.png)
© Diane Mayr, all rights reserved
A little levity...I doubt the gift-giver realized that I could manage to kill a Christmas cactus before Christmas!
"I think it must be the field-mice," replied the Mole, with a touch of pride in his manner. "They go round carol-singing regularly at this time of the year. They're quite an institution in these parts. And they never pass me over--they come to Mole End last of all; and I used to give them hot drinks, and supper too sometimes, when I could afford it. It will be like old times to hear them again."
"Let's have a look at them!" cried the Rat, jumping up and running to the door.
....
As the door opened, one of the elder ones that carried the lantern was just saying, "Now then, one, two, three!" and forthwith their shrill little voices uprose on the air, singing one of the old-time carols that their forefathers composed in fields that were fallow and held by frost, or when snow-bound in chimney corners, and handed down to be sung in the miry street to lamp-lit windows at Yule-time.
CAROL
Villagers all, this frosty tide,
Let your doors swing open wide,
Though wind may follow, and snow beside,
Yet draw us in by your fire to bide;
Joy shall be yours in the morning!
Here we stand in the cold and the sleet,
Blowing fingers and stamping feet,
Come from far away you to greet--
You by the fire and we in the street--
Bidding you joy in the morning!
holiday cheer--
the cat's mouth opens
a field mouse runs free
Dimmest and brightest month am I;This is taken from a long work, "The Months: A Pageant," which is written to be performed by girls and boys who personify the months and "Robin Redbreasts; Lambs and Sheep; Nightingale and Nestlings. Various Flowers, Fruits, etc."
My short days end, my lengthening days begin;
What matters more or less sun in the sky,
When all is sun within?
Democracy is not a spectator sport. Using dramatic and musical performances of the letters, diaries and speeches of everyday Americans, The People Speak gives voice to those who spoke up for social change throughout U.S. history, forging a nation from the bottom up with their insistence on equality and justice. Narrated by Howard Zinn and based on his best-selling books, A People's History of the United States and Voices of a People's History of the United States, The People Speak illustrates the relevance of these passionate historical moments to our society today and reminds us never to take liberty for granted.
Howard Zinn's work also reminds us that we always need to ask: what stories am I not hearing? Whose voices am I not hearing? And that if no one is telling our stories, we need to find ways--creative, dynamic--ways of telling them ourselves.Read the rest of Mortensen's comments here.
Come when my heart is full of griefRead the entire poem here.
Or when my heart is merry;
Come with the falling of the leaf
Or with the redd’ning cherry.
Come when the year’s first blossom blows,
Come when the summer gleams and glows,
Come with the winter’s drifting snows,
And you are welcome, welcome.
I never know who is hosting Poetry Friday until after I have already posted my stuff. Is there a way to know who is coming up?The schedule can be found at A Year of Reading (here's an explanation), and I have the list here at Random Noodling, too!
Rules are mostly made to be broken and are too often for the lazy to hide behind.Good for you Priya for breaking a few rules!
Childhood Religion© Diane Mayr, all rights reserved
I was Catholic back then, attending
mass every Sunday and holy day. Little
attracted by the divine, I was more
distracted by the piquant scent exhaled
by a swinging censer, the gilded dome
behind the altar, and the glassy eyes
of a mink biting the tail of a mink biting
the tail of a mink all around the mothball
permeated coat collar of an old lady
I hoped never to become.
I tried again, but this time I strung a bunch of englynion together. And although there are no rules about it, I tried my best to make it scan within the parameters:
Poetic ruination--
complete mortification--
leads to inebriation.
Give it a try and leave an englyn in the comments below. If you're feeling really brave, post it as a Poster Poem on The Guardian's Book Blog.
FARMER v. CROW
Summer's coming and the crows
comment while the farmer sows--
sows and hoes and weeds and hoes...
Summer passes, crows still wait,
patiently anticipate
ways to tease and aggravate.
Now it's time! The ripened corn
suddenly becomes airborne!
Crows ignoring scarecrow's scorn.
Farmer acts the lunatic
trying ev'ry dirty trick.
Vengeful thoughts are really sick!
Fields and corn he can't defend.
Farmer's now around the bend.
Crows, of course, win in the end.
To read the rest, click here.
The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.
The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.
We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.
It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.
...Techniques command attention from technicians, practitioners of the relevant art, and those who know it intimately. Life stories, on the other hand, are easy to follow; so are "personalities." And flagrant failures—easy to judge, and easy to describe—tend to stick in the mind.Quite an interesting article, I recommend you take look at it and Project Runway when the new season starts in January. I'll be right there watching. Why? Because fashion is another art, and art always has a story behind it!
Those truths affect, not only the judging of hurriedly-assembled cocktail dresses on television, but the reading and reviewing of new poems.
Ah! on Thanksgiving day, when from East and from West,
From North and from South comes the pilgrim and guest;
When the gray-haired New Englander sees round his board
The old broken links of affection restored;
When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more,
And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before;
What moistens the lip and what brightens the eye,
What calls back the past, like the rich Pumpkin pie?
The story and history of Saint Ursula. The legend of St. Ursula and her 11,000 virgins has been greatly modified in modern times. It is suggested that instead of ten companions, each with a retinue of a thousand virgins, she had but one companion, named Undecimilla, and that this name was originally mistaken for undecim millia, or 11,000. Whatever may have been the real facts, it is certain that the church dedicated to St. Ursula at Cologne contains more tombs of virgins than can properly be accommodated. The revenues of this church, which are considerable, belong to an abbess and six canonesses, who, to do honour to the saint must all be countesses. The Legend of Saint Ursula is considered to be fiction and in 1969 Pope Paul VI removed her name from the 1969 revision of the the universal calendar of the Catholic canon of saints.Here's my take on it:
A 10-line verse form with a repeating syllable count of 8,4,2,1,4,2,1,4,2,1. The rhyme scheme is abcdefdghd.There were a number of examples to look at and I said to myself, how hard can this be?
WHAT HAPPENS NEXTIt's the title that hooked me. There is no question mark. Is the wounding what happened next? If so, the reader is free to imagine what came before to bring it about--was it accidental or intentional? Or, should the reader speculate what will happen next? Will He remain earthbound since his wings are damaged, or will they heal allowing him to fly away from Her? So many possibilities! I like being able to construct a whole story from what we are given in these 41 words.
Burned and wounded
he turns from her.
He is a god
and does not know
pain though now he
feels it where the
hot oil of her
lamp has spilled at
the juncture where
his wings begin
to bud and fledge.
Is that a receiptLook for Genius Loci--there is more waiting to be discovered!
or a love note folded
on the open box?
There are two kinds of enjambment. There's regular enjambment, which is part of traditional poetry and is almost always a bad idea, but especially in sonnets--and then there's what's known as ultra-extreme enjambment. Ultra-extreme enjambment comes standard in free verse because free verse is, as we know, merely a heartfelt arrangement of plummy words requesting to be read slowly. So you can break the line anywhere you want. In fact you want toI also like the little contemporary cultural references Baker throws in to show us that Paul isn't an terminally insufferable poetry snob.
break against any
moments of natural
pause, not with
them, to keep
everyone on their toes and off balance...
I've got Photoshop for Dummies, and I learned a lot from it. The dummies' day may be passing, though. Too much yellow all over Barnes & Noble.You've got to love a character who likes dummies books, ZZ Top, Project Runway, and Sara Teasdale. Well, at least I do!
communal pods that cannily preserve a white-bread world, a throwback to an imagined past with "authentic" 1950s values and the nifty suburban amenities available today.It amazing that people continue to look backward where a "Leave It to Beaver" world is considered to be ideal. Not to go off on a rant, but weren't the women in those "ideal" communities of the 1950s stifled, intellectually unchallenged, and often driven to drink? And, weren't the children in those communities denied the opportunity to enjoy the benefits of a multi-cultural society?
is not political. Peace doesn’t necessarily have to be associated with the conflict of war, it can be related to violence/intolerance in our daily lives, to peace of mind. To each of us, peace can take on a different meaning, but, in the end, it all comes down to a simple definition: a state of calm and serenity, with no anxiety, the absence of violence, freedom from conflict or disagreement among people or groups of people.It is a wonderful idea to teach children about peace while they are young and I applaud the schools across the country that participated this year.
The Peace of Wild Things
When despair grows in me
and I wake in the middle of the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting for their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
It is impossible for me to describe my feelings as the time of my contemplated start drew near. I had a number of warmhearted friends in Baltimore,--friends that I loved almost as I did my life,--and the thought of being separated from them forever was painful beyond expression. It is my opinion that thousands would escape from slavery, who now remain, but for the strong cords of affection that bind them to their friends. The thought of leaving my friends was decidedly the most painful thought with which I had to contend. The love of them was my tender point, and shook my decision more than all things else.
ACROSS TO BROOKLYNAfter writing my 9/11 poem, I continued to write, a little poem here, another there. I hope that others, too, continued to write.
Snow came early that year
even though the calendar
had yet to mark autumn.
On a Tuesday morning
the sun rose into
a vivid crayola sky,
the clouds puffy as if
drawn by a child.
No one could have known
how quickly summer would pass.
A thunderclap,
then another,
signaled the start
of a new winter.
A terrific wind
released the flurry.
The sky filled with
snowflakes floating,
twirling, almost dancing
across to Brooklyn.
There was no ice
in these flakes,
yet the chill was tangible.
No crystalline patterns—
just the names of strangers,
facts and figures,
corporate logos,
and private matters,
on 8 1/2 by 11 inch
pieces of paper.
© Diane Mayr, all rights reserved