Hope Is the Thing With Feathers

I loved Elizabeth's Christmas card this year, which contained a quote from Emily Dickinson. It reminded me of a Billy Collins poem I was just reading, so I'll give them both to you.

She said--

Hope is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops – at all—

And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—

I’ve heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of Me.

Emily Dickinson

He said--

Taking Off Emily Dickinson’s Clothes

First, her tippet made of tulle,
easily lifted off her shoulders and laid
on the back of a wooden chair.

And her bonnet,
the bow undone with a light forward pull.

Then the long white dress, a more
complicated matter with mother-of-pearl
buttons down the back,
so tiny and numerous that it takes forever
before my hands can part the fabric,
like swimmer’s dividing water,
and slip inside.

You will want to know
that she was standing
by an open window in an upstairs bedroom,
motionless, a little wide-eyed,
looking out at the orchard below,
the white dress puddled at her feet
on the wide-board, hardwood floor.

The complexity of women’s undergarments
in nineteenth-century America
is not to be waved off,
and I proceeded like a polar explorer
through clips, clasps, and moorings,
catches, straps, and whalebone stays,
sailing toward the iceberg of her nakedness.

Later, I wrote in a notebook
it was like riding a swan into the night,
but, of course, I cannot tell you everything—
the way she closed her eyes to the orchard,
how her hair tumbled free of its pins,
how there were sudden dashes
whenever we spoke.

What I can tell you is
it was terribly quiet in Amherst
that Sabbath afternoon,
nothing but a carriage passing the house,
a fly buzzing in a windowpane.

So I could plainly hear her inhale
when I undid the very top
hook-and-eye fastener of her corset

and I could hear her sigh when finally it was unloosed,
the way some readers sigh when they realize
that Hope has feathers,
that Reason is a plank,
that Life is a loaded gun
that looks right at you with a yellow eye.

Billy Collins

Christmas Cards

I finally finished addressing, signing, and stamping my Christmas cards.

It started weeks ago, when I reviewed the cards for sale at Border's Books, and fell in love with one particular box of cards. Unfortunately, it was the most expensive box on the table, there were only 10 cards in a box, and at the rate I send cards, I'd have needed 6 boxes. So I put them back, and settled for a lessor card at a more affordable price.

Last weekend I attempted to use mail merge to do Christmas labels. I only do mail merge once a year, so I have to re-learn it every year. This year I was a slower than usual learner. It kept merging names with both the personal and business addresses on the same label, or with parts of each address. It frustrated me to the point that I convinced myself to skip the printed labels and hand write the 60 envelopes. Chance to use nice fountain pen. More personal anyhow.

Today, I un-boxed the cards and discovered that the envelopes were silver - slick and gun-metal gray and pretty much as tacky as a K-Mart nightgown. The fountain pen wouldn't even write on the slickness.

Back to mail merge. I figured I could hide some of the silver gray with white labels. I mail merged again, and finally just went through each label and deleted the un-wanted bits of address to get something usable. Only then my printer wouldn't work. Something about re-installing drivers.

Having thrown the cards in the trash along with the ugly slick envelopes, I went up to the CVS Pharmacy to buy more. I had a $4 off coupon even. Well the CVS cards were cheap and they looked it, but at least the envelopes were white. After 20 minutes of agonizing I picked 3 boxes that were the less tacky than the others, picked up 2 cans of mixed nuts as a consulation for myself, paid and came home. Taking into account the price of the nuts, I could have bought the cards I wanted to start with. Well, live and learn.

Since the CVS cards came 18 to a box instead of 20, I had to cut some people from the list, and that was hard, but not impossible.

I found myself asking, why am I still sending cards to people I haven't seen in 20 years, and didn't even like 20 years ago when I did see them? Ken and Darlene, this means you. Will my husband's brother's wife's father and step-mother be angry not to receive a card from me? Will my sister? I'm sorry Kaye, since you ran away with the guy from rehab, I don't have your address. I'll have to wait until you send me a card so I can reply. I tried to knock a few more folks off, but my husband insisted they were close friends of his. Not so close that he wanted to write a note in their cards, you understand, but too close to drop.

I did put notes in a few cards, but didn't do the news letter thing. What could I say? We're all fine except for the kidney failure thing, the enlarged heart, the panic attacks, and the seizures? Oh yes, and we had the cat put to sleep last summer? I colored my gray hair, but I still get offered the senior citizen discount on a regular basis, and I have another 5 years until I can retire?

My husband says I stress too much over the holidays. We shopped, we got the lights up, we put a tree in the bay window, and stuck some greenery on top of the armoire. We should relax today. He's right. Nobody cares what Christmas cards I send out. I love to get cards from people, no matter what the cards look like. I'm surprised and appreciative that people remember me. I even love Christmas news letters.

On Friday, my daughter will be home for the holidays, and I'll be cheerful again, I promise.

Lending Books

He said--

Lending Out Books

Hal Sirowitz

You’re always giving, my therapist said.
you have to learn how to take. Whenever
you meet a woman, the first thing you do
is lend her your books. You think she’ll
have to see you again in order to return them.
But what happens is, she doesn’t have the time
to read them, & she’s afraid if she sees you again
you’ll expect her to talk about them, & will
want to lend her even more. So she
cancels the date. You end up losing
a lot of books. You should borrow hers.

She said--

Your Best Friend's Reading List

Sometimes The Glass is Half Full

He said:



Life is no straight and easy corridor along
Which we travel free and unhampered,
But a maze of passages,
Through which we must seek our way,
Lost and confused, now and again
Checked in a blind alley.

But always, if we have faith,
A door will open for us,
Not perhaps one that we ourselves
Would ever have thought of,
But one that will ultimately
Prove good for us.

A.J. Cronin





She said:



Sometimes

Sometimes things don’t go, after all,
from bad to worse. Some years, mucadel
faces down frost; green thrives; the crops don’t fail,
sometimes a man aims high, and all goes well.

A people sometimes will step back from war;
elect an honest man; decide they care
enough, that they can’t leave a stranger poor.
Some men become what they were born for.

Sometimes our best efforts do not go
amiss; sometimes we do as we meant to.
The sun will sometimes melt a field of sorrow
that seemed hard frozen: may it happen for you.

Sheenagh Pugh

A Penny Saved Is Impossible

I was supposed to blog, but I didn't until today because I was busy painting my office and having a new driveway put in.

The office is a color called "buttercream" which is lovely, and always kind of makes me hungry. I have new office furniture coming. Actually the enormous, glass-fronted, solid oak bookcase is already here. And the beautiful solid oak, Stickley-manufactured desk is on order and probably won't arrive until after Christmas. Did you know Stickley still made furniture? It's incredibly nice stuff if you go for the Mission style. It's also pretty expensive, but hey, I'm worth a little loveliness, aren't I?

The driveway was $6300 - not cheap either. But the old concrete drive lasted 40 years, so I'm expecting this one to out-live me. The concrete guys were very professional - quick and organized - and they cleaned up after themselves nicely. The driveway looks good.

All of this is leading up to my poems of the day:

He said --

A Penny Saved Is Impossible

The further through life I drift
The more obvious it becomes that I am lacking in thrift.
Now thrift is such a boon to its possessor that years ago they began to tax it,
But it is a bane to him that lacks it
Because if you lack it your will go into a shoppe and pay two dollars for a gifte.
But if you possess it you find something just as good for a dollar fifte.
A penny is merely something that you pull several of out of your pocket before you find the nickel you need for a telephone call, if thriftlessness is in your blood,
Whereas to the thrifty a penny is something to be put out at stud.
Thrifty people put two-cent stamps on letters addressed to a three-cent zone,
And thriftless people on the other end pay the postage due and the thrifty people chuckle and rub their hands because the saving on every six letters represents a year’s interest on a dollar loan.
Oh that I were thrifty, because thrifty people leave estates to delight their next of kin with;
Oh that I were thrifty, because then not only would I have money in the bank to pay my bills, but I could leave the money in the bank because I wouldn’t have run up the bills to begin with;
Oh that I were not a spendthrift, oh then would my heart indeed be gladsome,
Because it is so futile being a spendthrift because I don’t know any places where thrift could be spent even if I had some.

Ogden Nash

She said --

Barter

Life has loveliness to sell,
All beautiful and splendid things,
Blue waves whitened on a cliff,
Soaring fire that sways and sings,
And children's faces looking up,
Holding wonder like a cup.

Life has loveliness to sell,
Music like the curve of gold,
Scent of pine trees in the rain,
Eyes that love you, arms that hold,
And for your spirit's still delight,
Holy thoughts that star the night.

Spend all you have for loveliness,
Buy it and never count the cost;
For one white singing hour of peace
Count many a year of strife well lost,
And for a breath of ecstasy
Give all you have been, or could be.

Sara Teasdale

Kisses

He said--


"Elvis kissed me once," she swears,
sitting in a neon dive
ordering her drinks in pairs.

Two stools down you nurse a beer,
sensing easy pickings here.

"Back in sixty-eight," she sighs,
smoothing back her yellow hair.
Teared mascara smears her eyes.

Drawing near, you claim you've met,
offer her a cigarette.

"Call me cheap," she sobs, "or bad.
say that decent men dismissed me,
say I've lost my looks, but add,
Elvis kissed me."

--T.S. Kerrigan




She said--



Hazel Tells LaVerne


last night
im cleanin out my
howard johsons ladies room
when all of a sudden
up pops this frog
musta come from the sewer
swimmin aroun an tryin ta
climb up the sida that bowl
so i goes ta flushm down
but sohelpmegod he starts talkin
bout a golden ball
an how i can be a princess

me a princess

well my mouth drops
all the way to the floor
an he says
kiss me just kiss me
once on the nose

well i screams
ya little green pervert
an i hitsm with my mop
an has ta flush
the toilet down three times

me

a princess



--Katharyn Howd Machan

Lost

OK, I broke down and watched Lost on ABC. It really wasn't a bad show, although I'm not bonding with any of the characters yet. Some of it is a little too predictable. The oriental guy catching sea food and making sushi? Come on. And the pregnant woman suddenly feeling her baby kick for the first time? In the midst of tragedy, Life Goes On....

The young boy, who lost his dog in the plane crash, confesses that his mother died 2 weeks ago, and another character says "You're having a bad month". That was pretty tasteless.

Then the spoiled little rich girl turns out to speak French, and that's suddenly important. Something tells me they are each going to have some survival skill that everyone else needs.

And, of course, there are the numerous flashbacks to the plane crash. Every time we learn a little more about a character we have to relive the plane scenario.

But - I watched it through to the end, so it must have something going for it. I just hope it's not going to be Survivor with people getting eaten, instead of voted off the island.

Then there are all the commercials for coming attractions, like Trading Wives (reality show) and Housewives Out of Control (I think it's fiction). I don't think those are the real names, but you know which shows I mean. It's bad when you can't tell the reality shows from the fiction. Maybe those commercials are just there to make the show you're watching look good.

I wonder what kind of survival skill I would bring to an island? I wouldn't be hiking up the mountainside, that's for sure. But I would have my nail clippers and tweezers with me. (Oh wait, maybe not, they were probably confiscated at the metal detector.)

More Food For Thought

After Forty Years of Marriage, She Tries
a New Recipe for Hamburger Hot Dish

“How did you like it?” she asked.

“It’s all right,” he said.

“This is the third time I cooked
it this way. Why can’t you
ever say if you like something?”

“Well if I didn’t like it. I
wouldn’t eat it,” he said.

“You never can say anything
I cook tastes good.”

“I don’t know why all the time
you think I have to say it’s good.
I eat it, don’t I?”

“I don’t think you have to say
all the time it’s good, but once
in a while you could say
you like it.”

“It’s all right,” he said.

Leo Dangel

Never Knew Barbie Had Problems

Barbie Joins a Twelve Step Program

Barbie is bottoming out,
she’s sitting on the pity pot. She hasn’t the now-how to express any
of her emotions. Before she even gets
to her first meeting, she takes the first step and admits
her life has become unmanageable.
She’s been kidnapped by boys
and tortured with pins. She’s been left
for months at a time between scratchy couch cushions
with cracker crumbs, pens and loose change.
She can’t help herself from being a fashion doll.
She is the ultimate victim.

She humbly sits on a folding chair
in a damp church basement. The cigarette smoke
clouds the faces around her, the smell of bad coffee
permeates the air. The group booms the serenity prayer:
God, grant me serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
courage to change the things I can, and wisdom
to know the difference. Poor Barbie is lost
in a philosophical quandary. Her God must be Mattel.
How can she turn her life and will over to a toy company?
Must she accept her primary form of locomotion
being the fists of your careless humans?

And what can she change? The only reason Barbie
is at the meeting at all is because she wound up in the tote bag
of a busy mother. She toppled out when the woman,
putting on lipstick at the bathroom mirror, spilled the contents
of her bag onto the floor. The mother didn’t see Barbie skid under a stall door
where a confused drunk, at the meeting for warmth,
was peeing. Never thought Barbie had problems,
she said, picking up the doll. She thought it would be funny
to prop Barbie in the last row. No one else noticed the doll
as she fidgeted in her seat. The hungry drunk
went on to spoon a cupful of sugar into her coffee.

Barbie sat through the meeting, wondering:
What is wisdom? What is letting go?
She wished she could clap like the others
when there was a good story about recovery. She accepted
she couldn’t, hoping that if she stopped struggling,
her higher power, Mattel, would finally let her move.
Miracles don’t happen overnight, said a speaker.
Take the action and leave the rest to God, said another.
Barbie’s prayer that she would be at the next meeting was answered.
A member of the clean-up committee squished her between the seat
and back of the folding chair and stacked her, with the others, against the wall.

Denise Duhamel

I Went to a Janis Joplin Concert Once

Hippie Barbie

Barbie couldn't grasp the concept
of free love. After all, she was born
into the world of capitalism
where nothing is free. And all she had
to choose from was a blond or dark-haired Ken
who looked exactly like Midge's boyfriend Alan.
Ken wouldn't even get bell-bottoms
or his first psychedelic pantsuit
until it was way too late, sometime in the mid-seventies.
And then, whenever Barbie tried to kiss him
his peel-off lamb-chop sideburns loosened
and stuck to her cheeks. There were no black male dolls yet
so she guessed a mixed-race love-child
was out of the question. Barbie walked her poodle
past the groovy chicks who showed their bellybuttons
and demonstrated against the war. She couldn't
make a peace sign with her stuck-together fingers.
She felt a little like Sandra Dee at a Janis Joplin concert.

Denise Duhamel

This poem is absolutely unrelated to any past topic, but I loved it, so I am sharing.

Lost

"Lost" premieres on ABC tonight at 8:00. (That's channel 7, Mom.) This year, I am completely underwhelmed by most of the new shows, but I'm really looking forward to this one. I am not, however, taking responsibility if it gives Mom a panic attack.
 
Passengers

At the gate, I sit in a row of blue seats
with the possible company of my death,
this sprawling miscellany of people—
carry-on bags and paperbacks—

that could be gathered in a flash
into a bank of pilgrims on the last open road.
Not that I think
if our plane crumpled into a mountain

we would all ascend together,
holding hands like a ring of skydivers,
into a sudden gasp of brightness,
or that there would be some common place

for us to reunite to jubilize the moment,
some spaceless, pillarless Greece
where we could, at the count of three,
toss our ashes into the sunny air.

It’s just that the way that man has his briefcase
so carefully arranged,
the way that girl is cooling her tea,
and the flow of the comb that woman

passes through her daughter’s hair…
and when you consider the altitude,
the secret parts of the engines,
and all the hard water and the deep canyons below…

well, I just think it would be good if one of us
maybe stood up and said a few words,
or, so as not to involve the police,
at least quietly wrote something down.

Billy Collins

Speaking of Cats

I got this poem from a great little book called Poetry for Cats by Henry Beard:




There Is No Cat-toy Like a Mouse

by Emily Dickinson’s Cat

There is no Cat-toy like a Mouse
To please me in my Play
No any Yarn-ball like a Bug
That strains to fly away—

No rubber Bauble can delight
No lifeless String divert—
For where is Fun if none feels Fright
Or Joy if nothing’s hurt?

Anxiety

Slacktivist: EA2: The Transcendent is Scary is a discussion of an NY Times article about teaching Media Studies at an evangelical college. Bjork was dissed because her music didn't bring one closer to Jesus. Now, Bjork isn't exactly a favorite of mine, but that isn't the reason why.

Slackivist also coined the term "evangelical anxiety," which I thought was interesting.

"The nagging sense, lurking just below the surface, that we are not in control after all, no matter how much we insist we are. One result of this anxiety is a reflexive need to reassert that control, to interpret the world and respond to it in a way that reinforces the illusion that such control is possible."

I've often wondered about the drive to convert people. I sincerely doubt that they are working on some sort of points system: "I bring X number of people to Jesus and I'll get a better view in Heaven." The stated reason is that it is all for others, to save them from themselves (or for themselves), but when was that made a requirement?

Recently I started to think that Evangelical Christians are working off the principle that there is safety in numbers. You always hear their spokesmen talking about how they represent "the majority of Americans." (Empty rhetoric, and so what? It still doesn't mean you always get to have your way.) They can't be entirely sure of what's going on in this world or the next, but I guess they figure X number of people can't be wrong. God can't condemn us all, right?

When I was invited to join a local Christian church, there was a sense of desperation about the recruitment. Every conversation came back to the question of whether I would go to Bible Study. I wondered, perhaps unfairly, whether it would be study or indoctrination. The English major in me couldn't stand the thought of cutting off multiple interpretations; that's so much of the joy of reading. I was eventually repulsed by the implication that I couldn't be friends with any of them unless I joined in their particular brand of Christianity.

The last conversation I had with one woman was when I mentioned that one of my closest friends was Jewish and that I am sometimes in awe of people who have so much faith. I've always had a real problem with the idea that God would condemn her to Hell just because she worshiped Him in a different manner than I did. The woman I was talking to insisted that it was a zero-sum game; there's only one way to Heaven and this is it and if we allow that someone else is right, then we must be wrong and then, why bother?

Why bother? Why bother believing in the goodness of others? Or that there is more to life than what's right in front of your face? Hope for a better future? In helping those less fortunate? There has to be something in it for you to treat others with respect? To accept that they hold beliefs because that is what they truly feel and have come to over the course of their life and not just because they haven't managed to bump into a "true" Christian?

Is faith so fragile that it has to be reinforced from the outside? That you have to be surrounded only by those who are the same as you? If my belief system isn't strong enough to be questioned, then I'm not sure I want to depend on it in a crisis.

But here I go judging these relatively nice people who just wanted to bring me to Jesus. I suppose that they'll get along without me. I just imagine they will be awfully surprised when they get to Heaven and see how crowded it is.

Success, or the Lack Thereof

Remember I said previously that I had a "she said" poem for the athletes at the Olympics, but didn't have a "he said"? Well, I found one. I like the Dickinson better.




He said--



To an Athlete Dying Young

The time you won your town the race
We chaired you through the market-place;
Man and boy stood cheering by,
And home we brought you shoulder-high.

Today, the road all runners come,
Shoulder-high we bring you home,
And set you at your threshold down,
Townsman of a stiller town.

Smart lad, to slip betimes away
From fields where glory does not stay
And early though the laurel grows
It withers quicker than the rose.

Now you will not swell the rout
Of lads that wore their honors out,
Runners whom renown outran
And the name died before the man.

So set, before its echoes fade,
The fleet foot on the sill of shade,
And hold to the low lintel up
The still-defended challenge-cup.

And round that early-laureled head
Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
And find unwithered on its curls
The garland briefer than a girl’s.



A. E. Housman







She said--



Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne’er succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need.

Not one of all the purple Host
Who took the Flag today
Can tell the definition
So clear of Victory

As he defeated—dying—
On whose forbidden ear
The distant strains of triumph
Burst agonized and clear!


Emily Dickinson

A Family Heirloom

I bought a lovely oak baker's rack at the Amish shop, and the only place it would fit in my kitchen was the spot already occupied by a substantial end table holding a micro-wave oven. This micro-wave is 29 years old, and huge. You could roast a turkey in it, although I never have. It was my father-in-law's, and them his sister's, and finally, for the last 20 years, ours. It has always worked perfectly, never needing repairs, its ancient knobs still turning to set the energy level and cook time. But - it wouldn't fit on the baker's rack. My neighbor Sally looked the situation over and said, "Get a new micro-wave. It's not like it's a family heirloom or anything." Only it is.

So I got a new micro-wave. It's small and sleek and silver, with touch controls and a clock, and a rotating turntable. It just fits on the top of the baker's cabinet, and will free up that area of the kitchen. But it's only here on probation. The old one still sits in the corner of the kitchen until the new one proves itself. The new one cost $59, minus a $15 rebate, plus I had a 10% off coupon, so I practically got it for free. If it doesn't behave itself, I'll stick it in the basement, and put the old one back.

I'll stack some pots on the other shelves of the baker's rack, or get some pretty baskets to fill with tableclothes. I'll be happy with it.

So why do I feel like I just had the family pet put to sleep?

12 Good Citizens

I was actually selected to be on a jury! It was a felony case that lasted 2 days. Two young punks jumped an El Salvadoran busboy coming home from work along a local bike path. One got him in a neck hold while the other patted down his pockets looking for money. When the victim broke free, our defendant pulled out a pistol and shot him. Luckily for all concerned, the victim was not badly hurt, and the two would-be robbers ran away.

Our defendant was 21 years old, but short and skinny, so that he looked about 15. The victim identified him in court, through an interpreter. The other robber identified our guy as the one who did the shooting. The defendant did not testify, nor offer any defense at all, as is his right. A defendant is innocent unless proven guilty. The prosecution attorney also presented a witness who had seen the defendant the night before, displaying a pistol and bragging about it. She sounded and looked honest, and had called the police right away about the gun. One of the four charges against the defendant was possession of a gun by a felon, so that witness really did him in.

Frankly, we all thought the guy was guilty of all four offenses, but a couple of us thought the prosecution case was a little weak. The gun was never found, and there was no physical evidence at all except the bullet pulled out of the victim's abdomen. The victim's identification was a little shaky. He said a short black guy shot him and then pointed at the only short black guy in the courtroom. The detective who interviewed our guy said the defendant admitted to being at the scene, although the defendant blamed the shooting on a third person that we never got to hear from. Unfortunately for the defendant, the victim insisted there were only two attackers - one tall and one short, and the short guy shot him. The other robber (the tall guy) also insisted they were acting alone, and denied that anyone else was with them. The guy who dropped them off at one end of the bike path and picked them up at the other end also denied seeing this third person.

The deliberations took 4 hours. Then we had to decide on a sentence for him. The prosecution entered evidence of 4 previous robberies and an assault and battery.

The defense attorney said our guy had a bad childhood. I felt sorry for the guy. I'm sure he did have a rough childhood, and he was probably as dumb as a post, but we were not inclined to let him roam the streets robbing people and playing with guns. His previous sentences had been suspended to give him a chance to behave himself, but he did not take advantage of that opportunity. So we gave him a sentence that will probably keep him locked up until he's 35. I felt bad about it, but I'd have felt bad about letting him go again, too.

The deliberations were fascinating. We all spoke our minds, and were very civilized about it. One of the jurors watched a lot of CSI, and wanted there to be more crime scene evidence. (Dream on - Fairfax county doesn't have that kind of money.) I watch Rumpole of the Bailey, so I wanted to believe the defense, but in the end I couldn't. Our hope is this kid will live longer in jail than out of it.

Decisions, Decisions

I bought shoes today, and some clothes to wear to work. For some reason, my pants size had gone down, as well as my shoe size. Most people gain weight while they're on a cruise. I seem to have lost some. It must have been all the walking. The shoes I got were flat, black, ballet slipper type, with a little mary-jane strap near the toe. I probably took a smaller size because they have rounded toes, and no heels to force my foot into an unnatural shape and size. I should have bought them in red and blue, too, since they will undoubtedly quit making them once they discover I've bought a pair. The clothes are not exciting. They are as close to jeans and tee shirts as I can get and still wear them to work. I got a couple of nice sweater-like objects to wear with them so that I can look semi-professional.


I have been called for jury duty for the first time in my life. I have to show up tomorrow, so my vacation will be extended by at least one more day. God forbid I should actually get chosen to be on a jury. I figure my occupation will cause the defense to strike me, and my bleeding heart liberal politics will cause the prosecution to strike me. Maybe if I show up clutching my "Star" and "Enquirer" magazines in my hand I'll be selected.


I talked to my office today. Things were pretty quiet while I was gone, except for the day they had to call 911 to get one of our "clients" to leave.


So, because you are trying to decide on a sofa, here are two poems about choices:




He said—

Buyer’s Remorse

I’d hate to take a job teaching, then spend the rest of my life trying to get out of it. –Mary Oliver

No sooner do the ruck of us declare
“I do”, than we don’t anymore. Go out
for football, and we who never dared
stand up on a pair of ice skates, pout
that we can’t pay pro hockey, too. The ink’s
still wet on our tickets to France, and we
wish we’d picked Japan or, come to think
of it, Kauai, New Zealand or Tahiti.
Open any one door and we’re deafened
by the roar—loud as the sea swallowing Atlantis—
as other doors slam shut, and their wind
knocks us down. The serpent didn’t hiss
to Adam and Eve, “Hide your nakedness!”
He wore his best suit and whispered, “Look at this.”

Charles Harper Webb




She said—

Choosing Shoes




New shoes, new shoes,
Red and pink and blue shoes.
Tell me what would YOU choose
If they'd let us buy?


Buckle shoes, bow shoes,
Pretty pointy-toe shoes,
Strappy, cappy low shoes;
Let's have some to try.


Bright shoes, white shoes,
Dandy dance-by-night shoes,
Perhaps-a-little-tight shoes;
Like some? So would I.

BUT Flat shoes, fat shoes,
Stump-along-like-that-shoes,
Wipe-them-on-the-mat shoes
O that's the sort they'll buy.


Frida Wolfe

Home Again

Next time I will not bring so many clothes. I say that after every trip, but this time I mean it. It wasn't that I didn't wear them all - there was only one outfit I didn't wear. It's just that the people around me did not give a damn what I was wearing. Even on formal nights, when people dressed up a bit, I could have gotten away with one nice dress, and worn it more than once. One pair of jeans, one pair of shorts, one bathing suit would have been plenty, along with 3 or 4 tee shirts and a sweater. Aside from the exhaustion of dragging around 6 suitcases and trying to keep track of them all, now that I'm home, I've got 18 loads of clothes to wash, dry, fold and put away. Thank God my husband does laundry.

Next time I will not take my own fins, mask and snorkel. Well, OK, maybe the mask and snorkel. I mask needs to fit really well to be any good. But we only used the snorkel gear once and it was a bitch to carry around, too.

Next time I will not buy a bus pass. I will find the correct change, and ask where the bus stops are. Or I will ride in a civilized taxi cab.

The cruise ship was great in that the service was wonderful and the staff was friendly and helpful. The food was excellent, although there was too much of it. We did not see the shows, or the midnight buffets, or swim in the pool. The pool was full of small children, except for the two days it was drained, cleaned and re-filled after an "incident" in the pool. I suspect it involved an infant without a diaper, but I'm not sure.

I might just rather fly to Bermuda and stay at a hotel. We'll have to compare prices. It's only a two hour flight. I could manage that with medication. Anyhow, I am less afraid to fly over water, because I can swim. Makes no sense at all, but there you are.

The cruise director was telling us some of the best questions he'd ever gotten from passengers.
I can't remember them all, but this is a sample:
Does the ship generate it's own electricity? No, they use really, really long extension cords.
Does the crew sleep on the ship at night? No, they row back to New Jersey every night.
What time is the midnight buffet?

If you can answer these questions, you too could be a cruise director.

Singing Waiters

Our wait staff in the dining room danced around the room tonight and sang "Hands Across the Water". Only most of them were lip-synching it. Somehow it was very touching. Did I tell you we had the cutest waiter on the ship? He was from Bombay, India, and was young and had the most beautiful dark eyes. Your Dad didn't notice, I'm sure, but I loved him - and his little accent, too.

We didn't do much today. I sat on a deck chair reading "The Left Hand of Darkness", a favorite of mine.

Your Dad won a little bit on the slot machines, but not more than he played overall. It was entertaining for a while.

We did not stay up for any of the midnight buffets, not even the chocolate buffet. There is only so much you can eat in one day.

We should be home tomorrow night. We'll try to call. I hope David didn't burn the house down in our absence, or kill the fish. Sally will tell us what went on, I'm sure of that.

Where Are You?

We are out to sea again, expecting to have heard from Elizabeth by now. Alas, she is as disappointing as the slot machines. Just because we are out spending her inheritance, there is no need for her to pout.

We had dinner at Fourways Inn last night with friends we had not seen for 20 years. We conversed as if we had just seen them the day before. The food was great, as expected, and so was the service. They put the prices on the women's menus now, though. Bermuda is changing.

We saw Rose Robbins. Elizabeth used to hang off the side of her swimmng pool until her lips turned blue and her toes were like raisons. Rose remembers her. She still has the pool, but seldom uses it.

We brought Michael a copy of "Galaxina" on DVD. This used to be his favorite movie of all time. He was thrilled. Michael and Hope are grown ups now, with a 16 year old daughter. It's kind of scary. We had a great organ recital at dinner. When did we all get old?

Bad news - David Raine passed away two days before we arrived. We didn't see Jill. We used to live in their house next to the Black Horse Tavern. Elizabeth used to love their fish sandwiches. We didn't get a chance to eat at the Black Horse. There was so little time to see the sights. I suppose we could have tried to get there from Hamilton by bus, but we hadn't had much luck on the bus this trip. We tried to take the bus in Hamilton, but basically we were told not to bother. The Bermudians will sell you a 3 day bus pass, but the location of the bus stops is a carefully guarded secret. You can only hope you are standing in the right spot and that the bus driver will feel like stopping. I was told the cabs were almost as reliable as the buses. We didn't even try the cabs.

Michael drove us to Fourways, and we bought them dinner. More than a cab ride, but we'd still be waiting for the cab.

The paternal unit bought a tie at Trimminghams. It took approximately 5 hours. You'll have to ask him about it. We really had a great time. Bermuda is another world.

Adventures in Bermudaland

Don't ever open bottle of water on a Bermuda bus and try to drink it. The bus driver will single you out for a sharp lecture, and then fail to stop at your destination, forcing you to walk half a mile down a narrow road with no sidewalks. Did you know that Bermuda now allows lots of big trucks on those narrow roads? Fortunately we made it alive to the aquarium, which is nicer than ever. We then took the bus to John Smith's Bay to swim. Aside from a brief shower, it was wonderful!

Anthony and his wife took us out for dinner at the Hog Penny Restaurant. You probably don't remember it, but the food was great.

Tomorrow we go on a snorkling trip. Thursday we are taking Michael and Hope to Fourways Inn. I don't care how much it costs, it's worth it.

The crew here is great. They really cater to us, and the head waiter personally toasts my gluten free bread. They are sick with disappointment when we eat in town.

In case you forgot, besides no sidewalks, the roads have no shoulders, grassy strips or anything -just two lanes, one in each direction. Narrow lanes ... Usually they have rock walls, between which manuever buses, cars, motorbikes, and, as cited above BIG trucks. Walking on them is an adrenaline trip for sure!

Out to Sea

I almost turned around and went home when I saw the 5 flights of stairs, outside the ship, just to get on board, but I made it!
Dinner was pretty good, but slow. The other couples next to us spoke mostly Italian. They seemed to be speaking English to us some of the time, but I was not quite sure what they were saying. I've had shit in my ears all day. They seemed really nice, however, and laughed a lot, particularly after they finished a bottle of wine. Your Dad won about $50 playing slots. I'll let him add to this blog:

I feel so honored! The ship rocks a little, but we're maintaining so far. Lifeboat drill was as you'd imagine it - on Gilligan's Island ...

More tomorrow.

Water, Water Everywhere

Two more lovely little poems about the sea.

He said—

A Calm At Sea

Lies a calm along the deep,
Like a mirror sleeps the ocean,
And the anxious steersman sees
Round him neither stir nor motion.

Not a breath of wind is stirring,
Dread the hush as of the grave –
In the weary waste of waters
Not the lifting of a wave.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Translated by Theodore Martin



She said—

The Even Sea

Meekly the sea
now plods to shore:
white-faced cattle use to their yard,
the waves, with weary knees,
come back from the bouldered hills
of high water,

where all the gray, rough day they seethed like bulls,
till the wind laid down its goads
at shift of tide, and sundown
gentled them, with lowered necks
they amble up the beach
as to their stalls.

May Swenson

Sea Fever

I love the ocean, and I can't wait to get back to it. I frequently dream I am on an island - although that could just mean I need to get up to the bathroom - hard to say at my age. I'm not sure about the last two lines of the Millay poem. Loving the ocean is one thing - screaming to drown is a whole other thing. But I do think the Millay poem has more impact than the Masefield.

He said—

Sea Fever

I MUST go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a gray mist on the sea's face, and a gray dawn breaking.
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

John Masefield

She said—

Inland

People that build their houses inland,
People that buy a plot of ground
Shaped like a house, and build a house there,
Far from the sea-board, far from the sound

Of water sucking the hollow ledges,
Tons of water striking the shore,─
What do they long for, as I long for
One salt smell of the sea once more?

People the waves have not awakened,
Spanking the boats at the harbor’s head,─
What do they long for, as I long for
Starting up in my inland bed,

Beating the narrow walls, and finding
Neither a window, nor a door,
Screaming to God for death by drowning,─
One salt taste of the sea once more?

Edna St Vincent Millay

My Cruise Leaves Saturday

I know Elizabeth understands this because she has slept on an island, too.

He said—

I have always said I would go sometime in the autumn
Away from the bare boughs and the fallen leaves,
Away from the lonely sounds and the faded colors,
And all the ancient sorrow, and change that grieves.

I have always said I would go – and now it’s autumn –
To an island where the wild hibiscus grows
And parakeets flock to the groves at twilight
And fragrance drifts from bays where moonlight glows.

But there would be the vasty sound of breakers
Come in to toss their pearls upon the sand.
All through the night – a longing of great waters
Trying to make the vastness understand.

I have always said I would go sometime in the autumn
Away from the lonely sounds and change that grieves –
But here in my heart is the sound of a distant ocean
And here in my heart is the sound of these falling leaves.

Glen Ward Dresbach

She said—

If once you have slept on an island
You’ll never be quite the same;
You may look as you looked the day before
And go by the same old name,

You may bustle about in street and shop;
You may sit at home and sew,
But you’ll see blue water and wheeling gulls
Wherever your feet may go.

You may chat with the neighbors of this and that
And close to your fire keep,
But you’ll hear ship whistle and lighthouse bell
And tides beat through your sleep.

Oh, you won’t know why, and you can’t say how
Such change upon you came,
But—once you have slept on an island
You’ll never be quite the same!


Rachel Field

The Agony of Defeat

A poem for the U.S. Basketball Team.



She said--


Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne’er succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need.

Not one of all the purple Host
Who took the Flag today
Can tell the definition
So clear of Victory

As he defeated—dying—
On whose forbidden ear
The distant strains of triumph
Burst agonized and clear!


Emily Dickinson

I don't have a "He said--" for this poem. I just haven't found one yet. Maybe men don't write about losing.

Life Goes On

He said—

Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever; I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood,
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

W. H. Auden

She said—

If I should go before the rest of you,
Break not a flower nor inscribe a stone.
Not when I’m gone speak in a Sunday voice,
But be the usual selves that I have known.
Weep if you must,
Parting is hell,
But life goes on,
So sing as well.

Joyce Grenfell


I'm really not feeling gloomy. Maybe I'm still mourning Julia Child.

To Julia

Julia Child died today. She was quite a woman. Her husband wrote this wonderful poem for her:

He said—

To Julia Child

From her husband Paul

O Julia, Julia, Cook and nifty wench,
Whose unsurpassed quenelles and hot soufflés,
Whose English, Norse and German, and whose French,
Are all beyond my piteous powers to praise—
Whose sweetly-rounded bottom and whose legs,
Whose gracious face, whose nature temperate,
Are only equaled by her scrambled eggs:
Accept from me, your ever-loving mate,
This acclamation shaped in fourteen lines
Whose inner truth belies its outer sight;
For never were there foods, nor were there wines,
Whose flavor equals yours for sheer delight.
O luscious dish! O gustatory pleasure!
You satisfy my taste-buds beyond measure.




I have a similar poem, written by Anne Bradstreet:

She said—

To My Dear and Loving Husband

If ever two were one, then surely we.
If ever man were loved by wife, then thee:
If ever wife was happy in a man,
Compare with me, ye women, if you can.
I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold
Or all the riches that the East doth hold.
My love is such that rivers cannot quench,
Nor ought but love from thee, give recompense.
Thy love is such I can no way repay,
Thy heavens reward thee manifold, I pray.
Then while we live, in love let's so persevere
Then when we live no more, we may live ever.


Anne Bradstreet

And So the Night Became

He said—

The Dark Hills

Dark hills at evening in the west,
Where sunset hovers like a sound
Of golden horns that sang to rest
Old bones of warriors under ground.
For now from all the bannered ways
Where flash the legions of the sun,
You fade—as if the last of days
Were fading, and all wars were done.

Edward Arlington Robinson

She said—

The cricket sang,
And set the sun,
And workmen finished, one by one,
Their seam the day upon.

The low grass loaded with the dew,
The twilight stood as strangers do
With hat in hand, polite and new,
To stay as if, or go.

A vastness, as a neighbor, came,—
A wisdom without face or name,
A peace, as hemispheres at home,—
And so the night became.

Emily Dickinson

Big Butted Women

Have you seen the commercials for Kirstie Alley's new show "Fat Actress"? It is kind of sad that a woman of size cannot have a show of her own unless she is willing to make fun of her weight, but what strikes me is that in the commercial she doesn't look that big. She has a nice, neat, pointy little chin, and most of her is hidden behind a table and a big plate of spaghetti.

Now, I've seen pictures of her in the National Enquirer and Star without makeup and camera angles, and that woman is BIG. She has at least two chins, maybe more, and she is definitely a Big Butted Woman (BBW as I call them). She would look right at home in the food court at the Springfield Mall. Did they have to hide her real size to make her acceptable, even in a show called "Fat Actress"?

That said, this poem by Lucille Clifton is dedicated to BBW's everywhere.

She said:

Homage to My Hips

these hips are big hips
they need space to
move around in.
they don’t fit into little
petty places. these hips
are free hips.

they don’t like to be held back.
these hips have never been enslaved,
they go where they want to go
they do what they want to do.
these hips are mighty hips.
these hips are magic hips.

i have known them
to put a spell on a man and spin him like a top!

Lucille Clifton

He said:

Harlem

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore—
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

Langston Hughes

I know these two poems are quite different, but the last line of the Hughes poem reminded me of an article my sister sent me about exploding butt implants.

Loaf and the World Loafs With You

My son quit his job. He didn't enjoy it. Like we all really love our jobs everyday, don't we?

He said—

I meant to do my work today
But a brown bird sang in the apple tree,
And a butterfly flitted across the field,
And all the leaves were calling me.

And the wind went sighing over the land,
Tossing the grasses to and fro,
And a rainbow held out its shining hand—
So what could I do but laugh and go?

Richard Le Gallienne



She said—

The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half-submerged balls.

I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.

I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.

The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.

Marge Piercy

Before Xanax, Poetry

I had two anxiety attacks this past weekend - two full-blown, heart-thumping, limb-shaking, breath-stealing attacks. They happened early in the day, two days in a row, in my own bedroom, after a good night's sleep, for no apparent reason. If your body can turn on you under those circumstances, when are you safe? These two poems are such powerful descriptions of anxiety, I had to share them.
 

He said:

It was the same
as an immense dusk of happy gold,
suddenly extinguished
in ashen clouds.

It left me with that gloom
of great anxieties
when they are shut up in the cage
of daily truth, with that burden
of ideally colored gardens
which an oil-filthy fire rubs out.

I did not give in,
I wept for it. I forced it. I saw ridiculous
unreason in the candid brotherhood
of man and life,
of death and man.

And here I am, ridiculously alive, waiting,
Ridiculously dead, for death.

Juan Ramon Jimenez

She said:

 
It was not death, for I stood up,
And all the dead lie down;
It was not night, for all the bells
Put out their tongues, for noon.

It was not frost, for on my flesh
I felt siroccos crawl, --
Nor fire, for just my marble feet
Could keep a chancel cool.

And yet it tasted like them all;
The figures I have seen
Set orderly, for burial,
Reminded me of mine,

As if my life were shaven
And fitted to a frame,
And could not breathe without a key;
And ‘t was like midnight, some,

When everything that ticked has stopped,
And space stares, all around,
Or grisly frosts, first autumn morns,
Repeal the beating ground.

But most like chaos, -- stopless, cool, --
Without a chance or spar,
Or even a report of land
To justify despair.

Emily Dickinson
 

Room With A (Point of) View

He said—

 
Necessity
 
Work?
I don’t have to work.
I don’t have to do nothing
but eat, drink, stay black, and die.
This little old furnished room’s
so small I can’t whip a cat
without getting fur in my mouth
and my landlady’s so old
her features is all run together
and God knows she sure can overcharge—
Which is why I reckon I does
Have to work after all.
 
Langston Hughes 
  
 

She said—

 
Rent
 
If you want my apartment, sleep in it
but let’s have a clear understanding:
the books are still free agents.
 
If the rocking chair’s arms surround you
they can also let you go,
they can shape the air like a body.
 
I don’t want your rent, I want
a radiance of attention
like the candle’s flame when we eat.
 
I mean a kind of awe
attending the spaces between us—
Not a roof but a field of stars. 
 
Jane Cooper

Every room comes with a price.

A Kiss Is Just a Kiss

He said—

 
Jenny kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief! Who loves 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
 
 
 

She said—

 
I hoped that he would love me,
And he has kissed my mouth,
But I am like a stricken bird
That cannot reach the south.
For tho’ I know he loves me,
Tonight my heart is sad;
His kiss was not so wonderful
As all the dreams I had.
 
Sara Teasdale 
 

Poetry as Dialogue

He said—
 
A Broken Appointment
 
You did not come,
And marching Time drew on, and wore me numb.
Yet less for loss of your dear presence there
Than that I thus found lacking in your make
That high compassion which can overcome
Reluctance for pure loving kindness’ sake.
Grieved I, when, as the lop-hour stroked its sum,
You did not come.
 
You love not me,
And love alone can lend you loyalty,
-I know and knew it. But, unto the store
Of human deeds divine in all but name,
Was it not worth a little hour or more
To add yet this: Once you, a woman, came
To soothe a time-torn man, even though it be
You love not me?
 
Thomas Hardy
 
 
She said—

You thought that I was that type:
That you could forget me,
And that I'd plead and weep and throw myself
Under the hooves of a bay mare,
Or that I'd ask the sorcerers
For some magic potion made from roots
And send you a terrible gift:
My precious perfumed handkerchief.
Damn you! I will not grant
Your cursed soul vicarious tears or a single glance.
And I swear to you by the garden of the angels,
I swear by the miracle-working icon,
And by the fire and smoke of our nights:
I will never come back to you

Anna Akhmatova
translated by Richard McKane