making it today

Today's class focus is on love poems; before the gag reflex kicks in, let me state that this is covering all levels and layers of love. The scent of a new book. A chocolate chip cookie, oven-warm. Watching a cat slumbering in the sunshine.

I am choosing to go with Silverstein today; it's a little kick in the pants to remind me that despite personal stress/angst, it is still important to bring whatever one can to the day's path. And with that mish-mashing of metaphors & philosophy, it is evident that I need coffee and need to go to class. 

skipping down alleys, trudging down paths...

I may have posted this in previous years, but as with re-reading a favorite novel or re-watching a favorite movie, poems are also enhanced by a re-visit.  Not sure who to credit for these words, but thank you to whomever penned them.  They are becoming my credo.

 she wasn't where she had been

she wasn't where she was going....

but she was on her way.

And on her way

she enjoyed 

food that wasn't fast,

friendships that held,

hearts glowing,

hearts breaking,

smiles that caught tears,

paths trudged and alleys skipped.

and on her way

she no longer looked for the answers,

but held close the two things

she knew for sure.

One, if a day carried strength in the morning,

peace in the evening,

and a little joy in between,

it was a good one.

 

 

And two,

you can live completely 

without completely understanding.

(I am nowhere near the level of zen provided in this last statement, but I am continuing down alleys and paths in hopes of sussing it out.)

tomorrow's dust

 
Even this late it happens:
the coming of love, the coming of light.
You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves,
stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows,
sending up warm bouquets of air.
Even this late the bones of the body shine
and tomorrow's dust flares into breath.

"The Coming of Light" by Mark Strand, from New Selected Poems. © Alfred A. Knopf, 2007.

it's been heartening to begin to find pennies again this week; after a long damp winter of none to be found.  It's about time.  Time to have good luck.  Time to wish upon a star.  Time to shine and follow the next dream....

sounds of silence

Today is Day of Silence and we're observing in both in support of the GLSEN community, but also in a broader sense of anyone who feels silenced for any reason--fear, poverty, gender, politics.  (I've been part of another campus that did this exercise and it is always interesting to see how to teach/learn without talking....stay tuned for the results.)

 And as we are covering lyrics-as-poetry in class as well, the following Simon/Garfunkel lyrics are ideal.  This also is an interesting exercise--it is surprising how many times lyrics do not hold up as sheer poetry--they are so inexplicably tied to the music.

 Hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence

In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone
'Neath the halo of a street lamp
I turned my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence

And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more
People talking without speaking
People hearing without listening
People writing songs that voices never share
And no one dared
Disturb the sound of silence

"Fools", said I, "You do not know
Silence like a cancer grows
Hear my words that I might teach you
Take my arms that I might reach you"
But my words, like silent raindrops fell
And echoed
In the wells of silence

And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the sign said, "The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls"
And whispered in the sounds of silence

and that you're humming along, my task here is done....

un-bear-able

Today's class centered on animal poetry--we covered T. S. Eliot's cats, Don Marquis whimsical cockrach, Mary Oliver's nature-triggered musings and played around with Ogden Nash's menagerie. We then spent time creating our own. Here's a draft of my morning musing.

growly & grumpy

   i greet the dawn

by mere hours of slumber sustained

     craving the safey & serenity

of a solitary slumberous cavern

months of silent solitude feels mandatory

     not to mention the joy

of the pre-loading months of food

    bliss of unconsciousnss

                 stressless slumber

e-i-e-i-o

(We covered children's poetry today in class--both for and about children; covering everything from Dr. Seuss to Shel Silverstein to poignant poems to unborn children and children's prayers. After we did our readings, we wrote whatever form/style we felt. This is my contribution.) 

where did that MacDonald guy get his moo-moo farm anyway?
      easy inheritance?  swindling through cards? 
          & more importantly, why does he (or his animals) sing the bloody vowels backwards?
And what happened to the a & the u?
     did he eventually go insane from the same refrain?

& while we're deconstructing childhood,
       what's with the stupid sheep that Bo-Peep continually loses?
               Sheep are supposed to be some of the least mentally acute animals around....
has she not heard of a herd dog? 
    or better yet, fences?
 and what exactly is she doing that she can lose an entire flock of large white meandering things?

and do not get me started on that Itsy-Bitsy moron,
      what is so marvelous at the top of that water spout?
                  and who is to say that he wouldn't be happier
in abandoning his Sisyphean efforts
     and enjoying a lush life in the verdant grasses at the bottom
                    with a gorgeous fresh water supply?

mish-mash

Trying to articulate something meaningful about life and choices and whether we are captain of our fate or merely pawns on the Board of Life, but there's been no coffee infusion into the brain yet this morning.  So, I will simply let Wordsworth speak, and allow whatever meaning you need to find, to appear in your day.

Glad sight wherever new with old
Is joined through some dear homeborn tie;
The life of all that we behold
Depends upon that mystery.
Vain is the glory of the sky,
The beauty vain of field and grove
Unless, while with admiring eye
We gaze, we also learn to love.

"Glad sight wherever new with old" by William Wordsworth, from Selected Poems. © Penguin Books, 2004.