Saturday, December 31, 2011

Happy New Year!


Two of my new dolls, "Draculaura & Frankie Stein".

 “May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you're wonderful, and don't forget to make some art -- write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the next year, you surprise yourself.” ― Neil Gaiman

And I'm adding these to Mr. Gaiman's list:  Read, buy & write lots of poetry, play with dolls, moonbathe, grow flowers, do something that scares you, pray, play in the rain, don't act your age, sit on a truck tailgate and swing your legs, rescue a pet, give away stuff, tell a friend you love them, make peace with the past, skip down the street, live moment by moment and most of all LOVE & FORGIVE (especially yourself) with all your heart, mind, soul and being.  xo

Love & Hugs,
Marion

For last year's words belong to last year's language
And next year's words await another voice.
And to make an end is to make a beginning.
~T.S. Eliot, "Little Gidding"

Sunday, December 18, 2011



BLANK BEAUTY
By Judith Pordon

Beautiful blank pages
kiss our
imaginations
with backgrounds
that demand precision.

Our black letters cross
on tightrope lines,
curving
without wavering
across deep, invisible currents.

These beautiful blank pages
are promises of our
reflections

Our gentlest strokes.

-------------------------------

"The most beautiful things are those that madness prompts and reason writes."  ~André Gide, Journals, 1894


----------------------------------

Saturday, December 17, 2011

The Hymn of a Fat Woman by Joyce Huff

 

The Hymn of a Fat Woman

By Joyce Huff


All of the saints starved themselves.
Not a single fat one.
The words “deity” and “diet” must have come from the same
Latin root.

Those saints must have been thin as knucklebones
or shards of stained
glass or Christ carved
on his cross.

Hard
as pew seats. Brittle
as hair shirts. Women
made from bone, like the ribs that protrude from his wasted
wooden chest. Women consumed
by fervor.


They must have been able to walk three or four abreast
down that straight and oh-so-narrow path.
They must have slipped with ease through the eye
of the needle, leaving the weighty
camels stranded at the city gate.

Within that spare city’s walls,
I do not think I would find anyone like me.

I imagine I will find my kind outside
lolling in the garden
munching on the apples.

-------------------------------

"The Temptation of St. Anthony" by Salvador Dali

Thursday, December 15, 2011

Sweet Potato Souffle

The BEST dish ever...even if you're not crazy about sweet potatoes, you'll love this dish.  Ignore that line about adding raisins and/or coconut.  They're optional and not in my recipe:

My ratty old, well-used cookbook recipe.  (Like I said, ignore the raisins and cocount).


Make sure you drain off all of the liquid if you use a large can of cooked sweet potatoes.  I broke in my new KitchenAid mixer with this annual holiday dish at Thanksgiving.


Spread whipped potatoe mixture in an oven-safe casserole dish.

Mix the topping separately, adding the melted butter last and stirring till it holds together, then spread with a spoon on top of the sweet potato mixture.  It will be lumpy and thick.


And, voila, the final product. 

Enjoy!


Wednesday, December 14, 2011

Winter Haiku

A Cardinal in my icy Cypress tree last winter.  A Mourning Dove in the angel bird feeder.


The wind chimes shiver,
touched by winter’s frosty breath.
A Cardinal sings.
~Marion

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

Strange Woman by Jill Essbaum

'Pandora's Box' by John Waterhouse


Strange Woman
By Jill Essbaum
After Proverbs 7

She searches the sky for a god who will reach down and love her.
She seeks the arms of a lust that would stretch out to have her.
She shudders like a whore in a rickety chair.
She plaits ribbons of pain in her hair.

She sings unruly songs in strident keys.
Her feet abide in no man’s custody.
She is pity’s shabby bride, and lechery’s courtesan.
Mistress of a never-to-rise-again sun.

She tinctures her wines according to your desires.
In her bed, Hell is always and only fire.
You can set her apart like surfeit, delirious tither.
But no. She won’t be faithful to you either.

But hearken: The Goodman is gone and she will flatter you.
Use her. She will let you.
----------------------------

"Some men know that a light touch of the tongue, running from a woman's toes to her ears, lingering in the softest way possible in various places in between, given often enough and sincerely enough, would add immeasurably to world peace."  ~Marianne Williamson, "A Woman's Worth"

Sunday, December 11, 2011

Moth & Dragonfly by Marion

My blue/green dragonfly friend.

Pink Sphinx Moth drinking from my Moonflower.


Moth and Dragonfly
By Marion

Night, she awoke me
whispering in my ear
wake up, wake up, dragonfly.
Danger is near.

I’m glad we

weren’t born sparrows
because sparrows can be caged;
I’m glad we weren’t born mortals
because mortals bleed and age.


I flew up from my slumber,
the silence unlike other nights
and found his wings there beating
against love’s too bright light.

I’m glad we

weren’t born sparrows
because sparrows can be caged;
I’m glad we aren’t mere mortals
because mortals bleed and age.


I soared to him and told him
light would burn his delicate wings
if he didn’t move back from it,
he would soon die from its sting.

And I’m glad we

weren’t born sparrows
because sparrows can be caged;
I’m glad we’re moth and dragonfly
and don’t know love’s light fades.
1/2010
-------------------------------------

Thursday, December 8, 2011

Oh, Earth, Wait For Me by Pablo Neruda

One of the best books I've ever read in my life.  Defies genre and transports the reader...  "The Wood Wife" by Terri Windling.


Oh, Earth, Wait For Me
By Pablo Neruda

Return me, oh sun,
to my wild destiny,
rain of the ancient wood
bring me back the aroma and the swords
that fall from the sky,
the solitary peace of pasture and rock,
the damp at the river-margins,
the smell of the larch tree,
the wind alive like a heart
beating in the crowded restlessness
of the towering araucaria.

Earth, give me back your pure gifts,
the towers of silence which rose
from the solemnity of their roots.
I want to go back to being what I have not been,
and learn to go back from such deeps
that amongst all natural things
I could live or not live; it does not matter
to be one stone more, the dark stone,
the pure stone which the river bears away.

~Pablo Neruda

(Poem excerpted in “The Wood Wife” by Terri Windling, pages 130, 131)

=======================

Evening
 
The sky puts on the darkening blue coat
held for it by a row of ancient trees;
you watch: and the lands grow distant in your sight,
one journeying to heaven, one that falls;
 
and leave you, not at home in either one,
not quite so still and dark as the darkened houses,
not calling to eternity with the passion
of what becomes a star each night, and rises;
 
and leave you (inexpressibly to unravel)
your life, with its immensity and fear,
so that, now bounded, now immeasurable,
it is alternatively stone in you and star.
 
~ Rainer Maria Rilke ~
 
Excerpted from "The Wood Wife" by Terri Windling, pages 131, 132
 
=======================

Please, please, please...this is my burning desire:  "Return me, oh sun, to my wild destiny..."

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

little tree by e. e. cummings



little tree
by e. e. cummings

Little tree
little silent Christmas tree
you are so little
you are more like a flower
who found you in the green forest
and were you very sorry to come away?
see i will comfort you
because you smell so sweetly
i will kiss your cool bark
and hug you safe and tight
just as your mother would,
only don't be afraid
look the spangles
that sleep all the year in a dark box
dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine,
the balls the chains red and gold the fluffy threads,
put up your little arms
and i'll give them all to you to hold
every finger shall have its ring
and there won't be a single place dark or unhappy
then when you're quite dressed
you'll stand in the window for everyone to see
and how they'll stare!
oh but you'll be very proud
and my little sister and i will take hands
and looking up at our beautiful tree
we'll dance and sing
"Noel Noel”

***********************
Remember
this December,
that love weighs more than gold.  ~Josephine Dodge Daskam Bacon


***********************

Sunday, December 4, 2011

Frenzy by Anne Sexton & Psalm 91



Frenzy
By Anne Sexton

I am not lazy.
I am on the amphetamine of the soul.
I am, each day,
typing out the God
my typewriter believes in.
Very quick. Very intense,
like a wolf at a live heart.
Not lazy.
When a lazy man, they say,
looks toward heaven,
the angels close the windows.

Oh angels,
keep the windows open
so that I may reach in
and steal each object,
objects that tell me the sea is not dying,
objects that tell me the dirt has a life-wish,
that the Christ who walked for me,
walked on true ground
and that this frenzy,
like bees stinging the heart all morning,
will keep the angels
with their windows open,
wide as an English bathtub.

******************************


Dear God,

I have been a razor poised
on my own delicate wrists
and I have pushed until
my brilliant red blood trickled
like crimson tears
down my arm onto the filthy
floor.

I have been the bleeding arm
and the tear-stained,
copper-tasting blood.
I have been without hope and
emptier than an atheist’s soul.
I have laid me down to sleep
and prayed for death and not
to wake.

And yet you came.

You came when I cried out,
alone, hopeless & dying
and you gave me hope
and washed me with your
gentle love,
bandaging my broken,
barely beating heart with
your most tender words & then
hiding me under your wings
like a mother bird
until the world felt safe
once again.

How can I not be heartbroken
& so fucking sad when others
who've never known
your salvation---the hardcore,
life-saving kind---
disregard you and spit
in your face?  But then,
I guess you're used to that.

I will always love you
and worship you
as if my life depends on it---
because it does.

Marion 12/4/11

_____________________

Psalm 91

 1 Those who live in the shelter of the Most High
      will find rest in the shadow of the Almighty.
 2 This I declare about the Lord:
   He alone is my refuge, my place of safety;
      he is my God, and I trust him.
 3 For he will rescue you from every trap
      and protect you from deadly disease.
 4 He will cover you with his feathers.
      He will shelter you with his wings.
      His faithful promises are your armor and protection.
 5 Do not be afraid of the terrors of the night,
      nor the arrow that flies in the day.
 6 Do not dread the disease that stalks in darkness,
      nor the disaster that strikes at midday.
 7 Though a thousand fall at your side,
      though ten thousand are dying around you,
      these evils will not touch you.
 8 Just open your eyes,
      and see how the wicked are punished.

 9 If you make the Lord your refuge,
      if you make the Most High your shelter,
 10 no evil will conquer you;
      no plague will come near your home.
 11 For he will order his angels
      to protect you wherever you go.
 12 They will hold you up with their hands
      so you won’t even hurt your foot on a stone.
 13 You will trample upon lions and cobras;
      you will crush fierce lions and serpents under your feet!

 14 The Lord says, “I will rescue those who love me.
      I will protect those who trust in my name.
 15 When they call on me, I will answer;
      I will be with them in trouble.
      I will rescue and honor them.
 16 I will reward them with a long life
      and give them my salvation.”

Friday, December 2, 2011

R.I.P. Cody, The World's Best Dog Ever

We'll miss you every single day and so will all of your cats.

Sunday, November 27, 2011

Books
By Sara King

Don't say you'd mourn my passing.
You a writer, and a liar.
Writers are the worst of liars---
their audience has no face,
so they don't have to smile,
don't have to weep,
don't even pretend to love.


I know you will forget me
while I sleep with the worms.
You have forgotten me already
and I am breathing still,
here in the wet leaves and wind,
you, hiding somewhere in the city,
behind Dostoyevsky and cognac.


If only I were a book,
then maybe you would read my body---
run your eyes right to left
over my flesh,
bury your face
in the pages of my breasts.


But I am only a bookmark---
a place to rest
when you are reluctantly tangled,
you,
a voracious reader,
me,
a vicarious lover. 
Your Heart Was My Home Until You Handed Me An Eviction Notice
by Amanda Bower

I removed the layers of blankets from my aching bones
to excavate the secrets that were held together by saliva
in papier-mâché envelopes, only to chew on disappointments
and lie on shards of fragile stained glass that tampered with my flaws,
instead of putting me back together with multicolored duct tape
so gray was only found inside of my body.

I wrung the tears from your sweatshirt and decided it was time
to give it back to you, in exchange for my serpent heart

[barely beating,

barely breathing];

instead of curling inside your stomach and making you
nearly as ill as I had become, just by drinking venomous nectar
and digesting fireflies so a small portion of me would feel alive,
I climbed over your picket fence and let you recline my eyes
in another awkward position to the point where I only chain-smoked
the main exhibits of your aesthetic proportions and declined
every deficiency of the person you truly are,

i. blunt
Mugged By Poetry
By Dorianne Laux—for Tony Hoagland who sent me a handmade chapbook made from old postcards called OMIGOD POETRY with a whale breaching off the coast of New Jersey and seven of his favorite poems by various authors typed up, taped on, and tied together with a broken shoelace.
Reading a good one makes me love the one who wrote it,
as well as the animal or element or planet or person
the poet wrote the poem for. I end up like I always do,
flat on my back like a drunk in the grass, loving the world.
Like right now, I'm reading a poem called "Summer"
by John Ashbery whose poems I never much cared for,
and suddenly, in the dead of winter, "There is that sound
like the wind/Forgetting in the branches that means
something/Nobody can translate..." I fall in love
with that line, can actually hear it (not the line
but the wind) and it's summer again and I forget
I don't like John Ashbery poems. So I light a cigarette
and read another by Zbigniew Herbert, a poet
I've always admired but haven't read enough of, called
"To Marcus Aurelius" that begins "Good night Marcus
put out the light/and shut the book For overhead/is raised
a gold alarm of stars..." First of all I suddenly love
anyone with the name Zbigniew. Second of all I love
anyone who speaks in all sincerity to the dead
and by doing so brings that personage back to life,
plunging a hand through the past to flip off the light.
The astral physics of it just floors me. Third of all
is that "gold alarm of stars..." By now I'm a goner,
and even though I have to get up tomorrow at 6 am
I forge ahead and read "God's Justice" by Anne Carson,
another whose poems I'm not overly fond of
but don't actively disdain. I keep reading one line
over and over, hovering above it like a bird on a wire
spying on the dragonfly with "turquoise dots all down its back
like Lauren Bacall". Like Lauren Bacall!! Well hell,
I could do this all night. I could be in love like this
for the rest of my life, with everything in the expanding
universe and whatever else might be beyond it
that we can't grind a lens big enough to see. I light up
another smoke, maybe the one that will kill me,
and go outside to listen to the moon scalding the iced trees.
What, I ask you, will become of me?