Friday Poetry: Loveliness in Nine Lines

Currently Reading: David Copperfield by Charles Dickens

The holiday season is drawing to a close and a new year is setting slowly, stretching its last rays over the horizon. My reflections and favorite books I read in 2011 will be forthcoming, but today I want to bid 2011 adieu with a lovely poem by Polish poet Czeslaw Milosz. This poem bumped into me one day completely by accident, but I am so glad we met. It is a poem that can be applied to many stages of one's life, I believe, but today it seems to have been written for the end of a new year. New Year's resolutions come and go; rarely do they last longer than a month. But to live life fully, savor the simple and the grandiose equally, and to be at peace with my life and with all I know and love is my resolution for life. Take a deep breath. Enjoy.

Gift

by Czeslaw Milosz

A day so happy.
Fog lifted early. I worked in the garden.
Hummingbirds were stopping over the honeysuckle flowers.
There was no thing on earth I wanted to possess.
I knew no one worth my envying him.
Whatever evil I had suffered, I forgot.
To think that once I was the same man did not embarrass me.
In my body I felt no pain.
When straightening up, I saw blue sea and sails.

Music and Nature... Celebrating the Snow Billy Collins-style!

Currently Reading: David Copperfield by Charles Dickens and Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix by J.K. Rowling

IT SNOWED! I know, I know. Everyone is now groaning and thinking, "Not another wacko who thinks snow is something to celebrate!" Yes, it's dangerous and terrible to drive in and scares the bejebus out of me when I or someone I love has to travel during the winter. Who would like shoveling the freezing stuff off of their car, I ask you? I have a love-hate relationship with snow, believe me. I personally think snow is the Devil's plaything when it blows sideways into my face in sharp gusts of wind; and I certainly can't take the cold for long... (If you know me at all, you'll know that I get cold in summer time... so winter is especially detrimental to my inner thermometer.)



But this.... sigh. This shimmer of sunlight reflected off of newly fallen snow dancing across my bedroom wall... this slight dusting of snow on the bare world like powdered sugar on freshly-baked brownies... this sense of peace and calm that fills my beauty-hungry soul when the world gets dressed in completely different attire from its everyday garb. This is why I love snow. And in honor of our brave new world today, here is a poem that I love revisiting with every new and gentle snow. (It's another from Billy Collins.... is it obvious that I love the man?) He has written several about snow (I also like Shoveling Snow With Buddha and Neither Snow, but this is my favorite.) Music and nature just go so well together. Enjoy!

Snow
by Billy Collins

I cannot help noticing how this slow Monk solo
seems to go somehow
with the snow
that is coming down this morning,

how the notes and the spaces accompany
its easy falling
on the geometry of the ground,
on the flagstone path,
the slanted roof,
and the angles of the split-rail fence

as if he had imagined a winter scene
as he sat at the piano
late one night at the Five Spot
playing "Ruby, My Dear."

Then again, it's the kind of song
that would go easily with rain
or a tumult of leaves,

and for that matter it's a snow
that could attend
an adagio for strings,
the best of the Ronettes,
or George Thorogood and the Destroyers.

It falls so indifferently
into the spacious white parlor of the world,
if I were sitting here reading

in silence,
reading the morning paper
or reading Being and Nothingness,
not even letting the spoon
touch the inside of the cup,
I have a feeling
the snow would even go perfectly with that.

Deliciousness

 Currently Reading: The Witch's Daughter by Paula Brackston

The lovely 1940s music wafting through my favorite local coffeeshop is evoking a desire for Billy Collins' poems and who am I to deny the music's calling? This is one of my many favorites from Billy Collins... like many of his poems, it takes ordinary, thoughtless actions and transforms them into meaningful and thought-provoking moments. This is one that must be read several times, savored like fresh, juicy fruit in the orchard.

"Harvest of Cherries", 1866, Robert Speare Dunning. One of my favorite works at the Art Institute. This and my Monet Haystacks. The haystacks and I have quite a love affair going on. :)

I Go Back to the House for a Book

by Billy Collins

I turn around on the gravel
and go back to the house for a book,
something to read at the doctor's office,
and while I am inside, running the finger
of inquisition along a shelf,
another me that did not bother
to go back to the house for a book
heads out on his own,
rolls down the driveway,
and swings left toward town,
a ghost in his ghost car,
another knot in the string of time,
a good three minutes ahead of me —
a spacing that will now continue
for the rest of my life.

Sometimes I think I see him
a few people in front of me on a line
or getting up from a table
to leave the restaurant just before I do,
slipping into his coat on the way out the door.
But there is no catching him,
no way to slow him down
and put us back in synch,
unless one day he decides to go back
to the house for something,
but I cannot imagine
for the life of me what that might be.

He is out there always before me,
blazing my trail, invisible scout,
hound that pulls me along,
shade I am doomed to follow,
my perfect double,
only bumped an inch into the future,
and not nearly as well-versed as I
in the love poems of Ovid —
I who went back to the house
that fateful winter morning and got the book.

There is no way to describe the pleasant and alarming twist this poem creates inside my stomach. It evokes images of a future, a person who is myself and yet not myself. Think of this: how many little actions or swift seconds have shaped our lives, unbeknownst to us? What little or obscure choices have led me to this moment, eating a grilled cheese sandwich in a lovely coffeeshop at 1:48 P.M. on an October Friday afternoon? The answer can never be known but it is fun to contemplate how fragile are the threads that weave our lives together. I hope my potential "perfect double" is having a fantastic life too. :)

If You Were Coming In the Fall....

Currently Reading: The Physick Book of Deliverance Dane by Katherine Howe and The Memory-Keeper's Daughter by Kim Edwards

Happy weekend! Tonight is an Emily Dickinson night, in my opinion, so I'm going to share my favorite Emily poem. This poem has always made me smile; in high school, I had it taped to my wall because I felt it was an echo of my soul and all the longing I had inside. Its lilting rhythm and sense of anticipation cannot hide the loneliness and uncertainty pinned behind each word. It always makes my heart beat a little faster.

If you were coming in the fall,
I'd brush the summer by
With half a smile and half a spurn,
As housewives do a fly.

If I could see you in a year,
I'd wind the months in balls,
And put them each in separate drawers,
Until their time befalls.

If only centuries delayed,
I'd count them on my hand,
Subtracting till my fingers dropped
Into Van Diemens land.

If certain, when this life was out,
That yours and mine should be,
I'd toss it yonder like a rind,
And taste eternity.

But now, all ignorant of the length
Of time's uncertain wing,
It goads me, like the goblin bee,
That will not state its sting.

friday poetry slam: happy birthday, e.e. cummings!

Currently Reading: Daughters of the Witching Hill by Mary Sharratt

Happy Friday! In honor of e.e. cummings' birthday today, I am posting 

one of my favorite poems of his. The beautiful thing about cummings' 

poetry is that it can mean different things to different people. His poetry 

is full of images and metaphors and words that flow like water over rocks. 

This is what I love about him. 

P.S. Another wonderful celebration today that gives me shivers of 

happiness: 180 years ago today, my 5th great-grandparents, Rebecca 

Whittome and Robert Driver were married at St. Margaret's Church

in Hilgay, Norfolk, England. Happy Anniversary to my ancestors! 

In fact, upon rereading this poem, I realize that it is quite appropriate 

for this occasion as well. 

St. Margaret's Church, Hilgay, Norfolk, England

if there are any heavens my mother will(all by herself)have
one.  It will not be a pansy heaven nor
a fragile heaven of lilies-of-the-valley but
it will be a heaven of blackred roses

my father will be(deep like a rose
tall like a rose)

standing near my

(swaying over her
silent)
with eyes which are really petals and see

nothing with the face of a poet really which
is a flower and not a face with
hands
which whisper
This is my beloved my

            (suddenly in sunlight

he will bow,

& the whole garden will bow)

Friday Poetry Slam- Drink It In

Currently Reading: The Burning of Bridget Cleary by Angela Bourke (almost done!) and Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by J.K. Rowling

Photograph taken by my friend Jill B. I just love it! :)

Happy Friday, everybody! It is a beautiful autumn morning; from my balcony I can gaze upon bright blue skies, a colorful horizon of changing trees, and shorn cornfields, indicating another successful harvest. There is nothing that smells quite so delicious as an October day. Nate and I plan on celebrating the day and the gorgeous weather with a late afternoon stroll through one of the local cemeteries. Today, I'm pulling out Robert Frost, per the suggestion of a very dear teacher of mine. :) Once you read it, you just may be inspired to take a little walk through the leaves.

October

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.
Slow, slow!
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.

Friday Poetry Slam: Some October Magic

Currently Reading: The Burning of Bridget Cleary by Angela Bourke; Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by J.K. Rowling

For this week's Friday Poetry Slam, we are going to celebrate the start of my favorite month: October, courtesy of John Updike. October brings so many wonderful things with it: apple pie, chilly evenings, golden crunchy leaves, apple cider, round happy pumpkins, Halloween, remembrance, long walks in cemeteries, and the celebration of life. In my opinion, there is no better time of the year. Enjoy!

October by John Updike
The month is amber,
Gold, and brown.
Blue ghosts of smoke
Float through the town,

Great V's of geese
Honk overhead,
And maples turn
A fiery red.

Frost bites the lawn.
The stars are slits
In a black cat's eye
Before she spits.

At last, small witches,
Goblins, hags
And pirates armed
With paper bags,

Their costumes hinged
On safety pins,
Go haunt a night
Of pumpkin grins. 

What are your favorite things about fall? Check back this weekend for my "Best Books to Read in October" reading list. Have a great Friday!

When You Are Old

Currently reading: The Burning of Bridget Cleary by Angela Bourke

I can't believe I messed up my first Friday Poetry Slam! What a busy weekend this is turning out to be. Well, it may be Saturday but that does not mean we cannot enjoy some poetry now. This poem is a beautiful one from the glorious William Butler Yeats.

Grab a cup of tea, curl up under a blanket, and enjoy.....

    When you are old and gray and full of sleep,
    And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
    And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
    Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

    How many loved your moments of glad grace,
    And loved your beauty with love false or true,
    But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
    And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

    And bending down beside the glowing bars,
    Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
    And paced upon the mountains overhead
    And hid his face among a crowd of stars. 

Have a great weekend!

Poetry Slam!

Get excited! While the sequel to my previous post will hopefully be forthcoming tonight, I wanted to introduce a new aspect of the blog: Friday Night Poetry Slam. Each Friday I will be posting a new poem for you to read, so make sure to check the blog each and every Friday. This week we will most likely start with the genius of William Butler Yeats. And since there are so many wonderful poems out there, if you have one you would like to see on here, let me know. I love being introduced to new poetry!
Till next time.....