I love this poem. I may use it in class. Here's the prompt: What will you do "next time?" Why can't you do that this time?
I'll know the names of all of the birds
and flowers, and not only that, I'll
tell you the name of the piano player
I'm hearing right now on the kitchen
radio, but I won't be in the kitchen,
I'll be walking a street in
New York or London, about
to enter a coffee shop where people
are reading or working on their
laptops. They'll look up and smile.
Next time I won't waste my heart
on anger; I won't care about
being right. I'll be willing to be
wrong about everything and to
concentrate on giving myself away.
Next time, I'll rush up to people I love,
look into their eyes, and kiss them, quick.
I'll give everyone a poem I didn't write,
one specially chosen for that person.
They'll hold it up and see a new
world. We'll sing the morning in,
and I will keep in touch with friends,
writing long letters when I wake from
a dream where they appear on the
Orient Express. "Meet me in Istanbul,"
I'll say, and they will.
"Next Time" by Joyce Sutphen, from After Words. © Red Dragonfly Press, 2013. Reprinted with permission.
Tuesday, August 06, 2013
Saturday, October 20, 2012
Such a beautiful poem I had to share on this gorgeous fall day.
"In Heaven It Is Always Autumn"
John Donne
In heaven it is always autumn. The leaves are always near
to falling there but never fall, and pairs of souls out walking
heaven's paths no longer feel the weight of years upon them.
Safe in heaven's calm, they take each other's arm,
the light shining through them, all joy and terror gone.
But we are far from heaven here, in a garden ragged and unkept
as Eden would be with the walls knocked down,
the paths littered
with the unswept leaves of many years, bright keepsakes
for children of the Fall. The light is gold, the sun pulling
the long shadow soul out of each thing, disclosing an outcome.
The last roses of the year nod their frail heads,
like listeners listening to all that's said, to ask,
What brought us here? What seed? What rain? What light?
What forced us upward through dark earth? What made us bloom?
What wind shall take us soon, sweeping the garden bare?
Their voiceless voices hang there, as ours might,
if we were roses, too. Their beds are blanketed with leaves,
tended by an absent gardener whose life is elsewhere.
It is the last of many last days. Is it enough?
To rest in this moment? To turn our faces to the sun?
To watch the lineaments of a world passing?
To feel the metal of a black iron chair, cool and eternal,
press against our skin? To apprehend a chill as clouds
pass overhead, turning us to shivering shade and shadow?
And then to be restored, small miracle, the sun
shining brightly
as before? We go on, you leading the way, a figure
leaning on a cane that leaves its mark on the earth.
My friend, you have led me farther than I have ever been.
To a garden in autumn. To a heaven of impermanence
where the final falling off is slow, a slow and radiant happening.
The light is gold. And while we're here, I think it must
be heaven.
"In Heaven It Is Always Autumn" by Elizabeth Spires, from Now the Green Blade Rises. © W.W. Norton, 2002. Reprinted with permission.
"In Heaven It Is Always Autumn"
John Donne
In heaven it is always autumn. The leaves are always near
to falling there but never fall, and pairs of souls out walking
heaven's paths no longer feel the weight of years upon them.
Safe in heaven's calm, they take each other's arm,
the light shining through them, all joy and terror gone.
But we are far from heaven here, in a garden ragged and unkept
as Eden would be with the walls knocked down,
the paths littered
with the unswept leaves of many years, bright keepsakes
for children of the Fall. The light is gold, the sun pulling
the long shadow soul out of each thing, disclosing an outcome.
The last roses of the year nod their frail heads,
like listeners listening to all that's said, to ask,
What brought us here? What seed? What rain? What light?
What forced us upward through dark earth? What made us bloom?
What wind shall take us soon, sweeping the garden bare?
Their voiceless voices hang there, as ours might,
if we were roses, too. Their beds are blanketed with leaves,
tended by an absent gardener whose life is elsewhere.
It is the last of many last days. Is it enough?
To rest in this moment? To turn our faces to the sun?
To watch the lineaments of a world passing?
To feel the metal of a black iron chair, cool and eternal,
press against our skin? To apprehend a chill as clouds
pass overhead, turning us to shivering shade and shadow?
And then to be restored, small miracle, the sun
shining brightly
as before? We go on, you leading the way, a figure
leaning on a cane that leaves its mark on the earth.
My friend, you have led me farther than I have ever been.
To a garden in autumn. To a heaven of impermanence
where the final falling off is slow, a slow and radiant happening.
The light is gold. And while we're here, I think it must
be heaven.
"In Heaven It Is Always Autumn" by Elizabeth Spires, from Now the Green Blade Rises. © W.W. Norton, 2002. Reprinted with permission.
Friday, July 13, 2012
The Almost Moon by Alice Sebold
I was a big fan of "The Lovely Bones" and the first thing I love about
this book is that it is utterly unlike her that novel in every way. I
read it in two days, unable to put it down. Personal experience with my
own demented, flawed and raging mother probably makes me partial. She
had me on the first page:
"When all is said and done, killing my mother came easily. Dementia, as it descends, has a way of revealing the core of the person affected by it. My mother's core was rotten like the brackish water at the bottom of a weeks-old vase of flowers. She had been beautiful when my father met her and still capable of love when I became their late-in-life child, but by the time she gazed up at me that day, none of this mattered."
Helen goes on to make one bad decision after another, none of them easy to read. I winced a lot while reading this. I had a hard time with Helen having sex with her best friend's 30 year old son who had grown up with her own daughter. Eww. I understand the bad reviews and the inability for some to finish this book. It is not for the faint of heart, or the young who perhaps have not had the experience of an aging parent.
She tells us the story of her childhood, family secrets, failed marriage and career as a nude model in flashbacks that butt up against the details of the 24 hour period after she smothers her mother with a towel quite unplanned. Through this we see how her mother's mental illness and the devotion of her father to her mother along with his own problems affected Helen. How family is family, and how that affects the choices we make and how we, in turn, affect our own spouses and children.
"When all is said and done, killing my mother came easily. Dementia, as it descends, has a way of revealing the core of the person affected by it. My mother's core was rotten like the brackish water at the bottom of a weeks-old vase of flowers. She had been beautiful when my father met her and still capable of love when I became their late-in-life child, but by the time she gazed up at me that day, none of this mattered."
Helen goes on to make one bad decision after another, none of them easy to read. I winced a lot while reading this. I had a hard time with Helen having sex with her best friend's 30 year old son who had grown up with her own daughter. Eww. I understand the bad reviews and the inability for some to finish this book. It is not for the faint of heart, or the young who perhaps have not had the experience of an aging parent.
She tells us the story of her childhood, family secrets, failed marriage and career as a nude model in flashbacks that butt up against the details of the 24 hour period after she smothers her mother with a towel quite unplanned. Through this we see how her mother's mental illness and the devotion of her father to her mother along with his own problems affected Helen. How family is family, and how that affects the choices we make and how we, in turn, affect our own spouses and children.
Friday, March 23, 2012
re-obsession
I stumbled upon this on youtube. I had forgotten how much I used to love this song. The first time I heard this song I was about 12 years old, in my bedroom at the shore early one spring weekend in 1972. It made such an impression on me and I continued to love Joni Mitchell throughout college. Clouds and Court and Spark were my favorites. I guess I stopped listening to my music after the babies were born. Too much trouble, too loud, too busy. Now I only listen to music in my car and that mainly consists of music my kids leave in my car. That's good; it keeps me current and I have found lots of music I like that I would not have otherwise found. But this reminded me that there was a "me" before there was a them.
A part of me wanted to be Joni Mitchell, or maybe not actually be her, or even have a music career. I think what I really wanted was to live in the canyon, do artsy stuff, hang out with artsy people and date rock stars. Hey, I think that's still what I want to do, except for the rock stars. I don't think my husband would appreciate it and I'm sure they would be pretty high maintenance.
A part of me wanted to be Joni Mitchell, or maybe not actually be her, or even have a music career. I think what I really wanted was to live in the canyon, do artsy stuff, hang out with artsy people and date rock stars. Hey, I think that's still what I want to do, except for the rock stars. I don't think my husband would appreciate it and I'm sure they would be pretty high maintenance.
Friday, August 19, 2011
The Last Layer
Well, it's done. I've cleaned out the storage room in the attic. It's all been sorted and either kept, sold, given away or thrown out. I found stuff from my mother, my father, and both sets of grandparents. My grandmother lived with us until she died and I found her clothes and personal items including a ring I believe was cut off of her finger at the end. I found lots of old photographs, funeral cards, greeting cards, fabric, sewing machines, hats and dresses. I am still amazed that my parents kept all these things. And then there was the stuff that I kept: diaries, letters, school notebooks, toys and mementos. And the stuff I kept from my own kids, artwork, school papers, baby clothes.
The yard sale was surprising. While putting stuff out, the kids had a chance to take what they want. All three of them made some surprising choices. The boys took my dad's things to remember him by which was nice. Anna kept some things from her grandmother and a set if hand-painted spice tins that Margaret painted as a Christmas gift to my mother in 1953. We had one couple show up Friday night while we were setting up and she was going through boxes pulling out things she thought I might like to keep. She really was a help. They bought a lot of stuff, but did not haggle. I don't even want to know what their house looks like!
At the yard sale people would ask and I would tell them it was "the last layer." It feels good. I know what I have, I know where it is and I can find it myself. This is the first time in eight years that we and our stuff have been under the same roof, clean, organized and stowed away. It's like a new beginning.
The yard sale was surprising. While putting stuff out, the kids had a chance to take what they want. All three of them made some surprising choices. The boys took my dad's things to remember him by which was nice. Anna kept some things from her grandmother and a set if hand-painted spice tins that Margaret painted as a Christmas gift to my mother in 1953. We had one couple show up Friday night while we were setting up and she was going through boxes pulling out things she thought I might like to keep. She really was a help. They bought a lot of stuff, but did not haggle. I don't even want to know what their house looks like!
At the yard sale people would ask and I would tell them it was "the last layer." It feels good. I know what I have, I know where it is and I can find it myself. This is the first time in eight years that we and our stuff have been under the same roof, clean, organized and stowed away. It's like a new beginning.
Wednesday, July 06, 2011
Still trying
Since I had to set everything up, I thought I'd take some pictures.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Crazy Lady
I yelled at a total stranger today. This is the first time in my fifty-one years that I have done this.
I had my yearly gyno appointment today. School just ended last Thursday and I'm still not unwound, the stress of selling/not selling the house is weighing heavily on my mood, and I am on the brink of a period that has waited 10 weeks to show up. Yes, on the brink of a period, on the way to the gyno. Now, while I have no experience having my monthly during my yearly, I'm guessing it's a no-go. So that is on my mind.
I go through the toll booth to get on the turnpike and no ticket comes out of the slot. A sign says to push the button if that happens, so I push the button. No response. I push the button again. Again, no response. I push the button maybe twenty times. The guy in back of me starts to beep. I pull away. Let me preface this by saying that the same thing happened to me on the way home from the gyno the last time I went, so I knew what was to come.
I get off at Exit Two. I come to the toll booth where a pleasant man with a neatly trimmed gray beard wearing a blue shirt is standing. I tell him I do not have a ticket, and tell him my experience at the turnpike entrance. "No ticket!" he exclaims. "That's not good. I have to charge eight dollars and ??? cents, the full price if you don't have a ticket." I knew that part was coming, but the part that came next took me completely by surprise.
I explode. I tell him how ridicules it was; what was I supposed to do? He tells me I should have pulled over, gotten out of my car and looked for a guy in a blue shirt. Really??? I reiterate about the button with no answer. He tells me that because of Chris Christie's budget cuts they are short-handed. I think I blacked out at that point. I had an out-of-body experience where I saw a crazy woman unleashing her wrath upon a pleasant looking toll taker, something about being a teacher. He never should have mentioned that man's name.
In the end, I threw my change at my purse, apologized, and drove away crying.
I survived my gyno exam and am still waiting for my period. Since arriving home I have chosen to immerse myself in the HLN coverage of the Casey Anthony trial in an effort to distract myself.
I had my yearly gyno appointment today. School just ended last Thursday and I'm still not unwound, the stress of selling/not selling the house is weighing heavily on my mood, and I am on the brink of a period that has waited 10 weeks to show up. Yes, on the brink of a period, on the way to the gyno. Now, while I have no experience having my monthly during my yearly, I'm guessing it's a no-go. So that is on my mind.
I go through the toll booth to get on the turnpike and no ticket comes out of the slot. A sign says to push the button if that happens, so I push the button. No response. I push the button again. Again, no response. I push the button maybe twenty times. The guy in back of me starts to beep. I pull away. Let me preface this by saying that the same thing happened to me on the way home from the gyno the last time I went, so I knew what was to come.
I get off at Exit Two. I come to the toll booth where a pleasant man with a neatly trimmed gray beard wearing a blue shirt is standing. I tell him I do not have a ticket, and tell him my experience at the turnpike entrance. "No ticket!" he exclaims. "That's not good. I have to charge eight dollars and ??? cents, the full price if you don't have a ticket." I knew that part was coming, but the part that came next took me completely by surprise.
I explode. I tell him how ridicules it was; what was I supposed to do? He tells me I should have pulled over, gotten out of my car and looked for a guy in a blue shirt. Really??? I reiterate about the button with no answer. He tells me that because of Chris Christie's budget cuts they are short-handed. I think I blacked out at that point. I had an out-of-body experience where I saw a crazy woman unleashing her wrath upon a pleasant looking toll taker, something about being a teacher. He never should have mentioned that man's name.
In the end, I threw my change at my purse, apologized, and drove away crying.
I survived my gyno exam and am still waiting for my period. Since arriving home I have chosen to immerse myself in the HLN coverage of the Casey Anthony trial in an effort to distract myself.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)