Let's talk about the pleasures and puzzles of the smaller mystery--mystery novels and other fiction--and the bigger one--life.
I didn't get a chance to fully take in the poetry of the past two days, so I'm declaring this a poetry day, too. Cause I want to. And cause I can. Ah, power.See you in the morning, on Saturday.
Maybe because it's the weekend we're celebrating my brother's birthday that this one came to mind? My dad used to recite it when we were growing up. The smithy would be doing well to be able to say he owed not any man in today's economy. Here's part of it.The Village Blacksmith- Henry Wadsworth LongfellowUnder a spreading chestnut treeThe village smithy stands;The smith, a mighty man is he,With large and sinewy hands;And the muscles of his brawny armsAre strong as iron bands.His hair is crisp, and black, and long,His face is like the tan;His brow is wet with honest sweat,He earns whate'er he can,And looks the whole world in the face,For he owes not any man.
That's a wonderful photo, Andi! Sorry, I have no poetry to offer. :-(
Would you believe they're forecasting snow for Tuesday morning here? Grrr!
The sun rises a bit brighter today over tipton,Half-measures will soon no longerApply.Next ofKin contracts are a legal concern, not aSin.If i could do winter, i'd move to independence.Or des moines or dubuque orWherever those good judges live.American spirit, it ain't dead yet!
Alas, no poetry from me today. I've got stiff neck, con activities and EEP! copy edits to turn around by Monday afternoon for BLOOD KIN.My soul isn't quite singing...Happy Saturday.
Possibly of snow and hard freeze here on Monday, Farf. I am very much hoping not to be taking any pictures of ice patterns on Tuesday.Jen, it took me a second to get it but wonderful! High five to Iowa and thank you to those so very honest judges.Happy weekend to all.One of mine for today.Third GenerationI am none of your rootednor will I be treed.I have not been long standingto get a good placefor the paraded past.My past lives yet with me,speakingfrom such a softly ancient facewashing me in wordsthat flow from placesescaped from and to,words that seem always trueeven when I never learnedwhat they meant.
Thanks Andi. (Technically I think it was terrible work but sloppy gratitude has a unique beauty. :) )I love yours today. Evocative and deep; feels like a lot unspoken was packed into the inbetween of the words you used.
I admit, Jen, my literary deconstruction may have been clouded a bit by the subject matter but I still think it was wonderful. :)And thank you. That's an old poem, inspired by my bubbe (my dad's mother) who could own any space just by standing in it.
Happy Saturday, everyone! Poetry in the morning starts the day off right. I did the Art Walk last night, and filled my soul with beauty. Then I listened to live music and ate ice cream for dinner. Today it's the farmers' market, art market, and hoops semi-finals. Doing my best to revel in the good stuff.Sorry about the snow and hail - egads! We're supposed to have a nice day today, then back to storms and cooler during the week. The end is in sight, promise...Some songs are poems set to music, right? Dan Fogelberg wrote some beautiful ones. NetherlandsHigh on this mountainThe clouds down belowI'm feeling so strong and aliveFrom this rocky perchI'll continue to searchFor the windAnd the snowAnd the skyI want a loverI want some friendsAnd I want to live in the sunAnd I want to do all the things that I never have done.Sunny bright morningsAnd pale moonlit nightsKeep me from feeling aloneNow, I'm learning to flyAnd this freedom is likeNothing that I've ever knownI've seen the bottomAnd I've been on topBut mostly I've lived in betweenAnd where do you goWhen you get to the end of your dream?Off in the nether landsI heard a soundLike the beating of heavenly wingsAnd deep in my brainI can hear a refrainOf my soul as she rises and singsAnthems to glory andAnthems to love andHymns filled with early delightLike the songs that the darknessComposes to worship the light.Once in a visionI came on some woodsAnd stood at a fork in the roadMy choices were clearYet I froze with the fearOf not knowing which way to goOne road was simpleAcceptance of lifeThe other road offered sweet peaceWhen I made my decisionMy vision became my release.
The last two pictures by Andi have been poetry to me.
Jen, hooray for Iowa!
Since we're approaching opening day, a baseball poem seems in order. It is also one of the poems I use to show my reluctant poetry readers that poems can be about anything.The Base StealerPoised between going on and back, pulled Both ways taut like a tightrope walker, Fingertips pointing the opposites, Now bouncing tiptoe like a dropped ball Or a kid skipping rope, come on, come on, Running a scattering of steps sidewise, How he teeters, skitters, tingles, teases, Taunts them, hovers like an ecstatic bird, He's only flirting, crowd him, crowd him, Delicate, delicate, delicate, delicate-now! --Robert Francis
Goody, more poetry. I especially like the original works andi and jen. And yes, Yay IOWA! Bono I have not read that Longfellow poem before. I'm a sucker for Longfellow, his poems always make me want to live in the 1800's when people would memorize poems and give dramatic readings. (Like in Anne of Green Gables.) Beth, love the Dan Fogelberg.I'm in the mood for a poem by a writer's dog so I offer Anne LaMott's dog with a poem called Spoon River Sadie Louise (sorry blogger messes up the lines)My girl got me two weeks after she sawSilence of the Lambs. She wanted a guard dog,but tells people I'ma little like havingDinah Shorecome live with you.But secretly she knows that I would kill for her and the boy,her boy so lovelythat people on the street stop uswhen we take him for a walk.She calls him My roommate, Cindy Crawford.There is also a cat.The cat has issues.There are also two birds the girl got for her fortieth birthday.The boy named them Haddis and Paddis.Haddis was the boy.Haddis passed.There were no marks on him, butas I saythe cat has issues.My girl and our boy wept.The widow Paddis drowned her sorrow inbirdseed, ostrich-likeafter Haddis expired and could not be renewed.The next day the girl went and bought her a new husband.The boy named him Felipe. There was a Felipe who playedfor the Giants long ago, one of the Alou brothers.My girl loves baseball.The boy loves me.The boy does not say "L"s yet. He says yunch for lunchyeaves for leavesyove for love.Foweepay for Felipe.He says my name is Sadie Yawise Yamott.He will be five soonSo will I.I was there when Felipe came to live here.He and the widow Padis began singingthe second they saw each other.My girl put him in the cage.They sang hello,had featherless sex,sat together quietlyafterwardshaving a smoke. I was there when my girl's best friend died last year.The boy said She has gone to be with God and God's doctor.The girl cried forever.The boy says Drunks drink because they miss Jesus.My girl used to drink. It shows: for instance. She takes mealmost everywhere she goeson foot or in our car.Sometimes I am there in the backseat and she ishurrying to get all our errands done before the boycomes home; like he is the Last Emperor;and she ends up forgetting me in the carand only remembers me much, much later.I always pretend not to mind,because she is my girl, andthere are many moving parts to her life; and God knowsshe is doing the best she can,butsometimes I wonder,should she really be driving?She misses her friend.She lives for the boy.Sometimes he falls asleep on the floor with me as a pillowand then the kittyof all peoplefalls asleep with us too.The bird sings. My girl sighs, then thinks to look up, and smiles.
Breakageby Mary Oliver I go down to the edge of the sea. How everything shines in the morning light! The cusp of the whelk, the broken cupboard of the clam, the opened, blue mussels, moon snails, pale pink and barnacle scarred— and nothing at all whole or shut, but tattered, split, dropped by the gulls onto the gray rocks and all the moisture gone. It's like a schoolhouse of little words, thousands of words. First you figure out what each one means by itself, the jingle, the periwinkle, the scallop full of moonlight. Then you begin, slowly, to read the whole story.
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