At Marloe's suggestion, via River of Stones, I am going to attempt the Small Stones challenge for the month of July. The idea is to become more observant and to, each day, write a line that precisely captures a fully-engaged moment.
Stay tuned!
Friday, July 1, 2011
Friday, April 29, 2011
poetry
I wonder if anyone had ever made a poem
with front rhymes only, left like postscripts
for the careful reader. I will try to leave
a hidden message for you to find at your leisure
like so many other hidden gems, treasures
for the eyes that dare to trespass
with front rhymes only, left like postscripts
for the careful reader. I will try to leave
a hidden message for you to find at your leisure
like so many other hidden gems, treasures
for the eyes that dare to trespass
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
poetry
The Lanyard - Billy Collins
The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.
No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.
I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.
She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light
and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.
Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift—not the worn truth
that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.
The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.
No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.
I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.
She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light
and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.
Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift—not the worn truth
that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
poetry
I Go Back To The House For A Book
-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.
-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.
poetry
the green grass
resists the reversal
of time
as white snows still
pile up on
the colder planes
resists the reversal
of time
as white snows still
pile up on
the colder planes
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Poetry
Silent warrior
Perfecting deadly
Movement in newly
Greened fields
-- Erin
~~~~~~
This has been communication in motion (sent from my phone)
Saturday, April 9, 2011
poetry
I've Nothing Intelligent to Say About the Moon
- William Winfield Wright
It goes up, comes down, shines
light into the backyard.
When I am in love, the dark spots
outline the face of my beloved;
when I am in a boat, the brightness
scatters across the water.
One theory of its origin, surely
discredited by now, suggests a blob
of excess earth splashed out
of a roiling ocean of lava, another
the result of a collision, a glancing blow,
but in both cases the blunt reminder of loss.
Like a flashlight, it would reflect
in your pupils, make the snow
a kind of blue, be enough to find
your way to an unfamiliar building in the dark.
North of everything, it's the winter sky's
one constant ball, out at all hours,
a metaphor for the missing sun,
a shadow to the cold and tilted earth.
- William Winfield Wright
It goes up, comes down, shines
light into the backyard.
When I am in love, the dark spots
outline the face of my beloved;
when I am in a boat, the brightness
scatters across the water.
One theory of its origin, surely
discredited by now, suggests a blob
of excess earth splashed out
of a roiling ocean of lava, another
the result of a collision, a glancing blow,
but in both cases the blunt reminder of loss.
Like a flashlight, it would reflect
in your pupils, make the snow
a kind of blue, be enough to find
your way to an unfamiliar building in the dark.
North of everything, it's the winter sky's
one constant ball, out at all hours,
a metaphor for the missing sun,
a shadow to the cold and tilted earth.
Friday, April 8, 2011
Poetry
This is my best friend
And don't I love her!
Today is her birthday,
So buy her another!
-- Erin
~~~~~~
This has been communication in motion (sent from my phone)
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
poetry
Beyond Recall
Nothing matters
to the dead,
that’s what’s so hard
for the rest of us
to take in --
their complete indifference
to our enticements,
our attempts to get in touch --
they aren’t observing us
from a discreet distance,
they aren’t listening
to a word we say --
you know that,
but you don’t believe it,
even deep in a cave
you don’t believe
in total darkness,
you keep waiting
for your eyes to adjust
and reveal your hand
in front of your face --
so how long a silence
will it take to convince us
that we’re the ones
who no longer exist,
as far as X is concerned,
and Y, that they’ve forgotten
every little thing
they knew about us,
what we told them
and what we didn’t
have to, even our names
mean nothing to them
now -- our throats ache
with all we might have said
the next time we saw them.
--Sharon Bryan
Nothing matters
to the dead,
that’s what’s so hard
for the rest of us
to take in --
their complete indifference
to our enticements,
our attempts to get in touch --
they aren’t observing us
from a discreet distance,
they aren’t listening
to a word we say --
you know that,
but you don’t believe it,
even deep in a cave
you don’t believe
in total darkness,
you keep waiting
for your eyes to adjust
and reveal your hand
in front of your face --
so how long a silence
will it take to convince us
that we’re the ones
who no longer exist,
as far as X is concerned,
and Y, that they’ve forgotten
every little thing
they knew about us,
what we told them
and what we didn’t
have to, even our names
mean nothing to them
now -- our throats ache
with all we might have said
the next time we saw them.
--Sharon Bryan
Monday, April 4, 2011
poetry
skin and years sheared
like so much fat
paired off a side of meat
wrapped in bandages,
sealed with luck
first thought is:
how thin she'll look
in her white dress
like so much fat
paired off a side of meat
wrapped in bandages,
sealed with luck
first thought is:
how thin she'll look
in her white dress
Sunday, April 3, 2011
poetry
The First Wife
- Mandy Peters
Raise your glass to Vegas, boys
your first wife has been sent
down the sticky river.
Take the sheets off the mirrors,
pack your suitcases,
grab your dollars.
The first husband gets on the plane,
crosses himself with Jack Daniels,
dreams of roulette
landing on Red 32.
Her color. Her age.
Raise your glasses to Vegas boys
Count your chips.
Tip the dealer.
Let's dance on the grave.
The first husband grieves
table to table a hundred
bucks up three shots down.
When they married,
she smelled like lilacs.
The first wife can't remember
the words do not exist.
Her fingers fade in your mind.
She is a Polaroid working backwards
disappearing into white,
then a flash.
- Mandy Peters
Raise your glass to Vegas, boys
your first wife has been sent
down the sticky river.
Take the sheets off the mirrors,
pack your suitcases,
grab your dollars.
The first husband gets on the plane,
crosses himself with Jack Daniels,
dreams of roulette
landing on Red 32.
Her color. Her age.
Raise your glasses to Vegas boys
Count your chips.
Tip the dealer.
Let's dance on the grave.
The first husband grieves
table to table a hundred
bucks up three shots down.
When they married,
she smelled like lilacs.
The first wife can't remember
the words do not exist.
Her fingers fade in your mind.
She is a Polaroid working backwards
disappearing into white,
then a flash.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
poetry
Grasshopper
by Ron Padgett
It's funny when the mind thinks about the psyche,
as if a grasshopper could ponder a helicopter.
It's a bad idea to fall asleep
while flying a helicopter:
when you wake up, the helicopter is gone
and you are too, left behind in a dream,
and there is no way to catch up,
for catching up doesn't figure
in the scheme of things. You are
who you are, right now,
and the mind is so scared it closes its eyes
and then forgets it has eyes
and the grasshopper, the one that thinks
you're a helicopter, leaps onto your back!
He is a brave little grasshopper
and he never sleeps
for the poem he writes is the act
of always being awake, better than anything
you could ever write or do.
Then he springs away.
by Ron Padgett
It's funny when the mind thinks about the psyche,
as if a grasshopper could ponder a helicopter.
It's a bad idea to fall asleep
while flying a helicopter:
when you wake up, the helicopter is gone
and you are too, left behind in a dream,
and there is no way to catch up,
for catching up doesn't figure
in the scheme of things. You are
who you are, right now,
and the mind is so scared it closes its eyes
and then forgets it has eyes
and the grasshopper, the one that thinks
you're a helicopter, leaps onto your back!
He is a brave little grasshopper
and he never sleeps
for the poem he writes is the act
of always being awake, better than anything
you could ever write or do.
Then he springs away.
Friday, April 1, 2011
quote
"I had already seen that reading a fine poem makes me rediscover the brightness of creation." - Frances Mayes
poetry
sun and rain
the sun and rain argue for a shot at the sky
the puddles are rimmed with gold
transparent, one with their lies
the sun and rain argue for a shot at the sky
the puddles are rimmed with gold
transparent, one with their lies
Commonplace Book - Entry 1: April 1, 2011
Lak of Stedfastnesse
by Geoffrey Chaucer
Somtyme the world was so stedfast and stable
That mannes word was obligacioun,
And now it is so fals and deceivable
That word and deed, as in conclusioun,
Ben nothing lyk, for turned up-so-doun
Is al this world for mede and wilfulnesse,
That al is lost for lak of stedfastnesse.
What maketh this world to be so variable
But lust that folk have in dissensioun?
For among us now a man is holde unable,
But if he can by som collusioun
Don his neighbour wrong or oppressioun.
What causeth this but wilful wrecchednesse,
That al is lost for lak of stedfastnesse?
Trouthe is put doun, resoun is holden fable,
Vertu hath now no dominacioun;
Pitee exyled, no man is merciable.
Through covetyse is blent discrecioun.
The world hath mad a permutacioun
Fro right to wrong, fro trouthe to fikelnesse,
That al is lost for lak of stedfastnesse.
O prince, desyre to be honourable,
Cherish thy folk and hate extorcioun.
Suffre nothing that may be reprevable
To thyn estat don in thy regioun.
Shew forth thy swerd of castigacioun,
Dred God, do law, love trouthe and worthinesse,
And wed thy folk agein to stedfastnesse.
~~~~~
We do "lak stedfastnesse" in today's world, don't we? What would the world be like if people could be held to their word, or deed - would it be better? Or, do we expect to be dissapointed? Has it become acceptable?
by Geoffrey Chaucer
Somtyme the world was so stedfast and stable
That mannes word was obligacioun,
And now it is so fals and deceivable
That word and deed, as in conclusioun,
Ben nothing lyk, for turned up-so-doun
Is al this world for mede and wilfulnesse,
That al is lost for lak of stedfastnesse.
What maketh this world to be so variable
But lust that folk have in dissensioun?
For among us now a man is holde unable,
But if he can by som collusioun
Don his neighbour wrong or oppressioun.
What causeth this but wilful wrecchednesse,
That al is lost for lak of stedfastnesse?
Trouthe is put doun, resoun is holden fable,
Vertu hath now no dominacioun;
Pitee exyled, no man is merciable.
Through covetyse is blent discrecioun.
The world hath mad a permutacioun
Fro right to wrong, fro trouthe to fikelnesse,
That al is lost for lak of stedfastnesse.
O prince, desyre to be honourable,
Cherish thy folk and hate extorcioun.
Suffre nothing that may be reprevable
To thyn estat don in thy regioun.
Shew forth thy swerd of castigacioun,
Dred God, do law, love trouthe and worthinesse,
And wed thy folk agein to stedfastnesse.
~~~~~
We do "lak stedfastnesse" in today's world, don't we? What would the world be like if people could be held to their word, or deed - would it be better? Or, do we expect to be dissapointed? Has it become acceptable?
National Poetry Month and the Commonplace Book
Happy April! Happy National Poetry Month!
In looking for events and other such things to commemorate National Poetry Month, I ran across this posting on poets.org:
Start a commonplace book
Since the Renaissance, devoted readers have been copying their favorite poems and quotations into notebooks to form their own personal anthologies called "commonplace books." These collections can be a source of enjoyment and solace, reminding the keeper of favorite books and poems, and can even become family heirlooms. You may devote a corner of a regular journal to jotting down quotes or poems that strike your fancy or obtain a blank book just for this purpose.
As Max W. Thomas says in "Reading and Writing the Renaissance Commonplace Book: A Question of Authorship?", "commonplace books are about memory, which takes both material and immaterial form; the commonplace book is like a record of what that memory might look like." Or, in Jonathan Swift's words:
"A commonplace book is what a provident poet cannot subsist without, for this proverbial reason, that 'great wits have short memories:' and whereas, on the other hand, poets, being liars by profession, ought to have good memories; to reconcile these, a book of this sort, is in the nature of a supplemental memory, or a record of what occurs remarkable in every day's reading or conversation. There you enter not only your own original thoughts, (which, a hundred to one, are few and insignificant) but such of other men as you think fit to make your own, by entering them there."
—from "A Letter of Advice to a Young Poet"
Today, find a small notebook to record poems or fragments of poems that you come across in your reading. As you add to your own commonplace book, you will be drawing a map of your life as a reader and thinker, creating a valuable portrait of your memory and time.
In looking for events and other such things to commemorate National Poetry Month, I ran across this posting on poets.org:
Start a commonplace book
Since the Renaissance, devoted readers have been copying their favorite poems and quotations into notebooks to form their own personal anthologies called "commonplace books." These collections can be a source of enjoyment and solace, reminding the keeper of favorite books and poems, and can even become family heirlooms. You may devote a corner of a regular journal to jotting down quotes or poems that strike your fancy or obtain a blank book just for this purpose.
As Max W. Thomas says in "Reading and Writing the Renaissance Commonplace Book: A Question of Authorship?", "commonplace books are about memory, which takes both material and immaterial form; the commonplace book is like a record of what that memory might look like." Or, in Jonathan Swift's words:
"A commonplace book is what a provident poet cannot subsist without, for this proverbial reason, that 'great wits have short memories:' and whereas, on the other hand, poets, being liars by profession, ought to have good memories; to reconcile these, a book of this sort, is in the nature of a supplemental memory, or a record of what occurs remarkable in every day's reading or conversation. There you enter not only your own original thoughts, (which, a hundred to one, are few and insignificant) but such of other men as you think fit to make your own, by entering them there."
—from "A Letter of Advice to a Young Poet"
Today, find a small notebook to record poems or fragments of poems that you come across in your reading. As you add to your own commonplace book, you will be drawing a map of your life as a reader and thinker, creating a valuable portrait of your memory and time.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This got me thinking, what is this blog other then a modern commonplace book? I think most people use and social media sites in this way now, or at least a lot of people do. Think of all the retweets and shared posts you see... Well, this will be my Commonplace-Retweet-Shared Post Blog! It basically was anyway, I think - now it's just offical! :)
To be honest, I was also inspired by my friend Marloe's (http://mymochapoollife.blogspot.com/) initiative to share a poem a day with her friends this month to both introduce them to something that plays a big role in her own life as well as to celebrate National Poetry Month.
Are you ready, my few but faithful readers? Here we go!
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