Thursday, December 30, 2010
I love these poems so much, I'm going to repost them. I posted them early this year, in January. I was just reading the comments from Renee and reminiscing about how terribly fragile life is. Blessings---
Advice to Myself
By Louise Erdrich
Leave the dishes.
Let the celery rot in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator
and an earthen scum harden on the kitchen floor.
Leave the black crumbs in the bottom of the toaster.
Throw the cracked bowl out and don't patch the cup.
Don't patch anything. Don't mend. Buy safety pins.
Don't even sew on a button.
Let the wind have its way, then the earth
that invades as dust and then the dead
foaming up in gray rolls underneath the couch.
Talk to them. Tell them they are welcome.
Don't keep all the pieces of the puzzles
or the doll's tiny shoes in pairs, don't worry
who uses whose toothbrush or if anything
matches, at all.
Except one word to another. Or a thought.
Pursue the authentic-decide first
what is authentic,
then go after it with all your heart.
Your heart, that place
you don't even think of cleaning out.
That closet stuffed with savage mementos.
Don't sort the paper clips from screws from saved baby teeth
or worry if we're all eating cereal for dinner
again. Don't answer the telephone, ever,
or weep over anything at all that breaks.
Pink molds will grow within those sealed cartons
in the refrigerator. Accept new forms of life
and talk to the dead
who drift in though the screened windows, who collect
patiently on the tops of food jars and books.
Recycle the mail, don't read it, don't read anything
except what destroys
the insulation between yourself and your experience
or what pulls down or what strikes at or what shatters
this ruse you call necessity.
~From: "Original Fire: New and Selected Poems", page 149
By Louise Erdrich
Sometimes you have to take your own hand
as though you were a lost child
and bring yourself stumbling
home over twisted ice.
Whiteness drifts over your house.
A page of warm light
falls steady from the open door.
Here is your bed, folded open.
Lie down, lie down, let the blue snow cover you.
"But words are things, and a small drop of ink, falling like dew upon a thought, produces that which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think." ~Lord Byron
Monday, December 27, 2010
I miss the dragonflies. One of my blue summer pals on my foot.
The Three Oddest Words
By Wislawa Szymborska
When I pronounce the word Future,
the first syllable already belongs to the past.
When I pronounce the word Silence,
I destroy it.
When I pronounce the word Nothing,
I make something no non-being can hold.
~Translated by S. Baranczak & C. Cavanagh
We had a wonderful Christmas. It was cold and damp, but our daughter, April, had a big fire going in her fireplace. It got so warm inside we had to open the windows to cool off. She cooked an amazing meal of beef brisket, chicken & dressing, giblet gravy, green bean casserole, cranberry sauce, dirt cake and pecan pie. I made my sweet potato souffle. (The dirt cake is topped with crushed Oreos....hence the name). Everything was delicious and delightful. Both of my girls are fabulous cooks. April painted me a magnificent, huge oil painting of a woman with a dragonfly hovering in front of her face. I'll post pics of it later this week. My other daughter, Sarah, called from Chattanooga wild with excitement early on Christmas morning. "Mama, it's SNOWING!" Having been raised here in Louisiana where we seldom get snow, she still gets excited at every snowfall. But the fact that they got their first snowfall on Christmas was especially sweet and special.
The grand-ones, Mary Mace and Warner, grabbed the phone and told me what Santa brought them and I could feel their joy through the phone. Warner, who's 4 years old, got his first 'big boy' bicycle. Mary Mace turned 7 on Christmas Eve and I sent her 4 books about fairies, one a magnificent pop-up with flowers and fairies hidden in the blooms. When we visited at Thanksgiving, I told her about a fairy circle of mushrooms I found in my backyard years ago. She was enthralled and said, "Grammy, do you really, really believe in fairies?" I assured her that I did and she gave me a sparkling grin and said, "I didn't even know grownups believed stuff like that!" Oh, the joys of childhood!! I must've been a really good girl this year because Santa brought me my dream gift, a Canon Rebel camera which I've wanted for years. It's my version of a diamond ring. Tee-Hee. I'd rather have photos than diamonds any old day.
I hope each and every one of you had a wonderful holiday, filled with love and family.
Wishing you all love, joy and peace,
"Every man [and woman] should be born again on the first day of January. Start with a fresh page. Take up one hole more in the buckle if necessary, or let down one, according to circumstances; but on the first of January let every man gird himself once more, with his face to the front, and take no interest in the things that were and are past." ~Henry Ward Beecher
Friday, December 24, 2010
Christmas Eve Sunrise in Louisiana
A Christmas Carol
by G. K. Chesterton
The Christ-child lay on Mary's lap,
His hair was like a light.
(O weary, weary were the world,
But here is all alright.)
The Christ-child lay on Mary's breast
His hair was like a star.
(O stern and cunning are the kings,
But here the true hearts are.)
The Christ-child lay on Mary's heart,
His hair was like a fire.
(O weary, weary is the world,
But here the world's desire.)
The Christ-child stood on Mary's knee,
His hair was like a crown,
And all the flowers looked up at Him,
And all the stars looked down.
By Rainer Maria Rilke
Whoever you are: step out of doors tonight,
out of the room that lets you feel secure.
Infinity is open to your sight.
Whoever you are.
With eyes that have forgotten how to see
from viewing things already too well-known,
lift up into the dark a huge, black tree
and put it in the heavens: tall, alone.
And you have made the world and all you see.
It ripens like the words still in your mouth.
And when at last you comprehend its truth,
then close your eyes and gently set it free.
Translated by Dana Gioia
Can you see the Cardinal hiding among my ornaments?
Wishing you all a Merry Christmas. I love and appreciate you!
"Our hearts grow tender with childhood memories and love of kindred, and we are better throughout the year for having, in spirit, become a child again at Christmas-time." ~Laura Ingalls Wilder
Thursday, December 23, 2010
"Taste and see that the LORD is good; blessed is the man who takes refuge in him." ~Psalm 34:8
In loving memory of Jacquie, our Renee's beloved sister who died today.
O Taste and See
By Denise Levertov
The world is
not with us enough
O taste and see
the subway Bible poster said,
meaning The Lord, meaning
if anything all that lives
to the imagination’s tongue,
grief, mercy, language,
tangerine, weather, to
breathe them, bite,
savor, chew, swallow, transform
into our flesh our
deaths, crossing the street, plum, quince,
living in the orchard and being
hungry, and plucking
Let Evening Come
By Jane Kenyon
Let the light of late afternoon
shine through chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.
Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn. Let evening come.
Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.
Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
Let the wind die down. Let the shed
go black inside. Let evening come.
To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
let evening come.
Let it come, as it will, and don't
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.
May you all have a blessed Christmas, filled with love, family and friends.
"Remember, this December, that love weighs more than gold."
Friday, December 17, 2010
My cats have taken all the candy out of our candy dishes to bat around the house, tried to topple the tree (which I anchored to the wall with fishing line) and undecorated our Cypress in the front yard by climbing it and knocking off the balls, one by one. Sigh. But they're oh, so entertaining. Happy Holidays! ~Marion
If What You're Waiting for is Christmas
By David Devine
If what you're waiting for is Christmas
You don't need me to tell you so
If you've been looking for somebody
You might not have that far to go
See how the candle dances
With all the shadows on the wall
If what you're waiting for is Christmas
It might be coming after all
Sometimes I feel so tired
Sometimes I feel so blue
I'm just going thru the motions
Of almost anything I do
But guess I'm getting better
Even I'm a bit surprised
When I see my own reflection
In a dark haired angel's eyes
Maybe all that really matters
Try to feel the mystery
Found in people left abandoned
Burning, blooming poetry
If for miracles you hunger
You might see a few come true
If what you're waiting for is Christmas
It might be waiting there for you.
From: "The Light of the Morning: Light Rhymes for Hard Times"
Candle light by Marion
Monday, December 13, 2010
Emily Dickinson's grave at West Cemetery, Amherst, Massachusetts
Born: 12/19/1830 - Died: 5/15/1886
Emily wrote around 1,800 poems in her lifetime.
I love Billy Collins and own all of his books, but I don't include a lot of his poetry here because it's all over the web---he's that popular. But this poem does me in (slays me, as Terresa of the fiery hair often says) every single time I read it.
In the last verse of his poem, Mr. Collins alludes to three of Emily Dickinson's most famous poems and you can't really understand the poem without having read them, so I also include them after his poem for your pure reading delight. Enjoy!!!! Love & Blessings, ~Marion
Taking Off Emily Dickinson's Clothes
By Billy Collins
First, her tippet made of tulle,
easily lifted off her shoulders and laid
on the back of a wooden chair.
And her bonnet,
the bow undone with a light forward pull.
Then the long white dress, a more
complicated matter with mother-of-pearl
buttons down the back,
so tiny and numerous that it takes forever
before my hands can part the fabric,
like a swimmer's dividing water,
and slip inside.
You will want to know
that she was standing
by an open window in an upstairs bedroom,
motionless, a little wide-eyed,
looking out at the orchard below,
the white dress puddled at her feet
on the wide-board, hardwood floor.
The complexity of women's undergarments
in nineteenth-century America
is not to be waved off,
and I proceeded like a polar explorer
through clips, clasps, and moorings,
catches, straps, and whalebone stays,
sailing toward the iceberg of her nakedness.
Later, I wrote in a notebook
it was like riding a swan into the night,
but, of course, I cannot tell you everything -
the way she closed her eyes to the orchard,
how her hair tumbled free of its pins,
how there were sudden dashes
whenever we spoke.
What I can tell you is
it was terribly quiet in Amherst
that Sabbath afternoon,
nothing but a carriage passing the house,
a fly buzzing in a windowpane.
So I could plainly hear her inhale
when I undid the very top
hook-and-eye fastener of her corset
and I could hear her sigh when finally it was unloosed,
the way some readers sigh when they realize
that Hope has feathers,
that reason is a plank,
that life is a loaded gun
that looks right at you with a yellow eye.
By Emily Dickinson
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
I Felt a Funeral In My Brain
By Emily Dickinson
I felt a funeral in my brain,
And mourners, to and fro,
Kept treading, treading, till it seemed
That sense was breaking through.
And when they all were seated,
A service like a drum
Kept beating, beating, till I thought
My mind was going numb.
And then I heard them lift a box,
And creak across my soul
With those same boots of lead,
Then space began to toll
As all the heavens were a bell,
And Being but an ear,
And I and silence some strange race,
Wrecked, solitary, here.
And then a plank in reason, broke,
And I dropped down and down--
And hit a world at every plunge,
And finished knowing--then--
My Life Has Stood--A Loaded Gun
By Emily Dickinson
My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun -
In Corners - till a Day
The Owner passed - identified -
And carried Me away -
And now We roam in Sovereign Woods -
And now We hunt the Doe -
And every time I speak for Him -
The Mountains straight reply -
And do I smile, such cordial light
Upon the Valley glow -
It is as a Vesuvian face
Had let its pleasure through -
And when at Night - Our good Day done -
I guard My Master's Head -
'Tis better than the Eider-Duck's
Deep Pillow - to have shared -
To foe of His - I'm deadly foe -
None stir the second time -
On whom I lay a Yellow Eye -
Or an emphatic Thumb -
Though I than He - may longer live
He longer must - than I -
For I have but the power to kill,
Without--the power to die--
"It is the job of poetry to clean up our word-clogged reality by creating silences around things." ~Stephen Mallarme
"Taking Off Emily Dickinson's Clothes" by Billy Collins is from this PRIMO anthology, "Staying Alive: Real Poems forUnreal Times", pages 250, 251
If you're in need of a book that overflows with poems/poets, then I highly recommend this amazing anthology. My copy is dog-earred, highlighted and worn from much wear.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Ghost of a Moon By Marion
The trees are all bare tonight,
their gangly limbs,
pointing to the ghostly full moon
shining luminously overhead
casting murky shadows
on the frozen ground.
Unearthly they seem---
like beings from another realm,
vulnerable and naked,
yet sure of who they are---
by the stars.
"Us sing and dance, make faces and give flower bouquets, trying to be loved. You ever notice that trees do everything to git attention we do, except walk?" ~Alice Walker, The Color Purple, 1982
"I like trees because they seem more resigned to the way they have to live than other things do." ~Willa Cather, 1913
Thursday, December 9, 2010
'December's Blushing Rose' by Marion
In the Art Gallery
By Susan Browne
The painting of flowers
next to the painting of flames,
and I remember that time, years ago,
when the psychiatrist said, "You feel too much,
you are too sensitive, take these,"
giving me a bottle of pills. I took them
to the beach, watched light become flame
on the water, and along the ragged cliffs,
small flowers like blue stars,
the world a painting
I couldn't live in.
I opened the bottle, then put it down,
pills spilling on the sand.
Waves carried the flames
and didn't mind the burning,
the arising from and disappearing
into the vastness. I swam,
let the waves take me,
then treaded water, looking at the sky,
a silver tray full
of the most beautiful nothing.
I swam back, the water was black,
I could sink beyond caring,
but I wanted to live,
to be there
with the beauty and the burning
and let it be too much.
From: "Buddha's Dogs" by Susan Browne, page 59
Support Poets. Buy Poetry!!
"Poetry, like the moon, does not advertise anything." ~William Blissett
"Your prayer can be poetry, and poetry can be your prayer". ~Terri Guillemets
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
'Fading December Zinnia' by Marion
Where were you when John Lennon died on this date in 1980?
Warning: I'm Southern and I just can't tell a simple, straightforward story, so bear with me if I drift off course and take the long way around, okay?
We lived in a house on Lake Bistineau across the street from Mama that year. (I say 'that year' because we moved over 30 times before we settled down here and bought a house around 1990.) The house was practically in the lake---water on two sides. I loved it because I'm a crab, a water sign. I often fished from the back porch or right behind the house in a little flat-bottom boat we borrowed from neighbors. I remember catching over 30 White Perch (Crappie or sac-au-lait, as they call them in south Louisiana) one day with my long cane pole from that rickety little wooden porch. I used worms I'd dug up in the front yard for bait. The fish kept coming so fast I had to divide those worms into thirds to keep my hook baited. I have to say that's the most fun I've ever had fishing. I cleaned the fish with an old spoon and we ate White Perch for a week, happy to have it because it's the best tasting fish on earth next to Bass, of course, and I know my fish, having been raised by a professional fisherman.
I spent as much time on the Red River as I did in school as a kid, both on the banks and in a boat with my Uncle Warner checking his nets or running his trot lines or on a sandbar playing. I was the baby of the family and he would only let me go fishing with him and not the older kids. I was his favorite. He called me skinny minnie and my nieces and nephews still call me Aunt Minnie. I can't tell you how awesome it was to read Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn (which I did about ten times starting when I was six years old...the only of Daddy's hundreds of books I'd managed to keep was a complete set of Mark Twain), then to run over the levee across the road and head for the River with a pack of kids to play and swing on the thick vines that hung from the trees in a spot we called Monkey Jungle. I became Tom Sawyer. Screw that prissy Becky Thatcher. I wanted to be either Tom or Huck every time we played by the River. Even though my relatives were drunks, they were pretty responsible drunks. As anyone who's been around drinkers knows, there's mean drunks and there's nice, responsible drunks (not an oxymoron, trust me). Thankfully, my aunt and uncle were the latter. My stepfather was the former, but that's a whole 'nother story.
In 1980, I kept a hoe by the front door (inside) to kill water moccasins. I killed 6 the year we lived there and hung their corpses over a nearby barbed wire fence just like Aunt Mace taught me. My husband thought I was a crazy woman, wielding that hoe like an Amazon warrior. I'd often open the front door and HELLO! there would be a snake coiled on my little concrete stoop. (Aunt Mace taught us as young children to keep a hoe handy to kill the chicken snakes that often worried the chickens. Our chore was to gather eggs from the chicken house. We gathered eggs fearlessly, hoe in hand as wise country children...no big deal.)
My daughters were 6 and 1 in 1980, so I didn't have mercy for reptiles like I do now. (Now, I let them live, but I still keep a nice, sharp hoe in my shed....habit). That fateful day John Lennon died, I was in bed recovering from amoebic dysentery (the whole family got it and we never discovered where it came from...the doctor asked us which foreign country we'd been traveling in....I told him the only foreign country I'd ever visited was the one in my head) and listening to the radio when the DJ interrupted the music and said, "John Lennon is dead." I was 26 years old and knew, for some reason, that my childhood was now irretrievably lost, (don't we all---those of us with crazy childhoods---somehow wish, deep inside, for a do-over?) and that this moment would forever divide time: before John died and after. One of the Beatles was dead. I cried like a baby. If you were a child or teen in the 1960's, the Beatles were a part of the soundtrack of your life. My oldest sister and all of her friends had all their records and I still know the words to all their hits. Yes, suddenly, I felt old. And here I sit 30 years later. My, how time flies.
My prayers go out to the family of the fierce and lovely Elizabeth Edwards who lost her brave battle with breast cancer yesterday. What a strong, beautiful woman she was! She reminded me of our Renee, who I think of almost every day. I'm so sorry that she didn't get to see her small children grown. Every mothers' prayer from those first birth contractions is, "Dear God, please just let me see my children grown." I'm really sorry she lost her valiant fight so soon. I know she's with her beloved Wade, her son who died at age 16. She lived her life courageously in spite of the most horrifying tragedies: death, cancer, betrayal.... Yes, she was a true, classy Southern Lady who we should all emulate.
Live your life every moment of every day. I leave you with a poem. Blessings, ~Marion
A Prayer That Will Be Answered
by Anna Kamienska
Lord let me suffer much
and then die
Let me walk through silence
and leave nothing behind not even fear
Make the world continue
let the ocean kiss the sand just as before
Let the grass stay green
so that the frogs can hide in it
so that someone can bury his face in it
and sob out his love
Make the day rise brightly
as if there were no more pain
And let my poem stand clear as a windowpane
bumped by a bumblebee's head
From: "A Book of Luminous Things" an anthology of international poetry edited by Czeslaw Milosz, translated from the Polish by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanaugh
"The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time." ~Mark Twain
"People do not die for us immediately, but remain bathed in a sort of aura of life which bears no relation to true immortality but through which they continue to occupy our thoughts in the same way as when they were alive. It is as though they were traveling abroad." ~Marcel Proust
Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me.
The Carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality... ~Emily Dickinson
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
'Winter Angel' by Marion
At the Arraignment
By Debra Spencer
The courtroom walls are bare and the prisoner wears
a plastic bracelet, like in a hospital. Jesus stands beside him.
The bailiff hands the prisoner a clipboard and he puts his
thumbprint on the sheet of white paper. The judge asks,
What is your monthly income? A hundred dollars.
How do you support yourself? As a carpenter, odd jobs.
Where are you living? My friend's garage.
What sort of vehicle do you drive? I take the bus.
How do you plead? Not guilty. The judge sets bail
and a date for the prisoner's trial, calls for the interpreter
so he may speak to the next prisoners.
In a good month I eat, the third one tells him.
In a bad month I break the law.
The judge sighs. The prisoners
are led back to jail with a clink of chains.
Jesus goes with them. More prisoners
are brought before the judge.
Jesus returns and leans against the wall near us,
gazing around the courtroom. The interpreter reads a book.
The bailiff, weighed down by his gun, stands
with arms folded, alert and watchful.
We are only spectators, careful to speak
in low voices. We are so many. If we—make a sound,
the bailiff turns toward us, looking stern.
The judge sets bail and dates for other trials,
bringing his gavel down like a little axe.
Jesus turns to us. If you won't help them, he says
then do this for me. Dress in silks and jewels,
and then go naked. Be stoic, and then be prodigal.
Lead exemplary lives, then go down into prison
and be bound in chains. Which of us has never broken a law?
I died for you-a desperate extravagance, even for me.
If you can't be merciful, at least be bold.
The judge gets up to leave.
The stern bailiff cries, All rise.
From: "Good Poems For Hard Times" selected and introduced by Garrison Keillor
I believe in God and in Jesus and that Christmas is the celebration of the birth of Christ. It's not politically correct nowadays to say that, but I don't give a shit. I'm a believer. I've had miracles in my life and I've seen miracles in the lives of those around me. I believe in prayer and have seen too many prayers answered to count. At one low point in my life I prayed for toilet paper and got it. Of course, I never TOLD anybody we didn't have any toilet paper. But the Bible said to pray believing and I prayed and believed and received. I was living with two kids on a few hundred dollars a month and going to a vo-tech school, yet I tithed every penny I received because I wanted to please God. The preacher even laughed at the tiny checks I faithfully gave monthly, but in a friendly way. I had great faith at the time I was the poorest materially. I was spiritually rich and never wanted for anything. My husband and I were separated at the time. I believed Isaiah 54:5 which says, "For thy Maker is thine husband; the LORD of hosts is his name; and thy Redeemer the Holy One of Israel; The God of the whole earth shall he be called." I thought of God as my spiritual husband, my provider. I read the Bible cover to cover when I was 12 years old and it stuck with me. I still read it often. It's the greatest Book ever written, bar none.
Oh, about the TP: A very old Christian lady at the small country church we attended told me years later this story before we moved away: "Sweetheart" she said, "I was the one what put that toilet paper in the back seat of your car during the church service. I was down on my knees praying the same night you must've been praying for your needs and God put it on my heart to go buy a big package of toilet paper for you, so I did." This woman was blind, in her 80's and the most spiritual person I've ever met. I still miss her and that little country church.
Be bold. Be yourself. Don't ever apologize for who you are.
Love & Blessings,
"A man can no more diminish God's glory by refusing to worship Him than a lunatic can put out the sun by scribbling the word, 'darkness' on the walls of his cell." ~C.S. Lewis, The Problem of Pain
"The soul can split the sky in two and let the face of God shine through." ~Edna St. Vincent Millay
If There Is No God
By Czeslaw Milosz
If there is no God,
Not everything is permitted to man.
He is still his brother's keeper
And he is not permitted to sadden his brother
By saying there is no God.
From: "Second Space", new poems by Czeslaw Milosz, Page 5 (Winner of the Nobel Prize)
Saturday, December 4, 2010
"In the Palm of Your Hand, The Poet's Portable Workshop" by Steve Kowit
"The poet Dylan Thomas defined poetry as 'the rhythmic, inevitably narrative, movement from an overclothed blindness to a naked vision.'" ~From: "In the Palm of Your Hand" by Steve Kowit, page 11
The Tooth Fairy
by Dorianne Laux
They brushed a quarter with glue
and glitter, slipped in on bare
feet, and without waking me
painted rows of delicate gold
footprints on my sheets with a love
so quiet, I still can't hear it.
My mother must have been
a beauty then, sitting
at the kitchen table with him,
a warm breeze lifting her
embroidered curtains, waiting
for me to fall asleep.
It's harder to believe
the years that followed, the palms
curled into fists, a floor
of broken dishes, her chainsmoking
through long silences, him
punching holes in his walls.
I can still remember her print
dresses, his checkered Taxi, the day
I found her in the closet
with a paring knife, the night
he kicked my sister in the ribs.
He lives alone in Oregon now, dying
of a rare bone disease.
His face stippled gray, his ankles
clotted beneath wool socks.
She's a nurse on the graveyard shift,
Comes home mornings and calls me,
Drinks her dark beer and goes to bed.
And I still wonder how they did it, slipped
that quarter under my pillow, made those
Whenever I visit her, I ask again.
"I don't know," she says, rocking, closing
her eyes. "We were as surprised as you."
I Like My Own Poems
by Jack Grapes
I like my own poems
I quote from them
from time to time
saying, "A poet once said,"
and then follow up
with a line or two
from one of my own poems
appropriate to the event.
How those lines sing!
All that wisdom and beauty!
Why it tickles my ass
off its spine.
"Why those lines are mine!"
and Jesus, what a bang
I get out of it.
I like the ideas in them,
ideas that hit home.
They speak to me.
I mean, I understand
what the hell
the damn poet's
"Why I've been there,
the same thing," I shout,
and Christ! What a shot it is,
I can hardly stand it.
Words sure do not fail
this guy, I say.
From some world
only he knows
he bangs the bong,
but I can feel it
in the wood,
in the wood of the word,
rising to its form
in the world.
"Now, you gotta be good
to do that!" I say
and damn! It just shakes
~From: "In the Palm of Your Hand", pages 44, 45
My Christmas Ghosts, or, My Last Best Christmas
Christmas is coming and I try to get into the spirit of it all, I do. I try, but every year, no matter how determined I am to not be sad, the old, familiar sadness comes and settles over me like a cloud. Not a good, puffy, light cloud, but a dark, obsidian cloud. My father died in late November when I was 6 years old and Mama sat me and my two older sisters in the front row at the grave and I sat there horrified as they lowered my Daddy's body into the cold, hard ground. Yes, bad dreams followed. (I'd dream I was running down the hall of our old home and something horrifying was chasing me. There was broken glass on the floor, I was barefoot, and I could only run in slow motion. A terrifying dream for a small child.)
We went to live with Mama's sister and her family on their farm, my Aunt Mace and Uncle Warner. Their two children were grown. We had one good Christmas...my uncle was a carpenter and fisherman...and he caught an 80 pound Catfish that year in the Red River and I got what I'd asked Santa for: a beautiful, tall bride doll and my first purse. (Remember bride dolls?) It was the last best Christmas of my life. I was in the second grade.
The following year Aunt Mace's son and his family were driving home for Christmas (they lived out of state) and were hit head-on and killed by a drunk driver in Meridian, Mississippi. Their son, daughter-in-law and two children all died in the horrific car wreck. We attended two double funerals the week before Christmas: the mother and her one month old infant son, Ronnie, and the father and his 2 year old daughter, Bitty Bess the following day. My four cousins were all dead. My Daddy was dead. I developed a supreme fear of death and had recurring nightmares for years. I began to get up every night to check my mother's breathing to make sure she was alive...Aunt Mace and Uncle Warner had taken Mama and her three girls in, yet they lost their son and his family. It just didn't seem fair. Then life got even harder. Their only other child, Linda, died in childbirth a couple of years later. Another funeral and a motherless infant. For the remainder of my childhood, the adults all pretty much stayed drunk. And now, looking back, I can't say as I blame them much although it wasn't much fun at the time. I think that's why I don't drink. Too many drunks in my childhood. I don't know how they kept on living and breathing after such monumental tragedy.
They're my Christmas ghosts, these dead relatives from my childhood. They haunt me annually and I often wonder what life would have been like had they lived. I can't not think of them. Mama used to say, "I hate Christmas!" every year. I guess it sank into my subconscious. I don't hate Christmas, but I could use a good Exorcist if any of you know of one.
"The past is never dead. It's not even past." ~William Faulkner
The past is not a package one can lay away. ~Emily Dickinson
"The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there." ~Lesley P. Hartley, The Go-Between, 1953
Monday, November 29, 2010
Of all my new poetry finds, this is a favorite. Every poem is awesome. Buy poetry and support poets!!!
Waiting For My Life
By Linda Pastan
I waited for my life to start
for years, standing at bus stops
looking into the curved distance
thinking each bus was the wrong bus;
or lost in books where I would travel
without luggage from one page
to another; where the only breeze
was the rustle of pages turning,
and lives rose and set
in the violent colors of suns.
Sometimes my life coughed and coughed:
a stalled car about to catch,
and I would hold someone in my arms,
though it was always someone else I wanted.
Or I would board any bus, jostled
by thighs and elbows that knew
where they were going; collecting scraps
of talk, setting them down like bird song
in my notebook, where someday I would go
prospecting for my life.
"To live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else." ~Emily Dickinson
There Are Poems
By Linda Pastan
There are poems
that are never written,
that simply move across
on a still day:
slowly the first word
the last letters dissolve
on the tongue,
and what is left
is the pure blue
of insight, without cloud
"Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance." ~Carl Sandburg
What We Want
By Linda Pastan
What we want
is never simple.
We move among the things
we thought we wanted:
a face, a room, an open book
and these things bear our names---
now they want us.
But what we want appears
in dreams, wearing disguises.
We fall past,
holding out our arms
and in the morning
our arms ache.
We don't remember the dream,
but the dream remembers us.
It is there all day
as an animal is there
under the table,
as the stars are there
even in full sun.
In a dream you are never eighty. ~Anne Sexton
The lovely, shy, unique, blushing flowers of my Angel Wing Begonia plant. I first heard about this plant in a fabulous book that I re-read every year, "The Goddesses of Kitchen Avenue" by Barbara Samuel. The main character had a greenhouse attached to her kitchen (swoon) and had a huge Angel Wing Begonia plant. I immediately began searching for one and found a tiny, ratty one at a Wal-Mart garden center. I brought it home and nursed it to health and I now have 5 plants which I propagated from this one. They're easy to grow and so beautiful.
Here's a shot of the 'wings' of my plant. I mean leaves, of course. It's about 3 feet tall and sits in a tomato cage to hold the heavy limbs up. She blooms every Fall but I have to look for the flowers as they hide under the leaves. There's also a varitey with bright green leaves, but I haven't been able to find one of those yet. It's warm and humid here today, typical Louisiana weather.
My potted tomato plant is still thriving with 17 tomatoes on it. I cover it with a sheet on cold nights. This is the longest I've ever kept a tomato plant alive. Hell, I might be picking 'maters at Christmas!
I hope you all have a wonderful week, full of love, family and friends.
Love & Blessings,
I've read all of Ms. Samuel's books and, although this is my favorite, they're all fabulous reads.
"For friends... do but look upon good Books: they are true friends, that will neither flatter nor dissemble." ~Francis Bacon
"The walls of books around him, dense with the past, formed a kind of insulation against the present world and its disasters. ~Ross MacDonald
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
November, 2009 Dragonfly by Marion
By Anne Carson
In the beginning there were days set aside for various tasks.
On the day He was to create justice
God got involved in making a dragonfly
and lost track of time.
It was about two inches long
with turquoise dots all down its back like Lauren Bacall.
God watched it bend its tiny wire elbows
as it set about cleaning the transparent case of its head.
The eye globes mounted on the case
rotated this way and that
as it polished every angle.
Inside the case
which was glassy black like the windows of a downtown bank
God could see the machinery humming
and He watched the hum
travel all the way down turquoise dots to the end of the tail
and breathe off as light.
Its black wings vibrated in and out.
From: “Glass, Irony and God” page 49
This entire book is purely amazing. I wish I could buy a copy for everyone I know. I got it today and read it straight through. If you love poetry, you must own this book. (I discovered Ms. Carson through Dorianne Laux's poem, "Mugged By Poetry".) Reading poetry leads to buying more poetry. :-)
Sunday, November 7, 2010
My doodled dragonfly tree
by Jeffrey Harrison
It's a gift, this cloudless November morning
warm enough for you to walk without a jacket
along your favorite path. The rhythmic shushing
of your feet through fallen leaves should be
enough to quiet the mind, so it surprises you
when you catch yourself telling off your boss
for a decade of accumulated injustices,
all the things you've never said circling inside you.
It's the rising wind that pulls you out of it,
and you look up to see a cloud of leaves
swirling in sunlight, flickering against the blue
and rising above the treetops, as if the whole day
were sighing, Let it go, let it go,
for this moment at least, let it all go.
by Edna St. Vincent Millay
She is neither pink nor pale,
and she never will be all mine;
she learned her hands in a fairy-tale,
and her mouth on a valentine.
She has more hair than she needs;
in the sun 'tis a woe to me!
And her voice is a string of colored beads,
Or steps leading into the sea.
She loves me all that she can,
and her ways to my ways resign;
but she was not made for any man,
and she never will be all mine.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
from: Deviant Art - 'Dragonfly' by Akaeya-Lovely
By Neil Gaiman
Touch the wooden gate in the wall you never saw before.
Say "please" before you open the latch,
walk down the path.
A red metal imp hangs from the
green-painted front door,
as a knocker,
do not touch it; it will bite your fingers.
Walk through the house. Take nothing. Eat nothing.
if any creature tells you that it hungers,
If it tells you that it is dirty,
If it cries to you that it hurts,
if you can, ease its pain.
From the back garden you will be able to see the wild wood.
The deep well you walk past leads to Winter's realm;
there is another land at the bottom of it.
If you turn around here,
you can walk back, safely;
you will lose no face. I will think no less of you.
Once through the garden you will be in the wood.
The trees are old. Eyes peer from the undergrowth.
Beneath a twisted oak sits an old woman.
She may ask for something;
give it to her. She
will point the way to the castle. Inside it
are three princesses.
Do not trust the youngest. Walk on.
In the clearing beyond the castle the
twelve months sit about a fire, warming their feet, exchanging tales.
They may do favors for you, if you are polite.
You may pick strawberries in December's frost.
Trust the wolves, but do not tell them
where you are going.
The river can be crossed by the ferry.
The ferryman will take you.
(The answer to his question is this:
If he hands the oar to his passenger, he
will be free to leave the boat.
Only tell him this from a safe distance.)
If an eagle gives you a feather, keep it safe.
Remember: that giants sleep too soundly; that
witches are often betrayed by their appetites;
dragons have one soft spot, somewhere, always;
hearts can be well-hidden,
and you betray them with your tongue.
Do not be jealous of your sister.
Know that diamonds and roses
are as uncomfortable when they tumble
from one's lips as toads and frogs:
colder, too, and sharper, and they cut.
Remember your name.
Do not lose hope — what you seek will be found.
Trust ghosts. Trust those that you have
helped to help you in their turn.
Trust your heart, and trust your story.
When you come back, return the way you came.
Favors will be returned, debts will be repaid.
Do not forget your manners.
Do not look back.
Ride the wise eagle (you shall not fall).
Ride the silver fish (you will not drown).
Ride the grey wolf (hold tightly to his fur).
There is a worm at the heart of the tower;
that is why it will not stand.
When you reach the little house, the
place your journey started,
you will recognize it, although it will seem
much smaller than you remember.
Walk up the path, and through the garden
gate you never saw before but once.
And then go home. Or make a home.
Neil Gaiman is one of my favorite writers of all time. If you haven't read his Sandman graphic novels, then you must put them on your reading list. I posted this once before, but today, on Halloween, it seemed to want to be here. And so it is.
At first cock-crow the ghosts must go
Back to their quiet graves below. ~Theodosia Garrison
'Tis now the very witching time of night,
When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out
Contagion to this world. ~William Shakespeare
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Buy Poetry!! Support poets!!
The Thing Is
By Ellen Bass
to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you've held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.
from "Mules of Love"
And What if I Spoke of Despair
By Ellen Bass
And what if I spoke of despair—who doesn’t
feel it? Who doesn’t know the way it seizes,
leaving us limp, deafened by the slosh
of our own blood, rushing
through the narrow, personal
channels of grief. It’s beauty
that brings it on, calls it out from the wings
for one more song. Rain
pooled on a fallen oak leaf, reflecting
the pale cloudy sky, dark canopy
of foliage not yet fallen. Or the red moon
in September, so large you have to pull over
at the top of Bayona and stare, like a photo
of a lover in his uniform, not yet gone;
or your own self, as a child,
on that day your family stayed
at the sea, watching the sun drift down,
lazy as a beach ball, and you fell asleep with sand
in the crack of your smooth behind.
That’s when you can’t deny it. Water. Air.
They’re still here, like a mother’s palms,
sweeping hair off our brow, her scent
swirling around us. But now your own
car is pumping poison, delivering its fair
share of destruction. We’ve created a salmon
with the red, white, and blue shining on one side.
Frog genes spliced into tomatoes—as if
the tomato hasn’t been humiliated enough.
I heard a man argue that genetic
engineering was more dangerous
than a nuclear bomb. Should I be thankful
he was alarmed by one threat, or worried
he’d gotten used to the other? Maybe I can’t
offer you any more than you can offer me—
but what if I stopped on the trail, with shreds
of manzanita bark lying in russet scrolls
and yellow bay leaves, little lanterns
in the dim afternoon, and cradled despair
in my arms, the way I held my own babies
after they’d fallen asleep, when there was no
reason to hold them, only
I didn’t want to put them down.
From: "Mules of Love"
See that large green plant to the left? It's a tomato plant that's well over ten feet long. It's also in the pink bowl, climbing the purple Wandering Jew, still blooming it's yellow blooms and making tiny tomatoes. Yes, it's almost November and I have a monster Tomato plant that greets me with it's unique perfume every morning as I walk out my door. It's in the same quart-sized plastic pot I bought it in. Why is is still alive and climbing toward the sun?
Why does it give me such joy?
Everything on the Menu
By Ellen Bass
In a poem it doesn't matter
if the house is dirty. Dust
that claims the photographs like a smothering
love. Sand spilled from a boy's sneaker,
the faceted grains scattered on the emerald rug
like the stars and planets of a tiny
solar system. Monopoly
butted up against Dostoyevsky.
El techo, a shiny sticker, labeling the ceiling
from the summer a nephew studied Spanish.
Mold on bread in the refrigerator
is as interesting as lichen on an Oak---
its miniscule hairs like the fuzz
on an infant's head, its delicate
blues and spring greens, its plethora of spores,
whole continents of creatures, dazzling our palms.
In a poem, life and death are equals.
We receive the child, crushed
like gravel under a tire.
And the grandfather at the open grave
holding her small blue sweatshirt to his face.
And we welcome the baby born
at daybreak, the mother naked, squatting
and pushing in front of the picture window
just as the garbage truck roars up
and men jump out, clanking
metal cans into its maw.
In a poem, we don't care if you got hired
or fired, lost or found love,
recovered or kept drinking.
You don't have to exercise
or forgive. We're hungry.
We'll take everything on the menu.
In a poem, joy and sorrow are mates.
They lie down together, their hands
all over each other, fingers
swollen in mouths,
nipples chafed to flame, their sexes
fitting seamlessly as day and night.
They arch over us, glistening and bucking,
the portals through which we enter our lives.
From: "Mules of Love"
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Green dragonfly on the spout of my little pink watering can this summer.
By Alfred Lord Tennyson
Today I saw the dragon-fly
Come from the wells where he did lie.
An inner impulse rent the veil
Of his old husk: from head to tail
Came out clear plates of sapphire mail.
He dried his wings: like gauze they grew;
Thro' crofts and pastures wet with dew
A living flash of light he flew.
Blue dragonfly in August
By Louise Bogan
You are made of almost nothing
But of enough
To be great eyes
And diaphanous double vans;
To be ceaseless movement,
Link between water and air,
Earth repels you.
Light touches you only to shift into iridescence
Upon your body and wings.
You split into the heat.
Swift beyond calculation or capture
You dart into the shadow
Which consumes you.
You rocket into the day.
But at last, when the wind flattens the grasses,
For you, the design and purpose stop.
And you fall
With the other husks of summer.
A dragonfly-inspired mixed-media collage I did last year.
Monday, October 25, 2010
An early evening shot of Charlotte, defying gravity.
First foggy morning last week. Looking up my street.
Morning Glory in the fog.
by Robert Frost
O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
To-morrow's wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
To-morrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow,
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know;
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
One from our trees, one far away;
Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst.
For the grapes' sake, if they were all,
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost—
For the grapes' sake along the wall.
Are you scared of spiders or do you let them live around your house?
Happy Monday! I hope you all enjoy this last week of October!
~*~ Marion ~*~
Synchronistically, my neighbor has a Halloween display full of giant spiders. Tee-Hee. Very spooky!!
Saturday, October 23, 2010
As often happens to me, I was reading a novel ("The Owl and Moon Cafe" by the amazingly talented Jo-Ann Mapson) that mentions this line from a poem. . . "things fall apart; the centre cannot hold..." which lead me to find the poem from which it was quoted. I've been fascinated by spirals and fractals in nature for years and this poem spiraled itself right into my blog. I'm not sure I fully understand it (even after reading the commentary from Sparknotes and a few other sites), but I love the language and the overall feeling of the poem. I firmly believe we don't have to understand another person's poetry to appreciate and enjoy it. The beauty of poetry is that it can mean different things to each person who reads it.
I haven't read much Yeats, but I try to be open to the classics. I love mythology and he draws heavily from it. Check out this awesome quote from his story, "The Celtic Twilight" written in 1893:
"Paddy Flynn is dead;....He was a great teller of tales, and unlike our common romancers, knew how to empty heaven, hell, and purgatory, faeryland and earth, to people his stories. He did not live in a shrunken world, but knew of no less ample circumstance than did Homer himself. Perhaps the Gaelic people shall by his like bring back again the ancient simplicity and amplitude of imagination.....Let us go forth, the tellers of tales, and seize whatever prey the heart long for, and have no fear. Everything exists, everything is true, and the earth is only a little dust under our feet.—ch. 1, “A Teller of Tales"
Kind of makes you feel your own mortality, no?
Blessings & Happy Reading,
THE SECOND COMING
By William Butler Yeats
TURNING and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Commentary on this poem from: Sparknotes.com:
"Because of its stunning, violent imagery and terrifying ritualistic language, “The Second Coming” is one of Yeats’s most famous and most anthologized poems; it is also one of the most thematically obscure and difficult to understand. (It is safe to say that very few people who love this poem could paraphrase its meaning to satisfaction.) Structurally, the poem is quite simple—the first stanza describes the conditions present in the world (things falling apart, anarchy, etc.), and the second surmises from those conditions that a monstrous Second Coming is about to take place, not of the Jesus we first knew, but of a new messiah, a “rough beast,” the slouching sphinx rousing itself in the desert and lumbering toward Bethlehem. This brief exposition, though intriguingly blasphemous, is not terribly complicated; but the question of what it should signify to a reader is another story entirely.
Yeats spent years crafting an elaborate, mystical theory of the universe that he described in his book A Vision. This theory issued in part from Yeats’s lifelong fascination with the occult and mystical, and in part from the sense of responsibility Yeats felt to order his experience within a structured belief system. The system is extremely complicated and not of any lasting importance—except for the effect that it had on his poetry, which is of extraordinary lasting importance. The theory of history Yeats articulated in A Vision centers on a diagram made of two conical spirals, one inside the other, so that the widest part of one of the spirals rings around the narrowest part of the other spiral, and vice versa. Yeats believed that this image (he called the spirals “gyres”) captured the contrary motions inherent within the historical process, and he divided each gyre into specific regions that represented particular kinds of historical periods (and could also represent the psychological phases of an individual’s development)...."
Have you read much of Yeats' work and, if so, what are some of your favorite poems of his?