I start with the front page, then the editorials, then the rest of the front section. I read the local news, the entertainment section, the comics and the bridge column. I read the business section, the health and food sections. I don't think there is a bigger buy for the money than a good newspaper. I like to keep track of what's going on in the world, and in our own country, even when it's disturbing, as it has been lately. The current administration seems to want to keep us all frightened so that they can stomp on our civil liberties at will.
He said:
Humanity i love you
because you would rather black the boots of
success than enquire whose soul dangles from his
watch-chain which would be embarrassing for both
parties and because you
unflinchingly applaud all
songs containing the words country home and
mother when sung at the old howard
Humanity i love you because
when you're hard up you pawn your
intelligence to buy a drink and when
you're flush pride keeps
you from the pawn shop and
because you are continually committing
nuisances but more
especially in your own house
Humanity i love you because you
are perpetually putting the secret of
life in your pants and forgetting
it's there and sitting down
on it
and because you are
forever making poems in the lap
of death Humanity
i hate you
e.e.cummings
She said:
Not for a Nation
Not for the flag
Of any land because myself was born there
Will I give up my life.
But I will love that land where man is free,
And that I will defend.
Edna St Vincent Millay
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Thursday, December 15, 2005
It's All About the Shopping
There are religious groups trying to get their members to boycott Walmart because the giant merchandiser hangs "Happy Holiday" signs instead of "Merry Christmas" signs in its stores.
There are a lot of good reasons to boycott Walmart, and I don't shop there. Their employment practices are terrible. They do everything they can to stifle union activity so that they can continue to pay their employees minimum wages. Most of their employees cannot afford the health insurance they offer, and are forced to rely on Medicaid, which the rest of us pay for. They draw in suppliers, and then pay less every year for their products so that the suppliers are forced to close their plants in the U.S. and manufacture their products overseas. Even Levi Jeans finally caved to Walmart and closed its last U.S. plant. I prefer to buy stuff made in a country that has good labor laws. Then there are the illegal immigrants who clean the stores at night and don't even make minimum wages. Walmart was shocked (!) to discover there was illegal hiring going on in the back room. Even Walmart commercials, with the yellow smiley face shooting down prices is reason enough not to shop there.
But to boycott them because they took the "Christ" out of shopping? Well we just know that Christmas is all about the shopping, don't we?
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:
The Coin
Into my heart’s treasury
I slipped a coin That time cannot take
Nor thief purloin---
Oh, better than a minting
Of a gold crowned king
Is the safe kept memory
Of a lovely thing
Sara Teasdale
There are a lot of good reasons to boycott Walmart, and I don't shop there. Their employment practices are terrible. They do everything they can to stifle union activity so that they can continue to pay their employees minimum wages. Most of their employees cannot afford the health insurance they offer, and are forced to rely on Medicaid, which the rest of us pay for. They draw in suppliers, and then pay less every year for their products so that the suppliers are forced to close their plants in the U.S. and manufacture their products overseas. Even Levi Jeans finally caved to Walmart and closed its last U.S. plant. I prefer to buy stuff made in a country that has good labor laws. Then there are the illegal immigrants who clean the stores at night and don't even make minimum wages. Walmart was shocked (!) to discover there was illegal hiring going on in the back room. Even Walmart commercials, with the yellow smiley face shooting down prices is reason enough not to shop there.
But to boycott them because they took the "Christ" out of shopping? Well we just know that Christmas is all about the shopping, don't we?
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:
The Coin
Into my heart’s treasury
I slipped a coin That time cannot take
Nor thief purloin---
Oh, better than a minting
Of a gold crowned king
Is the safe kept memory
Of a lovely thing
Sara Teasdale
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
The Beginning Place
I have a continuing dialogue with one of the check out clerks at the local Safeway store. Kevin is a somewhat stout young man with curly hair, dorky glasses, and lots of beard. I go to the Safeway once a week to buy a copy of Star magazine. Sometimes I get The National Enquirer or The Globe or some other Hollywood gossip rag, but usually it's the Star. Kevin frequently sells me my trashy magazine, and almost always comments on some of the headlines, or asks me if I really believed the articles. So one day I told him that I read lots of other things in addition to Star - that I had just completed a fasinating biography of Alexander Hamilton, and was almost finished reading Collapse by Jared Diamond which is a historical perspective of why some advanced civilizations just collapsed (briefly - they cut down all the trees). Kevin seemed amazed at my reading habits. He couldn't understand why someone who could read and understand intellectually challenging histories and biographies would read celebrity gossip. I told him I was multi-talented; but that started a discussion from week to week of what I'm reading, and what he likes to read. His favorite author is Kurt Vonnegut Jr. I recommended he read The Beginning Place by Ursula K. LeGuin. (It's about a grocery store clerk.)
That got me thinking about what my favorite books have been, and what books I would recommend to anyone to read. Here's my list:
The Complete Works of Jane Austin. She wrote 6 major novels, and they are all wonderful. My favorite is whichever one I've just finished reading. There is nothing irrelevant about choosing a life-long mate, I don't care what century you live in.
The Once and Future King by Theodore H. White. Read the first chapter of book 2. It's a discussion between Merlin and Arthur about why people go to war, and when it might be justified. The whole book is a Greek Tragedy. And it's a wonderful romance.
Catch 22 by Joseph Heller. War at its most insane.
A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole. This is one of the funniest books I ever read, but it's sad, too. It's set in New Orleans, and the characters are brilliantly written.
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter Thompson. Another very funny book. OK. Maybe it's funnier when you are stoned.
The Killing Doll by Ruth Rendall. She writes some very good, but conventional, British mysteries, and also some really strange novels like The Killing Doll, which is about a boy who sells his soul to the devil so he will grow taller. Anything she writes is worth reading.
The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula K. LeGuin. She is one of my favorite authors, and this is one of her best books. It's science fiction, but it's also about friendship, politics, gender identity and truth.
Personal History by Katharine Graham, who for many years owned the Washington Post.
Lost Moon by Jim Lovell and Jeffrey Kluger, the true story of the Apollo 13 mission. It's amazing what the U.S. was able to do in space in the 1960's, with less computing power than I have on my laptop. This is also a story of human bravery, endurance and ingenuity.
Into Thin Air by Jon Krakauer, a true accounting of an Everest expedition that went wrong. This book is chilling. You will really feel like you are there on the mountain with him.
Into the Heart of Borneo by Redmon O'Hanlon. Two British guys trek into Borneo with native guides. A true story, entertaining and amusing.
The Last Farmer by Howard Kohn. He's a local writer, who goes back to visit his farmer father in Michigan. His Dad could be my Dad: cheerful, honest, hardworking and intelligent.
Appetite for Life, The Biography of Julia Child by Noel Riley Fitch. Did you know Julia Child worked for the OSS in Ceylon and India during World War 2. She didn't even start to cook until she was nearly 40.
Citizen Soldiers by Stephen E. Ambrose. Another war book, only this one is not fiction.
Kon Tiki by Thor Hyerdahl. The man floated across the Pacific Ocean on a raft with a group of friends, and some how managed to make a living doing it. How cool is that?
The poetry for the day:
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:
THERE is no frigate like a book
To take us lands away,
Nor any coursers like a page
Of prancing poetry.
This traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of toll;
How frugal is the chariot
That bears a human soul!
Emily Dickinson
That got me thinking about what my favorite books have been, and what books I would recommend to anyone to read. Here's my list:
The Complete Works of Jane Austin. She wrote 6 major novels, and they are all wonderful. My favorite is whichever one I've just finished reading. There is nothing irrelevant about choosing a life-long mate, I don't care what century you live in.
The Once and Future King by Theodore H. White. Read the first chapter of book 2. It's a discussion between Merlin and Arthur about why people go to war, and when it might be justified. The whole book is a Greek Tragedy. And it's a wonderful romance.
Catch 22 by Joseph Heller. War at its most insane.
A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole. This is one of the funniest books I ever read, but it's sad, too. It's set in New Orleans, and the characters are brilliantly written.
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter Thompson. Another very funny book. OK. Maybe it's funnier when you are stoned.
The Killing Doll by Ruth Rendall. She writes some very good, but conventional, British mysteries, and also some really strange novels like The Killing Doll, which is about a boy who sells his soul to the devil so he will grow taller. Anything she writes is worth reading.
The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula K. LeGuin. She is one of my favorite authors, and this is one of her best books. It's science fiction, but it's also about friendship, politics, gender identity and truth.
Personal History by Katharine Graham, who for many years owned the Washington Post.
Lost Moon by Jim Lovell and Jeffrey Kluger, the true story of the Apollo 13 mission. It's amazing what the U.S. was able to do in space in the 1960's, with less computing power than I have on my laptop. This is also a story of human bravery, endurance and ingenuity.
Into Thin Air by Jon Krakauer, a true accounting of an Everest expedition that went wrong. This book is chilling. You will really feel like you are there on the mountain with him.
Into the Heart of Borneo by Redmon O'Hanlon. Two British guys trek into Borneo with native guides. A true story, entertaining and amusing.
The Last Farmer by Howard Kohn. He's a local writer, who goes back to visit his farmer father in Michigan. His Dad could be my Dad: cheerful, honest, hardworking and intelligent.
Appetite for Life, The Biography of Julia Child by Noel Riley Fitch. Did you know Julia Child worked for the OSS in Ceylon and India during World War 2. She didn't even start to cook until she was nearly 40.
Citizen Soldiers by Stephen E. Ambrose. Another war book, only this one is not fiction.
Kon Tiki by Thor Hyerdahl. The man floated across the Pacific Ocean on a raft with a group of friends, and some how managed to make a living doing it. How cool is that?
The poetry for the day:
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:
THERE is no frigate like a book
To take us lands away,
Nor any coursers like a page
Of prancing poetry.
This traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of toll;
How frugal is the chariot
That bears a human soul!
Emily Dickinson
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Request Night at the Baptist Church
My mother was raised in the Church of England. (Her parents were Protestant Irish.) My father was raised as a Missouri Synod Lutheran, but after marrying, my parents joined the Evangelical Lutheran Church. The Missouri Synod people are so conservative, and are firmly convinced they are the only ones going to heaven. (Won't they be surprised?)
At any rate, some years ago, after I left home, my mother had a religious experience. God spoke to her, and she joined the Baptist Church - had herself dunked and all. My father, brother and two sisters followed her through the baptismal pool. My mother did not agree entirely with the Baptist teachings. She was still a believer in the Theory of Evolution for example, and thought the Adam and Eve creation story was just a metaphor. She says God led her to the Baptist Church, but didn't tell her to quit using the brains he'd given her. The Baptists embraced her and prayed for her, and with her, in spite of their disagreements.
A couple years after my mother's death, we were home visiting and ended up one Sunday evening at "Request Night" at Union Park Baptist. The idea was that anyone in the congregation could request that anyone else get up and perform for the glory of God. Requests were done in advance to allow for practice time. I think my father secretly hoped that someone would request his saxophone playing, but no one ever did.
I don't remember all the performers. Two little girls played the violin, with their mother accompanying them on the piano. Their performance ended rather suddenly when they discovered they had lost the last page of their sheet music. A teenage boy did a dramatic monologue about his relationship with God, shouting and posing all over the altar. At this point the younger members of the audience started to giggle. Next up was a trombone player. We were all trying to guess what tune he was playing when my husband leaned over and whispered, "It sounds like Tiny Bubbles to me". The younsters had to hide under the pews at that, trying to keep quiet, while the adults were biting their lips to stifle their laughter.
Then a middle-aged, recovering alchoholic, who had been "requested" by her AA sponser, got up to sing For the Beauty of the Earth. Her hands were shaking, and her voice had that raspy tone that voices get when too much alchohol has passed over the vocal cords. She could not carry a tune. Not even close. The kids were rolling on the floor by this time. I was able to keep a straight face by following the words in the hymnal. It really is a beautiful hymn, regardless of how it is sung. That woman had a lot to be thankful for, as do we all. And God surely has a sense of humor.
That was the last time they did "Request Night" at the Baptist Chuch. It's a shame. They could have sold tickets.
She sang:
For the beauty of the earth,
for the glory of the skies,
for the love which from our birth
over and around us lies;
Lord of all, to thee we raise
this our hymn of grateful praise.
For the beauty of each hour
of the day and of the night,
hill and vale, and tree and flower,
sun and moon, and stars of light;
Lord of all, to thee we raise
this our hymn of grateful praise.
For the joy of ear and eye,
for the heart and mind's delight,
for the mystic harmony,
linking sense to sound and sight;
Lord of all, to thee we raise
this our hymn of grateful praise.
For the joy of human love,
brother, sister, parent, child,
friends on earth and friends above,
for all gentle thoughts and mild;
Lord of all, to thee we raise
this our hymn of grateful praise.
Lyrics by: Folliot S. Pierpoint
He said:
Personal
In an envelope marked:
Personal
God addressed me a letter.
In an envelope marked:
Personal
I have given my answer.
Langston Hughes
At any rate, some years ago, after I left home, my mother had a religious experience. God spoke to her, and she joined the Baptist Church - had herself dunked and all. My father, brother and two sisters followed her through the baptismal pool. My mother did not agree entirely with the Baptist teachings. She was still a believer in the Theory of Evolution for example, and thought the Adam and Eve creation story was just a metaphor. She says God led her to the Baptist Church, but didn't tell her to quit using the brains he'd given her. The Baptists embraced her and prayed for her, and with her, in spite of their disagreements.
A couple years after my mother's death, we were home visiting and ended up one Sunday evening at "Request Night" at Union Park Baptist. The idea was that anyone in the congregation could request that anyone else get up and perform for the glory of God. Requests were done in advance to allow for practice time. I think my father secretly hoped that someone would request his saxophone playing, but no one ever did.
I don't remember all the performers. Two little girls played the violin, with their mother accompanying them on the piano. Their performance ended rather suddenly when they discovered they had lost the last page of their sheet music. A teenage boy did a dramatic monologue about his relationship with God, shouting and posing all over the altar. At this point the younger members of the audience started to giggle. Next up was a trombone player. We were all trying to guess what tune he was playing when my husband leaned over and whispered, "It sounds like Tiny Bubbles to me". The younsters had to hide under the pews at that, trying to keep quiet, while the adults were biting their lips to stifle their laughter.
Then a middle-aged, recovering alchoholic, who had been "requested" by her AA sponser, got up to sing For the Beauty of the Earth. Her hands were shaking, and her voice had that raspy tone that voices get when too much alchohol has passed over the vocal cords. She could not carry a tune. Not even close. The kids were rolling on the floor by this time. I was able to keep a straight face by following the words in the hymnal. It really is a beautiful hymn, regardless of how it is sung. That woman had a lot to be thankful for, as do we all. And God surely has a sense of humor.
That was the last time they did "Request Night" at the Baptist Chuch. It's a shame. They could have sold tickets.
She sang:
For the beauty of the earth,
for the glory of the skies,
for the love which from our birth
over and around us lies;
Lord of all, to thee we raise
this our hymn of grateful praise.
For the beauty of each hour
of the day and of the night,
hill and vale, and tree and flower,
sun and moon, and stars of light;
Lord of all, to thee we raise
this our hymn of grateful praise.
For the joy of ear and eye,
for the heart and mind's delight,
for the mystic harmony,
linking sense to sound and sight;
Lord of all, to thee we raise
this our hymn of grateful praise.
For the joy of human love,
brother, sister, parent, child,
friends on earth and friends above,
for all gentle thoughts and mild;
Lord of all, to thee we raise
this our hymn of grateful praise.
Lyrics by: Folliot S. Pierpoint
He said:
Personal
In an envelope marked:
Personal
God addressed me a letter.
In an envelope marked:
Personal
I have given my answer.
Langston Hughes
Thursday, November 10, 2005
How Do They Know?
Cars are psychic. They always know when you have extra money, and find a way to eat it up.
Last month I paid the balance due on my car note. After a brief hassle with the bank, who wanted to charge a $75 "pre-payment" fee that was not part of the contract I had signed 4-1/2 years ago, and a follow up visit to make the bank understand that I was NOT going to pay the $75 fee, I received the title in the mail last week.
Yesterday on the way home from work, I ran over some road debris. Whatever it was made a rattling noise for about a block, and then fell off. When I got home, the car looked fine. This morning I had a flat tire. AAA came at my bidding, and were very nice about it, too, I might add. The guy changed the tire for the spare "donut" tire, and pointed out a small slash in the sidewall of the tire he removed. "Yep, going to need a new tire, for sure." Then he pointed out that all the tires were looking pretty tired, with small cracks along the side walls. "Looks like dry rot - how old are these tires? Forty thousand miles? You might want to go ahead and get a new set."
Of course the guys at NTB saw the same cracks, and happily sold me a new set. I refused the most expensive tires, and refused the extended warranty, of course. I'll take my chances. The whole incident only cost me $425, which is just $25 more than my previous car payment.
How do cars know?
Last month I paid the balance due on my car note. After a brief hassle with the bank, who wanted to charge a $75 "pre-payment" fee that was not part of the contract I had signed 4-1/2 years ago, and a follow up visit to make the bank understand that I was NOT going to pay the $75 fee, I received the title in the mail last week.
Yesterday on the way home from work, I ran over some road debris. Whatever it was made a rattling noise for about a block, and then fell off. When I got home, the car looked fine. This morning I had a flat tire. AAA came at my bidding, and were very nice about it, too, I might add. The guy changed the tire for the spare "donut" tire, and pointed out a small slash in the sidewall of the tire he removed. "Yep, going to need a new tire, for sure." Then he pointed out that all the tires were looking pretty tired, with small cracks along the side walls. "Looks like dry rot - how old are these tires? Forty thousand miles? You might want to go ahead and get a new set."
Of course the guys at NTB saw the same cracks, and happily sold me a new set. I refused the most expensive tires, and refused the extended warranty, of course. I'll take my chances. The whole incident only cost me $425, which is just $25 more than my previous car payment.
How do cars know?
Saturday, November 05, 2005
The Funeral
The funeral was Thursday, and by all accounts it was a beautiful one. His girl friend came and brought his baby. His cousin sang a song that reduced everyone to tears, even the minister. His friends from the streets came and talked about how he loved everyone and was never mean. His grandfather attended, and survived it with the same optimism that has kept him alive for 91 years. God has taken James to a better place.
He said:
As Befits a Man
I don’t mind dying—
But I’d hate to die all alone!
I want a dozen pretty women
To holler, cry, and moan.
I don’t mind dying
But I want my funeral to be fine:
A row of long tall mamas
Fainting, fanning and crying.
I want a fish-tail hearse
And sixteen fish-tail cars,
A big brass band
And a whole truck load of flowers.
When they let me down,
Down into the clay,
I want the women to holler:
Please don’t take him away!
Ow-ooo-oo-o!
Don’t take daddy away!
Langston Hughes
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
He said:
As Befits a Man
I don’t mind dying—
But I’d hate to die all alone!
I want a dozen pretty women
To holler, cry, and moan.
I don’t mind dying
But I want my funeral to be fine:
A row of long tall mamas
Fainting, fanning and crying.
I want a fish-tail hearse
And sixteen fish-tail cars,
A big brass band
And a whole truck load of flowers.
When they let me down,
Down into the clay,
I want the women to holler:
Please don’t take him away!
Ow-ooo-oo-o!
Don’t take daddy away!
Langston Hughes
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
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
James
My nephew James was found dead Monday morning of an apparent drug overdose. It looked like an accident. There was no sign of struggle, and no note. There was only a tourniquet around his arm and an empty syringe next to his bed. He was 25 years old.
His first drugs were legal - Ritalin and then Lithium - to try to tame the demons that kept him from sitting still, from learning, from "fitting in". For the past 10 years he preferred to medicate himself with alchohol, street drugs of various sorts and finally heroin. His parents tried everything: love, tough love, special schools, family counseling. He spent time in rehab. He tried methadone. He spent time in jail. He qualified for disability. He had a girlfriend, a sweet, naive young woman, who got pregnant thinking a baby might make him grow up. James loved his daughter, but his girlfriend left with the baby after she realized that fatherhood hadn't changed him.
One of my best memories of James was when he was about 6 years old. He found a squirrel in the road, still living, but half paralyzed, and carried it home. He wasn't frightened at all, just caring. He wanted his Dad to fix it. I remember his father took the squirrel out back and put it out of its misery, and James cried.
There are some things you just can't fix.
He said:
Farewell, my friend, until we meet
Again, I hold you in my heart.
Our long appointed separation
Foretells reunion over there.
No word, no handshake, till we’re met;
Don’t grieve, my friend, or look so black—
In life it’s nothing new to die,
And living is, of course, not newer.
Sergey Yesenin
She said:
Beyond Recall
Nothing matters
to the dead,
that’s what’s so hard
for the rest of us
to take in—
their complete indifference
to our enticements,
our attempts to get in touch—
they aren’t observing us
from a discreet distance,
they aren’t listening
to a word we say—
you know that,
but you don’t believe it,
even deep in a cave
you don’t believe
in total darkness,
you keep waiting
Sharon Bryan
His first drugs were legal - Ritalin and then Lithium - to try to tame the demons that kept him from sitting still, from learning, from "fitting in". For the past 10 years he preferred to medicate himself with alchohol, street drugs of various sorts and finally heroin. His parents tried everything: love, tough love, special schools, family counseling. He spent time in rehab. He tried methadone. He spent time in jail. He qualified for disability. He had a girlfriend, a sweet, naive young woman, who got pregnant thinking a baby might make him grow up. James loved his daughter, but his girlfriend left with the baby after she realized that fatherhood hadn't changed him.
One of my best memories of James was when he was about 6 years old. He found a squirrel in the road, still living, but half paralyzed, and carried it home. He wasn't frightened at all, just caring. He wanted his Dad to fix it. I remember his father took the squirrel out back and put it out of its misery, and James cried.
There are some things you just can't fix.
He said:
Farewell, my friend, until we meet
Again, I hold you in my heart.
Our long appointed separation
Foretells reunion over there.
No word, no handshake, till we’re met;
Don’t grieve, my friend, or look so black—
In life it’s nothing new to die,
And living is, of course, not newer.
Sergey Yesenin
She said:
Beyond Recall
Nothing matters
to the dead,
that’s what’s so hard
for the rest of us
to take in—
their complete indifference
to our enticements,
our attempts to get in touch—
they aren’t observing us
from a discreet distance,
they aren’t listening
to a word we say—
you know that,
but you don’t believe it,
even deep in a cave
you don’t believe
in total darkness,
you keep waiting
Sharon Bryan
Monday, September 05, 2005
The Constant Gardener
We saw The Constant Gardener this week end and can highly recommend it. Ralph Fiennes is wonderful as a grieving man holding on to his basic decency, and Rachel Weisz just sparkles as his wife.
Now Elizabeth knows I have always hated movies where the wife exists solely to be killed off in order to motivate her husband to grab the nearest sword, musket or fighter jet and kill a lot of people: Braveheart, The Patriot, Independence Day, and The Gladiator come to mind. And Tessa is murdered at the beginning of The Constant Gardener. The difference is that Justin does not grab a weapon and kill people. He goes about trying to find out what happened, and he does his best to finish the mission his wife started. Along the way we see flashbacks that tell us why she was so important to him. In the end he really can't live without her.
This is the closest I could come to a related poem:
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Spring in the Garden
Ah, cannot the curled shoots of the larkspur that you loved so,
Cannot the spiny poppy that no winter kills
Instruct you how to return through the thawing ground and the thin snow
Into this April sun that is driving the mist between the hills?
A good friend to the monkshood in a time of need
You were, and the lupine’s friend as well;
But I see the lupine lift the ground like a tough weed
And the earth over the monkshood swell,
And I fear that not a root in all this heaving sea
Of land, has nudged you where you lie, has found
Patience and time to direct you, numb and stupid as you still must be
From your first winter underground.
Now Elizabeth knows I have always hated movies where the wife exists solely to be killed off in order to motivate her husband to grab the nearest sword, musket or fighter jet and kill a lot of people: Braveheart, The Patriot, Independence Day, and The Gladiator come to mind. And Tessa is murdered at the beginning of The Constant Gardener. The difference is that Justin does not grab a weapon and kill people. He goes about trying to find out what happened, and he does his best to finish the mission his wife started. Along the way we see flashbacks that tell us why she was so important to him. In the end he really can't live without her.
This is the closest I could come to a related poem:
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Spring in the Garden
Ah, cannot the curled shoots of the larkspur that you loved so,
Cannot the spiny poppy that no winter kills
Instruct you how to return through the thawing ground and the thin snow
Into this April sun that is driving the mist between the hills?
A good friend to the monkshood in a time of need
You were, and the lupine’s friend as well;
But I see the lupine lift the ground like a tough weed
And the earth over the monkshood swell,
And I fear that not a root in all this heaving sea
Of land, has nudged you where you lie, has found
Patience and time to direct you, numb and stupid as you still must be
From your first winter underground.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
I Love the Locks Poem
I couldn't access the other poem tonight for some reason. I'll try again later.
Here's another poem I love:
Imarmu Amiri Baraka
Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note
Lately I’ve become accustomed to the way
The ground opens up and envelops me
Each time I go out to walk the dog.
Or the broad edged silly music the wind
Makes when I run for a bus…
Things have come to that.
And now, each night I count the stars,
And each night I get the same number.
And when they will not come to be counted,
I count the holes they leave.
Nobody sings anymore.
And then last night, I tiptoed up
To my daughter’s room and heard her
Talking to someone, and when I opened
The door, there was no one there…
Only she on her knees, peeking into
Her own clasped hands.
Here's another poem I love:
Imarmu Amiri Baraka
Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note
Lately I’ve become accustomed to the way
The ground opens up and envelops me
Each time I go out to walk the dog.
Or the broad edged silly music the wind
Makes when I run for a bus…
Things have come to that.
And now, each night I count the stars,
And each night I get the same number.
And when they will not come to be counted,
I count the holes they leave.
Nobody sings anymore.
And then last night, I tiptoed up
To my daughter’s room and heard her
Talking to someone, and when I opened
The door, there was no one there…
Only she on her knees, peeking into
Her own clasped hands.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
The Peace of Wild Things
I called in sick to work today. For some reason I was just tired of going to work. I was tired of being in charge, but not really being in charge. People line up outside my office with problems to share, or call me with complaints. My boss, bless his heart, is a kind and understanding man, but that makes it harder for me when I disappoint him. Sometimes he must think I'm crazy the way I send poetry out to him and my group via email. (And they are always very politically correct poems, too. I hide the edgiest ones so as not to offend anyone.)
So I spent the day doing as little as possible. I let the cats in and out, and fed the birds, and chased the squirrels away from the bird feeder.
I'll be back at work tomorrow, hopefully hanging on to some of the peace of today.
The Peace of Wild Things
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
Wendell Berry
So I spent the day doing as little as possible. I let the cats in and out, and fed the birds, and chased the squirrels away from the bird feeder.
I'll be back at work tomorrow, hopefully hanging on to some of the peace of today.
The Peace of Wild Things
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
Wendell Berry
Numbers
When Beth was a young child, about 3 or 4, and just into nursery school, she asked me one day, "Mom, what's the last number?"
I did my best to explain infinity -- there is no last number -- any number you pick to be the last, you can always add 1 to it and make another number. Numbers just go on forever.
What a brilliant child, I'm thinking -- so young to have such questions.
"Well," she answered with a little giggle, "At my school, it's 99."
Numbers
I like the generosity of numbers.
The way, for example,
they are willing to count
anything or anyone:
two pickles, one door to the room,
eight dancer dressed as swans.
I like the domesticity of addition—
add two cups of milk and stir—
the sense of plenty: six plums
on the ground, three more
falling from the tree.
And the multiplication’s school
of fish times fish,
whose silver bodies breed
beneath the shadow
of a boat.
Even subtraction is never loss,
just addition somewhere else:
five sparrow take away two,
the two in someone else’s
garden now.
There’s an amplitude to long division,
as it opens Chinese take-out
box by paper box,
inside every folded cookie
a new fortune.
And I never fail to be surprised
by the gift of an odd remainder,
footloose at the end:
forty-seven divided by eleven equals four,
with three remaining.
Three boys beyond their mother’s call,
two Italians off to the sea,
one sock that isn’t anywhere you look.
Mary Cornish
I did my best to explain infinity -- there is no last number -- any number you pick to be the last, you can always add 1 to it and make another number. Numbers just go on forever.
What a brilliant child, I'm thinking -- so young to have such questions.
"Well," she answered with a little giggle, "At my school, it's 99."
Numbers
I like the generosity of numbers.
The way, for example,
they are willing to count
anything or anyone:
two pickles, one door to the room,
eight dancer dressed as swans.
I like the domesticity of addition—
add two cups of milk and stir—
the sense of plenty: six plums
on the ground, three more
falling from the tree.
And the multiplication’s school
of fish times fish,
whose silver bodies breed
beneath the shadow
of a boat.
Even subtraction is never loss,
just addition somewhere else:
five sparrow take away two,
the two in someone else’s
garden now.
There’s an amplitude to long division,
as it opens Chinese take-out
box by paper box,
inside every folded cookie
a new fortune.
And I never fail to be surprised
by the gift of an odd remainder,
footloose at the end:
forty-seven divided by eleven equals four,
with three remaining.
Three boys beyond their mother’s call,
two Italians off to the sea,
one sock that isn’t anywhere you look.
Mary Cornish
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Swings
One of my earliest memories is of swinging on a swing at the back of our yard. I couldn’t have been more than 3, because we were still living in the house on Dean Avenue, across the street from the Fairgrounds, and we left that house the summer I was 3 and a half, after my younger sister was born. My father probably made the swing, cutting and sanding the wooden board seat, and knotting the stout ropes that hung it from a tree limb. I remember he taught me how to pump my legs so that the swing would go higher and higher without being pushed. After we moved, we would walk up to the school play ground to swing on the swings there. They had metal seats and chains, with pea gravel underneath them to cushion our falls.
Carolyn Butler had a swing set in her back yard, one with tubular metal legs that weren’t very well seated in the ground. If you swung high enough on her swing, the legs would come out of the ground and threaten to tip the whole thing over. There was a rumor that someone had once swung so high on Carolyn’s swing that they went right up over the metal bar on top and down the other side. I don’t remember who was supposed to have done this, or who, if anyone, saw it happen, but it gave us all chills to talk about it. One of the best things to do on a swing is twist it around and around, until the chains make a tight spiral, and then lift your feet off the ground so that the spiral unwinds fast enough to make you dizzy. Sometimes we just pumped the swing up as high as we could and jumped off. It was almost like flying.
Do kids even swing anymore? Or has someone decided swings aren’t safe enough? God forbid a child should pinch a finger, or scrape a knee, or whack a head. I know kids don’t roam the neighborhood from dawn to dusk like we did, playing whatever we wanted, twisting round on swings seats until we were dizzy enough to throw up, or jumping off swings to fly. Now kids spend their summers at day care, or day camp, or play dates, carefully supervised to keep them from getting hurt – to keep them from flying.
The Swing
Robert Louis Stevenson
How do you like to go up in a swing,
Up in the air so blue?
Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing
Ever a child can do!
Up in the air and over the wall,
Till I can see so wide,
Rivers and trees and cattle and all
Over the countryside—
Till I look down on the garden green,
Down on the roof so brown—
Up in the air I go flying again,
Up in the air and down!
Carolyn Butler had a swing set in her back yard, one with tubular metal legs that weren’t very well seated in the ground. If you swung high enough on her swing, the legs would come out of the ground and threaten to tip the whole thing over. There was a rumor that someone had once swung so high on Carolyn’s swing that they went right up over the metal bar on top and down the other side. I don’t remember who was supposed to have done this, or who, if anyone, saw it happen, but it gave us all chills to talk about it. One of the best things to do on a swing is twist it around and around, until the chains make a tight spiral, and then lift your feet off the ground so that the spiral unwinds fast enough to make you dizzy. Sometimes we just pumped the swing up as high as we could and jumped off. It was almost like flying.
Do kids even swing anymore? Or has someone decided swings aren’t safe enough? God forbid a child should pinch a finger, or scrape a knee, or whack a head. I know kids don’t roam the neighborhood from dawn to dusk like we did, playing whatever we wanted, twisting round on swings seats until we were dizzy enough to throw up, or jumping off swings to fly. Now kids spend their summers at day care, or day camp, or play dates, carefully supervised to keep them from getting hurt – to keep them from flying.
The Swing
Robert Louis Stevenson
How do you like to go up in a swing,
Up in the air so blue?
Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing
Ever a child can do!
Up in the air and over the wall,
Till I can see so wide,
Rivers and trees and cattle and all
Over the countryside—
Till I look down on the garden green,
Down on the roof so brown—
Up in the air I go flying again,
Up in the air and down!
Monday, June 06, 2005
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker
My husband Tom took a suit coat back to Norstroms last weekend to see if they could repair the damage done by his shredder. He had the coat over his arm while he emptied his pockets after work and leaned too close to the cross-cut shredder in his home office. The shredder was on automatic, so it reached out and grabbed the corner of his coat and shredded about an inch and a half of the left front bottom edge. Vincent, who had sold him the suit 6 months ago, is a tall, thin, impeccably groomed and suited, gray-haired gentleman. He has the quiet reserve of a butler, or maybe an undertaker. He listened to Tom's story of sartorial accident with only a raised eyebrow, but when Tom asked to have the coat shortened by an inch and a half, a small twitch of the lips gave away Vincent's true opinion. Vincent took the coat back to consult with the tailor, another exemplary gentleman. They both murmered about proportions and style, while trying their best to hide their smiles. Finally they agreed to see what could be done to salvage the poor coat. Vincent offered to sell my husband another suit - something in a 39 or 40 short, he thought. But Tom said he was waiting for a 40 extra-short.
So, of course, I thought of these lines from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock:
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
So, of course, I thought of these lines from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock:
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
Saturday, June 04, 2005
Cooking
My mother put a pot of white beans on to soak one evening and went to bed. My father came home from work late, and hungry, and ate a bowl of the beans. Gave himself the hiccups for three days. My father would eat anything, and love it, which was a good thing, because my mother was not a good cook. Yet, every day at dinner, my father cleaned his plate and said "That was the best meal I ever ate." He probably said that about the raw beans.
I've cooked for 34 years for a man who doesn't really much care about food. He'd just as soon have MacDonald's as a home-cooked meal. He can be happy with a bowl of Frosted Flakes for supper. This poem is for him.
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
I've cooked for 34 years for a man who doesn't really much care about food. He'd just as soon have MacDonald's as a home-cooked meal. He can be happy with a bowl of Frosted Flakes for supper. This poem is for him.
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
Sunday, May 22, 2005
A Poem For Elizabeth
A poem for Elizabeth, who used to work at the Frederick's of Hollywood catalogue department.
Victoria’s Secret
The one in the upper left-hand corner
is giving me a look
that says I know you are here
and I have nothing better to do
for the remainder of human time
than return your persistent but engaging stare.
She is wearing a deeply scalloped
flame-stitch halter top
with padded push-up styling
and easy side-zip tap pants.
The one on the facing page, however,
who looks at me over her bare shoulder,
cannot hide the shadow of annoyance in her brow.
You have interrupted me,
she seems to be saying,
with your coughing and your loud music.
Now please leave me alone;
let me finish whatever it was I was doing
in my organza-trimmed
whisperweight camisole with
keyhole closure and a point d’esprit mesh back.
I wet my thumb and flip the page.
Here, the one who happens to be reclining
in a satin and lace merry widow
with an inset lace-up front,
decorated underwire cups and bodice
with lace ruffles along the bottom
and hook-and eye closure in the back,
is wearing a slightly contorted expression,
her head thrust back, moth partially open,
a confusing mixture of pain and surprise
as if she had stepped on a tack
just as I was breaking down
her bedroom door with my shoulder.
Nor does the one directly beneath her
look particularly happy to see me.
She is arching one eyebrow slightly
as if to say, so what if I am wearing nothing
but this stretch panne velvet bodysuit
with a low sweetheart neckline
featuring molded cups and adjustable straps.
Do you have a problem with that?
The one on the far right is easier to take,
her eyes half-closed
as if she were listening to a medley
of lullabies playing faintly on a music box.
Soon she will drop off to sleep,
her head nestled in the soft crook of her arm,
and later she will wake up in her
Spandex slip dress with the high side slit,
deep scoop neckline, elastic shirring,
and concealed back zip and vent.
But opposite her,
stretched out catlike on a couch
in the warm glow of a paneled library,
is one who wears a distinctly challenging expression,
her face tipped up exposing
her long neck, her perfectly flared nostrils.
Go ahead, her expression tells me,
take off my satin charmeuse gown
with a sheer, jacquard bodice
decorated with a touch of shimmering Lurex.
Go ahead, fling it into the fireplace.
What do I care, her eyes say, we’re all going to hell anyway.
I have other mail to open,
but I cannot help noticing her neighbor
whose eyes are downcast,
her head ever so demurely bowed to the side
as if she were the model who sat for Coreggio
when he painted “The Madonna of St. Jerome,”
only, it became so ungodly hot in Parma
that afternoon, she had to remove
the traditional blue robe
and pose there in his studio
in a beautifully shaped satin teddy
with an embossed V-front,
princess seaming to mold the bodice,
and puckered knit detail.
And occupying the whole facing page
is one who displays that expression
we have come to associate with a photographic beauty:
Yes, she is pouting about something,
all lower lip and check bone.
Perhaps her ice cream has tumbled
out of its cone onto the parquet floor.
Perhaps she has been waiting all day
for a new sofa to be delivered,
waiting all day in a stretch lace hipster
with lattice edging, satin frog closures,
velvet scrollwork, cuffed ankles,
flare silhouette, and knotted shoulder straps
available in black, champagne, almond,
cinnabar, plum, bronze, mocha,
peach, ivory, caramel, blush, butter, rose, and periwinkle.
It is of course, impossible to say,
impossible to know what she is thinking,
why her mouth is the shape of petulance.
But this is already too much.
Who has the time to linger on these delicate
lures, these once unmentionable things?
Life is rushing by like a mad, swollen river.
One minute roses are opening in the garden
and the next, snow is plying past my window.
Plus the phone is ringing.
The dog is whining at the door.
Rain is beating on the roof.
And as always there is a list of things I have to do
before the night descends, black and silky,
and the dark hours begin to hurtle by,
before the little doors of the body swing shut
and I ride to sleep, my closed eyes
still burning from all the glossy lights of the day.
Billy Collins
Victoria’s Secret
The one in the upper left-hand corner
is giving me a look
that says I know you are here
and I have nothing better to do
for the remainder of human time
than return your persistent but engaging stare.
She is wearing a deeply scalloped
flame-stitch halter top
with padded push-up styling
and easy side-zip tap pants.
The one on the facing page, however,
who looks at me over her bare shoulder,
cannot hide the shadow of annoyance in her brow.
You have interrupted me,
she seems to be saying,
with your coughing and your loud music.
Now please leave me alone;
let me finish whatever it was I was doing
in my organza-trimmed
whisperweight camisole with
keyhole closure and a point d’esprit mesh back.
I wet my thumb and flip the page.
Here, the one who happens to be reclining
in a satin and lace merry widow
with an inset lace-up front,
decorated underwire cups and bodice
with lace ruffles along the bottom
and hook-and eye closure in the back,
is wearing a slightly contorted expression,
her head thrust back, moth partially open,
a confusing mixture of pain and surprise
as if she had stepped on a tack
just as I was breaking down
her bedroom door with my shoulder.
Nor does the one directly beneath her
look particularly happy to see me.
She is arching one eyebrow slightly
as if to say, so what if I am wearing nothing
but this stretch panne velvet bodysuit
with a low sweetheart neckline
featuring molded cups and adjustable straps.
Do you have a problem with that?
The one on the far right is easier to take,
her eyes half-closed
as if she were listening to a medley
of lullabies playing faintly on a music box.
Soon she will drop off to sleep,
her head nestled in the soft crook of her arm,
and later she will wake up in her
Spandex slip dress with the high side slit,
deep scoop neckline, elastic shirring,
and concealed back zip and vent.
But opposite her,
stretched out catlike on a couch
in the warm glow of a paneled library,
is one who wears a distinctly challenging expression,
her face tipped up exposing
her long neck, her perfectly flared nostrils.
Go ahead, her expression tells me,
take off my satin charmeuse gown
with a sheer, jacquard bodice
decorated with a touch of shimmering Lurex.
Go ahead, fling it into the fireplace.
What do I care, her eyes say, we’re all going to hell anyway.
I have other mail to open,
but I cannot help noticing her neighbor
whose eyes are downcast,
her head ever so demurely bowed to the side
as if she were the model who sat for Coreggio
when he painted “The Madonna of St. Jerome,”
only, it became so ungodly hot in Parma
that afternoon, she had to remove
the traditional blue robe
and pose there in his studio
in a beautifully shaped satin teddy
with an embossed V-front,
princess seaming to mold the bodice,
and puckered knit detail.
And occupying the whole facing page
is one who displays that expression
we have come to associate with a photographic beauty:
Yes, she is pouting about something,
all lower lip and check bone.
Perhaps her ice cream has tumbled
out of its cone onto the parquet floor.
Perhaps she has been waiting all day
for a new sofa to be delivered,
waiting all day in a stretch lace hipster
with lattice edging, satin frog closures,
velvet scrollwork, cuffed ankles,
flare silhouette, and knotted shoulder straps
available in black, champagne, almond,
cinnabar, plum, bronze, mocha,
peach, ivory, caramel, blush, butter, rose, and periwinkle.
It is of course, impossible to say,
impossible to know what she is thinking,
why her mouth is the shape of petulance.
But this is already too much.
Who has the time to linger on these delicate
lures, these once unmentionable things?
Life is rushing by like a mad, swollen river.
One minute roses are opening in the garden
and the next, snow is plying past my window.
Plus the phone is ringing.
The dog is whining at the door.
Rain is beating on the roof.
And as always there is a list of things I have to do
before the night descends, black and silky,
and the dark hours begin to hurtle by,
before the little doors of the body swing shut
and I ride to sleep, my closed eyes
still burning from all the glossy lights of the day.
Billy Collins
Thursday, May 12, 2005
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
April is National Poetry Month
He said:
I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.
I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.
I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.
But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with a rope
and torture a confession out of it.
They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.
Billy Collins
She said:
Say my love is easy had,
Say I'm bitten raw with pride,
Say I am too often sad --
Still behold me at your side.
Say I'm neither brave nor young,
Say I woo and coddle care,
Say the devil touched my tongue --
Still you have my heart to wear.
But say my verses do not scan,
And I get me another man!
Dorothy Parker
Friday, April 01, 2005
I Am NOT a Painter
There is a commercial on HGTV that shows a woman standing in front of an gushing toilet while a voiceover says "I am not a plumber". Then there is a man standing under a tilting, spark-shooting ceiling fan while the voice says "I am not an electrician". The last little scenerio is a man lying head downward on a porch roof, limbs akimbo, next to an over-turned paint can, his head in a pool of paint. The voice says "I...am...not.......a painter". I love it! And this week I kept repeating it to myself as I attempted to paint our bathroom.
How hard can it be to paint a room that is only about 5' by 8', of which half is taken up by a shower stall? Pretty darn hard, as it turns out. First I scraped, sanded, primed and painted the ceiling. Do you have any idea how hard it is to negotiate a long-handled paint roller in a space that small? All the while, I'm trying not to get drips on the shower, toilet, sink and floor. Then I remove the towel bars, toilet paper holder, medicine chest and cabinet. This leads to several rather large holes in the walls that have to be patched, sanded, patched again, sanded again, and primed. I remove the door handle and prime the back of the door.
By this time, I have paint all over myself, including in my hair. I get all the paint gear out of the bathroom, strip and take a shower. At this point I discover that once you close a door without the handle in place, the door locks and won't open. So there I am, stark naked, in a stark naked bathroom. I have toilet paper, a box of Q-tips, and a towel to entertain myself until my husband gets home from work an hour and a half later. You can't pick a lock with a Q-tip. Let me say that. My husband was able to get the door open even while laughing his ass off.
Today I removed the light fixture, and put two coats of cream colored paint on the walls. I also put several coats of paint on my body, my jeans, and my feet. Tomorrow I'll paint the trim and put another coat of paint on the ceiling. I'll also clean the paint off the bedroom rug.
I finally found a medicine chest to fit the hole in the wall, and I've ordered towel bars and a new toilet paper holder. When everything is finally done, it's going to look great!
Maybe I am a painter after all.
The shower incident reminded me of this poem:
Dorothy Parker
Portrait of the Artist
Oh lead me to a quiet cell
Where never footfall rambles
And bar the window passing well
And gyve my wrists and ankles
Oh wrap my eyes with linen fair
With hempen card go bind me
And, of your mercy, leave me there
Nor tell them where to find me
Oh, lock the portal as you go
And see its bolts be double…
Come back in half an hour or so
And I will be in trouble.
How hard can it be to paint a room that is only about 5' by 8', of which half is taken up by a shower stall? Pretty darn hard, as it turns out. First I scraped, sanded, primed and painted the ceiling. Do you have any idea how hard it is to negotiate a long-handled paint roller in a space that small? All the while, I'm trying not to get drips on the shower, toilet, sink and floor. Then I remove the towel bars, toilet paper holder, medicine chest and cabinet. This leads to several rather large holes in the walls that have to be patched, sanded, patched again, sanded again, and primed. I remove the door handle and prime the back of the door.
By this time, I have paint all over myself, including in my hair. I get all the paint gear out of the bathroom, strip and take a shower. At this point I discover that once you close a door without the handle in place, the door locks and won't open. So there I am, stark naked, in a stark naked bathroom. I have toilet paper, a box of Q-tips, and a towel to entertain myself until my husband gets home from work an hour and a half later. You can't pick a lock with a Q-tip. Let me say that. My husband was able to get the door open even while laughing his ass off.
Today I removed the light fixture, and put two coats of cream colored paint on the walls. I also put several coats of paint on my body, my jeans, and my feet. Tomorrow I'll paint the trim and put another coat of paint on the ceiling. I'll also clean the paint off the bedroom rug.
I finally found a medicine chest to fit the hole in the wall, and I've ordered towel bars and a new toilet paper holder. When everything is finally done, it's going to look great!
Maybe I am a painter after all.
The shower incident reminded me of this poem:
Dorothy Parker
Portrait of the Artist
Oh lead me to a quiet cell
Where never footfall rambles
And bar the window passing well
And gyve my wrists and ankles
Oh wrap my eyes with linen fair
With hempen card go bind me
And, of your mercy, leave me there
Nor tell them where to find me
Oh, lock the portal as you go
And see its bolts be double…
Come back in half an hour or so
And I will be in trouble.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
It Snowed Today
Snow
Yes it can!
Now you know what they say about snowflakes
How there ain't no two the same
Well, all them flakes look alike to me
Every one is a dirty shame
My ears are cold my feet are cold
Bermuda stays on my mind
And I'm here to say that if winter comes
Then spring is a ways behind
Jesse Winchester
Saturday, February 19, 2005
I Am So Bad
I got a new computer this weekend - a Sony Vaio K45 laptop, in case you're interested. My old Sony laptop seemed to be dying. Every time I logged on it wanted to check my "C" drive for about 10 minutes. I'm not sure what it was checking for, but at one point it gave me a message to promptly remove any programs I had recently installed, and never be so rude as to add programs again, or something like that. Some times the computer just apologized, and shut itself down.
My husband had recently installed a program that allowed him to completely back up my hard drive. He said, "Wow, I backed up your hard drive just in time!" I said, "It was your stupid program that messed up my computer!" So he removed the program, and the computer was still pouting, and I decided to get a new one.
Once the new computer was out of the box, my husband turned on the old machine, and it seems to be working much better. It's not right, though. There is still the occasional blue screen of death, but it did allow me to download my files, including my outlook address book and other vital information, and transfer them to my new computer. My husband has this magic aura that makes computers behave better when he's around. He could make a living with it, I'm sure.
My new computer is beautiful It has 3 USB ports instead of only one, and it has a wide screen. I didn't think I'd care about the screen width, but it does make it easier to be in two programs at once and still see both of them.
I have finally transferred everything I wanted, installed a new Photoshop Elements program, registered on-line (just to be sure I get lots of junk mail), and sent in for my rebates. The salesman at MicroCenter was so proud of his rebates. He thinks I bought this model computer because he offered me good rebates. Actually, I bought this model because the USB ports were on the correct side to allow me to plug in my printer without rearranging my office. Men are so clueless sometimes about what women really want.
I finally finished printing out all my poetry collection. If the end of the world comes and the power goes out, I will still be able to read and enjoy my favorite poems.
Here is one that is not really related to anything, but I love it. Where else have you ever seen the word "alnage"?
E. A. Robinson
The Clerks
I did not think that I should find them there
When I came back again; but there they stood,
As in the days they dreamed of when young blood
Was in their cheeks and women called them fair.
Be sure they met me with an ancient air, --
And yes, there was a shop worn brotherhood
About them; but the men were just as good,
And just as human as they ever were.
And you that ache so much to be sublime,
And you that feed yourselves with your descent,
What comes of all your visions and your fears?
Poets and kings are but the clerks of Time,
Tiering the same dull webs of discontent,
Clipping the same sad alnage of the years.
My husband had recently installed a program that allowed him to completely back up my hard drive. He said, "Wow, I backed up your hard drive just in time!" I said, "It was your stupid program that messed up my computer!" So he removed the program, and the computer was still pouting, and I decided to get a new one.
Once the new computer was out of the box, my husband turned on the old machine, and it seems to be working much better. It's not right, though. There is still the occasional blue screen of death, but it did allow me to download my files, including my outlook address book and other vital information, and transfer them to my new computer. My husband has this magic aura that makes computers behave better when he's around. He could make a living with it, I'm sure.
My new computer is beautiful It has 3 USB ports instead of only one, and it has a wide screen. I didn't think I'd care about the screen width, but it does make it easier to be in two programs at once and still see both of them.
I have finally transferred everything I wanted, installed a new Photoshop Elements program, registered on-line (just to be sure I get lots of junk mail), and sent in for my rebates. The salesman at MicroCenter was so proud of his rebates. He thinks I bought this model computer because he offered me good rebates. Actually, I bought this model because the USB ports were on the correct side to allow me to plug in my printer without rearranging my office. Men are so clueless sometimes about what women really want.
I finally finished printing out all my poetry collection. If the end of the world comes and the power goes out, I will still be able to read and enjoy my favorite poems.
Here is one that is not really related to anything, but I love it. Where else have you ever seen the word "alnage"?
E. A. Robinson
The Clerks
I did not think that I should find them there
When I came back again; but there they stood,
As in the days they dreamed of when young blood
Was in their cheeks and women called them fair.
Be sure they met me with an ancient air, --
And yes, there was a shop worn brotherhood
About them; but the men were just as good,
And just as human as they ever were.
And you that ache so much to be sublime,
And you that feed yourselves with your descent,
What comes of all your visions and your fears?
Poets and kings are but the clerks of Time,
Tiering the same dull webs of discontent,
Clipping the same sad alnage of the years.
Friday, February 11, 2005
Earthsea
I finished the Earthsea books this week, and I liked them.
I liked that Tenar and Ged got old.
I liked that they didn't have sex the first time they saw each other, but only after they were both older and wiser.
I liked that Ged lost his magic, but got over it, and proved to be strong and courageous without it.
I liked that Tenar went from being a high priestess to marrying a farmer and having a couple of kids (one of whom disappointed her) to being a widow, and finding love at last with Ged.
I liked that the shadow Ged let lose was really the dark side of his own nature, the jealousy and arrogance, and he was only able to control it after he recognized it, and that made him a better person.
I liked that Tenar saved the little girl who became the Archmage, even though they'd never had a woman Archmage before.
I liked the idea that if you never have to die, you never really live.
I liked that living isn't always magic. Sometimes it's just herding goats.
Ursula K. Le Guin is about so much more than good vs. evil. I'm glad I didn't see the miniseries before I read the books.
Of course, I was reminded of a poem or two:
Tess Gallagher
I Stop Writing the Poem
to fold the clothes. No matter who lives
or who dies, I’m still a woman.
I’ll always have plenty to do.
I bring the arms of his shirt
together. Nothing can stop
our tenderness. I’ll get back
to the poem. I’ll get back to being
a woman. But for now
there’s a shirt, a giant shirt
in my hands, and somewhere a small girl
standing next to her mother
watching to see how it’s done.
Wendy Cope
Being Boring
“May you live in interesting times.”
--Chinese curse
If you ask me “What’s new?”, I have nothing to say
Except that the garden is growing.
I had a slight cold but it’s better today.
I’m content with the way things are going.
Yes, he is the same as he usually is.
Still eating and sleeping and snoring.
I get on with my work. He gets on with his.
I know this is all very boring.
There was drama enough in my turbulent past;
Tears and passion – I’ve used up a tankful.
No news is good news, and long may it last,
If nothing much happens, I’m thankful.
A happier cabbage you never did see,
My vegetable spirits are soaring.
If you’re after excitement, steer well clear of me.
I want to go on being boring.
I don’t go to parties. Well, what are they for,
If you don’t need to find a new lover?
You drink and you listen and drink a bit more
And you take the next day to recover.
Someone to stay home with was all my desire
And, now that I’ve found a safe mooring,
I’ve just one ambition in life: I aspire
To go on and on being boring.
I liked that Tenar and Ged got old.
I liked that they didn't have sex the first time they saw each other, but only after they were both older and wiser.
I liked that Ged lost his magic, but got over it, and proved to be strong and courageous without it.
I liked that Tenar went from being a high priestess to marrying a farmer and having a couple of kids (one of whom disappointed her) to being a widow, and finding love at last with Ged.
I liked that the shadow Ged let lose was really the dark side of his own nature, the jealousy and arrogance, and he was only able to control it after he recognized it, and that made him a better person.
I liked that Tenar saved the little girl who became the Archmage, even though they'd never had a woman Archmage before.
I liked the idea that if you never have to die, you never really live.
I liked that living isn't always magic. Sometimes it's just herding goats.
Ursula K. Le Guin is about so much more than good vs. evil. I'm glad I didn't see the miniseries before I read the books.
Of course, I was reminded of a poem or two:
Tess Gallagher
I Stop Writing the Poem
to fold the clothes. No matter who lives
or who dies, I’m still a woman.
I’ll always have plenty to do.
I bring the arms of his shirt
together. Nothing can stop
our tenderness. I’ll get back
to the poem. I’ll get back to being
a woman. But for now
there’s a shirt, a giant shirt
in my hands, and somewhere a small girl
standing next to her mother
watching to see how it’s done.
Wendy Cope
Being Boring
“May you live in interesting times.”
--Chinese curse
If you ask me “What’s new?”, I have nothing to say
Except that the garden is growing.
I had a slight cold but it’s better today.
I’m content with the way things are going.
Yes, he is the same as he usually is.
Still eating and sleeping and snoring.
I get on with my work. He gets on with his.
I know this is all very boring.
There was drama enough in my turbulent past;
Tears and passion – I’ve used up a tankful.
No news is good news, and long may it last,
If nothing much happens, I’m thankful.
A happier cabbage you never did see,
My vegetable spirits are soaring.
If you’re after excitement, steer well clear of me.
I want to go on being boring.
I don’t go to parties. Well, what are they for,
If you don’t need to find a new lover?
You drink and you listen and drink a bit more
And you take the next day to recover.
Someone to stay home with was all my desire
And, now that I’ve found a safe mooring,
I’ve just one ambition in life: I aspire
To go on and on being boring.
Sunday, February 06, 2005
Interior
He said—
The Garden
Like a skein of loose silk blown against a wall
She walks by the railing of a path in Kensington Gardens,
And she is dying piecemeal,
of a sort of emotional anemia.
And round about there is a rabble
Of the filthy, sturdy, unkillable infants of the very poor.
In her is the end of breeding.
Her boredom is exquisite and excessive.
She would like someone to speak to her,
And is almost afraid that I
will commit that indiscretion.
Ezra Pound
She said—
Interior
Her mind lives in a quiet room,
A narrow room, and tall,
With pretty lamps to quench the gloom
And mottoes on the wall.
There all the things are waxen neat
And set in decorous lines;
And there are posies, round and sweet,
And little, straightened vines.
Her mind lives tidily, apart
From cold and noise and pain,
And bolts the door against her heart,
Out wailing in the rain.
Dorothy Parker
The Garden
Like a skein of loose silk blown against a wall
She walks by the railing of a path in Kensington Gardens,
And she is dying piecemeal,
of a sort of emotional anemia.
And round about there is a rabble
Of the filthy, sturdy, unkillable infants of the very poor.
In her is the end of breeding.
Her boredom is exquisite and excessive.
She would like someone to speak to her,
And is almost afraid that I
will commit that indiscretion.
Ezra Pound
She said—
Interior
Her mind lives in a quiet room,
A narrow room, and tall,
With pretty lamps to quench the gloom
And mottoes on the wall.
There all the things are waxen neat
And set in decorous lines;
And there are posies, round and sweet,
And little, straightened vines.
Her mind lives tidily, apart
From cold and noise and pain,
And bolts the door against her heart,
Out wailing in the rain.
Dorothy Parker
Monday, January 31, 2005
Two Poems
He said:
Pregnant you sit, and pale,
How you have changed, poor girl.
Plucking at your dress, you sit
And you want to go on weeping, weeping. . .
What makes you women spoil us
And, falling, give us your lips,
Then run beyond the platforms,
Outstripped by speeding trains? . .
How hard you tried to keep up
With the blurring carriage windows. . .
Trains rattle by, express and mail,
Trains to Khabarovsk and elsewhere. . .
From Moscow all the way
To Ashkabad, like numb idols,
Women stand as if turned to stone,
Their bellies proffered to the moon.
And swinging into the light,
In the unpeopled life of the night—
How well the moon, with her
Big belly, understands them.
Andrey Voznesensky
She said:
Permissive Society
Wake, for the dawn has put the stars to flight,
And in my bed a stranger, so once more,
What seemed to be a good idea last night,
Appears, this morning, sober, rather poor.
Connie Bensley
Sunday, January 30, 2005
He Said - She Said
I'm not sure if I posted these before. They seemed appropriate, contemplating another work week starting tomorrow.
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.
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.
Friday, January 14, 2005
Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife
I just finished "Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife" by Linda Berdoll. It is one of those continuation stories that takes off where "Pride and Prejudice" ends. I'm sure everyone whoever read Jane Austin likes to imagine what happened next. This book should really have been called "Mr. Darcy F***s a Wife", since that is exactly what he does on nearly every other page. He takes her on every bed in the house, the floor, the bathtub, the carriage, and the woods. Just imagine Colin Firth in the role, and it's not too bad. Linda Berdoll is no Jane Austin, that's for sure. She's barely passable as a writer, actually, but I stayed home from work today to finish the book, so it couldn't have been too bad. She manages to work in several illegitimate children, a fire in the horse barn, a kidnapping and attempted rape, three murders (revenge for the kidnapping), a miscarriage, a still birth, the French Revolution, and the battle of Waterloo.
The one thing Berdoll gets totally wrong is the names of Darcy's parents. His mother's name was Anne, per "Pride and Prejudice", and I think his father's name must have been George. For one thing Darcy's sister's name is Georgiana. (George + Anne?) For another Wickham's name was George, and Darcy's father was his godfather. It's quite logical that George Wickham was named George after the elder Darcy. The younger Darcy was named Fitzwilliam after his mother's maiden name - hence his cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam. Anyhow - Berdoll claims Darcy's parents were Elinor and Gerard - and that is so wrong.
I may have to watch the Colin Firth version of "Pride and Prejudice" tonight.
The one thing Berdoll gets totally wrong is the names of Darcy's parents. His mother's name was Anne, per "Pride and Prejudice", and I think his father's name must have been George. For one thing Darcy's sister's name is Georgiana. (George + Anne?) For another Wickham's name was George, and Darcy's father was his godfather. It's quite logical that George Wickham was named George after the elder Darcy. The younger Darcy was named Fitzwilliam after his mother's maiden name - hence his cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam. Anyhow - Berdoll claims Darcy's parents were Elinor and Gerard - and that is so wrong.
I may have to watch the Colin Firth version of "Pride and Prejudice" tonight.
Saturday, January 08, 2005
Hotel Rwanda
I saw Hotel Rwanda yesterday. It was an incredible movie. I started crying half way through it. Elizabeth says she started crying half way through the trailer for it, and refuses to see the movie.
President Clinton said the thing he regretted most about his presidency was ignoring the situation in Rwanda. He, and the rest of the Western world, should be ashamed.
The movie is like an African Shindler's List, only hotter and more colorful. The Germans killed the Jews cold-bloodedly and methodically. The Hutu's killed the Tutsi's passionately and messily. But the Tutsi's were just as dead as the Jews.
I loved Don Cheadle in this role. I hope he gets some attention for it.
I had to struggle to find poetry to express this movie. Here's one that is close:
The End and the Beginning
After every war
someone has to tidy up.
Things won't pick
themselves up, after all.
Someone has to shove
the rubble to the roadsides
so the carts loaded with corpses
can get by.
Someone has to trudge
through sludge and ashes,
through the sofa springs,
the shards of glass,
the bloody rags.
Someone has to lug the post
to prop the wall,
someone has to glaze the window,
set the door in its frame.
No sound bites, no photo opportunities,
and it takes years.
All the cameras have gone
to other wars.
The bridges need to be rebuilt,
the railroad stations, too.
Shirtsleeves will be rolled
to shreds.
Someone, broom in hand,
still remembers how it was.
Someone else listens, nodding
his unshattered head.
But others are bound to be bustling nearby
who'll find all that
a little boring.
From time to time someone still must
dig up a rusted argument
from underneath a bush
and haul it off to the dump.
Those who knew
what this was all about
must make way for those
who know little.
And less than that.
And at last nothing less than nothing.
Someone has to lie there
in the grass that covers up
the causes and effects
with a cornstalk in his teeth,
gawking at clouds.
Wislawa Szymborska
President Clinton said the thing he regretted most about his presidency was ignoring the situation in Rwanda. He, and the rest of the Western world, should be ashamed.
The movie is like an African Shindler's List, only hotter and more colorful. The Germans killed the Jews cold-bloodedly and methodically. The Hutu's killed the Tutsi's passionately and messily. But the Tutsi's were just as dead as the Jews.
I loved Don Cheadle in this role. I hope he gets some attention for it.
I had to struggle to find poetry to express this movie. Here's one that is close:
The End and the Beginning
After every war
someone has to tidy up.
Things won't pick
themselves up, after all.
Someone has to shove
the rubble to the roadsides
so the carts loaded with corpses
can get by.
Someone has to trudge
through sludge and ashes,
through the sofa springs,
the shards of glass,
the bloody rags.
Someone has to lug the post
to prop the wall,
someone has to glaze the window,
set the door in its frame.
No sound bites, no photo opportunities,
and it takes years.
All the cameras have gone
to other wars.
The bridges need to be rebuilt,
the railroad stations, too.
Shirtsleeves will be rolled
to shreds.
Someone, broom in hand,
still remembers how it was.
Someone else listens, nodding
his unshattered head.
But others are bound to be bustling nearby
who'll find all that
a little boring.
From time to time someone still must
dig up a rusted argument
from underneath a bush
and haul it off to the dump.
Those who knew
what this was all about
must make way for those
who know little.
And less than that.
And at last nothing less than nothing.
Someone has to lie there
in the grass that covers up
the causes and effects
with a cornstalk in his teeth,
gawking at clouds.
Wislawa Szymborska
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