Topic of the Day
is
"Black and White"
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
In Honor of National Poetry Month - Kathryn Kirkpatrick
Stubbornly Green
by Kathryn Kirkpatrick
for Susan
Driving back to my blue mountains,
I am less than ever at home.
Another bomb blast in Iraq—
46 dead, 90 wounded—refuses
to recede to background noise.
I turn the radio off.
by Kathryn Kirkpatrick
for Susan
Driving back to my blue mountains,
I am less than ever at home.
Another bomb blast in Iraq—
46 dead, 90 wounded—refuses
to recede to background noise.
I turn the radio off.
When I was younger, the future
was all pulse and promise,
but middle-age doesn’t offer
many bluffs.
I suppose I believed
in something like progress, ascent,
however gradual, like this ribbon of road
from Lenoir to Blowing Rock,
the way I hardly notice I’ve risen
from the piedmont hills
until sheer rock face on the right side
and a sharp drop to streams on the left
reminds me.
It’s we humans
who love the straight line, want
to be spared the looped intercessions
of mourning and grief, even though
all around us--the whorl of seasons,
day and night at each others heels.
was all pulse and promise,
but middle-age doesn’t offer
many bluffs.
I suppose I believed
in something like progress, ascent,
however gradual, like this ribbon of road
from Lenoir to Blowing Rock,
the way I hardly notice I’ve risen
from the piedmont hills
until sheer rock face on the right side
and a sharp drop to streams on the left
reminds me.
It’s we humans
who love the straight line, want
to be spared the looped intercessions
of mourning and grief, even though
all around us--the whorl of seasons,
day and night at each others heels.
I’m not retreating to theories of inevitable war,
but I know the dead have to be mourned.
If we’re going anywhere at all
surely it’s nowhere we know,
the route more like a good conversation,
all give and take, not the hard drive
of the rock and roll beat
our soldiers play during battle.
but I know the dead have to be mourned.
If we’re going anywhere at all
surely it’s nowhere we know,
the route more like a good conversation,
all give and take, not the hard drive
of the rock and roll beat
our soldiers play during battle.
Now even this road I’m on winds—
an engineer deciding years ago I suppose
not to blast through solid rock.
I wend past rhododendron and mountain laurel,
stubbornly green through each long winter.
Spring takes its time here—
we’ll be weeks behind your azaleas.
Like my saying what you already know,
I’ve grown accustomed to late blooming.
an engineer deciding years ago I suppose
not to blast through solid rock.
I wend past rhododendron and mountain laurel,
stubbornly green through each long winter.
Spring takes its time here—
we’ll be weeks behind your azaleas.
Like my saying what you already know,
I’ve grown accustomed to late blooming.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
April Photo A Day Challenge - Day 24
Topic of the Day
is
"Something You're Grateful For"
My life as a kid growing up with Hazel and Alan Wilkinson as my parents.
Monday, April 23, 2012
In Honor of National Poetry Month - Jennifer Horne
An Ubi Sunt for Certain Aunts
by Jennifer Horne
Those enervated, hypothyroidal, smoking southern ladies
clad in crisply ironed men’s shirts, slacks, canvas shoes,
never without a certain amount of frustration, life being
never as beautiful or perfect as they had been led to expect—
Those enervated, hypothyroidal, smoking southern ladies
clad in crisply ironed men’s shirts, slacks, canvas shoes,
never without a certain amount of frustration, life being
never as beautiful or perfect as they had been led to expect—
their wry humor, dry laugh, yet nothing but praise and charm
for the children: “Oh honey, oh sweetness, oh darlin’,”
as though we were the loveliest confections, too pretty to eat—
saved for themselves the scathing insults:
for the children: “Oh honey, oh sweetness, oh darlin’,”
as though we were the loveliest confections, too pretty to eat—
saved for themselves the scathing insults:
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” at little mistakes—spilled sugar,
a bad marriage, teaching us young to be infinitely generous
with others. I decided to retrieve their softly dropped r’s:
dinner party, otherwise, suppertime, motherhood,
a bad marriage, teaching us young to be infinitely generous
with others. I decided to retrieve their softly dropped r’s:
dinner party, otherwise, suppertime, motherhood,
their language the patois of defeat, a desuetude I rejected.
They mostly died before seventy, their permanent disappointments
turned inward, though nothing as showy as cancer, heart attack,
stroke. Just a gradual shrinkage, the slow flaking of paint
They mostly died before seventy, their permanent disappointments
turned inward, though nothing as showy as cancer, heart attack,
stroke. Just a gradual shrinkage, the slow flaking of paint
on an old house, its imperceptibly liquid panes.
Oh ladies, I would like to clasp you to my grown-up bosom
(a word you used freely, it used to embarrass me no end),
smooth the puzzlement from the cracked glaze of your faces,
Oh ladies, I would like to clasp you to my grown-up bosom
(a word you used freely, it used to embarrass me no end),
smooth the puzzlement from the cracked glaze of your faces,
and soothe, “Not stupid. Honey. Sweetness. Beautiful aunts,
aunts of my youth.” I see you, in mind’s eye, sighing back at me,
a chorus wreathed in smoke, languid movements of the wrist:
“Oh darlin’,” you begin, “Let me tell you about the time . . . ”
aunts of my youth.” I see you, in mind’s eye, sighing back at me,
a chorus wreathed in smoke, languid movements of the wrist:
“Oh darlin’,” you begin, “Let me tell you about the time . . . ”
Lost. Unsalvageable. Lovely.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
In Honor of National Poetry Month - Amy Clampitt
Beach Glass
by Amy Clampitt
While you walk the water's edge,
turning over concepts
I can't envision, the honking buoy
serves notice that at any time
the wind may change,
the reef-bell clatters
its treble monotone, deaf as Cassandra
to any note but warning. The ocean,
cumbered by no business more urgent
than keeping open old accounts
that never balanced,
goes on shuffling its millenniums
of quartz, granite, and basalt.
It behaves
toward the permutations of novelty—
driftwood and shipwreck, last night's
beer cans, spilt oil, the coughed-up
residue of plastic—with random
impartiality, playing catch or tag
ot touch-last like a terrier,
turning the same thing over and over,
over and over. For the ocean, nothing
is beneath consideration.
The houses
of so many mussels and periwinkles
have been abandoned here, it's hopeless
to know which to salvage. Instead
I keep a lookout for beach glass—
amber of Budweiser, chrysoprase
of Almadén and Gallo, lapis
by way of (no getting around it,
I'm afraid) Phillips'
Milk of Magnesia, with now and then a rare
translucent turquoise or blurred amethyst
of no known origin.
The process
goes on forever: they came from sand,
they go back to gravel,
along with treasuries
of Murano, the buttressed
astonishments of Chartres,
which even now are readying
for being turned over and over as gravely
and gradually as an intellect
engaged in the hazardous
redefinition of structures
no one has yet looked at.
turning over concepts
I can't envision, the honking buoy
serves notice that at any time
the wind may change,
the reef-bell clatters
its treble monotone, deaf as Cassandra
to any note but warning. The ocean,
cumbered by no business more urgent
than keeping open old accounts
that never balanced,
goes on shuffling its millenniums
of quartz, granite, and basalt.
It behaves
toward the permutations of novelty—
driftwood and shipwreck, last night's
beer cans, spilt oil, the coughed-up
residue of plastic—with random
impartiality, playing catch or tag
ot touch-last like a terrier,
turning the same thing over and over,
over and over. For the ocean, nothing
is beneath consideration.
The houses
of so many mussels and periwinkles
have been abandoned here, it's hopeless
to know which to salvage. Instead
I keep a lookout for beach glass—
amber of Budweiser, chrysoprase
of Almadén and Gallo, lapis
by way of (no getting around it,
I'm afraid) Phillips'
Milk of Magnesia, with now and then a rare
translucent turquoise or blurred amethyst
of no known origin.
The process
goes on forever: they came from sand,
they go back to gravel,
along with treasuries
of Murano, the buttressed
astonishments of Chartres,
which even now are readying
for being turned over and over as gravely
and gradually as an intellect
engaged in the hazardous
redefinition of structures
no one has yet looked at.
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Solitude by J.T. Ellison
J.T. Ellison is the international award-winning author of eight critically acclaimed novels, multiple short stories and has been published in over twenty countries.
Ellison grew up in Colorado and moved to Northern Virginia during high school. She is a graduate of Randolph-Macon Woman's College and received her master's degree from George Washington University. She was a presidential appointee and worked in The White House and the Department of Commerce before moving into the private sector. As a financial analyst and marketing director, she worked for several defense and aerospace contractors.
After moving to Nashville, Ellison began research on a passion: forensics and crime. She has worked with the Metro Nashville Police Department, the FBI, and various other law enforcement organizations to research her books.
She lives in Nashville with her husband and the ghost of a poorly trained cat, and is hard at work on her next novel.
Solitude
by J.T. Ellison
We writers have voices in our heads. It’s just a fact of life. The voices speak to us, we write their words on the page, and people read the stories and are captivated, drawn into a land of make believe.
All right. Let’s be honest and call this what it really is. Controlled psychosis.
You laugh, but think about it. Where else in the world are you allowed to let the little voices in your head control your thoughts, your words, and your deeds? Hmmm?
Most writers are loners, happily spinning yarns with their imaginary friends day in and day out. Some of us are extroverts, getting a rush from interaction, gratified by teaching, or simply refilling the well on a night out with friends.
I’m one of those bizarre introverts who can unveil my personality at will, as necessary, for groups. The public me is a version of myself, the me I want to be. It’s like actors on the stage, playing a role. Or, for those of us who are terribly shy, it’s a bit like going to war.
You embellish yourself a bit. So you can make it through the night. You put on pretty clothes – armor. You do your makeup and your hair – helmet. You take a pill or have a glass – shield. And then, head to toe in metal and mail, you swan about, hoping you aren’t putting your foot into it too badly.
But that’s life, isn’t it? We all feel that momentary cringe when we think we’ve said something off, or insulting, or embarrassing. 99% of the time, no one takes your words the way you think they came out. As a matter of fact, everyone is so busy cringing that no one really hears what’s being said.
I hope.
I’m starting the tour for my newest novel, A DEEPER DARKNESS, April 17. I will be strapping on my armor and sallying forth into the world to talk about the book, and hopefully not put my foot in my mouth too many times. But this novel is about loss, and since I’ve been experiencing so much of my own lately, I’m girding myself to speak in public about that very issue.
It’s the commonalities that make each of us connect with a book. Even quiet, solitude-loving writers need to come out of their shells every once in a while and connect with people. I hope to see you on the road, or at my videochat April 19 (6pm EST, details on my website under the Events tab) And maybe we can make each other feel a little less alone.
In Honor of National Poetry Month - Dorothy Alves Holmes
April Photo A Day Challenge - Day 21
Topic of the Day
is
"Bottle"
This was taken a couple winters ago from our living room window
Friday, April 20, 2012
Thursday, April 19, 2012
In Honor of National Poetry Month - Reed Farrel Coleman
Sonnet of a City Once Known
by Reed Farrel Coleman
Have you not seen the city I once knew
buried beneath years of silent defect,
impatient rust and angry shades of blue?
History’s hidden beneath its neglect.
The endless sewer to sewer stickball games,
crumbling cement, steps worn smooth as slate,
summer Tuesdays, boardwalk firework flames,
my father coming home (always too late).
Soft blacktop leaps to meet a kid’s sneaker
rounding first, but dreaming of home at last.
Old tar just hardens, the streets grow bleaker
and bright futures are leveled by the past.
On fall days as shedding trees turn to stone,
my shadows visit this city once known.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
In Honor of National Poetry Month - Ron Padgett
The Way You Wear Your Hat
by Ron Padgett
Boing, boing, boing
is the sound the exclamation point makes
when it leaps around the page alone
like Fred Astaire in a tux at night
when he thinks that Ginger Rogers
is mad at him and only his toes
will lighten the glumness. Oh!
what a beautiful way to start a dance,
just a slow slide of the toe
along glittering black marble.
And in her hotel boudoir, Ginger
in a white satin gown, arms
crossed and lips pursed —
hey, she is mad. And no wonder:
they are in different films
being shown at different theaters!
And they will never, ever meet again,
for they have tricked each other
out of existence.
by Ron Padgett
Boing, boing, boing
is the sound the exclamation point makes
when it leaps around the page alone
like Fred Astaire in a tux at night
when he thinks that Ginger Rogers
is mad at him and only his toes
will lighten the glumness. Oh!
what a beautiful way to start a dance,
just a slow slide of the toe
along glittering black marble.
And in her hotel boudoir, Ginger
in a white satin gown, arms
crossed and lips pursed —
hey, she is mad. And no wonder:
they are in different films
being shown at different theaters!
And they will never, ever meet again,
for they have tricked each other
out of existence.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
In Honor of National Poetry Month - Mary Oliver
An Afternoon In The Stacks
by Mary Oliver
Closing the book, I find I have left my head
inside. It is dark in here, but the chapters open
their beautiful spaces and give a rustling sound,
words adjusting themselves to their meaning.
Long passages open at successive pages. An echo,
continuous from the title onward, hums
behind me. From in here, the world looms,
a jungle redeemed by these linked sentences
carved out when an author traveled and a reader
kept the way open. When this book ends
I will pull it inside-out like a sock
and throw it back in the library. But the rumor
of it will haunt all that follows in my life.
A candleflame in Tibet leans when I move.
inside. It is dark in here, but the chapters open
their beautiful spaces and give a rustling sound,
words adjusting themselves to their meaning.
Long passages open at successive pages. An echo,
continuous from the title onward, hums
behind me. From in here, the world looms,
a jungle redeemed by these linked sentences
carved out when an author traveled and a reader
kept the way open. When this book ends
I will pull it inside-out like a sock
and throw it back in the library. But the rumor
of it will haunt all that follows in my life.
A candleflame in Tibet leans when I move.
Monday, April 16, 2012
In Honor of National Poetry Month - Julie Dolcemaschio
The Pe’a
by Julie DThe worker tosses the remains
into a vat, thoughts drift to
the driving rain and the walk home
The vat churns carcass, bone, skin and scale
into a compost fit for the strays that
line the road, while the meaty parts
make way into cans bound for the mainland
The fa’afafine (fah-fah fee-nay)
wait in the shadows as the worker
passes, bound for home, the rainsluiced divots
along the sheer cliffs, fern covered, channel
the Samoan deluge onto the pockmarked road
Colorful busses pass through the village as a quiet sea
churns unhurried, a turquoise cocoon for the pink coral
that sleeps underneath
On both sides of the road the trees sway, and an old
loosened coconut drops with a hollow thud
And the mangoes not yet yellowed and ripe
hang hard and green above the worker’s head
The river of water passes him with little notice
as he climbs the steep hill to his home
The windows, covered in worn and faded
lavalava blow inward away from the breeze
off the harbor
Alone, the worker peels the day from a worn
body, the rotten sea and blood and dried scales
shed like old skin and, home now and dry,
he stands before the mirror
and remembers
the boy who helped build a village
the teen who cleared debris from
the road after the hurricane in ‘03
the young man who heard the call
and for twelve days took to the mat
as the tafuga tapped ink into skin
using the bone of a boar
the shell of a turtle, and a hammer
The design, like angels wings
begin at the lower back
and end at the belly button
The great lattice work and symmetrical lines
crossing buttocks and rounding to the groin
Then the brutal inking down the thighs
Tap tap tap to below the knees,
coloring his legs like pants he will never remove again
The young American girl he met
in a dark bar in those young unhurried years
and courted the old fashioned way
wept on their wedding night
at first sight of his pe’a, believing
the tatu ended at his waist
seeing it only above his colorful lavalava
when he went without a shirt
Legs and buttocks covered in the ink of ages
Still toned, still sculpted, honoring the
pain and blood and sweat shed
for the honor of the pe’a
And his blond girl-bride still weeps
at his faith and his bravery
His pe’a a dark shadow against
Coffee skin in darkness
And a bright beacon in the light of day
The young girl waits and loves
and yearns, but she does not understand
the way of a Samoan man, whose dreams
did not include canned tuna and slave wages
The son of a village chief turns to the
smiling girl who awaits him
Bright and nude and unsoiled in his bed
In his best dreams he saw her, just this way
The moon on her hair, shining on her skin
and he believes that tomorrow will come again
And then again with just a smile
Only her smile
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Elmore Leonard's Eleventh Rule by Earl Staggs
Elmore Leonard’s Eleventh Rule
by Earl Staggs
Most everyone who writes knows about Elmore Leonard’s Ten Rules of Writing. They’ve been picked at and kicked around for years. They’re fun to read and talk about, but to my knowledge, no one thinks of them as rock solid “laws” writers must not break.
For instance, the first one is: Never open a book with weather. That doesn’t mean you can’t mention the weather in your first paragraph. If weather is an important factor in the opening scene of your story, readers need to know about it. Suppose your heroine is stranded out in an open field, she’s naked, it’s only twenty degrees, and she’s being pelted by a freezing rain. In a situation like that, you should give that information to your readers. I think what Mr. Leonard meant was you shouldn’t waste a paragraph or two describing the weather before you begin your story. Get the story going, then work in the relevant weather details.
Actually, I believe Mr. Leonard had his tongue firmly planted in his cheek and a tight grin on his face when he set down his “Rules.” Perhaps he should have suggested keeping a salt shaker handy when you read them so you could sprinkle grains where needed.
What he said after he laid out his famous ten rules, however, has stuck with me. I call it his eleventh rule. He said:
My most important rule is one that sums up the 10: If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it.
There are certain words some writers use which I don’t. It’s a personal thing, I admit, but I believe all storytelling should be written like normal conversation. Even if written in third person, I believe the narrative should read and sound as if two people are sitting at the same table and one of them is telling a story.
Okay, time for some examples to illustrate what I’m babbling about.
Take the word “muse.” When’s the last time you heard someone use that word in conversation? Have you ever said, “I’ll muse on it and let you know.” I doubt it. You’d say, “I’ll think about it and let you know.” Yet, writers use that word often. Every time I see the word “muse,” I’m taken out of the story and I think “Uh oh. This sounds like writing.”
Then there’s the word “gaze,” which comes under the hard and fast rule about “disembodied body parts.” Parts of your body can’t unattach themselves, the rule states, and do things on their own. That’s why I’m not supposed to write, “Her eyes moved around the room and took it all in.” Under the same law, I can’t write, “His chin fell onto his chest” or “Her hands few into the air.”
Instead, I’m supposed to write, “Her gaze moved around the room.” Sorry, but that sounds like writing to me. I’ve never heard anyone talk like that. Nor have I heard anyone say, “You’re a sight for a sore gaze.” Or, “I couldn’t take my gaze off her.”
People don’t use “gaze” when they talk, but we see it in print all the time. Sure sounds like writing to me. If I use “eyes” instead of “gaze,” I think I should be forgiven because I’m writing the way people talk.
I don’t know who came up with that rule, but someone’s hands should have left their body and clamped themselves over that person’s mouth before the rule came out of it.
Next up: using what I call “ing words” to begin a sentence. Writers use them to achieve variation in sentence structure and get away from repeating the standard noun-verb construction over and over again.
As a result, we often see sentences like this one:
"Slipping into her work clothes, Mary drove downtown."
Poor Mary. In that construction, the two actions (slipping and driving) take place simultaneously. I envision Mary struggling into her clothes and driving at the same time. I hope she made it to work without a major accident.
To achieve variation in sentence construction and keep Mary safe, the author might have written:
"After slipping into her work clothes, Mary drove downtown."
There you have some examples of how I apply what I call Elmore Leonard’s “Eleventh Rule.” I’m not saying everyone should abide by it, so maybe we should call it “Earl’s Rule.” I may be stuck with it but you, of course, are not.
Thanks a Texas ton, Kaye, for allowing me to visit here on Meanderings and Muses, the best blog site on the planet. As always, big hugs and kisses to you.
In Honor of National Poetry Month - Shel Silverstein
The Little Boy and the Old Man
by Shel Silverstein
by Shel Silverstein
Said the little boy, "Sometimes I drop my spoon."
Said the old man, "I do that too."
The little boy whispered, "I wet my pants."
"I do that too," laughed the little old man.
Said the little boy, "I often cry."
The old man nodded, "So do I."
"But worst of all," said the boy, "it seems
Grown-ups don't pay attention to me."
And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
"I know what you mean," said the little old man.
Said the old man, "I do that too."
The little boy whispered, "I wet my pants."
"I do that too," laughed the little old man.
Said the little boy, "I often cry."
The old man nodded, "So do I."
"But worst of all," said the boy, "it seems
Grown-ups don't pay attention to me."
And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
"I know what you mean," said the little old man.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
April Photo A Day Challenge - Day 13
Topic of the Day
is
"Something You Found"
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
In Honor of National Poetry Month - Kathryn Stripling Byer
Attic by Kathryn Stripling Byer Not buried but piece by piece carried up narrow stairs into the rafters, her leavings have summered through forty-five seasons of Bible-Belt heat. I can stand only so much of being up here, on this late August afternoon, dead-end of summer in which I come looking for her again. In the usual places. This jewelry casket, for instance. Inside it she stares from the heart of a foliate brooch that I raise in a tangle of gold chains I don't try to loosen. She's still here: a face I have used up with wonderings. High cheekbones. Hollows. A mouth slightly open and inside that vacancy, no invitation for me to speak out of it. |
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
April Photo A Day Challenge - Day 11
Topic of the Day
is
"Where You Ate Breakfast"
It's where I eat breakfast every morning while I check email and Facebook. And if you're thinking I'm having some lovely, decadent breakfast in bed every morning, think again. It's usually a cup of coffee and a breakfast bar before I go to the gym. Bor---ing!!!!!!
It's where I eat breakfast every morning while I check email and Facebook. And if you're thinking I'm having some lovely, decadent breakfast in bed every morning, think again. It's usually a cup of coffee and a breakfast bar before I go to the gym. Bor---ing!!!!!!
Why Can't I Own a Canadian (from http://www.humanistsofutah.org)
I've copied this from http://www.humanistsofutah.org/2002/WhyCantIOwnACanadian_10-02.html
Why Can't I Own a Canadian?October 2002Dear Dr. Laura: Thank you for doing so much to educate people regarding God's Law. I have learned a great deal from your show, and try to share that knowledge with as many people as I can. When someone tries to defend the homosexual lifestyle, for example, I simply remind them that Leviticus 18:22 clearly states it to be an abomination. End of debate. I do need some advice from you, however, regarding some of the other specific laws and how to follow them: When I burn a bull on the altar as a sacrifice, I know it creates a pleasing odor for the Lord - Lev.1:9. The problem is my neighbors. They claim the odor is not pleasing to them. Should I smite them? I would like to sell my daughter into slavery, as sanctioned in Exodus 21:7. In this day and age, what do you think would be a fair price for her? I know that I am allowed no contact with a woman while she is in her period of menstrual uncleanliness - Lev.15:19- 24. The problem is, how do I tell? I have tried asking, but most women take offense. Lev. 25:44 states that I may indeed possess slaves, both male and female, provided they are purchased from neighboring nations. A friend of mine claims that this applies to Mexicans, but not Canadians. Can you clarify? Why can't I own Canadians? I have a neighbor who insists on working on the Sabbath. Exodus 35:2 clearly states he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to kill him myself? A friend of mine feels that even though eating shellfish is an abomination - Lev. 11:10, it is a lesser abomination than homosexuality. I don't agree. Can you settle this? Lev. 21:20 states that I may not approach the altar of God if I have a defect in my sight. I have to admit that I wear reading glasses. Does my vision have to be 20/20, or is there some wiggle room here? Most of my male friends get their hair trimmed, including the hair around their temples, even though this is expressly forbidden by Lev. 19:27. How should they die? I know from Lev. 11:6-8 that touching the skin of a dead pig makes me unclean, but may I still play football if I wear gloves? My uncle has a farm. He violates Lev. 19:19 by planting two different crops in the same field, as does his wife by wearing garments made of two different kinds of thread (cotton/polyester blend). He also tends to curse and blaspheme a lot. Is it really necessary that we go to all the trouble of getting the whole town together to stone them? - Lev.24:10-16. Couldn't we just burn them to death at a private family affair like we do with people who sleep with their in-laws? (Lev. 20:14) I know you have studied these things extensively, so I am confident you can help. Thank you again for reminding us that God's word is eternal and unchanging. Your devoted fan, Note to Stumblers:Jim Some comments criticizing this piece indicate that it was "hijacked" from a West Wing episode. This is a chicken and egg argument in my opinion. I don't really know which came first, and frankly don't care. |
In Honor of National Poetry Month - Tony Hoagland
Windchime
She goes out to hang the windchime
in her nightie and her work boots.
It’s six-thirty in the morning
and she’s standing on the plastic ice chest
tiptoe to reach the crossbeam of the porch,
windchime in her left hand,
hammer in her right, the nail
gripped tight between her teeth
but nothing happens next because
she’s trying to figure out
how to switch #1 with #3.
She must have been standing in the kitchen,
coffee in her hand, asleep,
when she heard it—the wind blowing
through the sound the windchime
wasn’t making
because it wasn’t there.
No one, including me, especially anymore believes
till death do us part,
but I can see what I would miss in leaving—
the way her ankles go into the work boots
as she stands upon the ice chest;
the problem scrunched into her forehead;
the little kissable mouth
with the nail in it.
Monday, April 9, 2012
In Honor of National Poetry Month - Nan Dillingham
Elvis Redux
in a close-knit family with little money
attending the Assembly of God Church
music and preaching registering deeply
moving to Memphis with his parents
living in public housing and low-rent homes
roaming Beale Street for clothes
absorbing black blues and gospel
wearing his hair long
letting his sideburns grow
roaming the halls of Humes High
dreaming of singing with the Blackwood Brothers
working after graduation at Parker Machinist Shop
Precision Tool then Crown Electric Company
driving a truck and going to night school
dropping by Sun Studio
making a demo for his mother
then later cutting “Big Boy” Cruddup’s
“That’s All Right, Mama”
backed by “Blue Moon of Kentucky”
rebuffed by the Grand Ole Opry
officials suggesting he go
back to driving a truck which he does
but not before appearing on
“Louisiana Hayride,” the Opry’s rival
meeting Colonel Tom Parker, ex-carney
refusing his contract
walking into the induction center
speaking courteously
“Sorry, Sir, I’d like to serve
but my mama’s got this heart condition
and my daddy needs me”
reading the Bible
listening to pop tunes
and country music radio
seeing Ann-Margret, Swedish sex kitten
on a billboard
on a long haul to LA
lusting for a moment, then coming home
to his doe-eyed wife Pris
and daughter Lisa Marie who favors him
all full lips and limpid eyes
sometimes sermonizing
in a white frame church
on Sunday morning
singing with the quartet
letting the sweet, sweet Spirit lift him up
sitting on the front porch swing
of his doublewide
strumming his guitar
in the honeyed twilight
of grace land
hair white like Vernon’s
an ironic smile playing on his face
wondering only once in a while
what might have been
an angel hovering
in a close-knit family with little money
attending the Assembly of God Church
music and preaching registering deeply
moving to Memphis with his parents
living in public housing and low-rent homes
roaming Beale Street for clothes
absorbing black blues and gospel
wearing his hair long
letting his sideburns grow
roaming the halls of Humes High
dreaming of singing with the Blackwood Brothers
working after graduation at Parker Machinist Shop
Precision Tool then Crown Electric Company
driving a truck and going to night school
dropping by Sun Studio
making a demo for his mother
then later cutting “Big Boy” Cruddup’s
“That’s All Right, Mama”
backed by “Blue Moon of Kentucky”
rebuffed by the Grand Ole Opry
officials suggesting he go
back to driving a truck which he does
but not before appearing on
“Louisiana Hayride,” the Opry’s rival
meeting Colonel Tom Parker, ex-carney
refusing his contract
walking into the induction center
speaking courteously
“Sorry, Sir, I’d like to serve
but my mama’s got this heart condition
and my daddy needs me”
reading the Bible
listening to pop tunes
and country music radio
seeing Ann-Margret, Swedish sex kitten
on a billboard
on a long haul to LA
lusting for a moment, then coming home
to his doe-eyed wife Pris
and daughter Lisa Marie who favors him
all full lips and limpid eyes
sometimes sermonizing
in a white frame church
on Sunday morning
singing with the quartet
letting the sweet, sweet Spirit lift him up
sitting on the front porch swing
of his doublewide
strumming his guitar
in the honeyed twilight
of grace land
hair white like Vernon’s
an ironic smile playing on his face
wondering only once in a while
what might have been
an angel hovering
Sunday, April 8, 2012
In Honor of National Poetry Month - L. B. Thompson
One of my favorite poems - - -
Variation on a Theme by King David
Praise to you!
Praise to you my snappy love!
Praise you in clean socks on a Queens-bound
train; praise you
for your famous avocado
sandwiches; Praise you from Brooklyn to blasphemy!
I've called the mayor to praise you; & a third-
base coach; even
that no-neck accountant
who doesn't have the decency to nod hello
has agreed to praise you!
Praise you with bongos and fine fancy
tea; praise you
with rhumba, tango & marmelade; praise
you with your knickers at your knees!
I praise you on Flag Day, & on whichever equinox
allows for the balancing of eggs;
I praise you with eggs!
Brown ones & jumbo & Faberge Tiffany blue!
On the white of your wrist I praise you;
on the vaccuumed throw rug; I praise you full-
page on Sunday! With faxes
& foxgloves & brushed cotton sheets;
with sky-write & timbrel &
wink! Let every soul
in the Battery Tunnel honk
her horn to praise you! Praise you
with ripe limes & wrestling mats;
praise you tax-free with agates and tin foil
& all sparkly things!
Praise you with foggy spectacles and Wisconsin green cheese!
Praise you to the afternoon of orthopedic sneakers;
praise you from poinsettia to piccolo!
Praise you & praise you & praise you!
My love,
from Brooklyn to blasphemy I praise you!
--L. B. Thompson
Variation on a Theme by King David
Praise to you!
Praise to you my snappy love!
Praise you in clean socks on a Queens-bound
train; praise you
for your famous avocado
sandwiches; Praise you from Brooklyn to blasphemy!
I've called the mayor to praise you; & a third-
base coach; even
that no-neck accountant
who doesn't have the decency to nod hello
has agreed to praise you!
Praise you with bongos and fine fancy
tea; praise you
with rhumba, tango & marmelade; praise
you with your knickers at your knees!
I praise you on Flag Day, & on whichever equinox
allows for the balancing of eggs;
I praise you with eggs!
Brown ones & jumbo & Faberge Tiffany blue!
On the white of your wrist I praise you;
on the vaccuumed throw rug; I praise you full-
page on Sunday! With faxes
& foxgloves & brushed cotton sheets;
with sky-write & timbrel &
wink! Let every soul
in the Battery Tunnel honk
her horn to praise you! Praise you
with ripe limes & wrestling mats;
praise you tax-free with agates and tin foil
& all sparkly things!
Praise you with foggy spectacles and Wisconsin green cheese!
Praise you to the afternoon of orthopedic sneakers;
praise you from poinsettia to piccolo!
Praise you & praise you & praise you!
My love,
from Brooklyn to blasphemy I praise you!
--L. B. Thompson
Friday, April 6, 2012
April Photo A Day Challenge - Day 7
Topic of the Day
is
"Shadow"
and here's Harley sitting in a shadow
In Honor of National Poetry Month - and the color red
Most of you know about my love of the color red, and a lot of you have seen me post these two poems here earlier.
In honor of National Poetry Month, I think I'll post a few of my favorite poems during the month, starting with Kim Addonizio's "What Women Want" along with Dorothy Parker's "The Red Dress."
I finally got around to doing a collage around both poems - something I've been saying I was going to do for years. And ta da! Here 'tis!
I want a red dress.
In honor of National Poetry Month, I think I'll post a few of my favorite poems during the month, starting with Kim Addonizio's "What Women Want" along with Dorothy Parker's "The Red Dress."
I finally got around to doing a collage around both poems - something I've been saying I was going to do for years. And ta da! Here 'tis!
“What Do Women Want?”
I want a red dress.
I want it flimsy and cheap,
I want it too tight, I want to wear it
until someone tears it off me.
I want it sleeveless and backless,
this dress, so no one has to guess
what’s underneath. I want to walk down
the street past Thrifty’s and the hardware store
with all those keys glittering in the window,
past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old
donuts in their café, past the Guerra brothers
slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly,
hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders.
I want to walk like I’m the only
woman on earth and I can have my pick.
I want that red dress bad.
I want it to confirm
your worst fears about me,
to show you how little I care about you
or anything except what
I want. When I find it, I’ll pull that garment
from its hanger like I’m choosing a body
to carry me into this world, through
the birth-cries and the love-cries too,
and I’ll wear it like bones, like skin,
it’ll be the goddamned
dress they bury me in.
"The Red Dress"
by Dorothy Parker
I always saw, I always said
If I were grown and free,
I'd have a gown of reddest red
As fine as you could see,
To wear out walking, sleek and slow,
Upon a Summer day,
And there'd be one to see me so
And flip the world away.
And he would be a gallant one,
With stars behind his eyes,
And hair like metal in the sun,
And lips too warm for lies.
I always saw us, gay and good,
High honored in the town.
Now I am grown to womanhood....
I have the silly gown.
I always saw, I always said
If I were grown and free,
I'd have a gown of reddest red
As fine as you could see,
To wear out walking, sleek and slow,
Upon a Summer day,
And there'd be one to see me so
And flip the world away.
And he would be a gallant one,
With stars behind his eyes,
And hair like metal in the sun,
And lips too warm for lies.
I always saw us, gay and good,
High honored in the town.
Now I am grown to womanhood....
I have the silly gown.
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