It is not a new poem, but I cannot remember loving it as much in years past as I do today. So much here that is amazing! I feel the need to do a lectio divina exercise with this poem!
These holidays have been interesting. Just returned from a huge family gathering in the Midwest. Incredible times. We had 85 people at Christmas dinner, and this was mainly immediate family. I love that. We had snow a couple of days after Christmas, the good kind--enough to make it pretty and to get to use the scarves and mittens we packed, but not enough to shut down life or kill a lot of people on the roads. We strengthened bonds, caught up on the family dramas, had glimpses of what we miss by living 2000 miles away, had glimpses of what we would endure if we didn't live 2000 miles away.
Home today: sleeping in, reading, cooking, making up with the kitties who hate it when we travel, figuring out how I will change my ways in 2012, how I will "ring out the false, ring in the true," how I will "ring out false pride" and "ring in the love of truth and right," how I will identify that which is false and recognize that which is true and right and good.
As St. Benedict says, "Always we begin again." Thank God for that mercy! Enjoy your new beginnings. Happy New Year.
"In Memoriam," [Ring out, wild bells]
by Lord Alfred Tennyson"
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light:
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes
But ring the fuller minstrel in.
Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Monday, April 5, 2010
Advice from a Cat Herder
OK, so I'm up late because I don't have to get up tomorrow morning -- thank God for spring break -- and so I'm trying to get caught up on some writing and reading I wanted to do. I'm having fun so far with ReadWritePoem's NaPoWriMo prompts. I'm seeing them as writing exercises, which is healthy for me, and it's keeping me writing every day -- also good. I still don't know how things will play out once school resumes, but I'm enjoying doing this for now. I don't intend to work any more on the current poem, so I may as well post it.
Mark Stratton says it’s time to get personal! Here’s Mark’s prompt for Day #5: Today, let’s make poetry really personal. Give poetry, as you write it, a name. Possibly a gender. And a personality. A poet I know has written (and continues to write) a series of poems based on this principle, and I shamelessly ripped it off (with permission, of course) and made a poem I called “Sasha.” Sasha is many things, all at the same time, yet all are Sasha/poetry to me. So it’s your turn. Give poetry — how you view poetry, what poetry means to you, your poetry — a name. Now write a poem suits your view or vision.
Though I’m a teacher, I apparently have difficulties following directions (given all the caveats and "buts" to be found below). OK, so I didn’t personify it or anthropomorphize it so much as zoomorphize it (give it animal characteristics), but it describes what I think I have learned about poetry.
Shep, the Cat Herder, Speaks
“You have to show up for work,
and every day is best;
cats like a routine,
so they know what to expect;
sometimes they like surprises;
sometimes they’ll surprise you
out of the blue;
but mostly they get sketchy
if you switch things up on ‘em too much.
Cats don’t have to have a routine themselves,
but they like for you to have one.
“When you show up every day,
be kind, be quiet, be still.
Reach out to pet them,
but let them decide when
to come to you.
If you chase 'em,
they’ll just get skittish
and run away,
or maybe even scratch you –
and dawg, if their scratches don’t sting.
Be prepared, though
with fishy food
and kitty treats
and those feather toys they love,
because trust me,
you don’t want to be caught unprepared.
Be ready to feed 'em,
willing to play with 'em,
happy to rub 'em in the same spot ten times,
and okay with leaving 'em alone
until tomorrow.
“If you want to be a cat herder,
it helps to be intuitive.
Listen carefully to ‘em
and they’ll tell you what they want.
Mostly you just have to get out of the way,
let 'em go where they want to go,
let 'em do things in their own good time,
because they’re cats,
and that’s what they do.
You’ll get along much better
once you realize that they’re in charge
and you’re just there to serve them.”
Mark Stratton says it’s time to get personal! Here’s Mark’s prompt for Day #5: Today, let’s make poetry really personal. Give poetry, as you write it, a name. Possibly a gender. And a personality. A poet I know has written (and continues to write) a series of poems based on this principle, and I shamelessly ripped it off (with permission, of course) and made a poem I called “Sasha.” Sasha is many things, all at the same time, yet all are Sasha/poetry to me. So it’s your turn. Give poetry — how you view poetry, what poetry means to you, your poetry — a name. Now write a poem suits your view or vision.
Though I’m a teacher, I apparently have difficulties following directions (given all the caveats and "buts" to be found below). OK, so I didn’t personify it or anthropomorphize it so much as zoomorphize it (give it animal characteristics), but it describes what I think I have learned about poetry.
Shep, the Cat Herder, Speaks
“You have to show up for work,
and every day is best;
cats like a routine,
so they know what to expect;
sometimes they like surprises;
sometimes they’ll surprise you
out of the blue;
but mostly they get sketchy
if you switch things up on ‘em too much.
Cats don’t have to have a routine themselves,
but they like for you to have one.
“When you show up every day,
be kind, be quiet, be still.
Reach out to pet them,
but let them decide when
to come to you.
If you chase 'em,
they’ll just get skittish
and run away,
or maybe even scratch you –
and dawg, if their scratches don’t sting.
Be prepared, though
with fishy food
and kitty treats
and those feather toys they love,
because trust me,
you don’t want to be caught unprepared.
Be ready to feed 'em,
willing to play with 'em,
happy to rub 'em in the same spot ten times,
and okay with leaving 'em alone
until tomorrow.
“If you want to be a cat herder,
it helps to be intuitive.
Listen carefully to ‘em
and they’ll tell you what they want.
Mostly you just have to get out of the way,
let 'em go where they want to go,
let 'em do things in their own good time,
because they’re cats,
and that’s what they do.
You’ll get along much better
once you realize that they’re in charge
and you’re just there to serve them.”
Friday, March 26, 2010
Tidbits from Kathleen Norris
- She talked about the writing process and the fact that it is largely made up of boring work habits. Everyone has to face the blank page. (The cleanest houses are those belonging to writers on a deadline [and, I would add, teachers with a load of unpleasant essays to grade].) The voice of the mocker says, "Why bother? Who's going to read this?" Acedia rejects the routine.
- We all have 24 hours to live in a day. We either see this as a blessing or as a curse (acedia). It's a choice sometimes.
- Dean Nelson asked her if acedia was our national disease. She replied, "As any reader of fairy tales knows, if you have a problem and you don't know its name, you're in trouble." She went to describe symptoms of acedia -- ennervating despair, commitment phobia, boredom...the extremes of either lethargy or workaholism. Yep, that's American society. She mentioned watching a CNN broadcast in which story on a search for a child sex offender was immediately followed by a story on gas prices rising -- they both had the same importance, the same urgency. (She said, "That's why I've stopped watching tv news and started reading The Economist. Heh.) Pretty soon we won't know what's important anymore.
- When asked about the opposite of acedia, its corresponding virtue, she noted that the ancients regarded it as zeal, enthusiasm. But given the misuse and associations with the word zeal nowadays, she says it's love. If you can love, if you can be in relationship, you have defeated acedia. Acedia says nothing matters; love says it matters.
- "Now, more than ever, we need symbolic language." It touches our hearts. Metaphors reach us more than anything can. We've tried to shield ourselves from language that makes us feel. She used the following as an example: In the Civil War, the post-war effect on soldiers was called "soldier's heart." In World War I, it was called "shellshock." In World War II, it was called "battle fatigue." Today it's called "post-traumatic stress disorder." It's a long way from "soldier's heart" to PTSD. We want to shield ourselves from pain. Norris says that when we use terms like "PTSD" outside of the medical arena, we're fooling ourselves.
- Re: poetry -- physical chores enhance poetry. It's the same in the monastic tradition; repetitive physical labor helps memory. She referred to Donald Hall, who speculates that iambic pentameter developed out of the rhythm of walking. [Calls to mind Augustine's "Solvitur ambulando" -- "it is solved by walking."]
- Three things are taught so badly, she says, it's a miracle any of us is still alive: the Christian faith, poetry, and math. Textbook poetry is some of the worst ever. Norris (like Mary Oliver before her) notes that kids have learned by 10 or 12 that poetry is boring. She alluded to the missed opportunities to stimulate what's there already in kids. [And again I am forced to question my vocation as a teacher in this current broken system.]
- She speaks highly of Flannery O'Connor's The Habit of Being [which I just so happen to have on my bookshelf, awaiting the right time for reading; perhaps it will be soon].
- She lamented, "In the Christian community, what separates us is more important than what unites us." She went on to note that St. Paul was writing about this in his epistles to the various churches. Today's divisions are nothing new; concerning the big church blow-ups, "we've been here before." If there's one thing that still unites us, though, it's baptism. She said, you hear people say "I was baptized a Roman Catholic" or "as a ____." No, you're not, she said. You're baptized as a Christian. Baptism is ecumenical.
- In response to the typical question about what advice she'd give to writers and hopefuls, she said first, "Of course, you're reading a lot." Then she advised, learn to edit and revise yourself; love revision as much as writing. Writers' groups can help, but learn to detect when you've fudged or overworked or overdone something. Everyone faces the blank page. The world doesn't care if you write.
- When asked what do you say to people for whom acedia appears to be a daily reality, she first responded, "Commiserate. We've all experienced it." Secondly, anything to get them out of the closed circle of the self. It can be something social, labor, learning something new. Thirdly, if a person is suffering with clinical depression, send them to a doctor.
- There are no shortcuts, only the passage through the dark nights. There is no magic pill. God sends us moments, people, at times. Receive these moments gratefully. But it's not a snap-out-of-it.
- What to read: Flannery O'Connor's The Habit of Being; Emily Dickinson's poetry; The Praktikos, by Evagrius; the Desert Mothers and Fathers.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Delightful
Seeing Kathleen Norris at ReligBeachTownU was truly delightful, as were the fellowship and conversation with friends on the way down and back. Got to see my favorite FeministProf, too, and ran into an old acquaintance from ImplosionChurch (knew him pre-implosion).
I'd have to say this has been the most stimulating and learning and reflective Lent ever, and I've been observing them for over a decade now. I am blessed beyond measure.
Further specifics tomorrow.
I'd have to say this has been the most stimulating and learning and reflective Lent ever, and I've been observing them for over a decade now. I am blessed beyond measure.
Further specifics tomorrow.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
And finally, the Mary Oliver post
The first time I was fortunate enough to see Mary Oliver read at UCLA was a couple of years ago. When I received an email from UCLA Live and saw her listed, I went online immediately and snapped up three tickets. Flanked by POM and my sister, we “mmm-ed” with the rest of the surprisingly sensitive L.A. audience every time she read a line that punched our collective gut or poked our collective heart or strummed our collective soul. We listened attentively despite the ungodly loud hearing aid whine another nearby attendee was obliviously projecting. Mary Oliver was signing books afterward, and I happily waited in a line that moved more quickly than the lines for most Disneyland rides, and had her sign my copy of Thirst. (I had two other books for POM and my sister to get signed, since they didn’t have any of her books themselves.) As she signed, I babbled my semi-planned oration of thanks…thanks for allowing her work to be used on the AP Lang exam about a decade ago, because that is how I discovered her, thanks for her amazing poetry…but with an emphasis on babble. I think I was so excited and nervous to be there in front of her, and I talked too fast and stammered over my words. She just blinked at me.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
This post...
This post
will not be
what I want it to be,
but that's ok
for now.
A week
(and half a weekend)
of grading
claimed priority,
and rightly so,
I think.
This week
I give way
to the call
of writing.
--------------
I am the bookmark maker for this year's silent Lenten retreat. Our theme is Sacred Listening, which is, of course, always timely. I found an icon of Elijah hearing the voice of the Lord -- the still, small voice of the Lord -- and I included several scriptures that have to do with listening, hearing, hearkening (yeah, I'm an old-school/KJV/poetic/Shakespearean kind of gal). But I also had to get my old favorites, Madeleine and Mary Oliver, in there, too.
None of their admonitions or reflections are terribly new --
we must listen to the silence,
listen to the Spirit,
listen to the work that is trying to be communicated through us,
listen to nature,
the birds,
the trees,
the water,
the dog,
listen to the person trying to get a word in edgewise,
close mouth and listen,
get out of the way and shut up and listen,
we have two ears and only one mouth for a reason
-- no, nothing new,
but certainly I still need to hear it (listen!).
------------
More on Mary and Madeleine, and Kathleen Norris and Dorothy Sayers (both of whom I'm reading for Lent), later in the week. I haven't forgotten my vow to write about Mary Oliver's reading. Even if no one else reads it, I need to do it for me.
will not be
what I want it to be,
but that's ok
for now.
A week
(and half a weekend)
of grading
claimed priority,
and rightly so,
I think.
This week
I give way
to the call
of writing.
--------------
I am the bookmark maker for this year's silent Lenten retreat. Our theme is Sacred Listening, which is, of course, always timely. I found an icon of Elijah hearing the voice of the Lord -- the still, small voice of the Lord -- and I included several scriptures that have to do with listening, hearing, hearkening (yeah, I'm an old-school/KJV/poetic/Shakespearean kind of gal). But I also had to get my old favorites, Madeleine and Mary Oliver, in there, too.
None of their admonitions or reflections are terribly new --
we must listen to the silence,
listen to the Spirit,
listen to the work that is trying to be communicated through us,
listen to nature,
the birds,
the trees,
the water,
the dog,
listen to the person trying to get a word in edgewise,
close mouth and listen,
get out of the way and shut up and listen,
we have two ears and only one mouth for a reason
-- no, nothing new,
but certainly I still need to hear it (listen!).
------------
More on Mary and Madeleine, and Kathleen Norris and Dorothy Sayers (both of whom I'm reading for Lent), later in the week. I haven't forgotten my vow to write about Mary Oliver's reading. Even if no one else reads it, I need to do it for me.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Ah, Mary!
My soul has opened
and been reassured,
yet challenged.
I shall put my soul
to rest
and write more
of Mary
in the morning.
and been reassured,
yet challenged.
I shall put my soul
to rest
and write more
of Mary
in the morning.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Another...
...long day. Wrote a substantial portion of a new course. Wrote lots of emails. Wrote sub plans. Wrote and executed a shopping list. Wrote some blog comments. Wrote a blog post (brief) (and almost in the past tense). Off to bed; up tomorrow to do the same...except that I get to end the day, not with a grocery shopping trip but with Mary Oliver! Cool.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
The weekend...
...was short, compared to last weekend, during which we had a 3-day weekend (thanks to the Presidents) and during which I actually enjoyed a 4-day weekend (thanks to a dentist appointment, which facilitated my taking Friday off). Nice! And then Tuesday was a sub day, as I had to attend a conference on positive behavior. So really, last week was easy.
While this weekend is short (and tempered by the fact that I felt terrible for most of the day -- was it the chicken last night or the cheerios this morning? or perhaps a passing bug?), this week will again feel short, as I'm missing three days in the classroom due to being pulled out to write a course and the fact that I already had Friday scheduled as a personal day for several months now. Eek! I'll have to reintroduce myself to my students the following week.
What is it about February? This seems to have happened last year at the same time, too. I think it's because February is the beginning of our new semester, and everyone seems to see it as a good time to start new things. Sigh. Never mind that the high school exit exam happens in exactly a month and that I have two classes of sophomores to prepare for it. At least my sub is tried, true, and excellent. I wouldn't be able to sleep if it weren't for her. (She's my former master teacher and a retiree after over thirty years in our district. No one tries to pull crap on her. She's a godsend!)
In other news, Lent doesn't seem to be as difficult this year as it has in years past. Maybe it's just that it's still early in the season -- I may be singing a different tune in a month. The take-aways haven't felt as challenging -- oh, sure, I want wine with dinner and sweets after, and it's hard to go home and cook when I'd really rather go out to eat, but I'm not suffering, by any measure -- but the add-ons are more difficult. I'm a spectactularly undisciplined person about certain things, and I'm spectacularly good at rationalizing why I cannot do certain things at certain times. Excuses R Us, right here. So there's a good reason I forgot to do morning or evening prayer yesterday, and there's a good reason why I read two pottery magazines instead of reading something a little more devotional and challenging (not that art isn't devotional -- it is, exceedingly, but for me today, reading about it was more avoidance behavior than devotion).
Today's sermon, naturally, was about Jesus' temptation in the wilderness. Of course, his forty days of fasting put my little Lenten disciplines to shame, but fortunately it's not about comparative self-denial. It's about identifying our besetting sins and obsessions and addictions and distractions, and then setting about to cultivate the corresponding virtues (that from today's sermon). It is the opportunity to do new things. (We all know the definition, usually attributed to Einstein, of insanity -- in essence, doing the same thing and expecting different results.) Time to do new things for new, hoped-for results. New Year's resolutions never work for me -- they're good for reflection and such, but I rarely stick with them. Lent, though...I guess maybe because God's involved somehow...I tend to take a little more seriously.
P.S. A lenten devotional upcoming -- I get to go hear Mary Oliver later this week! Can't wait!
While this weekend is short (and tempered by the fact that I felt terrible for most of the day -- was it the chicken last night or the cheerios this morning? or perhaps a passing bug?), this week will again feel short, as I'm missing three days in the classroom due to being pulled out to write a course and the fact that I already had Friday scheduled as a personal day for several months now. Eek! I'll have to reintroduce myself to my students the following week.
What is it about February? This seems to have happened last year at the same time, too. I think it's because February is the beginning of our new semester, and everyone seems to see it as a good time to start new things. Sigh. Never mind that the high school exit exam happens in exactly a month and that I have two classes of sophomores to prepare for it. At least my sub is tried, true, and excellent. I wouldn't be able to sleep if it weren't for her. (She's my former master teacher and a retiree after over thirty years in our district. No one tries to pull crap on her. She's a godsend!)
In other news, Lent doesn't seem to be as difficult this year as it has in years past. Maybe it's just that it's still early in the season -- I may be singing a different tune in a month. The take-aways haven't felt as challenging -- oh, sure, I want wine with dinner and sweets after, and it's hard to go home and cook when I'd really rather go out to eat, but I'm not suffering, by any measure -- but the add-ons are more difficult. I'm a spectactularly undisciplined person about certain things, and I'm spectacularly good at rationalizing why I cannot do certain things at certain times. Excuses R Us, right here. So there's a good reason I forgot to do morning or evening prayer yesterday, and there's a good reason why I read two pottery magazines instead of reading something a little more devotional and challenging (not that art isn't devotional -- it is, exceedingly, but for me today, reading about it was more avoidance behavior than devotion).
Today's sermon, naturally, was about Jesus' temptation in the wilderness. Of course, his forty days of fasting put my little Lenten disciplines to shame, but fortunately it's not about comparative self-denial. It's about identifying our besetting sins and obsessions and addictions and distractions, and then setting about to cultivate the corresponding virtues (that from today's sermon). It is the opportunity to do new things. (We all know the definition, usually attributed to Einstein, of insanity -- in essence, doing the same thing and expecting different results.) Time to do new things for new, hoped-for results. New Year's resolutions never work for me -- they're good for reflection and such, but I rarely stick with them. Lent, though...I guess maybe because God's involved somehow...I tend to take a little more seriously.
P.S. A lenten devotional upcoming -- I get to go hear Mary Oliver later this week! Can't wait!
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Back, sadly
I did write over spring break. Perhaps not a poem a day, but I'm not flagellating myself about it. I'll post them as I get them typed, unedited and unpolished, as usual; mere sneezes on the page.
Spring Break
Flight yesterday
quick and fairly painless
to a state
where purple mountains
really do exist,
in majesty, even,
silhouetted as they are
by iced peaks,
fondant-drenched
and brilliant, blinding white;
framed below
by stripes
of variant browns,
and above
by blues and grays
and clouds of every type.
Split rail fences,
native grass,
cottonwoods and cottontails;
we drink the panorama
with our pinot
as we rest in the
"smallest, cheapest" palace
on the "block."
The baby spins and slips
on polished, knotted floors.
Blond Rosie bounds, races,
across the prairie grass
after bunnies,
feathers flying and tail curved high;
her smile upon returning
matches the upturned lips
of my heart,
which is remembering again
how to rest.
Spring Break
Flight yesterday
quick and fairly painless
to a state
where purple mountains
really do exist,
in majesty, even,
silhouetted as they are
by iced peaks,
fondant-drenched
and brilliant, blinding white;
framed below
by stripes
of variant browns,
and above
by blues and grays
and clouds of every type.
Split rail fences,
native grass,
cottonwoods and cottontails;
we drink the panorama
with our pinot
as we rest in the
"smallest, cheapest" palace
on the "block."
The baby spins and slips
on polished, knotted floors.
Blond Rosie bounds, races,
across the prairie grass
after bunnies,
feathers flying and tail curved high;
her smile upon returning
matches the upturned lips
of my heart,
which is remembering again
how to rest.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Yesterday's poem,
which I wrote (well, sneezed) yesterday, but which I could not post as I am without a computer right now. (Hard drive full; how can such a thing be possible?) I'm stealing some time on POM's laptop.
Maundy Thursday
Stark.
Bare.
Lightless.
The Presence has left the sanctuary.
The light is snuffed.
Bereft we are,
and he is veiled.
Maundy Thursday
Stark.
Bare.
Lightless.
The Presence has left the sanctuary.
The light is snuffed.
Bereft we are,
and he is veiled.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Hey, it's raining (yes, in SoCal)!
Today's prompt (actually it's tomorrow's, but being on the left coast has its advantages): List all of your old flames. Try to go back as far as your first kiss in the 2nd grade coat closet. Sit with your list. Depending on your mood today, choose the flame with the most sparks, or pin the list on the wall and throw a dart. Whatever your method or mood, write a poem about an old flame. If all else fails, write a list poem giving your old flames new names.
an incandescent punk,
redhead Clint
kindergartener
in church foyer
with thick redcarpet
that retained static like the dickens
enabled kids to play
shuffle-shock for hours.
i the older woman
first grade i
brazen hussy i
gave Clint a shock
under the church steps
one fine Sunday.
yep, kissed him.
he ran away.
i’ve had a thing
for redheads since.
an incandescent punk,
redhead Clint
kindergartener
in church foyer
with thick redcarpet
that retained static like the dickens
enabled kids to play
shuffle-shock for hours.
i the older woman
first grade i
brazen hussy i
gave Clint a shock
under the church steps
one fine Sunday.
yep, kissed him.
he ran away.
i’ve had a thing
for redheads since.
Late Poem
That's right, folks! We have everything here: highbrow, lowbrow, and whatever comes below that. I wrote this last night but was too sleepy to post it.
Grading sucks.
I'm so f**ked.
Grading sucks.
I'm so f**ked.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Of the moment
Not a NaPoWriMo prompt poem, but a poem nonetheless, completely rough and raw and essentially unedited, as are most of the poems I publish here.
Palm Dualities
He answered not a word, such that the governor marveled greatly.
Had it been me,
I would have argued and defended and persuaded,
then possibly cursed, as is my wont, when things go wrong.
He was led like a lamb to the slaughter, and he opened not his mouth.
I would have bitched and moaned and carried on
to the point of embarrassment, most likely.
Or if I had his power, I would have zapped them all,
just to show them I could.
Jesus does what we do not expect him to do.
I want answers to my prayers.
Instead of answers, he provides silence.
I want action and revolution.
Instead, he gives us the cross.
What is this crap? This isn’t what I wanted.
God gives us not what we want, but what we need.
Even Jesus asked for the cup to pass from him.
And God answered him with silence.
My will leads to disappointment.
Thy will leads to Easter.
I have trouble remembering that. I fear pain.
I do not want any change that leads to pain.
We seek to change our circumstances.
He seeks to change us.
But God, the problem is what I see out the window!
No, child, the problem is what you see in the mirror.
On Palm Sunday, we wave palms and process, socialize and sing.
Then ten minutes later we crucify him;
aloud we tell Judas to shove his silver, it’s his problem now;
aloud we call for Barabbas instead;
aloud we assure Pilate we’ll take full responsibility for this travesty,
His blood is on our hands, now get on with it.
My god, my god, no wonder you’ve forsaken us.
But God does not do what we expect him to do.
[inspired by Palm Sunday service; with many lines borrowed from sermon by Fr. SS]
Palm Dualities
He answered not a word, such that the governor marveled greatly.
Had it been me,
I would have argued and defended and persuaded,
then possibly cursed, as is my wont, when things go wrong.
He was led like a lamb to the slaughter, and he opened not his mouth.
I would have bitched and moaned and carried on
to the point of embarrassment, most likely.
Or if I had his power, I would have zapped them all,
just to show them I could.
Jesus does what we do not expect him to do.
I want answers to my prayers.
Instead of answers, he provides silence.
I want action and revolution.
Instead, he gives us the cross.
What is this crap? This isn’t what I wanted.
God gives us not what we want, but what we need.
Even Jesus asked for the cup to pass from him.
And God answered him with silence.
My will leads to disappointment.
Thy will leads to Easter.
I have trouble remembering that. I fear pain.
I do not want any change that leads to pain.
We seek to change our circumstances.
He seeks to change us.
But God, the problem is what I see out the window!
No, child, the problem is what you see in the mirror.
On Palm Sunday, we wave palms and process, socialize and sing.
Then ten minutes later we crucify him;
aloud we tell Judas to shove his silver, it’s his problem now;
aloud we call for Barabbas instead;
aloud we assure Pilate we’ll take full responsibility for this travesty,
His blood is on our hands, now get on with it.
My god, my god, no wonder you’ve forsaken us.
But God does not do what we expect him to do.
[inspired by Palm Sunday service; with many lines borrowed from sermon by Fr. SS]
Can I lie and say...
...it's a prose poem?
The Assignment:
Saturdays in my town people go to the hardware store to stock up on supplies for sprucing up their homes. Spring is a great time to apply a fresh coat of paint on old furniture, walls or maybe even a poem or two! Here’s the idea –- go to the hardware store (or an online paint store), and look up some colors you like. They tend to have evocative names, like white truffle or blackberry harvest. Maybe the whole idea of a hardware store makes you yawn, or worse, cringe. If so, head over to the make up counter, or browse the Clinique Eyeshadow store online. The idea is to find a color or two, write the phrase on a card, and then write down the associations you have with the phrase. Do a five minute free-write, and then turn your musings into a poem.
My Perhaps-Poetic Non-Poem
Why do so many makeup products come in various colors of nude? If one is going to approximate nudity, why doesn’t one just go nude and save the extra step? I also notice many variations on chocolates and berries and wines. But wouldn’t chocolate taste better than lipstick? And wouldn’t a berry stain last longer on the lips than lip-supposed-stick? And the process of coloring one’s lips with actual wine seems to be much more enjoyable than painting on a faint imitation of the real thing. And now I must make comment upon some actual colors (I believe these are from Clinique):
plum(b) nude – As we are all born, and my state for showering.
twilight nude – No, I take my showers in the morning usually.
nude beach – Hmmm, salacious! (Cover the kids’ eyes.)
creamy nude – Some are blessed, I suppose.
blushing nude – I would think so! I certainly would be, with an audience.
nude rose – Let’s hope! Why would a rose wear clothes?
metallic sand – Might hurt the toes
mochaberry – The dangers of genetic modification?
Lancome gets a little more creative, though their titles run to the prescriptive. Pink to the Club, one supposes, should be worn to a club…as opposed to the Pink in the Limo, which one presumes should be worn in the Hummer limousine. (But what if I’m not in a pink-y sort of mood?) One wonders at their Prune Drama Girl; pictures of a geriatric hysteric come to mind. Rock Icon Pink seems to explain itself. Brick House, not so much. I think my preferences run more toward the Urban Decay approach. Their lipsticks come in such rich, realistic titles as Indecent (pale peach), Gash (blood red), Hotpants (pink), Jailbait (nude, of course), Sellout (neutral), and Trainwreck, Pistol, and Buzzkill. At least they’re honest. And in the interest of honesty, I should add that I have not worn any form of makeup in about a decade.
The Assignment:
Saturdays in my town people go to the hardware store to stock up on supplies for sprucing up their homes. Spring is a great time to apply a fresh coat of paint on old furniture, walls or maybe even a poem or two! Here’s the idea –- go to the hardware store (or an online paint store), and look up some colors you like. They tend to have evocative names, like white truffle or blackberry harvest. Maybe the whole idea of a hardware store makes you yawn, or worse, cringe. If so, head over to the make up counter, or browse the Clinique Eyeshadow store online. The idea is to find a color or two, write the phrase on a card, and then write down the associations you have with the phrase. Do a five minute free-write, and then turn your musings into a poem.
My Perhaps-Poetic Non-Poem
Why do so many makeup products come in various colors of nude? If one is going to approximate nudity, why doesn’t one just go nude and save the extra step? I also notice many variations on chocolates and berries and wines. But wouldn’t chocolate taste better than lipstick? And wouldn’t a berry stain last longer on the lips than lip-supposed-stick? And the process of coloring one’s lips with actual wine seems to be much more enjoyable than painting on a faint imitation of the real thing. And now I must make comment upon some actual colors (I believe these are from Clinique):
plum(b) nude – As we are all born, and my state for showering.
twilight nude – No, I take my showers in the morning usually.
nude beach – Hmmm, salacious! (Cover the kids’ eyes.)
creamy nude – Some are blessed, I suppose.
blushing nude – I would think so! I certainly would be, with an audience.
nude rose – Let’s hope! Why would a rose wear clothes?
metallic sand – Might hurt the toes
mochaberry – The dangers of genetic modification?
Lancome gets a little more creative, though their titles run to the prescriptive. Pink to the Club, one supposes, should be worn to a club…as opposed to the Pink in the Limo, which one presumes should be worn in the Hummer limousine. (But what if I’m not in a pink-y sort of mood?) One wonders at their Prune Drama Girl; pictures of a geriatric hysteric come to mind. Rock Icon Pink seems to explain itself. Brick House, not so much. I think my preferences run more toward the Urban Decay approach. Their lipsticks come in such rich, realistic titles as Indecent (pale peach), Gash (blood red), Hotpants (pink), Jailbait (nude, of course), Sellout (neutral), and Trainwreck, Pistol, and Buzzkill. At least they’re honest. And in the interest of honesty, I should add that I have not worn any form of makeup in about a decade.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Too sleepy to mean much
This is what comes of attempting poetry borne of sleep deprivation and after two of the most exhausting weeks ever (I blame teaching writing). This one should stay on the scratch pad as one of Annie Lamott's famed 'shitty first drafts.' But I'm on a three-day roll and it's too soon to quit, so I will click 'publish' anyway. Read at your own peril.
The prompt for today is “three in a row.” Write about how “three in a row” means you’ve won something, like a game of tic tac toe or a jackpot from a slot machine. Or write about the superstition about how bad things come in threes: deaths, injuries, failing household appliances. Wonder how a string of three represents both good and bad luck. Think about any sets of three you have in your life: cats, kids, husbands, anything! (For the record, I have six cats, three kids and one husband. How about you?) Explore what people mean when they say, “Third time’s a charm!” Consider a third place win, a trio, the trinity.
Tres
It’s the third day
of the fourth month (error!),
and I’m compelled to think
of threes.
The fallible ‘they’ say
celebrity deaths come in threes.
The egg is three but one,
like God.
Our cat household
just increased by three,
and my students still think
all essays must have just
three body paragraphs (error!).
The waltz beats three
(though the heart beats two);
a count of three begins the race
(ready, set, go)
(eins, zwei, drei).
When the evening and the morning
were the third day,
God made land and grass and trees;
and on the third day, He rose again.
The stoplight in red, yellow, green
says stop slow go.
A talisman, our prayers in threes:
lordhavemercyuponus,
christhavemercyuponus,
lordhavemercyuponus or
helpmehelpmehelpme or
damndamndamn or
nonono or
ohpleaseohpleaseohplease.
And my sleepstarved brain asks
so what, so what, so what?
And the universe delivers
Julian’s answer:
All shall be well,
and all shall be well,
and all manner of thing shall be well.
Amen.
The prompt for today is “three in a row.” Write about how “three in a row” means you’ve won something, like a game of tic tac toe or a jackpot from a slot machine. Or write about the superstition about how bad things come in threes: deaths, injuries, failing household appliances. Wonder how a string of three represents both good and bad luck. Think about any sets of three you have in your life: cats, kids, husbands, anything! (For the record, I have six cats, three kids and one husband. How about you?) Explore what people mean when they say, “Third time’s a charm!” Consider a third place win, a trio, the trinity.
Tres
It’s the third day
of the fourth month (error!),
and I’m compelled to think
of threes.
The fallible ‘they’ say
celebrity deaths come in threes.
The egg is three but one,
like God.
Our cat household
just increased by three,
and my students still think
all essays must have just
three body paragraphs (error!).
The waltz beats three
(though the heart beats two);
a count of three begins the race
(ready, set, go)
(eins, zwei, drei).
When the evening and the morning
were the third day,
God made land and grass and trees;
and on the third day, He rose again.
The stoplight in red, yellow, green
says stop slow go.
A talisman, our prayers in threes:
lordhavemercyuponus,
christhavemercyuponus,
lordhavemercyuponus or
helpmehelpmehelpme or
damndamndamn or
nonono or
ohpleaseohpleaseohplease.
And my sleepstarved brain asks
so what, so what, so what?
And the universe delivers
Julian’s answer:
All shall be well,
and all shall be well,
and all manner of thing shall be well.
Amen.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
First Yoga Class Ever...
...and I feel good! (Except I should not have eaten afterward. Just water would have done. Oh, well, next time.)
The Assignment:
“Stretchy Metaphors” -- It’s day two of NaPoWriMo, and we’re feeling fresh, invigorated, ready for anything, right? Here’s today’s challenge: find five verbs and five nouns from one subject area, and use them to write about another subject. My son had this assignment in his college poetry class, and he culled his words from biology and then wrote about technology. The idea is to create an extended metaphor in a short poem, of maybe ten to twelve lines.
Happy poeming!
The Product: comparing yoga practice to teaching high school English (hmmmm)
[Disclaimer -- It's not short. Oh, well. And it needs work. Oh, well.]
English Class: Namaste
Every class feels like
my first –
a veteran but always a beginner.
I am teacher and also student.
I bend and stretch myself
across the text as I ask them
to follow me
but still honor their own
bodies and minds
at whatever level they are today.
I demonstrate poses,
the literary sort,
teach them to breathe language in,
breathe language out,
put my hand on their shoulder
when they need help reaching
or keeping their backs straight
while twisting,
provide a block
when they need support or
can’t quite touch the ground
and still breathe.
Notice. Feel. Focus.
I ask them to focus
on their brain’s breath,
on the transitions
between inhale and exhale,
between stanzas and tones,
on change and
what it does to us.
I ask them to swan dive
to the bottom of an argument,
to fold themselves into a
character.
I teach them,
or try,
to feel the energy
in their voice.
I ask them to open
the front and back doors
of their heart.
The Assignment:
“Stretchy Metaphors” -- It’s day two of NaPoWriMo, and we’re feeling fresh, invigorated, ready for anything, right? Here’s today’s challenge: find five verbs and five nouns from one subject area, and use them to write about another subject. My son had this assignment in his college poetry class, and he culled his words from biology and then wrote about technology. The idea is to create an extended metaphor in a short poem, of maybe ten to twelve lines.
Happy poeming!
The Product: comparing yoga practice to teaching high school English (hmmmm)
[Disclaimer -- It's not short. Oh, well. And it needs work. Oh, well.]
English Class: Namaste
Every class feels like
my first –
a veteran but always a beginner.
I am teacher and also student.
I bend and stretch myself
across the text as I ask them
to follow me
but still honor their own
bodies and minds
at whatever level they are today.
I demonstrate poses,
the literary sort,
teach them to breathe language in,
breathe language out,
put my hand on their shoulder
when they need help reaching
or keeping their backs straight
while twisting,
provide a block
when they need support or
can’t quite touch the ground
and still breathe.
Notice. Feel. Focus.
I ask them to focus
on their brain’s breath,
on the transitions
between inhale and exhale,
between stanzas and tones,
on change and
what it does to us.
I ask them to swan dive
to the bottom of an argument,
to fold themselves into a
character.
I teach them,
or try,
to feel the energy
in their voice.
I ask them to open
the front and back doors
of their heart.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Yeah, we'll see.
NaPoWriMo? I'm not gonna promise. No way. I'm doing well just to keep my Lenten vows, and those are made to God, for pete's sake! And we all know how well my photo365 went! But we'll see. I'll just do one today. And it's completely silly. Heh.
The assignment:
Welcome to National Poetry Month! We’re going to start off easy. Metaphor. The definition that I like best is “two disparate things yoked together to create new meaning.” Not sure where I heard that — might have been a professor, might have been a drunken poet… . Either way, it’s an apt description!
Right now, at this very minute, list five things in front of you. In front of you being a relative term: on your desk, on your arm, out your window … . Choose the two most disparate things and yoke them together into a fabulous metaphor. Now, use it in a poem.
* * *
These are my five things, except I can never follow rules, so there are six.
lamp
Wite-out
picture
bracelet
monitor
cat food
And here's my silly poem:
Cat food lamp
The cat food bin sits
three-quarters full,
a sign of hope
against the fear of not enough.
The lamp gives less than
ideal light –
harsh, glaring –
and still a sign of hope
against the fear of dark and void.
This month of spring,
this month, April,
a month of spring
break, and lighter
evenings, and
garden flower abundance –
my sign of hope
against the fear of not enough
against the fear of dark and void
a cat food lamp unto my feet.
The assignment:
Welcome to National Poetry Month! We’re going to start off easy. Metaphor. The definition that I like best is “two disparate things yoked together to create new meaning.” Not sure where I heard that — might have been a professor, might have been a drunken poet… . Either way, it’s an apt description!
Right now, at this very minute, list five things in front of you. In front of you being a relative term: on your desk, on your arm, out your window … . Choose the two most disparate things and yoke them together into a fabulous metaphor. Now, use it in a poem.
* * *
lamp
Wite-out
picture
bracelet
monitor
cat food
And here's my silly poem:
Cat food lamp
The cat food bin sits
three-quarters full,
a sign of hope
against the fear of not enough.
The lamp gives less than
ideal light –
harsh, glaring –
and still a sign of hope
against the fear of dark and void.
This month of spring,
this month, April,
a month of spring
break, and lighter
evenings, and
garden flower abundance –
my sign of hope
against the fear of not enough
against the fear of dark and void
a cat food lamp unto my feet.
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