all back

and saying it again for good measure

while the air fills up with I’m-Sorries

like wheeling birds

and the trees look seasick in the wind.

Oh life! Can you blame me

for making a scene?

You were that yellow caboose, the moon

disappearing over a ridge of cloud.

I was the dog, chained in some fool’s backyard;

barking and barking:

trying to convince everything else

to take it personal too.

Source: Poetry (July/August 2009).

The World; A Little Closer Up

2009-08-21T20:52:00.015-06:00

I am currently taking a pause from reading Walt Whitman's incredibly long "Song of Myself." I have never read "Song of Myself" in its entirety, so when the assignment was given for a class to read the 1855 version, I welcomed the challenge. But oh Whitman! It is a challenge indeed! For now I rest my weary mind and direct my attention to another love of mine: the world behind the lense of camera. Recently, I have discovered the joys of the closeup function of my camera. Enjoy these pictures. Or not, I suppose. These photos are all the work of Valerie Owens. Please do not copy without permission.

And to give this the guise of being poetry related, I will intermingle quotes with pictures.

"Seeing hearing and feeling are miracles." ~ Walt Whitman, 1855 version of "Song of Myself"

"I am waylaid by Beauty [...] Oh, savage Beauty, suffer me to pass." ~ Edna St. Vincent Millay, "Assault"

"Oh World! I cannot hold thee close enough!" ~ Edna St. Vincent Millay, "God's World"

"Life is a series of thousands of tiny miracles." ~ Mike Greenberg

Love is so short; forgetting is so long...

2009-08-15T19:09:00.005-06:00

Beautiful visual representation of Pablo Neruda's "Tonight I Can Write The Saddest Lines."

Hopelessly Flawed

2009-08-11T19:46:00.004-06:00

I am writing this entry from a hotel room about two thousand miles from home and about that far from a familiar face. I am beginning a bold new adventure and I have no idea what I am getting myself into. Tonight my only company is a few well loved books: Edna St. Vincent Millay Collected Lyrics, Whitman's Leaves of Grass, Alcott's Little Women, The Seagull Reader Poems, my own journal, a few religious texts, and finally, a little notebook where I keep track of passages that have moved me from books and poems I have read. Tonight, I share with you a few beloved passages from my little notebook. Oh but it is hard to choose which ones!

"Distracted by hopefullness: That explained me to myself. I was counting days until."
~ Cynthia Voigt, Glass Mountain

"By the time I was twenty it was clear to me that I was good for--and good at--nothing else. I hated every job I had... picking cucumbers, hoeing beets, selling popcorn, lifeguarding, waitressing, selling Kentucky Fried Chicken... I knew if I were to have any chance at all for happiness in work, I had better throw myself at the writing life."
~ Louise Erdich, when asked why she decided to become a writer.

"You find beauty in ordinary things; do not lose this ability."
~ Fortune Cookie

"Cautious and stubborn, unwilling to fail,"
~ Lawrence Raab, "My Life Before I Knew It"

"The world is large, / and without a fuss has absorbed stranger things than this."
~ Sarah Lindsay, "Cheese Penguin"

"In the sanctuary of my thoughts, I am a fearless renegade."
~ Mark Dunn, Ella Minnow Pea, P. 18

"I think we are all hopelessly flawed."
~ Mr. Bhaer, in the screenplay of Little Women

Lucky

2009-08-06T21:16:00.009-06:00

This will be a long entry; be patient with me please. I suppose I owe you a long post after my lazy July blogging.

Recently, I have seen a few "gratitude lists" popping up on blogs and Facebook, lists of fifty things to be grateful for. I was reading through one such list the other night. I was thinking of my own long list of things to be grateful for. As I was thinking, Jane Kenyon's "Otherwise" came to mind. What a beautiful reminder that each day is a small miracle, one not be taken for granted.

Otherwise
Jane Kenyon
I got out of bed
on two strong legs.
It might have been
otherwise. I ate
cereal, sweet
milk, ripe, flawless
peach. It might
have been otherwise.
I took the dog uphill
to the birch wood.
All morning I did
the work I love.

At noon I lay down
with my mate. It might
have been otherwise.
We ate dinner together
at a table with silver
candlesticks. It might
have been otherwise.
I slept in a bed
in a room with paintings
on the walls, and
planned another day
just like this day.
But one day, I know,
it will be otherwise.

I awoke this morning young, healthy, and happy. It might have been otherwise. Truly, I am blessed. So in addition to Kenyon's simple expression of gratitude, I include my own gratitude list. Fifty? Here it goes.

I am grateful for:

Sunflowers that grow by the August roadside
Wheels on luggage
A family that will be with me for all of eternity
My Savior and my faith in Him
Digital cameras and the memories they preserve
Sunrises
Sunsets
Being young at this time and in the place
The kindness of strangers
The people I've met this summer
The easy accessibility of poetry
The opportunity for higher education
Serendipitous moments
The quirks and flaws of those I love
My dearly beloved and carefully selected collection of books
Being a sister and sister-in-law
Mascara
The miracle of cell phones
Brown sugar and fig scented lotion
Being an American
The seemingly endless choices of words
Music and how easy it is to share it.
The chance that I have to try a new adventure this fall
Laughter
Surprises
Dried roses and the memories they hold
Time to do what I'd like with my life
My religion
A blow dryer and spell-check to tell me that it is two words, and not one
Modern transportation; from mini-vans to jet planes
The internet and the conveniences it brings
Google
Hope
The great unknown
High heels
Air conditioning
Chapstick
Those who I have been lucky enough to call a friend at one point or another in my life
Not-socks, no show socks, whatever they are called
Snail mail
Hairspray
My health
The talents God has given me
Summer thunderstorms
Extended family reunions
Babies
The faithful readers of this little blog
Being me
The past that has shaped the present
Tomorrows

Photography by: Valerie Owens

Slow Days Passing

2009-07-08T21:25:00.002-06:00

Ah! The haiku! I have yet to post any haiku poems upon this site, largely because I myself am unfamiliar with the haiku. I found a small gem the other day in a used bookstore; Silent Flowers, a 1967 collection of Japanese haiku poems, complete with delicate little illustrations. How I would like to be able to know each haiku in its first language! In the book, much of the poetry comes off as stupidly simplistic in translation. The beauty is lost. So, next on my list is to discover American haiku poems, untainted by language barriers. For now, I'd like to share a few beautiful little poems from Silent Flowers. Enjoy the beautiful simplicity.

The halo of the moon,--
Is it not the scent of plum-blossoms
Rising up to heaven?
~ Buson

From what flowering tree
I know not,--
But, ah, the fragrance!
~ Basho

The butterfly
Even when pursued,
Never appears in a hurry.
~ Garuku

Slow days passing, accumulating,
How distant they are,
The things of the past!
~ Buson

In Some Quite Casual Way...

2009-07-04T02:55:00.003-06:00

Beautiful video of Edna St. Vincent Millay's "If I Should Learn, In Some Quite Casual Way." I love the mood the music gives the whole piece. Audio and visuals give poetry a whole new depth, as this video so elegantly illustrates. I love finding works like this. The words do move a little fast. You may have to watch in a few times to catch it all. I hope LimeyTwist doesn't mind me posting this. Thanks!

Any suggestions of poetic audio or visuals worth checking out?

A Dark Star Passes

2009-06-29T22:08:00.004-06:00

The other week I ordered James Tate's Selected Poems through Amazon. I was so delighted at the swift arrival of the small package! Three cheers for snail mail! I was even more delighted by what was inside... So thus to give you a break from my ongoing love of Edna St. Vincent Millay, I offer a little James Tate. His poetry is definitely the sort to be read out loud.

Consumed
James Tate

Why should you believe in magic,
pretend an interest in astrology
or the tarot? Truth is, you are

free, and what might happen to you
today, nobody knows. And your
personality may undergo a radical

transformation in the next half
hour. So it goes. You are consumed
by your faith in justice, your

hope for a better day, the rightness
of fate, the dreams, the lies,
the taunts. —Nobody gets what he

wants. A dark star passes through
you on your way home from
the grocery: never again are you

the same—an experience which is
impossible to forget, impossible
to share. The longing to be pure

is over. You are the stranger
who gets stranger by the hour.

James Tate. Image From Famous Poets and Poems

This is one of Tate's more mellow poems. I'll post some crazier stuff on here one day. What I love about Tate is he does his own thing. His poems appear almost wacky. Yet amidst the wackiness he is able to express emotion purely through word choice. The words don't even have to make sense together, the plot need not exist, the poem doesn't even need to be understood to feel the passion of Tate's poetry. His poems, "The Radish" and "Distance From Loved Ones" made my heart ache for reasons completely unknown to me, especially "The Radish" which is about nothing more than a bizarre moment in the grocery store.

In "Consumed" I particularly love the second to last stanza. In his own words, Tate summarizes what his poetry is to me; "an experience which is impossible to forget, impossible to share." Try as I might, I don't have the words to fully share my experience with Tate's poetry. Thus, you will have to have your own experience and see just what he's all about. The greatest thing? He's hilarious. Who says poetry can't be fun?

Audio Recording of "The Philosopher"

2009-06-15T22:04:00.002-06:00

Click here for a public domain audio recording of "The Philosopher," as posted below. I think it's a great reading. Hopefully I will be able to post recordings of my own readings soon!

EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY
Image from http://www.usm.maine.edu

And What Am I?

2009-06-15T17:19:00.004-06:00

Last week I visited a fabulous bookstore in Carlsbad, California called Farenheit 451 (I believe it is purposely spelled without an "h" before "n"). There I found a 1959 copy of Edna St. Vincent Millay's Collected Lyrics. Loved the collection. I read her work while watching the sunset over the Pacific. Beautiful sunset. Beautiful poetry. I couldn't have been happier.

Photo by: Lisa Owens

I posted Millay's "Recuerdo" a couple months ago, but other than that I have been largely unfamilar with her work. There is so much Millay I would love to post. But for today I give you "The Philosopher."

The Philosopher
Edna St. Vincent Millay

And what are you that, wanting you,
I should be kept awake
As many nights as there are days
With weeping for your sake?

And what are you that, missing you,
As many days as crawl
I should be listening to the wind
And looking at the wall?

I know a man that's a braver man
And twenty men as kind,
And what are you, that you should be
The one man in my mind?

Yet women's ways are witless ways,
As any sage will tell,—
And what am I, that I should love
So wisely and so well?

Have You No Thought, O Dreamer?

2009-06-04T22:02:00.003-06:00

I know, I know, I promised sunshine and such. But it's a harder promise to fulfill than I realized.

Summertime. I love summer nights. The past couple nights I've driven my car out to a good view of the sunset. I've parked and read poetry aloud, letting my little car absorb my words. Oh what poems that car has heard!

Whitman is a recent favorite of mine. I reread Mary Downing Hahn's The Wind Blows Backward just a few short weeks ago. The novel was loaded with Whitman's work. It launched me into giving him a closer look. There is something so moving, so raw, so familiar about Whitman. I hope you enjoy tonight's poem. It certainly lingered in my mind long after I read it.

Are You the New Person Drawn Toward Me?
Walt Whitman

ARE you the new person drawn toward me?
To begin with take warning, I am surely far different from what you
suppose;
Do you suppose you will find in me your ideal?
Do you think it so easy to have me become your lover?
Do you think the friendship of me would be unalloy'd satisfaction?
Do you think I am trusty and faithful?
Do you see no further than this facade, this smooth and tolerant
manner of me?
Do you suppose yourself advancing on real ground toward a real
heroic man?
Have you no thought O dreamer that it may be all maya, illusion?

Forcast: Sunshine

2009-05-13T15:27:00.003-06:00

Photo by: Valerie Owens

This blog seems so serious, it's sad. I am a lighthearted optimist who loves more than anything to laugh and smile. But, poetry always puts me in a relaxed, reflective mood. How might I brighten this little blog up? I shall try to share some happy poetry and spread a little sunshine. My apologies for a blog too serious.

Photo by: Valerie Owens

Love's Austere and Lonely Offices

2009-05-10T22:15:00.003-06:00

Years, decades, even half a century, has passed since my grandpa was a farm boy. Yet even now, in his eighties, he recalls with tender clarity the love of his father. Every Christmas, his father would let his sons sleep while he went quietly to the barn and milked the cows all on his own. When the milking was done he would make his way back to the house and rap on his sons' window and say "Christmas gift! Christmas gift!" Every year. This was one small way my grandfather's father said, "I love you." What came to my mind when I heard this simple tale was Robert Hayden's poem, "Those Winter Sundays."

Those Winter Sundays
Robert Hayden

Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze.  No one ever thanked him.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices?

"Love's austere and lonely offices." I love that line. Today is Mother's Day and I'm thinking of the many austere and lonely offices my mother's love holds--the things for which she is never thanked. I would like to thank her for a great deal of many things, like roses in the garden, music on the piano, and meals on the table. I would like to thank her for smiles, hugs, laughter, and beauty. It is her quirks that I love, like the way she leaves a dozen pairs of reading glasses scattered throughout the house. Or, her forgetful moments and silly sayings that she kindly lets us chide her about. I know little of love's austere and lonely offices, but I do know my mother is a good woman and I love her for this goodness.

Also, search this blog for Owen Sheers' "Not Yet My Mother" and Billy Collins' "Lanyard," both posted last May, and Collins again just recently. Great poems with a nod to mothers.

And to my sister, thank you for reading this little blog of mine.

Ceaselessly Musing

2009-04-26T21:39:00.001-06:00

My life is on the verge of change once again... I am thinking of the college years and how fast they will fly away and how now is the time for so many, many opportunities that will never come by again.

So tonight, a little Walt Whitman.

A Noiseless Patient Spider
Walt Whitman

A noiseless patient spider,
I mark'd where on a little promontory it stood isolated,
Mark'd how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,
It launch'd forth filament, filament, filament out of itself,
Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you O my soul where you stand,
Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to
connect them,
Till the bridge you will need be form'd, till the ductile anchor hold,
Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.

I chose this poem because these are the years, most of all, to be "ceaselessly musing" and "venturing" and forming the bridge of my life, the anchor of who I am. I suppose my whole life should be filled with ceaseless musing, but I feel now is most important and most opportune to do so.

And lastly, two quotes.

Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.
~ Mark Twain

This is the place where I learned to live this life, to curse this life and to claim this life for my very own.
~Jodie Foster

YouTube meets Poetry

2009-04-22T09:24:00.006-06:00

As of lately, I have discovered the joy of poetry meeting animation and sound. A simple Google search can pull up readings of many of my favorite poems. YouTube has awesome videos available, like animated poetry, clips from Def Poetry Jam, and videos of poets reading their own stuff. It adds a whole new dimension to poetry. Billy Collins also has an awesome Action Poetry website. So today, I post a video of Billy Collins reading his poem, "Lanyard." I've previously posted this poem, but hearing it gives the poem a whole new layer of dry humor. So it isn't really all that exciting to watch, but listen and I hope you enjoy!

Very Tired, Very Merry

2009-04-21T20:59:00.003-06:00

Spring has finally arrived! I simply cannot get enough of the sunshine. I had forgotten how passionately blue the sky could be. The blossoms on the trees and newly planted flowers delight me incessantly. I am in love with spring. I am thinking of poems previously posted, Gerard Manley Hopkins, "Pied Beauty" and e.e. cummings' "little you-i" and "i thank you God for most this amazing;" poems that speak to me of beauty and spring.

So why then am I not posting poetry about spring? Because I'm finicky and want to post this one. I enjoy the feel of the poem, that melancholy beauty that prevails through life.

Recuerdo
Edna St. Vincent Millay

WE were very tired, we were very merry—
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable—
But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,
We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon;
And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.
We were very tired, we were very merry—
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry;
And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear,
From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere;
And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,
And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.
We were very tired, we were very merry,
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
We hailed "Good morrow, mother!" to a shawl-covered head,
And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read;
And she wept, "God bless you!" for the apples and pears,
And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.

Nothing explicitly states the two as lovers, but it can be felt. I enjoy the tangibility of their relationship. I would like a lover such as that. I am waiting for a man who likes long drives, blue skies, sunsets, and star gazing. I am waiting for the man who likes to rest his head upon my lap, while I idly read poetry, sitting against a tree with the grass beneath and the blue sky above me. But, I'd be happy with the guy who is able to smile about my love for poetry without understanding, just as I will smile about his love for basketball, or whatever it might be.

And that has nothing to do with anything. Apologies for the scattered nature of recent posts.

Forks and April

2009-04-20T19:10:00.002-06:00

Well, I suppose I'd better post something for April. This month's choice, Jefrey Harrison's "Fork." It was the humor that first struck me. I wish I had more to say on it, but I'm not really in the mood for commentary. Though, I realize, without commentary this little blog doesn't have much going for it. I think its purpose is more for my benefit than any other; a place to collect poetry that has moved me at one point or another.

On second thought, I don't really want to post "Fork." But, dear reader, if you so desire you are welcome to seek this poem out on your own. Its just a little long, and if you are like me, longer poems often take patience I do not possess. In fact, I wouldn't have ever taken note of "Fork" were it not read a class I'm currently taking.

So how about I admit to lameness and not post a poem this month? To make up for this atrocious entry, I will post a truly beautiful quote.

I have sometimes dreamt...that when the Day of Judgment dawns and the great conquerors and lawyers and statesmen come to receive their rewards--their crowns, their laurels, their names carved indelibly upon impershable marble--the Almighty will turn to Peter and will say, not without a certain envy when He sees us coming with our books under our arms, "Look, these need no reward. We have nothing to give them here. They have loved reading."

~ Virginia Woolfe, The Second Common Reader

Do What You Are Going To Do

2009-03-26T15:31:00.004-06:00

Here's an interesting one... I'd be curious to know how much of the poem is autobiographical. Sharon Olds is very private about her personal life, and she has every right to be. Still, it makes one wonder. And this poem leads back to the age old question, "If you could change the past, would you?"

I Go Back to May 1937
by Sharon Olds

I see them standing at the formal gates of their colleges,

I see my father strolling out

under the ochre sandstone arch, the

red tiles glinting like bent

plates of blood behind his head, I

see my mother with a few light books at her hip

standing at the pillar made of tiny bricks,

the wrought-iron gate still open behind her, its

sword-tips aglow in the May air,

they are about to graduate, they are about to get married,

they are kids, they are dumb, all they know is they are

innocent, they would never hurt anybody.

I want to go up to them and say Stop,

don’t do it—she’s the wrong woman,

he’s the wrong man, you are going to do things

you cannot imagine you would ever do,

you are going to do bad things to children,

you are going to suffer in ways you have not heard of,

you are going to want to die. I want to go

up to them there in the late May sunlight and say it,

her hungry pretty face turning to me,

her pitiful beautiful untouched body,

his arrogant handsome face turning to me,

his pitiful beautiful untouched body,

but I don’t do it. I want to live. I

take them up like the male and female

paper dolls and bang them together

at the hips, like chips of flint, as if to

strike sparks from them, I say

Do what you are going to do, and I will tell about it.

Annabel Lee

2009-03-07T17:37:00.003-07:00

This is one you may know. How can I have a poetry blog without including Poe?

ANNABEL LEE
Edgar Allan Poe

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;--
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

She was a child and I was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love--
I and my Annabel Lee--
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud by night
Chilling my Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulcher
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
Went envying her and me:--
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of a cloud, chilling
And killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we--
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:--

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the nighttide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
In her sepulcher there by the sea--
In her tomb by the side of the sea.

There are slight variations in the version posted than one might be familiar with. I refer to The Mentor Book of Major American Poets, edited by Oscar Williams and Edwin Honig for this version.

In comparison to "Annabel Lee," check out Frank Desprez's "Lasca." I'm curious if any one else was struck by similarity between the two.

Identity Crisis

2009-02-09T17:22:00.004-07:00

I am going through a bit of an blogging identity crisis. Having bid farewell to this blog, I am now unsure what to blog about on my new blog. Thus like a child returning to a security blanket, I am blogging here, because here I have a clear message of what the point of the blog is--and that is to spread the love of poetry.

I am currently taking an Intro to Poetry class. Initially I was disappointed to find there is no writing of poetry in this class, only writing about poetry. But as the class has progressed, I have loved delving deep into the mechanisms of poetry.

One particular poem has recently stuck out to me,

Dulce et Decorum Est
Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.

1 DULCE ET DECORUM EST PRO PATRIA MORI: Latin for, "It is sweet and fitting to die for one's country."
I love the vibrant imagery of the poem--violent though it be. It's real, it's passionate, and in it's own way, beautiful. What do you think of it?

Still Burning...

2008-10-14T22:51:00.004-06:00

Dearest Lisa, this post is because you put me in the mood for poetry. "The Portrait," by Stanley Kunitz, has been rolling around in my head for some time now. I can't see to get it out of my mind, particularly the sharp conclusion. The words come to me again and again throughout the day. Good poems never seem to dissipate. They seem to linger infinitely in the subconscious, brought forth by the slightest word or the strangest thought. Odd.

Thus without further ado, "The Portrait," by Stanley Kunitz.

The Portrait
Stanley Kunitz

My mother never forgave my father
for killing himself,
especially at such an awkward time
and in a public park,
that spring
when I was waiting to be born.
She locked his name
in her deepest cabinet
and would not let him out,
though I could hear him thumping.
When I came down from the attic
with the pastel portrait in my hand
of a long-lipped stranger
with a brave moustache
and deep brown level eyes,
she ripped it into shreds
without a single word
and slapped me hard.
In my sixty-fourth year
I can feel my cheek
still burning.

Might Have Beens

2008-10-08T21:11:00.002-06:00

.
I recently splurged half a week's worth of grocery money to purchase Garrison Keillor's Good Poems, a purchase well made. The book appropriately titled! There are a few poems that keep echoing through my head. On my mind tonight is Dana Gioia's "Summer Rain." Actually, it has been on my mind the past few weeks. The last couple paragraphs keep swirling through my head. It seems a fitting poem to read as the leaves fall quietly outside my window. Gioia beautifully explores that strange little world of the what might have beens.

My own recent what might have been? On campus I frequently see a young man with a guitar case slung over his shoulder. Today, I found him on the lawn. The guitar was at his lap, the case set aside. He was not yet playing. I wanted very much to hear his music. I sat on a patch of lawn nearby and pulled out a book, half reading, half waiting. I wanted badly to go and sit by him. There was much I wanted to know. What was his name? Why was the guitar his constant companion? How long had he been playing-- if I suppose, he played at all? What sort of music did he love? Did he write his own music? But, I remained rooted to my spot, my nose in the book. I waited patiently, looking up once to seem him softly stroking the strings without producing sound. When I looked up again, he was gone. "There are so many might have beens..."

Summer Storm
Dana Gioia
We stood on the rented patio
While the party went on inside.
You knew the groom from college.
I was a friend of the bride.

We hugged the brownstone wall behind us
To keep our dress clothes dry
And watched the sudden summer storm
Floodlit against the sky.

The rain was like a waterfall
Of brilliant beaded light,
Cool and silent as the stars
The storm hid from the night.

To my surprise, you took my arm–
A gesture you didn't explain–
And we spoke in whispers, as if we two
Might imitate the rain.

Then suddenly the storm receded
As swiftly as it came.
The doors behind us opened up.
The hostess called your name.

I watched you merge into the group,
Aloof and yet polite.
We didn't speak another word
Except to say goodnight.

Why does that evening's memory
Return with this night's storm–
A party twenty years ago,
Its disappointments warm?

There are so many might have beens,
What ifs that won't stay buried,
Other cities, other jobs,
Strangers we might have married.

And memory insists on pining
For places it never went,
As if life would be happier
Just by being different.

Somewhat Farewell

2008-09-03T14:09:00.000-06:00

This isn't a final farewell... Not really. There are still poems I'd like to post. This is merely a pause. For a creative writing class, I've started a new blog, www.vivaciouswritings.blogspot.com. Feel free to check there for recent writings. Thank you for your faithful viewing. Don't give up on this blog entirely.

Very few of us are what we seem

2008-08-13T21:20:00.002-06:00

I have been a slothful blogger as of lately. I guess I just haven't felt in a poetic mood lately. One week from today, I move away from home for the first time in my life. What should be a reflective period in my life is, well, oddly rather void of any deep thinking. I have a few poems in mind I'd like to post soon, so keep an eye out for that. Tonight however, Agatha Christie has caught my attention. I'd like to post a few quotes by her.

Agatha Christie

“Very few of us are what we seem.”

“I like living. I have sometimes been wildly, despairingly, acutely miserable, racked with sorrow, but through it all I still know quite certainly that just to be alive is a grand thing.”

"But there is a great deal left. Operas and concerts, and reading, and the enormous pleasure of dropping into bed and going to sleep, and dreams of every variety... Almost best of all, sitting in the sun--gently drowsing... And there you are again--remembering." In her autobiography

“It is a curious thought, but it is only when you see people looking ridiculous that you realize just how much you love them.”

What makes you aware of your love for others? Is it when you see them looking ridiculous? Is it the curious ache of your heart when you see their tears? Perhaps the faint smile that comes subconsciously to your lips when ever you think of them? Or the way your day feels half empty and horribly dull without them?

O Taste and See

2008-08-02T09:49:00.006-06:00

Welcome to August! Odd how fast the summer fades. Today I post a strange poem that feels oddly rushed to me, like the coming of autumn, the dying of the hot summer, even though that's not really what it's about at all. In fact, I'm not quite sure what it's trying to say. Perhaps, grasp at life. Absorb and digest and take in everything. Taste and see and let it transform you. Which, I suppose could well be applied to the end of another summer. I just enjoy the words rolling into one another, particularly in stanza three.

O Taste and See
Denise Levertov
.

The world is
not with us enough
O taste and see
.

the subway Bible poster said,
meaning The Lord, meaning
if anything all that lives
to the imagination’s tongue,
.

grief, mercy, language,
tangerine, weather, to
breathe them, bite,
savor, chew, swallow, transform
.

into our flesh our
deaths, crossing the street, plum, quince,
living in the orchard and being
.

hungry, and plucking
the fruit.

What do you think the poem is trying to say?

Strange and Unimaginable Ways

2008-07-31T15:56:00.004-06:00

Strange how life works. With each poem I read, lines and fragments cling to me, following me as I go. I walk down the street and there is Rossetti whispering, I wish I could remember. Wordsworth follows me on melancholy days his voice faintly saying, in vacant or in pensive mood. And today I hear Meinke sighing, and young men lose their lives in strange and unimaginable ways. Why? I don't know. Poetry entangles itself into your life, words read twisting around words spoken and weaving through thoughts. So today, I nod my head to Meinke.

Advice to My Son by Peter Meinke

The trick is, to live your days
as if each one may be your last
(for they go fast, and young men lose their lives
in strange and unimaginable ways)
but at the same time, plan long range
(for they go slow: if you survive
the shattered windshield and the bursting shell
you will arrive
at our approximation here below
of heaven or hell).

To be specific, between the peony and the rose
plant squash and spinach, turnips and tomatoes;
beauty is nectar
and nectar, in a desert, saves--
but the stomach craves stronger sustenance
than the honied vine.
Therefore, marry a pretty girl
after seeing her mother;
peak truth to one man,
work with another;
and always serve bread with your wine.

But, son,
always serve wine.

I Wish I Could Remember....

2008-07-29T08:59:00.005-06:00

Every great love story begins with something along the lines of, "I remember the first time I laid eyes on her..." In reality life doesn't often merit fireworks upon first introductions. People slip quietly in and out of our lives, their presence rarely recognized until that point that you can't live without it. So, here is an anthem to all lovers who can't remember the moment their love story begin, or, if it had a beginning at all.

Sonnet
by Christina Rossetti
I wish I could remember that first day,
First hour, first moment of your meeting me,
If bright or dim the season, it might be
Summer or Winter for aught that I can say;
So unrecorded did it slip away,
So blind was I to see and to foresee,
So dull to mark the budding of my tree
That would not blossom yet for many a May.
If only I could recollect it, such
A day of days! I let it come and go
As traceless as a thaw of bygone snow;
It seemed to mean so little, meant so much;
If only now I could recall that touch,
First touch of hand in hand.--Did one but know!

How did your love story begin? Do you remember? Or, did you fall slowly into it?

This Bridge

2008-07-28T12:31:00.003-06:00

I grew up with the poetry of Shel Silverstein, as I'm sure half of America did. "This Bridge" is a Silverstein favorite of mine.

This Bridge
Shel Silverstein

This bridge will only take you halfway there
To those mysterious lands you long to see:
Through gypsy camps and swirling Arab fairs
And moonlit woods where unicorns run free.
So come and walk awhile with me and share
The twisting trails and wondrous worlds I've known.
But this bridge will only take you halfway there--
The last few steps you'll have to take alone.

Image: www.sulekha.com

What's your favorite Silverstein poem?

Sweet by and by

2008-07-27T18:27:00.003-06:00

Untitled
Valerie Owens

Beneath the tent of summer sheets,

sisters share whispered secrets of

fading heartaches,

and budding romances

and floating dreams.

The same sisters

tie up autumn’s phone lines

with the latest gossip

and news of school days

and weekend dates

and escapades with roommates.

They count down the weeks

until winter’s vacation

will bring them together again,

when, under the glow of Christmas’s tree

they talk late into the night

of the beautiful things

and days gone by.

Spring rings with news

swapped between the two

of Saturday adventures,

April downpours,

and dreaded finals.

Seasons will follow seasons.

The years will fall softly away,

piling upon one another,

like October’s leaves in the loose

chill of the wind.

How one’s heart aches

for days of

dreaming away summer

beneath the warm blue sky

with the soft grass at the feet

of sisters.

Or, the schooldays of autumn,

hopscotch and skinned knees at recess

and spending lessons

gazing out the window

in sweet reverie.

Oh to sled through winter again,

together,

with a carol on your lips,

face rosy from the cold,

and laughter bright in white afternoon!

And to remember the scent of spring,

blowing dandelions into the May wind

and sailing off as one

on the wings of a wish.

How one longs for the sweet by and by,

childhood,

spent by a sister’s side.

And the present day glides away

and what once was will never again be.

Would one exchange

an eternity of childhood

for the future unknown?

How fragile a flight we’ve flown!

What speaks to you of childhood?

Deja Vu

2008-07-23T18:01:00.004-06:00

Deja Vu
Valerie Owens

now
wind
tossed
corn husk
curls
wild
tamed
arced
blond
brows
freckles
splashed across
nose
square jaw
hazel
hazy
eyes
laughing
mouth
face
reminded of
bygone days,
porch swing,
crickets sing,
lazy
low
light
conversation
casual
and summer eves

that

never

seemed to

last long enough
gone

Recently Observed

2008-07-21T11:49:00.007-06:00

Recently Observed
Valerie Owens

Yesterday,
while loading groceries into the truck of my car,
I observe
a slim businessman
in a sharp three piece suit
placidly strolling through the automatic doors
and out into the bright sunshine,
a full cart of groceries before him.
His pace quickens, slightly
He glances casually about him,
right, then left.
Feeling the coast is clear,
he breaks out into a beautiful sprint,
polished shoes slapping wildly against the pavement.
He jumps on the cart,
just like your mother told you not to,
and he flies down the parking lot,
silly grin splashed across his face,
like a child getting away with something naughty.
The wind blows at the corners of his suit jacket.
He looks purely delighted.
This, this is what it means
to be Alive.
All too soon,
the childlike flight ends.
Having arrived at his BMW,
he jumps off,
suddenly dignified,
loads his groceries,
puts the cart away,
and drives off,
leaving me with a smile on my face,
and curious about
the businessman
that I recently observed.

Photo: www.juniperimages.com

Any quirky acts of the seemingly dignified that have brought a smile to your face?

Ode to an Angel Mother

2008-07-15T08:44:00.004-06:00

I'm sure you are familiar with Abraham Lincoln's quote, "All that I am or ever hope to be, I owe to my angel Mother. This is a small ode to my angel mother.

My Angel Mother
Valerie Owens

She comes home;
shoes stained red with dust
from an idle hike
through desert twilight
and into the night.
Hair, windblown and eyes, bright.
Mother is waiting up
Innocent mistake though it be,
the clock is pushing two
and curfew is long since past.
A penitent daughter awaits a sharp rebuke
from motherly lips.
Yet, Mother, quiet and understanding,
asks instead
if she had a good time
and how was the hike.
Casual chatter
and
no mention of late hours.
With a tender kiss upon the cheek,
mother, daughter say good-night.
A small surge of love
rises softly in the daughter's young heart.

She thinks now
of patient hours Mother played Nurse
in the days after surgery.
And
of clean piles of laundry at the edge of an unmade bed
and seven reminders
to put those clothes away!
She considers the unexpected acts,

like
the scent of pie dough
baked into cinnamon sugar rolls,
a loving reminder
that Mom remembered

what her daughter loves best.

An impromptu hot dog dinner

for a dozen teenage friends,

a quilt to warm a dorm room,

and a kiss every night,

these are the beautiful things of the world

to a young daughter.
She can almost hear
the lullabies of childhood,
and songs spilling forth from the piano,
and singing in the kitchen,
Mother's music,
the soundtrack of home.

Eyes, heavy with weariness,
close softly
and sleep comes
deep
and satisfying.

It is good to be loved.

What is it about mothers that makes them so wonderful?

Gather ye rosebuds

2008-07-08T13:49:00.005-06:00

The end of summer is edging closer and though still far off, it feels as though the speed of summer has picked up. I feel as though I should be soaking in every last moment, grasping at the whispery threads of fading summer. "To the Virgins, to make much of time" has been on my mind lately. It's likely one you are familiar with. I first heard it in English class last fall. And, accompanying art by John William Waterhouse, a painting entitled "Gather Ye Rosebuds While Ye May." I perused Waterhouse's gallery and loved his work. Check it out. I hope you like it.

To the Virgins, to make much of Time
Robert Herrick

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles today
Tomorrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he's a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry;
For having lost but once your prime,
You may forever tarry.

little you-i

2008-07-07T16:25:00.003-06:00

e.e. cummings wasn't meant to be confined to the page. He was meant to be read out loud. His words are a party of sounds, alliterations and assonances, rhymes and off-rhymes, swung into a rhythmic celebration. It's beautiful. "87" is particularly delightful to hear. It may feel a little silly reading out loud to yourself, but go ahead and give it a shot. I particularly like the nose-dive at the end which feels like it doesn't fit at all, which is precisely why it works. I won't even attempt to guess at it's meaning. Poetry doesn't have to mean. It can just be. No need to beat a symbolic meaning out of it, just enjoy the sounds of the words as they roll easily off the tongue.

87
e.e. cummings

o by the by
has anybody seen
little you-i
who stood on a green
hill and threw
his wish at blue

with a swoop and a dart
out flew his wish
(it dived like a fish
but it climbed like a dream)
throbbing like a heart
singing like a flame

blue took it my
far beyond far
and high beyond high
bluer took it your
but bluest took it our
away beyond where

what a wonderful thing
is the end of a string
(murmurs little you-i
as the hill becomes nil)
and will somebody tell
me why people let go

e.e. cummings the poet was also a playwright. He said of one very unorthodox play:

"Relax and give the play a chance to strut its stuff—relax, stop wondering what it is all 'about'—like many strange and familiar things, Life included, this play isn't 'about,' it simply is. . . . Don't try to enjoy it, let it try to enjoy you. DON'T TRY TO UNDERSTAND IT, LET IT TRY TO UNDERSTAND YOU."

I think the same statement can apply to a great deal of poetry. Don't overthink the beautiful and unfamiliar or try to conform it to your view of life. Just let it exist in it's own quirkiness.

Don't Touch

2008-07-06T17:55:00.003-06:00

I recently purchased a copy of Carol Lynn Pearson's In Love Again And Always. The book is a collection of love poems, simple, sweet, and tender. I don't have much to say on the book. It's not deep poetry, but an enjoyable read. I find Carol Lynn Pearson to lead a fascinating life; Google her. She seems set apart from perhaps the "trite" nature of a good deal of LDS fiction. Pearson divorced her husband for good reason, remained friends, and stayed by his side as he died of AIDS. Interesting to have that background to read her love poems.

Don't Touch
Carol Lynn Pearson

It's all right, really,
That I touch you?

Somehow I look around
For signs you might see
In a museum
Or wherever else they
House the world's
Extraordinary things.

I could only look
At the Rembrandts
And the Chinese vases,
And I could not
Get closer than three feet
To the crown jewels.

Well, I didn't even want to.
But you?
It would be asking too much
For me to be in a room with you
And not touch.

It's all right?
I can sit on this couch
With your head in my lap
And trace your eyebrows
And lips and face?
I can play with your hair like this?
And even kiss
And tickle if I want
And no one will call a guard?

Why do I smile
Like I'm getting away
With something bold?

There were alarms fixed in case
I should try to touch
King Tut's face--
And his was only gold.

Crazy Little Thing Called Love

2008-07-03T09:17:00.004-06:00

I owe you poetry. I owe you words from the lips of the greats. And, I will. But today, a few quotations on love, which I guess in their own right are pretty poetic. They are different quotes, ones not heard that often. Your favorite love quotes?

After all these years, I see that I was mistaken about Eve in the beginning; it is better to live outside the Garden with her than inside it without her. ~ Adam, in Adam's Diary, by Mark Twain

Do you want me to tell you something really subversive? Love is everything it's cracked up to be. That's why people are so cynical about it. It really is worth fighting for, being brave for, risking everything for. And the trouble is, if you don't risk everything, you risk even more.
—Erica Jong
Women was made from man’s rib, not his head to be higher than him, not his foot to be stepped upon, she was made from his rib under his arm for protection, by his side and close to his heart.

Love is an irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired. ~ Robert Frost

What! No star, and you are going out to sea? Marching, and you have no music? Traveling, and you have no book? What! No love, and you are going out to live? ~ French Proverb

If I had a single flower for every time I think about you, I could walk forever in my garden. ~Attributed to Claudia Ghandi

El Cuadro

2008-06-30T18:27:00.009-06:00

I have received recent requests to post pictures... But I have no idea what to post as my original idea was to keep my identity somewhat anonymous. So much for that. My family is my most faithful viewers and I love them dearly for it! So, faces being out, I will post some cool shots of Washington DC area through the eyes of my family. This is somehow related to poetry, like poetry of the eye or something cheesy like that. Check out the previous post for some dearly loved faces if that's what you desire. This picture thing is mildly exciting and I just might start sticking art with poetry once in a random while.

Grow Old Along With Me

2008-06-29T16:27:00.002-06:00

In behalf of my parent's 24th wedding anniversary...

Grow Old Along With Me
Robert Browning

Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made:
Our times are in His hand
Who saith "A whole I planned,
Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!"

Music vs. Poetry

2008-06-28T20:17:00.002-06:00

Two things I love: music and poetry. But then again, you probably could have guessed that. However, I find it's hard to read poetry while listening to music. Doing both fails to give either task the attention it deserves. It's like trying to read two poems at once. Would Mozart be conducive to a poetic mood? I have never been one to listen to classical music though perhaps now is as good of a time as any.

Irrational Fears

2008-06-28T20:02:00.005-06:00

Would You Know If You Were Crazy?
Valerie Owens

Late afternoon sunshine spills in
through familiar windows.
I am alone in the house.
Disquieted by footsteps from the upstairs,
I check
And
I check again
And then, once more.
I am still alone in the house.
I reason with myself
old houses have creaks
and groans of their own.
Calm down.
You are going crazy,
I tell myself.
Eighteen
and still afraid
of things that go bump in the night
or
in this case
late afternoon
And
I'm talking to myself.

A four foot box...

2008-06-27T13:37:00.003-06:00

Last year, I kidnapped a literature book from my English classroom. I devoured the poetry section and kept the book hostage the entire year. Some poems I never did understand why they were of "literary merit." Others, like this one, I fell in love with without quite knowing why. There is a very distinct feel to "Mid-Term Break." I find emotion translates so poorly into words and when one can give the proper words to emotion, that to me is poetry. To me, "Mid-term Break" displays the disconnected clarity one views a tragic situation before the reality has really set in.

Mid-Term Break
Seamus Heaney

I sat all morning in the college sick bay
Counting bells knelling classes to a close.
At two o'clock our neighbors drove me home.

In the porch I met my father crying--
He had always taken funerals in his stride--
And Big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow.

The baby cooed and laughed and rocked the pram
When I came in, and I was embarrassed
By old men standing up to shake my hand

And tell me they were "sorry for my trouble,"
Whispers informed strangers I was the eldest,
Away at school, as my mother held my hand

In hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs.
At ten o'clock the ambulance arrived
With the corpse, stanched and bandaged by the nurses.

Next morning I went up into the room. Snowdrops
And candles soothed the bedside; I saw him
For the first time in six weeks. Paler now,

Wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple,
He lay in the four foot box as in his cot.
No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear.

A four foot box, a foot for every year.

Love is...

2008-06-24T22:30:00.003-06:00

Sorry to have been neglectful of my humble blog. I have been traveling. I have seen the world and come back a changed person. Okay, so maybe not the whole world, and I'm still me. But, my mind has been flying a mile a minute lately. I've been musing over deep thoughts, too deep perhaps. I feel like I'm perched on the edge, just waiting, waiting for change. A few nights ago, I watched Meet Joe Black for the first time. It fit my mood most excellently. I LOVED it. So, for tonight I'll post a quote from the movie, though I do have poems I'd like to post, both ones written and read. And, watch the movie. So many quotes I'd just love to post.

Love is passion, obsession, someone you can't live without. If you don't start with that, what are you going to end up with? Fall head over heels. I say find someone you can love like crazy and who'll love you the same way back. And how do you find him? Forget your head and listen to your heart. I'm not hearing any heart. Run the risk, if you get hurt, you'll come back. Because, the truth is there is no sense living your life without this. To make the journey and not fall deeply in love - well, you haven't lived a life at all. You have to try. Because if you haven't tried, you haven't lived.
~ Meet Joe Black

Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave

2008-06-10T13:22:00.005-06:00

Today I post George Herbert's poem, "Virtue." The poem was written in 1633. I'm posting it in the original English, but if that bothers you, Google another version. What strikes me the most is how, centuries after it is written, I can find so much to relate to it. My favorite stanza is the second, which, pulled aside from the rest of the poem, has had various meanings for me throughout the year. The "sweet rose" has to me been dream colleges I know I'll never be able to attend, flings doomed from the get go, and ambitions too lofty to ever accomplish. I think that is part of what makes poetry, poetry. No matter how specific or personal the topic, others can relate to it on a hundred different levels. Each stanza in turn has come to fit into wherever in my life I may be. "Sweet spring" is to me those perfect days when all is right with the world, the first stages of love, and beauty at it's finest. All things must come to an end, yet above it rises human virtue. Beautiful!

¶ Vertue.
George Herbert

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridall of the earth and skie:
The dew shall weep thy fall to night;
                                    For thou must die.
Sweet rose, whose hue angrie and brave
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye:
Thy root is ever in its grave
                                    And thou must die.
Sweet spring, full of sweet dayes and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie;
My musick shows ye have your closes,¹
                                    And all must die.
Onely a sweet and vertuous soul,
Like season’d timber, never gives;
But though the whole world turn to coal,
                                    Then chiefly lives.

Mother Theresa

2008-06-03T23:40:00.000-06:00

This poem is what I suppose could be called my life motto. It has been posted in my locker, on my binder, in my car, in my room, or somewhere, for years. I think it's beautiful. A Dr. Kent M. Keith has the copyright on it, but I like Mother Theresa's version much better.

Do It Anyway
Mother Theresa

People are often unreasonable, illogical and self centered;
Forgive them anyway.

If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives;
Be kind anyway.

If you are successful, you will win some false friends and some true enemies;
Succeed anyway.

If you are honest and frank, people may cheat you;
Be honest and frank anyway.

What you spend years building, someone could destroy overnight;
Build anyway.

If you find serenity and happiness, they may be jealous;
Be happy anyway.

The good you do today, people will often forget tomorrow;
Do good anyway.

Give the world the best you have, and it may never be enough;
Give the world the best you've got anyway.

You see, in the final analysis, it is between you and God;
It was never between you and them anyway.

And a few more quotes by Mother Theresa...

"I know God wouldn't let anything happen I couldn't handle. I wish God didn't trust me so much."

"God is never late, but rarely early."

"If you judge people, you have no time to love them."

Recently Read Books

2008-06-01T16:22:00.000-06:00

Inspired by a blog of my sister's, I am posting reviews of books I've read within the past two months or so. Summer leaves a blessed amount of time for reading and I will post more reviews in the next couple months.

Just Listen, Sarah Dessen

I love this book. I love the emotion that comes through the pages and how human the characters are. Never have I pulled away from a book more grieved that the characters weren't real than this one, particularly Owen. Also, the book called me to reexamine honesty in my own life, which in the matter of just a week, my newfound blunt honesty managed to get me into a pickle... Dang honesty.

Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen

Hilarious novel. I had read it once before, but this time around I caught just how witty and satirical Austen is. This novel is the original chick flick. I wish I had the wit of Elizabeth. And, I am in love with Mr. Darcy.

Someone Like You, Sarah Dessen

The first Dessen novel I wasn't in love with. The story is about two best friends, boyfriends, high school, family, etc... The twist in the plot is that one friend is carrying the baby of her boyfriend who was killed the summer before. I think the book undermines a little the difficulty a teenager would have with the situation. The book just didn't seem to flow well for me. It's fun popcorn reading and I enjoyed it, but it didn't match up to previously read Dessen Novels.

The Kite Runner, Khaled Hosseini

It seems everyone is reading this book so I decided to give it a go. Wow. This is one powerful novel, challenging themes of regret, revenge, friendship, nationalism, and the sense of right and wrong. I enjoyed the novel, but it is a very heavy read. The novel is a bit graphic, though not unnecessarily so. There is a feel of brutal honesty about it. This book deserves all the attention it's been getting.

I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings, Maya Angelou

I'm a fan of Angelou's poetry, so her autobiography has been on my list for some time. I just started so I don't have much to say on it, but I can't wait to read it.

Way to Be! Gordon B. Hinckley

This book details "nine ways to be happy and make something of your life." The book is simply and beautifully written and made me yearn for improvement in my life. I recommend it to people of all ages. If I get a minute, I'll post some quotes from the book as well. Loved it.

Daffodils

2008-05-30T00:24:00.001-06:00

I memorized this poem for my English class. I love the poem. It has given me a whole new perspective on beauty. And, every time I see a daffodil, my faith in miracles is renewed. Love a poem? Memorize it. It gives the poem new breath and depth. The poem becomes yours. It's beautiful.

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud
William Wordsworth

I WANDERED lonely as a cloud
      That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
      When all at once I saw a crowd,
      A host, of golden daffodils;
      Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
      Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

      Continuous as the stars that shine
      And twinkle on the milky way,
      They stretched in never-ending line
      Along the margin of a bay:                                  10
      Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
      Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

      The waves beside them danced; but they
      Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
      A poet could not but be gay,
      In such a jocund company:
      I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
      What wealth the show to me had brought:

      For oft, when on my couch I lie
      In vacant or in pensive mood,                               20
      They flash upon that inward eye
      Which is the bliss of solitude;
      And then my heart with pleasure fills,
      And dances with the daffodils.
                                                          1804.

graduation

2008-05-22T13:46:00.001-06:00

Graduation
Valerie Owens

eating rice crispies
an hour after graduating from high school
shouldn't i be
melancholy, excited, relieved, anxious...
or
something...
yes?
but i am thinking about
sunburnt shoulders,
a bad hair day,
and how none of this
seems real
strange.
i'm graduated.

Another nod to Collins

2008-05-18T14:07:00.000-06:00

As promised, more of the works of Billy Collins. Sticking with Owen Sheers' theme of motherhood, I am posting "The Lanyard." I love the irony within the poem. And, I dearly love my own mother, even if I only have a "lanyard" of sorts to prove it.

"The Lanyard"
Billy Collins

The other day as I was ricocheting slowly
off the pale blue walls of this room,
bouncing from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.

No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one more suddenly into the past --
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.

I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.

She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sickroom,
lifted teaspoons of medicine to my lips,
set cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light

and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.

Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift--not the archaic truth

that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hands,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.

Owen Sheers

2008-05-17T13:19:00.000-06:00

Poetry from a younger poet, Owen Sheers.... He was born 1973, so that would put him at thirty-five? Still nearly two decades older than myself, but the poem was only published two years ago. Cool to see the next generation of poetry.

Not Yet My Mother
Owen Sheers

Saturday June 24, 2006
The Guardian

Yesterday I found a photo
of you at seventeen,
holding a horse and smiling,
not yet my mother.
The tight riding hat hid your hair,
and your legs were still the long shins of a boy's.
You held the horse by the halter,
your hand a fist under its huge jaw.
The blown trees were still in the background
and the sky was grained by the old film stock,
but what caught me was your face,
which was mine.
And I thought, just for a second, that you were me.
But then I saw the woman's jacket,
nipped at the waist, the ballooned jodhpurs,
and of course the date, scratched in the corner.
All of which told me again,
that this was you at seventeen, holding a horse
and smiling, not yet my mother,
although I was clearly already your child.

Poetry, Brautigan Style

2008-05-17T00:44:00.001-06:00

Poetry, Brautigan Style
Valerie Owens

His magic is:
like ice cubes beneath a hot faucet.
He is really quite unremarkable.
I am sleep deprived.
And Brautigan was drunk.

A Second Glance at Brautigan

2008-05-17T00:19:00.000-06:00

I find one's interpretation of poetry to be largely based on the mood they are in. The poet surrenders the poem to the carnivorous nature of the masses and pray it makes it out alive. The reader murders the poem for what he wants and leaves the corpse to rot.

Last night, I felt rapture on the discovery of Richard Brautigan. Tonight, Brautigan's work appears rather ugly, frustrating almost. But, I still have a few of his I'd like to share as Brautigan shouldn't suffer because of my bad mood. And, it's pretty cool how well it fits recent situations.

"Your Love"
Richard Brautigan
Your love
Somebody else needs it
I don't.

"The 12,000,000"
Richard Brautigan
I'm depressed,
haunted by melancholy
that does not have a reflection
nor cast a shadow.
12,000,000 people live here in Tokyo.
I know I'm not alone.
Others must feel the way
I do.

Tokyo
May 26, 1976
1 P.M.

"For Fear You Will Be Alone"
Richard Brautigan
For fear you will be alone
you do so many things
that aren't you at all.

"Fragment #2/Having"
Richard Brautigan
I found the word having written sideways,
all by itself
on a piece of notebook paper.
I have no idea why I wrote it
or what its ultimate destination was,
but I wrote the word having carefully

and then stopped

writing

Tokyo
June perhaps, 1976

"I Don't Want To Know about It"
Richard Brautigan
I don't want to know about it.
Tell it to somebody else.
They'll understand and make you
feel better.

My faith in Brautigan is once again restored. But, due to his foul language, I must retire from the love affair. I need sleep. Good bye Brautigan. Thank you for two wonderful evenings.

ticked off

2008-05-17T00:02:00.000-06:00

I can't write poetry when I'm angry. And this makes me even more mad than I was to begin with.

Sweet Rapture

2008-05-15T22:00:00.000-06:00

Oh sweet rapture. I am in love. I have claimed this before, but now my heart has truly taken wing. The flavor of the week? Richard Brautigan. Sadly, he swears left and right. And this discovery is recent... as in ten minutes recent. So, I must absorb more of his poetry before I choose the most worthy poetry to blog. And, I still owe you more Billy Collins. Collins, I have done you no justice. But tonight, Brautigan is at the forefront. Look with eager anticipation to future blogs concerning my new found love. Tonight, I offer only a teaser of his genius.

"We Stopped at Perfect Days"
Richard Brautigan
We stopped at perfect days
and got out of the car.
The wind glanced at her hair.
It was as simple as that.
I turned to say something—

"Please"
Richard Brautigan
Do you think of me
as often as I think
of you?

"Critical Can Opener"
Richard Brautigan
There is something wrong
with this poem. Can you
find it?

Beauty

2008-05-11T20:11:00.000-06:00

Happy Mother's Day! I searched for poetry on motherhood, but nothing caught my eye. However, beauty is most appropriate for Mother's Day, isn't it?

I am currently reading Christ's Ideals For Living by Obert C. Tanner. I just finished the chapter "Beauty" and found some of the ideas expressed particularly striking. First, Tanner says of beauty, "God is the author of beauty, as He is of truth and goodness. Beauty is a revelation of Him." Then Tanner goes on to share a quote by the naturalist John Burroughs:

"... I am in love with this world ... I have climbed its mountains, roamed its forests, sailed its waters, crossed its deserts, felt the sting of its frost, the oppression of its heats, the drench of its rains, the fury of its winds, and always have beauty and joy waited upon my goings and comings."

Tanner also shares Goethe's advice: "We ought to hear at least one little song every day, read a good poem, see a first-rate painting, and if possible, speak a few sensible words."

And if I may, I will share a few more quotes on beauty I have found in other works.

From Madeleine L'Engle's Meet The Austins:

"It was so beautiful that for a moment the beauty was all that mattered; it wasn't important that there were things we would never understand."

And speaking of Laurie in Little Women, "he was quick to see and feel beauty of any kind." I think of all I can become, I would feel most accomplished if it is said of me that I am quick to perceive beauty.

i am no more

2008-05-10T19:00:00.001-06:00

i am no more
Valerie Owens

cinnamon kiss
slow... possessing ... tender
buzzed hair, whispery at my fingertips
the hands of a man, comfortable at my waist
unheard music, alive, pulsing through my veins
fading sunlight, warm on my neck
scent of dusk, keen to my senses
slowly... slipping

i am
no longer human
i am
a compilation of cells
falling away into molecules
splintering into atoms
i am
everything
and Nothing
acutely aware
and entirely oblivious

strange Kiss
slow... bewitching... tender
dissolving my existence
cell by cell...

i am
no more

Poetic Quotes

2008-05-08T19:45:00.001-06:00

In science one tries to tell people, in such a way as to be understood by everyone, something that no one ever knew before. But in poetry, it's the exact opposite.
- Paul Dirac

It's not what the writer writes; it's what the reader reads.

Yehuda Amichai

2008-05-07T19:27:00.002-06:00

I discovered Yehuda Amichai through a little Google searching. His poetry is fabulous. Amichai was a German-born Israeli, considered by many to be the greatest Israeli poet. I've only read a dozen or so of his works online and am hoping to find a book of his poetry soon. Also, check out Amichai's poems, "Tourist," "Forgetting Someone," among others. Note the imagery and word choice of this poem. The second stanza is my favorite.

A Man In His Life
Yehuda Amichai

A man doesn't have time in his life
to have time for everything.
He doesn't have seasons enough to have
a season for every purpose. Ecclesiastes
Was wrong about that.

A man needs to love and to hate at the same moment,
to laugh and cry with the same eyes,
with the same hands to throw stones and to gather them,
to make love in war and war in love.
And to hate and forgive and remember and forget,
to arrange and confuse, to eat and to digest
what history
takes years and years to do.

A man doesn't have time.
When he loses he seeks, when he finds
he forgets, when he forgets he loves, when he loves
he begins to forget.

And his soul is seasoned, his soul
is very professional.
Only his body remains forever
an amateur. It tries and it misses,
gets muddled, doesn't learn a thing,
drunk and blind in its pleasures
and its pains.

He will die as figs die in autumn,
Shriveled and full of himself and sweet,
the leaves growing dry on the ground,
the bare branches pointing to the place
where there's time for everything.

Spoon River Anthology

2008-05-05T12:41:00.000-06:00

Book of the Week: Spoon River Anthology, by Edgar Lee Masters. The book is a collection of poetry, written as epitaphs by those who lie at rest in the Spoon River graveyard. The dead reveal many haunting and sorrowful secrets. The poetry is darkly fascinating. It is intriguing to see how the stories intertwine. I throughly recommend the book.

The poem I post today, "64. George Gray," was one I first heard in English in eighth grade. The poem stuck with me and several years later I found the book the poem had been pulled from. The poem still strikes me powerfully. I hope you like it.

Edgar Lee Masters (1868–1950). Spoon River Anthology. 1916.

64. George Gray

I HAVE studied many times
The marble which was chiseled for me—
A boat with a furled sail at rest in a harbor.
In truth it pictures not my destination
But my life.	5
For love was offered me and I shrank from its disillusionment;
Sorrow knocked at my door, but I was afraid;
Ambition called to me, but I dreaded the chances.
Yet all the while I hungered for meaning in my life.
And now I know that we must lift the sail	10
And catch the winds of destiny
Wherever they drive the boat.
To put meaning in one’s life may end in madness,
But life without meaning is the torture
Of restlessness and vague desire—	15
It is a boat longing for the sea and yet afraid.

Radio

2008-04-29T22:41:00.001-06:00

Radio
Valerie Owens

Fighting for the control of the radio,
he grabs my wrist,
flirtatiously
I attempt to pull away
and fail
I tease him for trying to take
my hand
And then,
for a moment,
he really does take my hand
a joke
(I think)
I pull away (or was it him?)
I shouldn't have
let go
I don't remember what was playing on the radio

Solo Gone Maverick

2008-04-21T15:21:00.001-06:00

Solo Gone Maverick

Valerie Owens

When I was eleven,
summertime, I started cross-stitch-by-number
I spent most of July
unpicking
so things would turn out like they're supposed to
Now, eighteen
I am trying life-by-number
There is no July to spend
unpicking
and nothing is turning out like it's supposed to
So I think I'm gonna...

Scrap conformity
Throw out the rule book
Go a little crazy

be a little bit...

Maverick.

Word of the Day

2008-04-21T15:18:00.000-06:00

Word of the Day:
Maverick: A Maverick is a person with independence of thought or action, a non-conformist.

Solo

2008-04-21T09:42:00.002-06:00

Solo
Valerie Owens

When I was eleven,
summertime, I started cross-stitch-by-number
I spent most of July
unpicking
so things would turn out like they're supposed to
Now, eighteen
I am trying life-by-number
There is no July to spend
unpicking
and nothing is turning out like it's supposed to

Scrap conformity

I'm
Going
Solo

Beautiful