This is the first poem I wrote a paper on in college, all those years ago. "Scansion and Skirts" was the title. I still love that stress at the beginning of the line.
Blue Girls
By John Crowe Ransom
Twirling your blue skirts, travelling the sward
Under the towers of your seminary,
Go listen to your teacher old and contrary
Without believing a word.
Tie the white fillets then about your hair
And think no more of what will come to pass
Than bluebirds that go walking on the grass
And chattering on the air.
Practise your beauty, blue girls, before it fail;
And I will cry with my loud lips and publish
Beauty which all our power shall never establish,
It is so frail.
For I could tell you a story which is true;
I know a lady with a terrible tongue,
Blear eyes fallen from blue,
All her perfections tarnished--yet it is not long
Since she was lovelier than any of you.
________________
Carpe diem, ya'll.
Saturday, April 30, 2005
Friday, April 29, 2005
L'homme qui rit
You can believe in God in two ways, like thirst thinks about
an orange, or like the donkey thinks about the whip. --Victor Hugo
Love that idea of thirst, thinking thirst...
an orange, or like the donkey thinks about the whip. --Victor Hugo
Love that idea of thirst, thinking thirst...
Thursday, April 28, 2005
My Elegies
C. Dale Young's writing a lecture analyzing 4 elegies in from the last century.
I'm trying to guess what I'd pick. Here are my best guesses:
1. Auden ("In Memory of WB Yeats")
2. Roethke (1 or maybe 2 poems--I think I'd choose "Elegy for Jane" and "The Lost Son," or maybe even the "Far Field").
3. Ginsberg ("Kaddish"--a magnificent and underrated poem).
The last one's up in the air--maybe literally.
I like Tate's "The Lost Pilot," even though that's so unfashionable.
"Song" by BP Kelly hits all the bases for elegy, and it's NEW.
An elegy I love is "The Sparrow" by WCW. I'd have to pick that one!
Also...
Denise Levertov's Olga poems would come up if I were choosing.
And what about My Alexandria by Doty? Those poems are heartwrenching.
We already know Berryman's ruled out...but I'd have to work Henry in there somewhere.
Fascinating topic...there are so many great poems.
I'm trying to guess what I'd pick. Here are my best guesses:
1. Auden ("In Memory of WB Yeats")
2. Roethke (1 or maybe 2 poems--I think I'd choose "Elegy for Jane" and "The Lost Son," or maybe even the "Far Field").
3. Ginsberg ("Kaddish"--a magnificent and underrated poem).
The last one's up in the air--maybe literally.
I like Tate's "The Lost Pilot," even though that's so unfashionable.
"Song" by BP Kelly hits all the bases for elegy, and it's NEW.
An elegy I love is "The Sparrow" by WCW. I'd have to pick that one!
Also...
Denise Levertov's Olga poems would come up if I were choosing.
And what about My Alexandria by Doty? Those poems are heartwrenching.
We already know Berryman's ruled out...but I'd have to work Henry in there somewhere.
Fascinating topic...there are so many great poems.
Happy Poetry Month--Dickinson and Doors
We have a saying here in Kentucky: Don't let the door hit you on the way out...Well, these doors hit me this morning...
#670
One need not be a Chamber — to be Haunted —
One need not be a House —
The Brain has Corridors — surpassing
Material Place —
Far safer, of a Midnight Meeting
External Ghost
Than its interior Confronting —
That Cooler Host.
Far safer, through an Abbey gallop,
The Stones a'chase —
Than Unarmed, one's a'self encounter —
In lonesome Place —
Ourself behind ourself, concealed —
Should startle most —
Assasin hid in our Apartment
Be Horror's least.
The Body — borrows a Revolver —
He bolts the Door —
O'erlooking a superior spectre —
Or More —
Very interesting to contrast with this one:
#303
The Soul selects her own Society -
Then - shuts the Door -
To her divine Majority -
Present no more -
Unmoved - she notes the Chariots - pausing
At her low Gate -
Unmoved - an Emperor be kneeling
Upon her Mat -
I've known her - from an ample nation -
Choose One -
Then - close the Valves of her attention -
Like Stone -
It's a cool pendant here--how the Body Bolts and the Soul Selects!
I think I'll look for other doors today in Dickinson.
Happy Poetry Month, Everyone.
#670
One need not be a Chamber — to be Haunted —
One need not be a House —
The Brain has Corridors — surpassing
Material Place —
Far safer, of a Midnight Meeting
External Ghost
Than its interior Confronting —
That Cooler Host.
Far safer, through an Abbey gallop,
The Stones a'chase —
Than Unarmed, one's a'self encounter —
In lonesome Place —
Ourself behind ourself, concealed —
Should startle most —
Assasin hid in our Apartment
Be Horror's least.
The Body — borrows a Revolver —
He bolts the Door —
O'erlooking a superior spectre —
Or More —
Very interesting to contrast with this one:
#303
The Soul selects her own Society -
Then - shuts the Door -
To her divine Majority -
Present no more -
Unmoved - she notes the Chariots - pausing
At her low Gate -
Unmoved - an Emperor be kneeling
Upon her Mat -
I've known her - from an ample nation -
Choose One -
Then - close the Valves of her attention -
Like Stone -
It's a cool pendant here--how the Body Bolts and the Soul Selects!
I think I'll look for other doors today in Dickinson.
Happy Poetry Month, Everyone.
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
POSTSECRET TIME
And my big confession is...I love Tennyson.
(Even if I spoke no English, I think I would love him. Maybe I'd even love him more). No poet gains more by being read aloud.
Here's the opening to "Tithonus."
The woods decay, the woods decay and fall,
The vapours weep their burthen to the ground,
Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath,
And after many a summer dies the swan.
OMG that is so beautiful. Just hear those vowels and how the consonant end-stops literally slow them down to 33-1/3.
Well, the secret's out. I feel so much better now.
(Even if I spoke no English, I think I would love him. Maybe I'd even love him more). No poet gains more by being read aloud.
Here's the opening to "Tithonus."
The woods decay, the woods decay and fall,
The vapours weep their burthen to the ground,
Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath,
And after many a summer dies the swan.
OMG that is so beautiful. Just hear those vowels and how the consonant end-stops literally slow them down to 33-1/3.
Well, the secret's out. I feel so much better now.
Monday, April 25, 2005
Flea Bytes
We went to the Nashville Flea Market on Saturday, just like we wanted. We missed the rain and had cool, overcast weather--the best for outside shopping.
Here's what we purchased (dare I say "flea collars"?)
Elephant planter (pale yellow) for the kitchen
Bulldog-clown porcelain pincushion--this hits the half-dolls/Harv's petulant clowns
Cat-climbing-flower figurine--porcelain pincusion--see above
Cordey busts--goes in my collection of women in hats)
5 pounds of candied cashews/almonds
Glass earrings/necklace in red, citron, and turquoise
Carved bone charm--crescent moon overlapping sunface (beautiful)
Antique deck of Tarot cards--maybe Harvey is going to set up a Carnivale booth
What we longed for:
ME: Red/white Bakelite bracelet/red rhinestones (kicking self over this one)
HUSBAND: A set of iron black-cat fireirons. There were holes for the cat's eyes, so the fire would make them flare orange.
BOTH: Beautiful garnets and fossils at the booth where we bought the carved bone charm.
Surprise: Husband sneaked off and bought a vinegar/oil set to add to my Manhattan glasswire. I swear he is too generous.
Weirdest things we saw:
Woman in rabbit fur earmuffs, even though the temperature was in the high 50s.
Crocheted Elvis Presley Kleenex cover.
Lady with baby stroller and tether like a phone/umbilical cord--the dog was in the stroller and the 4 year old was a little astronaut in her wake.
What we did not see: Man with expensive porcelain half-dolls.
Here's what we purchased (dare I say "flea collars"?)
Elephant planter (pale yellow) for the kitchen
Bulldog-clown porcelain pincushion--this hits the half-dolls/Harv's petulant clowns
Cat-climbing-flower figurine--porcelain pincusion--see above
Cordey busts--goes in my collection of women in hats)
5 pounds of candied cashews/almonds
Glass earrings/necklace in red, citron, and turquoise
Carved bone charm--crescent moon overlapping sunface (beautiful)
Antique deck of Tarot cards--maybe Harvey is going to set up a Carnivale booth
What we longed for:
ME: Red/white Bakelite bracelet/red rhinestones (kicking self over this one)
HUSBAND: A set of iron black-cat fireirons. There were holes for the cat's eyes, so the fire would make them flare orange.
BOTH: Beautiful garnets and fossils at the booth where we bought the carved bone charm.
Surprise: Husband sneaked off and bought a vinegar/oil set to add to my Manhattan glasswire. I swear he is too generous.
Weirdest things we saw:
Woman in rabbit fur earmuffs, even though the temperature was in the high 50s.
Crocheted Elvis Presley Kleenex cover.
Lady with baby stroller and tether like a phone/umbilical cord--the dog was in the stroller and the 4 year old was a little astronaut in her wake.
What we did not see: Man with expensive porcelain half-dolls.
Trying a Translation of the Big Question
I cannot possibly do this poem justice. But I'll keep trying...
Che Fece .... Il Gran Rifiuto
To certain people
there comes a day
when they must say
the great Yes
or the great No.
He who has the Yes
on his lips betrays
himself; saying yes,
frees his honor,
unfetters his fervor.
He who refuses doesn’t
look back. Asked again,
he'd say no again,
again and again.
And yet that no--
the right no--
it's a yoke that's heavy,
it breaks his shoulders.
C.F. Cavafy (translated 04/25/05)
Or maybe (keeping the quatrains:
Che Fece .... Il Gran Rifiuto
To certain people there comes a day
when they must say the great Yes
or the great No. He who has the Yes
on his lips betrays himself; to say
it frees his honor, unfetters its fervors.
He who refuses doesn’t look back. He’d answer no
if asked again, and again. And yet it's that no--
the right no--a yoke so heavy, it breaks his shoulders.
Cannot decide!
Che Fece .... Il Gran Rifiuto
To certain people
there comes a day
when they must say
the great Yes
or the great No.
He who has the Yes
on his lips betrays
himself; saying yes,
frees his honor,
unfetters his fervor.
He who refuses doesn’t
look back. Asked again,
he'd say no again,
again and again.
And yet that no--
the right no--
it's a yoke that's heavy,
it breaks his shoulders.
C.F. Cavafy (translated 04/25/05)
Or maybe (keeping the quatrains:
Che Fece .... Il Gran Rifiuto
To certain people there comes a day
when they must say the great Yes
or the great No. He who has the Yes
on his lips betrays himself; to say
it frees his honor, unfetters its fervors.
He who refuses doesn’t look back. He’d answer no
if asked again, and again. And yet it's that no--
the right no--a yoke so heavy, it breaks his shoulders.
Cannot decide!
Sunday, April 24, 2005
Robert Penn Warren: A Centennial (1905-2005)
And now he's on a stamp.
I'm a major RPW fan. Here are 2 of my favorites.
''For nothing is lost, nothing is ever lost. There is always the clue, the canceled check, the smear of lipstick, the footprint in the canna bed, the condom in the park path, the twitch in the old wound, the baby shoes dipped in bronze, the taint in the blood stream. And all times are one time, and all those dead in the past never lived before our definition gives them life, and out of the shadow their eyes implore us."
All The King's Men
______________________
AUGUST MOON
Gold like a half-slice of orange
Fished from a stiff Old-Fashioned, the moon
Lolls on the sky that goes deeper blue
By the tick of the watch. Or
Lolls like a real brass button half-buttoned
On the blue flannel sleeve
Of an expensive seagoing blue blazer.
Slowly stars, in a gradual
Eczema of glory, gain definition.
What kind of world is this we walk in?
It makes no sense except
The inner, near-soundless chug-chug of the body's old business-
Your father's cancer, or
Mother's stroke, or
The cat's fifth pregnancy.
Anyway, while night
Hardens into its infinite being,
We walk down the woods-lane, dreaming
There's an inward means of
Communication with
That world whose darkling susurration
Might-if only we were lucky-be
Deciphered.
Children do not count years
Except at birthday parties.
We count them unexpectedly,
At random, like
A half-wit pulling both triggers
Of a ten-gauge with no target, then
Wondering what made the noise,
Or what hit the shoulder with the flat
Butt of the axe-head.
But this is off the point, which is
The counting of years, and who
Wants to live anyway
Except to be of use to
Somebody loved?
At least, that's what they say.
Do you hear the great owl in distance?
Do you remember a childhood prayer-
A hand on your head?
The moon is lost in tree-darkness.
Stars show now only
In the pale path between treetops.
The track of white gravel leads forward in darkness.
I advise you to hold hands as you walk,
And speak not a word.
______________________________
I'm a major RPW fan. Here are 2 of my favorites.
''For nothing is lost, nothing is ever lost. There is always the clue, the canceled check, the smear of lipstick, the footprint in the canna bed, the condom in the park path, the twitch in the old wound, the baby shoes dipped in bronze, the taint in the blood stream. And all times are one time, and all those dead in the past never lived before our definition gives them life, and out of the shadow their eyes implore us."
All The King's Men
______________________
AUGUST MOON
Gold like a half-slice of orange
Fished from a stiff Old-Fashioned, the moon
Lolls on the sky that goes deeper blue
By the tick of the watch. Or
Lolls like a real brass button half-buttoned
On the blue flannel sleeve
Of an expensive seagoing blue blazer.
Slowly stars, in a gradual
Eczema of glory, gain definition.
What kind of world is this we walk in?
It makes no sense except
The inner, near-soundless chug-chug of the body's old business-
Your father's cancer, or
Mother's stroke, or
The cat's fifth pregnancy.
Anyway, while night
Hardens into its infinite being,
We walk down the woods-lane, dreaming
There's an inward means of
Communication with
That world whose darkling susurration
Might-if only we were lucky-be
Deciphered.
Children do not count years
Except at birthday parties.
We count them unexpectedly,
At random, like
A half-wit pulling both triggers
Of a ten-gauge with no target, then
Wondering what made the noise,
Or what hit the shoulder with the flat
Butt of the axe-head.
But this is off the point, which is
The counting of years, and who
Wants to live anyway
Except to be of use to
Somebody loved?
At least, that's what they say.
Do you hear the great owl in distance?
Do you remember a childhood prayer-
A hand on your head?
The moon is lost in tree-darkness.
Stars show now only
In the pale path between treetops.
The track of white gravel leads forward in darkness.
I advise you to hold hands as you walk,
And speak not a word.
______________________________
Friday, April 22, 2005
Nabokov's Satyr
Vladimir Nabokov loved the blues...especially the Lepidoptera. At least two different types of blues are named after Nabokov.
Nabokov's satyr--a woodland butterfly--isn't a nectar taker. It prefers partial shade and flourishes among stands of oak.
Nabokov is also known for his investigation of Nymphalidae. (Lolita as imago comes to mind). The nomenclature here is Nabokov's Wood Nymph.
Here's his own poem about the subject:
On Discovering a Butterfly
I found it and I named it, being versed
in taxonomic Latin; thus became
godfather to an insect and its first
describer -- and I want no other fame.
Wide open on its pin (though fast asleep),
and safe from creeping relatives and rust,
in the secluded stronghold where we keep
type specimens it will transcend its dust.
Dark pictures, thrones, the stones that pilgrims kiss,
poems that take a thousand years to die
but ape the immortality of this
red label on a little butterfly.
Happy Birthday, Vladimir!
Nabokov's satyr--a woodland butterfly--isn't a nectar taker. It prefers partial shade and flourishes among stands of oak.
Nabokov is also known for his investigation of Nymphalidae. (Lolita as imago comes to mind). The nomenclature here is Nabokov's Wood Nymph.
Here's his own poem about the subject:
On Discovering a Butterfly
I found it and I named it, being versed
in taxonomic Latin; thus became
godfather to an insect and its first
describer -- and I want no other fame.
Wide open on its pin (though fast asleep),
and safe from creeping relatives and rust,
in the secluded stronghold where we keep
type specimens it will transcend its dust.
Dark pictures, thrones, the stones that pilgrims kiss,
poems that take a thousand years to die
but ape the immortality of this
red label on a little butterfly.
Happy Birthday, Vladimir!
Monday, April 18, 2005
Chinoiserie--Anniversary #19 Preview
This weekend, we went to a small town studded with antique shops--a few major purchases were made: Two clown planters to go with husband's cookie jars, one pink planter of Little Boy Blue (love the dichotomy), a set of Junior Classics for our daughter, a Pierrot planter or bud vase (not sure which--1930s lustre ware), and a beautiful English china plate with Pierrot wooing a lady. Also, I found a complete series of LEAP YEAR postcards. Oh, the thrills of deltiology (look it up, Dale).
My husband showed me a ticket for an item he'd bought. He purchased the black lacquer chinoiserie secretary/desk I have craved for over 3 years. We'll bring it home this summer after the roof is repaired, so the ceiling can be replaced in the kitchen, so that the cookie jars can exit the living room, so that the desk can fit in...
This is the second nicest gift he's ever given me that I am willing to mention on a blog. The nicest is when, after 15 years of marriage without a "real" wedding ring, we finally went shopping for wedding rings. He said, "That diamond's too small; look at the one next to it."
Now, what can I give him? He said write a poem--about anything. This will be a real challenge!
My husband showed me a ticket for an item he'd bought. He purchased the black lacquer chinoiserie secretary/desk I have craved for over 3 years. We'll bring it home this summer after the roof is repaired, so the ceiling can be replaced in the kitchen, so that the cookie jars can exit the living room, so that the desk can fit in...
This is the second nicest gift he's ever given me that I am willing to mention on a blog. The nicest is when, after 15 years of marriage without a "real" wedding ring, we finally went shopping for wedding rings. He said, "That diamond's too small; look at the one next to it."
Now, what can I give him? He said write a poem--about anything. This will be a real challenge!
Monochrome
DESIGN
I found a dimpled spider, fat and white,
On the white heal-all, holding up a moth
Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth-
Assorted characters of death and blight
Mixed ready to begin the morning right,
Like the ingredients of a witches broth-
A snow-drop spider, a flower like froth,
And dead wings carried like a paper kite.
What had that flower to do with being white,
The wayside blue and innocent heal-all?
What brought the kindred spider to that height,
Then steered the white moth thither in the night?
What but design of darkness to apall?--
If design govern in a thing so small.
Robert Frost
How hard is it to try to write a poem that's all one color? Well, I'ved tried it, and the results are not pretty. That makes me like this poem even more.
For me, it's fascinating to compare and contrast this "nature" poem in the New England tradition of E. Taylor and E. Dickinson.
I found a dimpled spider, fat and white,
On the white heal-all, holding up a moth
Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth-
Assorted characters of death and blight
Mixed ready to begin the morning right,
Like the ingredients of a witches broth-
A snow-drop spider, a flower like froth,
And dead wings carried like a paper kite.
What had that flower to do with being white,
The wayside blue and innocent heal-all?
What brought the kindred spider to that height,
Then steered the white moth thither in the night?
What but design of darkness to apall?--
If design govern in a thing so small.
Robert Frost
How hard is it to try to write a poem that's all one color? Well, I'ved tried it, and the results are not pretty. That makes me like this poem even more.
For me, it's fascinating to compare and contrast this "nature" poem in the New England tradition of E. Taylor and E. Dickinson.
Sunday, April 17, 2005
Quote of the Day
"I read Shakespeare and the Bible, and I can shoot dice. That's what I call a liberal education." Tallulah Bankhead
My whole life, people have told me I look like Bette Davis. I've never been sure whether to take that as a compliment. I'd much rather be as pure as the driven slush and resemble Miz Tallulah. When I was a little girl, she played Black Widow on Batman, and I thought she was just the coolest villainess.
My whole life, people have told me I look like Bette Davis. I've never been sure whether to take that as a compliment. I'd much rather be as pure as the driven slush and resemble Miz Tallulah. When I was a little girl, she played Black Widow on Batman, and I thought she was just the coolest villainess.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Dancin' on the Ceiling
Well, not actually, but the roofing patch held--no more leaks even during this week's biggest storm, and we are getting closer to moving all McCoy cookie jars and planters out of the living room. Our living room is peacock green and octagonal--and the cookie jars are very out of place--a carnival of pink elephants and evil clowns meets Victoriana/Orientalia. (And why was there no evil clown in the few episodes I saw of Carnivale????)
Our homeowners' insurance will pay for the new ceiling but not for the roof--but a patch and partial re-roofing is much, much better than a full roofing project.
So there may be a trip to Nashville for our anniversary after all...Nineteen years and Nashville==sounds like a jukebox selection.
Pamela
Our homeowners' insurance will pay for the new ceiling but not for the roof--but a patch and partial re-roofing is much, much better than a full roofing project.
So there may be a trip to Nashville for our anniversary after all...Nineteen years and Nashville==sounds like a jukebox selection.
Pamela
Pass the SPF, Please!
You're Pale Fire!
by Vladimir Nabokov
You're really into poetry and the interpretation thereof. Along the
road of life, you have had several identity crises which make it very unclear who you
are, let alone how to interpret poetry. You probably came from a foreign country, but
then again you seem foreign to everyone in ways unrelated to immigration. Most people
think you're quite funny, but maybe you're just sick. Talking to you ends up being much
like playing a round of the popular board game Clue.
Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Screaming MEMEs
1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your journal along with these instructions.
5. Don’t search around and look for the “coolest” book you can find. Do what’s actually next to you.
Okay, the first book did not have a page 123. The second book had a photograph on page 123. The third book did not have a fifth sentence on page 123. Here is the appropriate sentence from the fourth book, with no cheating involved.
"I nodded."
AARGH.
Pamela
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your journal along with these instructions.
5. Don’t search around and look for the “coolest” book you can find. Do what’s actually next to you.
Okay, the first book did not have a page 123. The second book had a photograph on page 123. The third book did not have a fifth sentence on page 123. Here is the appropriate sentence from the fourth book, with no cheating involved.
"I nodded."
AARGH.
Pamela
Title with Which There Is No Associated Poem
A Baseball Bat Is a Third-Class Fulcrum
This was swiped from my daughter's Ranger Rick magazine. (I do have an idea for this one). Maybe if I post it here I will feel enough guilt to abandon the orchid poem and go for it. All I can get in my head on the orchid poem is a greaser's hairdo and the pompadours of some orchids and Edward Munch's The Scream.
This was swiped from my daughter's Ranger Rick magazine. (I do have an idea for this one). Maybe if I post it here I will feel enough guilt to abandon the orchid poem and go for it. All I can get in my head on the orchid poem is a greaser's hairdo and the pompadours of some orchids and Edward Munch's The Scream.
DANGER, WILL ROBINSON, DANGER--WHINING AHEAD
I think this is the time to just go outside and eat worms. It seems to work for robins.
Litany of Gripes (Heck, an entire panoply):
1. No ceiling on one entire side of the kitchen--of course, it is the stove/microwave side--and the side with the butcherblock counter.
2. Dead mice and inconsolable daughter.
3. Husband stressed out over comprehensive examinations and tax check the same week!
4. New cat peeing on the side of the kitchen that does not have leaks. I guess she's going for symmetry.
5. Primogeniturial cat territorial and starting to bite everyone.
6. Three groups of poems back--one with writing. Sounds promising--but wait.
WRITTEN: Sorry it took so long to send them back.
TRANSLATION: We should have rejected these without opening the envelope.
At least I still like my story, even if no one else does. The newest one is finished. I wish I had a reader. I wish I had a clue about my poems. I wish I had a beak--it would make grubbing for worms so much easier.
Litany of Gripes (Heck, an entire panoply):
1. No ceiling on one entire side of the kitchen--of course, it is the stove/microwave side--and the side with the butcherblock counter.
2. Dead mice and inconsolable daughter.
3. Husband stressed out over comprehensive examinations and tax check the same week!
4. New cat peeing on the side of the kitchen that does not have leaks. I guess she's going for symmetry.
5. Primogeniturial cat territorial and starting to bite everyone.
6. Three groups of poems back--one with writing. Sounds promising--but wait.
WRITTEN: Sorry it took so long to send them back.
TRANSLATION: We should have rejected these without opening the envelope.
At least I still like my story, even if no one else does. The newest one is finished. I wish I had a reader. I wish I had a clue about my poems. I wish I had a beak--it would make grubbing for worms so much easier.
Saturday, April 09, 2005
"We acknowledge and bewail our manifold sins and wickedness, which we, from time to time, most grievously have committed, by thought, word and deed, against thy Divine Majesty, provoking most justly thy wrath and indignation against us."
The Book of Common Prayer
Here's our entire marriage ceremony, at the courthouse, nearly 19 years ago.
Do you?
Yes.
Well, what about you?
Yes.
Okay, then, I pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss...oh, good grief, you're already kissing her.
The Book of Common Prayer
Here's our entire marriage ceremony, at the courthouse, nearly 19 years ago.
Do you?
Yes.
Well, what about you?
Yes.
Okay, then, I pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss...oh, good grief, you're already kissing her.
Friday, April 08, 2005
Today's Posting: Reasons I No Longer Teach Science or English or Transcription.
However, I sometimes miss it...These are not my students--although I would love to have student #3 in a writers' workshop.
Q. What is the fibula?
A. A small lie.
Q. Define the term "varicose."
A. Nearby.
Q: Explain one of the processes by which water can be made safe to drink.
A: Flirtation makes water safe to drink because it removes large pollutants like grit, sand, dead sheep and canoeists.
Have a great weekend, transcriptionists et al.
Q. What is the fibula?
A. A small lie.
Q. Define the term "varicose."
A. Nearby.
Q: Explain one of the processes by which water can be made safe to drink.
A: Flirtation makes water safe to drink because it removes large pollutants like grit, sand, dead sheep and canoeists.
Have a great weekend, transcriptionists et al.
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
"I Read the News Today, Oh, Boy..."
And Saul Bellow's dead. I am so sorry!
I love the books—The Adventures of Augie March, Humbolt’s Gift, Mr. Sammler’s Planet—but my favorite (and what I consider to be his masterpiece) is “Seize the Day” (title piece from the book of the same name). It’s a gem. In Augie, the reader is amazed by the rambunctious realism, the exuberant dialogue, the comic plot; in “Seize the Day,” the tone is consistently more somber, and the book is a tightly focused examination of a day most of us certainly wouldn’t want to seize. Tommy Wilhelm in many ways is the anti-Augie. He fails at everything that 1950s America prizes—commerce, conformity, family, fame—yet in a more important way, he succeeds by rejecting nihilism and maintaining hope. (And the character of Tamken is such a great embodiment of nihilism). Tommy may fail commercially, but he has started to develop enough insight to survive spiritually. It’s knowledge that Bellow is asserting will save Tommy and, by extension, the reader, and Bellow really slams the American Dream for rejecting the dreamer.
I also find it ironic that in “Seize the Day” 1950s America is exposed as so hypocritical and complex, and Tommy longs to return to the tranquil days of the past. Now, so many people want a 1950s lifestyle, focusing on the “family” and the “good old days.” I think anyone from Focus on the Family would do well to read this book before insisting that families only come in one pattern, and adherence to that pattern results in happiness. Well, adherence to a pattern results in linoleum, and often linoleum buckles. I’m really lucky to have my family—I have a husband who’s a great artist and who cherishes me, two children who are also wonderful (especially when asleep), pets, a house from the 1880s that is pretty (when the roof doesn’t leak), and a faith that gives me hope and comfort—and I also know that a less “traditional” family is just as much a family as any Ward and June Cleaver type of family.
Well, that's enough soapbox for this afternoon--I have chores to do--and by the way, the roof's leaking is not a cliche--our flat kitchen roof has leaked and damaged the beautiful ceiling in there. I am so frustrated! This is the first big thing that's gone wrong in the 3 years we've lived here, which for an 1880s Queen Anne is a minor miracle. I should be grateful. I love this house and having something break or leak here is painful--and not just financially. But still--there goes our tax refund.
I love the books—The Adventures of Augie March, Humbolt’s Gift, Mr. Sammler’s Planet—but my favorite (and what I consider to be his masterpiece) is “Seize the Day” (title piece from the book of the same name). It’s a gem. In Augie, the reader is amazed by the rambunctious realism, the exuberant dialogue, the comic plot; in “Seize the Day,” the tone is consistently more somber, and the book is a tightly focused examination of a day most of us certainly wouldn’t want to seize. Tommy Wilhelm in many ways is the anti-Augie. He fails at everything that 1950s America prizes—commerce, conformity, family, fame—yet in a more important way, he succeeds by rejecting nihilism and maintaining hope. (And the character of Tamken is such a great embodiment of nihilism). Tommy may fail commercially, but he has started to develop enough insight to survive spiritually. It’s knowledge that Bellow is asserting will save Tommy and, by extension, the reader, and Bellow really slams the American Dream for rejecting the dreamer.
I also find it ironic that in “Seize the Day” 1950s America is exposed as so hypocritical and complex, and Tommy longs to return to the tranquil days of the past. Now, so many people want a 1950s lifestyle, focusing on the “family” and the “good old days.” I think anyone from Focus on the Family would do well to read this book before insisting that families only come in one pattern, and adherence to that pattern results in happiness. Well, adherence to a pattern results in linoleum, and often linoleum buckles. I’m really lucky to have my family—I have a husband who’s a great artist and who cherishes me, two children who are also wonderful (especially when asleep), pets, a house from the 1880s that is pretty (when the roof doesn’t leak), and a faith that gives me hope and comfort—and I also know that a less “traditional” family is just as much a family as any Ward and June Cleaver type of family.
Well, that's enough soapbox for this afternoon--I have chores to do--and by the way, the roof's leaking is not a cliche--our flat kitchen roof has leaked and damaged the beautiful ceiling in there. I am so frustrated! This is the first big thing that's gone wrong in the 3 years we've lived here, which for an 1880s Queen Anne is a minor miracle. I should be grateful. I love this house and having something break or leak here is painful--and not just financially. But still--there goes our tax refund.
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
Mensiversary
This blog's one month old--that's hard to believe.
I've been trying to write a poem a day--it's closer to a line or an image a day, but maybe I can crazy-glue them into something.
My daughter's writing a story about Reelfoot Lake: Reelfoot Lake was caused by an earthquake in 1912. A million square miles shook. Church bells rang as far away as Boston (from one of my antique postcards).
Her drawings of the earth's upheaval and the Mississippi River flowing backwards are so good--she gets that talent from her dad. To see them both:
http://www.harveyparker.freeservers.com/photo.html
I've been trying to write a poem a day--it's closer to a line or an image a day, but maybe I can crazy-glue them into something.
My daughter's writing a story about Reelfoot Lake: Reelfoot Lake was caused by an earthquake in 1912. A million square miles shook. Church bells rang as far away as Boston (from one of my antique postcards).
Her drawings of the earth's upheaval and the Mississippi River flowing backwards are so good--she gets that talent from her dad. To see them both:
http://www.harveyparker.freeservers.com/photo.html
Sunday, April 03, 2005
There is no joy in Mudville--oops, Murray!
Mighty Louisville has struck out! I'll root for Illinois now.
This was a beautiful, beautiful Sunday. Harvey, Raleigh, and I went to Reelfoot Lake (looking for a weekend house, maybe), and it was so gorgeous--the slow supple water, the cypress knees popping up like otters near the shoreline, the birds--everywhere--golden eagle, bald eagle, heron, egret, red-winged blackbirds, jays, mallards, teal ducks, Canadian goose--the water moccasin slithering into the water (which we saw safely from the bank), all the wildflowers, lily pads, and the turtles piled up like poker chips...
Still no luck finding a weekend place--but oh, did we have a great time looking. Stopped at a flea market and bought an antique ribbed fishbowl to hold my marble collection--a quarter; lustreware lid to an antique cigarette box--two spaniels atop it--also a quarter. I will find the bottom. I'm lucky like that.
When we arrived home, we found Lucy on the love seat--puffed up like a cloud--a thundercloud--very miaowish and then very loving. I realized this is the first time I've left her here without human companionship for more than 2 hours. Loco was on the steps, very glad to see me, doing ankle figure-8s for catfood--but not worried, not missing me. For some reason, he reminds me of the Roadrunner--maybe it's the speed, maybe it's the small size of the cranium....He is so funny and does not realize what mayhem he leaves in his wake. I do think he would eat pellets from the Acme Company...
I am not tired, but it is time for BED. Feel like a little kid in a Robert Louis Stevenson poem--In summer, quite the other way, I have to go to bed by day...but it is not day!!!!! Daylight savings time really bites, in my opinion. I realize I am a Luddite, but hey, as I had to explain to an entire class of college freshman, WE DO NOT MOVE THE SUN IN THE SPRING ONLY TO ROLL IT BACK IN THE FALL. (This was actually asked and seconded by several students).
On to bed. Hope everyone had a great weekend. (Even the Michigan State/Louisville fans among us).
This was a beautiful, beautiful Sunday. Harvey, Raleigh, and I went to Reelfoot Lake (looking for a weekend house, maybe), and it was so gorgeous--the slow supple water, the cypress knees popping up like otters near the shoreline, the birds--everywhere--golden eagle, bald eagle, heron, egret, red-winged blackbirds, jays, mallards, teal ducks, Canadian goose--the water moccasin slithering into the water (which we saw safely from the bank), all the wildflowers, lily pads, and the turtles piled up like poker chips...
Still no luck finding a weekend place--but oh, did we have a great time looking. Stopped at a flea market and bought an antique ribbed fishbowl to hold my marble collection--a quarter; lustreware lid to an antique cigarette box--two spaniels atop it--also a quarter. I will find the bottom. I'm lucky like that.
When we arrived home, we found Lucy on the love seat--puffed up like a cloud--a thundercloud--very miaowish and then very loving. I realized this is the first time I've left her here without human companionship for more than 2 hours. Loco was on the steps, very glad to see me, doing ankle figure-8s for catfood--but not worried, not missing me. For some reason, he reminds me of the Roadrunner--maybe it's the speed, maybe it's the small size of the cranium....He is so funny and does not realize what mayhem he leaves in his wake. I do think he would eat pellets from the Acme Company...
I am not tired, but it is time for BED. Feel like a little kid in a Robert Louis Stevenson poem--In summer, quite the other way, I have to go to bed by day...but it is not day!!!!! Daylight savings time really bites, in my opinion. I realize I am a Luddite, but hey, as I had to explain to an entire class of college freshman, WE DO NOT MOVE THE SUN IN THE SPRING ONLY TO ROLL IT BACK IN THE FALL. (This was actually asked and seconded by several students).
On to bed. Hope everyone had a great weekend. (Even the Michigan State/Louisville fans among us).
Saturday, April 02, 2005
"The Snow Queen"
``Now you must have no more kisses,'' she said, ``or I should kiss you to death.''
This line is from "The Snow Queen," by Hans Christian Anderson. Today's the 200th anniversary of his birth. I remember so many of his stories, reading them myself and reading them to my children: Thumbelina, The Little Match-Seller, The Princess and the Pea, The Emperor's New Clothes, The Steadfast Tin Solder, The Red Shoes, The Nightingale, The Little Mermaid, The Ugly Duckling,The Tinder-Box, The Wild Swans, The Fir Tree....
My favorite is The Snow Queen because of the imagery and the dualisms in the stories: Andersen plays, sometimes humorously and sometimes quite darkly, with the dualism of the inner/outer selves, the appearance/essence of the real. Also, a Gerda, a GIRL, was the powerful one, which was rare in anything I read while growing up in the 1960s.
Anyway, once upon a time, at a flea market in Greenville, I found a copy of Andersen's fairy tales with beautiful color plates, not a first edition, but a good one. It was a dollar well spent. I'm going to get it out and read a fantastic tale. Maybe the "The Nightingale," which is such a interesting comparison to Keats' poem of the same name, and where I first learned the word "automaton." That's what I feel like today after transcribing nearly 800 lines in 3 hours. Good for the pay check but not for the wrists or the brain...
Also, GO, LOUISVILLE!!!!!!! I will be (w)hooping it up and praying!
This line is from "The Snow Queen," by Hans Christian Anderson. Today's the 200th anniversary of his birth. I remember so many of his stories, reading them myself and reading them to my children: Thumbelina, The Little Match-Seller, The Princess and the Pea, The Emperor's New Clothes, The Steadfast Tin Solder, The Red Shoes, The Nightingale, The Little Mermaid, The Ugly Duckling,The Tinder-Box, The Wild Swans, The Fir Tree....
My favorite is The Snow Queen because of the imagery and the dualisms in the stories: Andersen plays, sometimes humorously and sometimes quite darkly, with the dualism of the inner/outer selves, the appearance/essence of the real. Also, a Gerda, a GIRL, was the powerful one, which was rare in anything I read while growing up in the 1960s.
Anyway, once upon a time, at a flea market in Greenville, I found a copy of Andersen's fairy tales with beautiful color plates, not a first edition, but a good one. It was a dollar well spent. I'm going to get it out and read a fantastic tale. Maybe the "The Nightingale," which is such a interesting comparison to Keats' poem of the same name, and where I first learned the word "automaton." That's what I feel like today after transcribing nearly 800 lines in 3 hours. Good for the pay check but not for the wrists or the brain...
Also, GO, LOUISVILLE!!!!!!! I will be (w)hooping it up and praying!
Friday, April 01, 2005
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)