Poetry Friday: I Can't Get Enough of James Weldon Johnson

Before a Painting
James Weldon Johnson

I knew not who had wrought with skill so fine
    What I beheld; nor by what laws of art
    He had created life and love and heart
On canvas, from mere color, curve and line.
Silent I stood and made no move or sign;
    Not with the crowd, but reverently apart;
    Nor felt the power my rooted limbs to start,
But mutely gazed upon that face divine.

And over me the sense of beauty fell,
    As music over a raptured listener to
        The deep-voiced organ breathing out a hymn;
Or as on one who kneels, his beads to tell,
    There falls the aureate glory filtered through
        The windows in some old cathedral dim.

(This poem is in the public domain.)

~~~~~

The roundup this week is at Check It Out. 

Poetry Friday: Last Minute Effort

Last Minute Effort 

Karen Edmisten 

Life is busy,
(as you know.)
So this week something
had to go.

Poetry Friday?
(Yikes! No post!)
I'll send you elsewhere,
to the host.

Simple solution.
(Brilliant, I know.)
Laura's the best.
Go, now. Go!

~~~~~

The always delightful Laura Purdie Salas is hosting the roundup this week at Writing the World for Kids.

Be sure to congratulate Laura on her new book, Snowman-Cold=Puddle: Spring Equations! And, if you feel so inclined, take up her challenge to write an Equation Poem.

Here's mine:

Busy week + Poetry Friday = Last Minute Inspiration 

Poetry Friday: Only This Morning

I love the immediacy of this poem by Dan Gerber, and its simple truth.

Wishing you a good morning, this morning, "the only day that matters."

Only This Morning
by Dan Gerber

In a hundred trillion years—
an actual number
though we can’t begin
to grasp it—the last traces
of our universe will be not
even a memory
with no memory to lament it.

(Read the rest here.)

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The insanely talented Tabatha Yeatts* has the roundup today at The Opposite of Indifference. 

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*In case you missed it, last week I shared the poem that Insanely Talented Tabatha wrote for me last summer, for the Poem Swap. You can read it here. 

In Which Atticus and I Have Been Married 35 Years ...

... and he sent me this:




Oh, how I love that man.

Poetry Friday: Tabatha Wrote Me a Poem

Tabatha Yeatts knows how much I love Billy Collins.

Tabatha got my name in the Summer Poem Swap last year and wrote me a poem — a glorious poem — about a discussion with Imaginary Billy Collins.

Imaginary Billy Collins! 

Tabatha gets me.

Thank you, Tabatha, for getting me. Thank you for making me cry a little bit when I read this beautiful piece, when I realized you wrote it for me, that it's mine, and I get to keep this gem and sit down with Imaginary Billy (and you) any time I want to.

Imaginary Billy and Real Tabatha are treasures.

Imaginary Billy and I Discuss the Founding Documents

for Karen

by Tabatha Yeatts 

Did you know that Timothy Matlack

is the clerk who transcribed

the Declaration of Independence?

I ask Imaginary Billy Collins,

who is reading the paper

on the sofa across from me.

Imaginary Billy is polite enough

to put down his newspaper

and he looks at me over his glasses,

He did a lovely job of it,

he says. The title is especially attractive,

with all those flourishes.

I know, I say. People had better

handwriting then. Billy hmms in agreement

and goes back to his paper. I wait

until he finishes his article and say,

Did you know that every year 

more than a million people come to

the National Archives Building to see it?

Billy raises an eyebrow and says,

I didn't know, but I'm not surprised.

I see it every year, in my dreams,

but not everyone has my imagination.

I'm sitting there thinking about

the million and one people who see it every year

as Billy returns to his reading.

I am nervous about interrupting him again

but I do anyway.

Did you know that the Declaration

and the Bill of Rights and the Constitution

are sealed in titanium casement

filled with argon gas?

And they are kept 22 feet underground

when they're not on display?

And the ink is measured every day

to make sure it isn't fading?

Oh, I do that, Billy says,

finally putting his newspaper down. 

With my copy, the one I visit.

Except it's not 22 feet underground

exactly. I keep it in 22 places. 

I keep the Preamble in my mouth,

and I tucked the first amendment

into my fingers so it's there while I'm writing.

I put some of the other amendments

in my shoes so I can figure out

where I'm going. I tend to ramble, 

you know.

I'm not sure whether it is more polite

to agree with him or disagree

so I make a noncommittal head bobble,

which he seems to approve of.

Where do you keep it?

he asks me.

I feel like it's been camping out

in my tear ducts, I say,

wishing I had a better answer.

But he nods, like that's a 

fine answer anyway. 

As long as the ink isn't fading, he says.

It's not, I say. 

~~~~~~~~~~

We're Going to Walden for the roundup this week. Thanks for hosting, Tara! 

Bits and Pieces of Our Days

Whew, it's been so long since I've posted an actual update that I may have forgotten everything we've been doing for the last four months.

Let's see what I can recall.

Much of 16-year-old Ramona's fall semester was consumed by community theater. (Did I just say she's 16? I did. People, I started blogging when she was three. Yikes. May I stop time, please?)

She auditioned for Peter and the Starcatcher and (dramatic drumroll....) got the lead. She adored playing the Starcatcher, Molly, and her British accent was, if I do say so myself, spot on. (Not that I can actually judge, not being British, but trust me. It was perfect. This is not a mother talking. Well, it is. But. Whatever.) There were six performances over two weekends (would have been seven, but one was canceled due to snow), plenty of family made it into town to see her, and overall, the entire experience delighted all involved.

As homeschoolers in a small town, theater opportunities can be a little hard to come by, so I'd been hoping something would work out soon for Ramona. Community theater to the rescue, and long live Molly -- the Starcatcher and the rising star. So happy for her.


                                                             

~~~~~~~~~~

Have I mentioned how much I love having a daughter who's a librarian? It's not only that Anne-with-an-e will pick up or return books for me (and I admit that I exploit that benefit far too often), but she absolutely loves her job, and knowing that I played a part in matchmaking the Anne-with-an-e/Library relationship brings me extensive happiness. 

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I spent much of the fall semester learning how to shop for and cook meals that are AIP (Autoimmune Protocol) compliant. Betsy's Crohn's disease, as I mentioned last September, was not responding to the drug she was on. She switched to a new one that she has to inject at home (and I learned that I can actually give someone a shot. Who knew? Nurse Karen, here). Then she tackled the daunting challenge of the AIP elimination diet. When people asked what she had to give up and I named all the foods -- grains, nuts, corn, legumes, beans, eggs, spices, dairy -- that aren't allowed during the elimination phase, they asked, "What's left?" Well, mainly vegetables (but no potatoes -- who knew they were a nighshade?), fruit, and meat.

Sourcing can be a challenge, but we've been getting it figured out. I've learned so much in the last few months about how to cook this way. There are loads of gluten-free flours that I'd never used or even heard of (tigernut, cassava.) I learned that you can actually make a pretty tasty orange-cranberry scone without flour, eggs, or sugar, and that you can create a "chili" without tomatoes (which are also a nightshade and therefore off-limits) by creating a stew base with pumpkin. I've been introduced to roughly a gajillion coconut products that I didn't know existed and I learned that everyone actually likes beef liver when it's hidden in a stew created by McAngie at Autoimmune Wellness.

It's still a challenge to balance all the AIP stuff with my vegan-ish leanings and some restrictions that Atticus adheres to, but I'm no longer pulling my hair out. I've been making peace with the kitchen, something I thought I'd never do, and that's been a lovely surprise.

~~~~~~~~~~

Latest reading:

I just finished How to Stop Time, by Matt Haig, and I absolutely loved it. It was so much more than I expected, and now I want to read everything Matt Haig has ever written.

Poetry Friday: Breakage, by Mary Oliver

Such a short poem, "Breakage," by Mary Oliver, is.

It begins, as so many of her poems do, in the natural world, and ends, as so much of her work does, in the life of the mind, in the midst of reflection.

Here are the final lines:


First you figure out what each one means by itself, 
the jingle, the periwinkle, the scallop 
       full of moonlight. 

Then you begin, slowly, to read the whole story.

(Read the whole poem here, at The Poetry Foundation.) 

And that, dear friends, is a tiny glimpse of the wonder that was Mary Oliver.

May she rest in peace.

Mary Oliver, 1935-2019

~~~~~

Tricia Stohr-Hunt at The Miss Rumphius Effect is hosting the roundup this week.

Poetry Friday: I dwell in possibility

Ah, my Emily!

So appropriate for January —for looking ahead — for being open to interpretation — full of possibility!










I dwell in Possibility
by Emily Dickinson

I dwell in Possibility –
A fairer House than Prose –
More numerous of Windows –
Superior – for Doors –

(Read the entire short poem here, at The Poetry Foundation.)

~~~~~~~~~~

Kathryn Apel has the Poetry Friday roundup. 

Upping My Goodreads Game

What I read in 2018 

Apparently, according to my profile page, I started a Goodreads account in 2009. (Whaaaat?) That's ten years ago. (I know you can do the math. I just needed to emphasize it.) This is so annoyingly typical of me. I started the account, did nothing with it (although I know I added my 2017 books at some point, but they're not there), and now I look like a slacker. ("I've read 54 books in ten years! Woo-hoo!") Well, actually, it was 54-ish in 2018. (I say "-ish" because I abandoned a couple of these books mid-way through, but read enough each time that I wanted to remember them in my tally.) 

I don't always make New Year's resolutions, but this year, I resolve to up my Goodreads game. I'm still not sure exactly what I want to put into it or get out of this. This is a work in progress. 

I haven't rated any of these books; I'm not a fan of the star system. I want to talk about books, ad nauseum, not slap a possibly misleading grade on them. It doesn't do to say, "It's three and a half stars," (or do I mean four stars??) when what I mean is, "The writing was gorgeous. She made me want to steal a sentence every few pages. But the plot was improbable, and a number of incidents seemed too contrived. I'm willing to suspend disbelief, of course, but I wish (fill in plot point) had gone a different way. But I'm so glad I read it. It had heart and charm, humanity, and writing to die for. Or maybe, from my writerly point of view, to kill for." 

I can't talk in stars. 

If you're on Goodreads and want to friend me, please do! I'm not as slacker-y as I appear. 

Here are a few of my favorites (to get us started), in no particular order, from 2018: 

Virgil Wander, by Leif Enger 

The Wednesday Wars, by Gary Schmidt (middle grade) 

My Life in Middlemarch, by Rebecca Mead 

Clock Dance, by Anne Tyler 

Love Walked In, by Marisa de los Santos 

Station Eleven, by Emily St. John Mandel 

The Power and the Glory, by Graham Greene 

Castle of Water, by Dane Huckelbridge

L.M. Montgomery's Pat of Silverbush books 

Beartown, by Fredrik Backman 

I Am, I Am, I Am, by Maggie O'Farrell 

Tell Me More, by Kelly Corrigan 

All of my 2018 books are here. See you on Goodreads? 

"I learn by going where I have to go."

It's time to shake off 2018 (and 2017 ... and 2016 ... umm, let's face it, it hasn't been the best run here for a couple of years now) and regenerate, much as a Time Lord does every now and then. Things change; they should, they must.

I put the internet on a much-needed snooze for the last couple of months, but I'm back. Taking my waking slow, but I'm here. And I'm hopeful about 2019.

Shall we kick the new year off with a Pulitzer Prize winner? Yes, let's. Can anyone nail a villanelle quite like Roethke? I think not. This is one of my favorites.


The Waking
by Theodore Roethke

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.

We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

(Read the rest here, at Poets.org.)

And let's compare favorite lines, shall we? (I know, I know ... an impossible task. Let's try anyway.)

I learn by going where I have to go.

I'm gonna have to go with this one. As a matter of fact, I might adopt this as the quote for my year. The quote for my life.

I learn by going where I have to go.

I don't always want to go where I have to go. ("Can't I go somewhere else, please?" I often ask or whine.) But I learn by going, I go by learning, and I have to, I have to, I have to, no matter how much I want to go somewhere else. (This shaking keeps me steady. I should know ... Oh, Roethke, stop throwing competing lines my way. I can choose only one.)

Anyway, yes, it's been a difficult couple of years. (What falls away is always. And is near ... Oh, c'mon, stop it, Roethke, I'm choosing only one favorite line!) But I sense that I'll learn by going, as I have to go, into 2019. And the shimmering hope that is a new, uncharted, unlived twelve-months-to-come is whispering to me that sometime in the coming year, I will "I hear my being dance from ear to ear." (Oh, that's a great line, too. But no, I'm not changing my answer.)

I learn by going where I have to go. 

I'm looking forward to finding out where I have to go this year.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round up is at Poetry for Children. 

Poetry Friday: Billy Collins, W.B. Yeats, MRIs, and Knowing Poems by Heart

I picked up Light the Dark: Writers on Creativity, Inspiration, and the Artistic Process last night and skipped straight to the Billy Collins contribution, "Into the Deep Heart's Core." I decided on the spot that I must (yes, must, because what if I need an MRI someday?) memorize "The Lake Isle of Innisfree."

Don't fret. This isn't a medical post, and I don't need an MRI —you'll get the MRI reference when you read the piece. And, happily, I can send you directly to that piece, because the book grew out of Joe Fassler's "By Heart" series in The Atlantic, and you can find the Billy Collins piece here.

A few shimmering gems:

It’s a powerful, unexpected statement of a simple sentiment: I want to go somewhere better than where I am.

Poetry’s kind of a mixture of the clear and the mysterious. It’s very important to know when to be which: what to be clear about and what to leave mysterious.

And yet I think poetry is as important today as it’s ever been, despite its diminished public stature. Its uses become obvious when you read it. Poetry privileges subjectivity. It foregrounds the interior life of the writer, who is trying to draw in a reader. And it gets readers into contact with their own subjective life. This is valuable, especially now.

And of course, listen to Yeats read "The Lake Isle of Innisfree."


Arise and go now, and read Billy Collins on the joy of memorization.

And memorize something. Because you never know when you're going to be in a "very high-tech coffin," in need of a beautiful and useful distraction.


The Lake Isle of Innisfree
William Butler Yeats

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee;
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

~~~~~~~~~~

The inimitable and amazing Jama Rattigan has the round-up this week at Alphabet Soup. 

Poetry Friday: Evening, by G.K. Chesterton

I couldn't have said it better myself: 

Evening

by G.K. Chesterton

Here dies another day

During which I have had eyes, ears, hands

And the great world round me;

And with tomorrow begins another.

Why am I allowed two?

~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round up this week is being hosted by Kay at A Journey Through the Pages. 

Poetry Friday: James Weldon Johnson's "Sonnet"

After a lot of dispiriting news this week and the feeling that women and their truths don't seem to matter to a great many people, I found James Weldon Johnson's "Sonnet" to be a welcome antidote.

Sonnet
by James Weldon Johnson

My heart be brave, and do not falter so,
Nor utter more that deep, despairing wail.
Thy way is very dark and drear I know,
But do not let thy strength and courage fail;
For certain as the raven-winged night
Is followed by the bright and blushing morn,
Thy coming morrow will be clear and bright;
’Tis darkest when the night is furthest worn.
Look up, and out, beyond, surrounding clouds,
And do not in thine own gross darkness grope,
Rise up, and casting off thy hind’ring shrouds,
Cling thou to this, and ever inspiring hope:
Tho’ thick the battle and tho’ fierce the fight,
There is a power making for the right.

~~~~~

Tabatha Yeatts has the roundup this week at The Opposite of Indifference. 

Poetry Friday: Hours

I have known hours of such varying intensity this week ... lovely hours, wrenching hours, calm hours, hours of laughter, anxious hours. Hazel Hall knows.


Hours
Hazel Hall

I have known hours built like cities,
House on grey house, with streets between
That lead to straggling roads and trail off,
Forgotten in a field of green;

Hours made like mountains lifting
White crests out of the fog and rain,
And woven of forbidden music—
Hours eternal in their pain.

Life is a tapestry of hours
Forever mellowing in tone,
Where all things blend, even the longing
For hours I have never known.

(Found here, on Poets.org.)

~~~~~~~~~~

Jone Rush MacCulloch has the roundup today.  

Poetry Friday: Credo, by Alfred Kreymborg

From one of the (new poet to me -- do you know him?) earlier adopters of free verse, Alfred Kreymborg (1883 - 1966). This one really spoke to me this week!


Credo
  by Alfred Kreymborg

I sing the will to love:
the will that carves the will to live,
the will that saps the will to hurt,
the will that kills the will to die;
the will that made and keeps you warm,
the will that points your eyes ahead,
the will that makes you give, not get,
a give and get that tell us what you are:
how much a god, how much a human.
I call on you to live the will to love.

(This poem is in the public domain.)

~~~~~~~~~~ 

The Poetry Friday roundup is at Carol Varsalona's Beyond LiteracyLink.