The Library of Congress

When my son was in high school he was given an assignment to "shadow" someone at work for a day and write about the experience. Most of the students followed a parent at work, which is what my daughter had done a few years before. David, however, chose to spend the day with the owner/manager of a small, used-book store where we frequently buy books. He got along well for the day, and Edie enjoyed his company so much she offered him a job. He ended up working there on and off for about eight years.

Now in his last year of college, David needs to complete an intership before he can graduate. He applied at the Library of Congress, because that seemed like a good fit for him. He loves books of all sorts, and is really quite organized. This week they called and offered him an internship with their Folk Life Project. It's not a paid internship, but you never know. Maybe it will be like the book store, and eight years from now he will still be there.

And now a couple of poems about work:


Like the star
Shining afar
Slowly now
And without rest,
Let each man turn, with steady sway,
Round the task that rules the day
And do his best.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe


To Be Of Use

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

We Won

I dragged my son out of bed Tuesday morning to vote. He didn't want to vote, didn't like either of the candidates, was tired of voting for people who didn't win, etc., etc., being his usual Mr. Contrary Man. I drove him to the polling place and threatened to leave him to walk home unless he voted for the right man. Now that control of the Senate has come down to who wins the Senate race in Virginia I'm telling my son that it is his vote that made the difference. His, and the votes of 7000 other good citizens who maybe didn't think voting was worth the trouble, but who voted anyhow.

So, I don't want to gloat, but my spirits were definitely lifted by the election results.


By Robert Browning:

The year’s at the spring,
And day’s at the morn;
Morning’s at seven;
The hill-side’s dew-pearl’d;
The lark’s on the wing;
The snail’s on the thorn;
God’s in His heaven—
All’s right with the world!


Siegfried Sassoon
Everyone Sang

Everyone suddenly burst out singing;
And I was filled with such delight
As prisoned birds must find in freedom,
Winging wildly across the white
Orchards and dark green fields; on, on, and out of sight.

Everyone’s voice was suddenly lifted,
And beauty came like the setting sun.
My heart was shaken with tears, and horror
Drifted away…O but everyone
Was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing will never be done.

Some Poems

Three poems today, two for Halloween and one for the midterm elections.
(I realize I posted one of these poems recently, but I like it, so I'm using it again.)

Don't forget to vote!



Karl Krolow

Someone
translated by Herman Salinger

Someone, in the twilight, is taking a walk
And singing.

The wolf from the fable
Is in flight.

The wild plum thickets
Hover before him.
The man in the moon
Starts up out of the yellow straw
Whenever anyone goes past.

The wind’s hand rubs
The hazel nuts
Whenever the darkness
Likes anybody.

Somebody takes the night
Upon his shoulders,
Gives love her names,
And the hands of the dead
Begin again in the dust
To stir.



Charles Simic
Something Large Is in the Woods

That's what the leaves are telling us tonight.
Hear them frighten and be struck dumb
So that we sit up listening to nothing,
Which is always more worrisome than something.
The minutes crawl like dog fleas up our legs.
We must wait for whatever it is to identify itself
In some as-yet-unspecified way
As the trees are rushing to warn us again,
The branches beat against the house to be let in,
And then change their minds abruptly.
Think how many leaves are holding still in the woods
With no wish to add to their troubles
With something so large closing upon us?
It makes one feel vaguely heroic
Sitting so late with no light in the house
And the night dark and starless out there.



Sheenagh Pugh
Sometimes

Sometimes things don’t go, after all,
from bad to worse. Some years, muscadel
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.