Forcast: Sunshine

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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...

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

.
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

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

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?