Poetry Friday: Jason Bayani's "Someday, Again"

When this poem appeared at Poets.org, Jason Bayani said of it: 

"There was a point where I started to question what I was doing as a poet and if my voice was even needed, which I think was a necessary question for me to explore. But for a while, I didn’t write because that question made me uncomfortable and I tend to avoid discomfort. I don’t know if this poem is me facing that; maybe it’s a beginning, a negotiation of some kind, a way to find my way back to the table, or a way to understand my poetics inside of a world in collapse."

Have you been there? Have you felt that? I have, and I so appreciate the kinship of a fellow writer who admits that we sometimes need to find our way back to the table. 

Someday, Again

by Jason Bayani

I’m waiting for the words        to catch up to my heart    which is 

elliptical at the moment            there’s an apology 

even I am expecting to bore out of my throat

                                                                         but what for            what for 

I am continuing to write in a font        that displeasures me 

            everything shifts so rapidly

my body           the environment           my body            the environment

why not return to something as aggressively unspectacular as arial 

....

(Read the rest here.) 

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The lovely and talented Michelle Kogan is the gracious hostess this week for the Poetry Friday round-up. 

(Photo courtesy of Public Domain Pictures.) 

Poetry Friday: "Winter: Tonight: Sunset" by David Budbill

Photo courtesy of Pixabay

Life has been a bit of a challenge lately. (Am I always saying that? I need a new thing to say.) Anyway, this poem had me nodding my head in recognition and agreement. Twice recently, in my gratitude journal, I said I was thankful for: 

walking to the mailbox in the cold, crisp night air 

Winter: Tonight: Sunset

by David Budbill

Tonight at sunset walking on the snowy road,
my shoes crunching on the frozen gravel, first

through the woods, then out into the open fields
past a couple of trailers and some pickup trucks, I stop

and look at the sky. Suddenly: orange, red, pink, blue,
green, purple, yellow, gray, all at once and everywhere.

I pause in this moment at the beginning of my old age

....

(Read the rest here.) 

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Jone Rush MacCulloch has the round-up this week. 

Poetry Friday: I'm hosting! (No overthinking allowed.)

I was thinking, overthinking, and waffling about what to post. Then, as I grew tired of waffling, overthinking — and, let's face it, just plain thinking — Atticus suggested that I post "Autumn in New York." One really can't go wrong with Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong, can one? No, one cannot. 

Ramona had thoughts too. She suggested the nothing-but-poetic scene from You've Got Mail in which Joe Fox expresses the perfect fall thought.

So, dear reader, if you too do not want to overthink anything but would simply like to bask in the beauty of Ella and Louis, and the joys of a screenplay by Nora Ephron, join me:  

  

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Mr. Linky is helping me round up this week's Poetry Friday posts, 

in his always-helpful, linky way. 

Thanks for joining us! 

Poetry Friday: "I wanted to be surprised."

Of course, we should be careful about what we want. Reality is always surprising. 

I've been away from the blog for a while. Life has taken many surprising turns in the last few months and I'm sad to have to share that my father passed away. We'd seen such decline in the last year as he battled a rare, aggressive form of cancer that spread to his bones. When he opted for hospice care, we got him moved into a beautiful place and he died two days later. I was surprised by that, but also by hummingbirds and by an Oscar Wilde quote that played a part in Dad's last days. In addition to grieving the loss of a man who spent 89 years on this planet, we've been handling the many details that need to be handled, and now I'm working on moving my mom — who still lives two hours away from us and had to go into Memory Care — to our town, which will make everyone's life better and days happier. I have so much to say and to write about caring for one's parents, but today is not the day for that. Today, I just want to share some wisdom and loveliness from Jane Hirshfield, who is always a balm to my soul. 

I wanted to be surprised.
by Jane Hirshfield

To such a request, the world is obliging.

In just the past week, a rotund porcupine,
who seemed equally startled by me.

The man who swallowed a tiny microphone
to record the sounds of his body,
not considering beforehand how he might remove it.

A cabbage and mustard sandwich on marbled bread.

How easily the large spiders were caught with a clear plastic cup
surprised even them.

I don’t know why I was surprised every time love started or ended.
Or why each time a new fossil, Earth-like planet, or war.
Or that no one kept being there when the doorknob had clearly.

What should not have been so surprising:

my error after error, recognized when appearing on the faces of others.

What did not surprise enough:
my daily expectation that anything would continue,
and then that so much did continue, when so much did not.

....

(Read the rest here, at Poets.org.) 

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The round-up this week is being hosted by Buffy Silverman. 

Photo thanks to BarbeeAnne at Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: I need a little Emily Dickinson today

 But then, who doesn't? 

If I can stop one heart from breaking,

    I shall not live in vain;

    If I can ease one life the aching,

    Or cool one pain,

    Or help one fainting robin

    Unto his nest again,

    I shall not live in vain.

This poem is in the public domain. 

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The incomparable Jama Rattigan has the Poetry Friday round-up today. 

Have a beautiful Friday and may you ease one life the aching today, 

or be on the receiving end of such kindness. 

Poetry Friday on a Saturday: Irene Latham's new book!

Look at this gorgeous cover! 

When I heard that Irene Latham had a new book coming out, I was over the moon. (I know, I know. I had to say it.) I've long admired Irene's endless talents. She is a wordsmith, poet, art aficionado, editor extraordinaire, and an incredible collaborator with the-also-endlessly-talented Charles Waters (whose work also needs to be checked out as soon as you have time to get lost in his website). 

What's the new book about? 

The premise of the book is intriguing: these poems are a catalog and overview of items we, humankind, have left behind on our neighbor in space. Some items are moving and meaningful (an American flag, a gold replica of an olive branch, the ashes of astrogeologist Eugene M. Shoemaker, a family photograph of astronaut Charles Duke) and some are merely "space junk" (check out the book for that fun array) but every object and poem inspires a thoughtful reaction. 

My first dip into The Museum on the Moon: The Curious Objects on the Lunar Surface left me charmed. The illustrations, by Myriam Wares, are consistently bewitching but also varied enough to match the mood of each poem perfectly. 

My second dip into The Museum on the Moon had me thinking about how stealthily educational the book is (in every marvelous sense of the word.) It left me wishing that I was still a homeschooling mom, teaching my daughters about the world (and the space around the world) through beautiful books. The Museum on the Moon would have inspired an entire unit study/deep dive for us. I miss those days, but that doesn't mean that this book doesn't have a place on my bookshelf. I will never stop collecting gorgeous picture books that send me over the moon. I'm delighted to add this one to my collection. 

Be sure to also check out Irene's MOON Discussion Guide and her Museum on the Moon Padlet. 

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The Poetry Friday round-up is being hosted this week by Carol Varsalona at Beyond LiteracyLink. 

Poetry Friday: Her First Novel by James Tate

Photo: Saliha Sevim, Pexels

I'm sharing this one because, honestly, who among us (well, among those of us who write) hasn't had a wake for a novel like this? The last three lines made me laugh out loud (as did, well, most of the poem.) It's a little bit of genius and a lot of real-life writerly angst. 

Her First Novel
by James Tate


When Connie finished her novel she came
over to my place to celebrate. I mixed up a
shaker full of Manhattans and we sat out on the
porch. "Here's to… What's the title?" I
asked. "Well, that's a problem. The title's
kind of awful. It's called THE KING OF SLOPS."
"Gosh," I said, "that's unfortunate. I think
you can probably do better than that." We took
a drink and reflected. "It's about a hospital
orderly." "Ouch," I said. "It doesn't sound
very promising, does it?" "Is there a love
angle?" I asked hopefully. "No," she replied,
"everybody hates him. He's a creep." "Then

....

(Read the rest here.) 

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The round-up this week is being hosted by Amy Ludwig VanDerwater at The Poem Farm. 

Poetry Friday: Pole-vaulting Grasshoppers

Happy Poetry Friday! 

As the end of August draws near, I'm sharing a haiku that I wrote a few years back. I remember walking a particular path the year I wrote this and noticing, as I always do in August, the intensity of grasshopperly activity. 

I hope that as your summer draws to a close, the subtle sense of shifting seasons brings you joy, surprise, or delight. 

Summer's End

by Karen Edmisten

August, morning walk.

The grasshoppers' pole vaulting,

a season shifting.

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The Poetry Friday round-up is being hosted by Linda at TeacherDance. 

Oops, I fell off the internet again

We've been occupied by all-things-parents, getting my folks moved into an assisted living residence while also dealing with hospitalizations for my dad. There's been a lot of emotion around all of it, from a lot of corners, but that's a post for another time. 

July passed in a blur. My daughters went to see Taylor Swift and we are still talking about it. (How did they get tickets? We still don't know. But I was so grateful to have one thing go so flawlessly in July. My Swifties had a nearly perfect experience. So happy.) 

As I attempt to get back into reading, writing, and poetry rhythms, I thought I'd share something simple, lovely, and relatable. From Barbara Crooker: 

In the Middle

of a life that's as complicated as everyone else's,
struggling for balance, juggling time.
The mantle clock that was my grandfather's
has stopped at 9:20; we haven't had time
to get it repaired. The brass pendulum is still,
the chimes don't ring. One day you look out the window,
green summer, the next, and the leaves have already fallen,

(Read the rest here.) 

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Tabatha has the weekly poetry round-up at The Opposite of Indifference. 

Poetry Friday: "Summer Song" by William Carlos Williams

This week's Poetry Friday host, Irene Latham, has invited everyone to a "Moon in June" themed roundup. She's encouraging us to "share a favorite moon poem (yours or someone else's), a moon story, a moon memory, a moon dream...or whatever your moon-heart desires!" Irene's newest book, Museum on the Moon, will be released on August 8th. Take a look at this gorgeous cover: 

Can't wait to read this one! 

My moon-themed selection this week is from William Carlos Williams. I turn to Williams when I want shimmering imagery that pulls me perfectly into a scene. Who, after all, doesn't appreciate the vividness of a red wheelbarrow or the sorry-not-sorry nature of a plum-eating confession? Williams applies the same deft and inviting hand to the sharing of a summer morn. 

Enjoy! 

Summer Song

by William Carlos Williams 

Wanderer moon
smiling a
faintly ironical smile
at this
brilliant, dew-moistened
summer morning,—
a detached
sleepily indifferent
smile, a
wanderer's smile,—
if I should
buy a shirt
your color and
put on a necktie
sky-blue
where would they carry me?

(This poem is in the public domain.)

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Irene has the complete round-up here. 

Photo courtesy of Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: Laura Shovan and Michael Rothenberg's *Welcome to Monsterville*

Welcome to Monsterville, by Laura Shovan, with illustrations by Michael Rothenberg is a sweet, sometimes silly, moving, always charming collection of art and poetry that brings a variety of monstrous (in the best of ways) emotions to life. 

The story behind this book is immensely touching. The seeds for the book were planted in early 2020, as Laura first mentions here. How did the book grow? Check out this post, "When I Cry," which is an explanation of the book's growth, a tribute to a beloved friend, and a farewell to that same dear friend who passed away much too soon (and before his collaboration with Laura was published.) 

In the Author's Note, Laura tells us more about the spirit of the monsters that Michael drew and Laura brought even more fully to life through poetry: 

We didn't know then, in January 2020, that the dark shadow of Covid-19 pandemic was about to overtake us. Michael and I sat talking at a wooden picnic table outside Wakulla Springs State Park. Decades ago, the classic monster movie Creature from the Black Lagoon filmed scenes in the springs' pristine water. But we had our own shadows and monsters to deal with. Michael had recently lost his only son, Cosmos, to addiction. My own college-aged son was clawing his way out of a years-long depression. 

Michael began doing art therapy and one day sent Laura the first of many monsters: 

Laura's response, a poem called "Neighbor," is playful and inviting, but also hints at the depth of what's to come in this collection: 

...when it moved in, I wasn't sure 

how this strange being, round and tall, 

would squeeze in through a door so small. 

Emotions are like that — surprising us when they move in, sometimes feeling strange and too big for the space we think they should occupy. That's the beautiful and subtle theme that's woven through this work. 

Hunger is an "Eleven-eyed monster/banging on my door." A monster has a birthday ("They laughed and hugged each friend/and said, 'I never knew you cared.'") A "strange new breed of rooster" finds a way to break free, and a root monster "hums a sweet song/during long lonely hours/of purple-blue moonlight/and dancing with flowers." 

One of my favorite poems from the book is "Green Cave," in which the speaker, wrestling with anger, seeks refuge in the comforting cave of a forsythia bush. The speaker is joined by a "monstrous bird" with blue feet:

The monster sang about being so angry
that it feels like a million arrows are prickling your skin.

Its wings beat to the song's rhythm like a soft, calm breath.

Ever since then, when I'm so mad I can't stay inside,
I go to the green cave and listen for the monster's song.

Michael's perfectly paired drawing: 

I love that both this drawing and the poem present anger as something that we can spend time with, even cozy up to — it's a necessary emotion that demands acknowledgment and company. If we don't spend time with the songs of anger (and anger's cousins — grief, sadness, bewilderment), we'll never move forward. The monster's song, the safety of the green cave, the "rhythm like a soft, calm breath" ... we need them all. 

Welcome to Monsterville is a book for children and a book for everyone. We've all felt the monsters, been the monsters, run from the monsters, and befriended the monsters. This book is a beautiful hat-tip to our human complexity. 

An educator's guide can be downloaded at Laura's website and you can buy this delightful creation wherever you love to buy your favorite delightful creations. 

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Speaking of delightful, the Poetry Friday round-up this week is being hosted by the lovely and gracious Linda Mitchell at A Word Edgewise. She's not only welcoming us for Poetry Friday, but she's also hosting her annual Clunker Exchange. Details are in this post. 

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Next week, Irene Latham has invited everyone to a "Moon in June" themed roundup. She's creating educator resources for her upcoming book, The Museum on the Moon. 

Irene says, "You're invited to share a favorite moon poem (yours or someone else's), a moon story, a moon memory, a moon dream...or whatever your moon-heart desires!" 

More details are here. 

Poetry Friday: an unexpected encounter

Photo courtesy of Emily Hopper/Pexels

I got busy last week and didn't get a post done but today I sat down and captured this moment from a recent walk. I try to walk most mornings and one route I take goes by a protected wetland area. 

I don't usually feel the need to protect myself from the inhabitants but, hey, I was, after all, the trespasser in this scenario. 

Unvigilant

by Karen Edmisten 

An unexpected
encounter, the impact as if
a piece of sky pounced.
Thwacked from behind, 

I was startled, unmoored,
looked around.
His innocently cocked head 

fooled me not.
Red-winged blackbird thug.

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The lovely Michelle Kogan has the Poetry Friday round-up this week.   

Poetry Friday: "New Moon Newton" by Oliver Baez Bendorf

Poem-a-Day, from Poets.org, comes through again. 

This was yesterday's poem. Of it, the poet says: 

“Everybody knows that poets are moonstruck. Of course, it’s so cliché, but we have our reasons and they are compelling. How could I not be struck by the force that causes ocean tides? This poem is a surrender to change, to a fresh start, to trust in the benevolent forces not only celestial but also earthly, such as friends and strangers, that have moved me into a brighter, kinder phase of life.”

—Oliver Baez Bendorf

Enjoy, friends! 

And be sure to visit Tricia at The Miss Rumphius Effect for the Poetry Friday round-up. 

New Moon Newton

by Oliver Baez Bendorf

            God is Change,

            And in the end,

            God prevails.

            But meanwhile . . .

            Kindness eases Change.

            Love quiets fear.

                        —Octavia E. Butler, Parable of the Talents

stars

whole patterns of them

rocking around in the radiant arena

above and around our heads

on a night when the wind

sang like a scream

and the deer stood frozen

as a statue of itself

the sky was dark because

la luna had finished revealing themself

and was not yet ready to 

begin again

and I get it now:

(Read the rest here, at Poets.org.) 

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Photo courtesy of Stux at Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: "To the Sea" by Anis Mojgani

One thing I love about receiving a daily poem from Poets.org is discovering poets I've never read before. Last week, this lovely poem by the Poet Laureate of Oregon, Anis Mojgani, landed in my Inbox. What have I done to deserve such gifts? (Oh, I'm glad I asked. I subscribed to the Poem-a-Day series. Subscribe, read, bookmark, repeat.) 

To the Sea
by Anis Mojgani

Sometimes when you start to ramble
or rather when you feel you are starting to ramble
you will say Well, now I’m rambling
though I don’t think you ever are.
And if you ever are I don’t really care.
And not just because I and everyone really
at times falls into our own unspooling
—which really I think is a beautiful softness
of being human, trying to show someone else
the color of all our threads, wanting another to know
everything in us we are trying to show them—

....

(Read the rest here.) 

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Patricia Franz at Reverie has the Poetry Friday round-up this week. And be sure to wish her 

a happy 40th anniversary! Huzzah! 

Poetry Friday: Love After Love by Derek Walcott

Do you know what's lovely about getting older? Finding out what a forgiving friend you can be to yourself, what a good friend you've been to you. Discovering, in the last oh-so-many years, that you have painted a sprawling and gorgeous picture, written a story that was worth preserving. 

You have loved others your whole life. Now Derek Walcott and I are reminding you to love you, too. After all, aren't you the one who persevered and made it this far? Feast, reflect, and keep going. 

Love After Love
by Derek Walcott

The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.

You will love again the stranger who was your self.

....

(Read the rest — and listen to the poem being read by Jon Kabat-Zinn — here, at The Marginalian. Or go here, to NPR, to hear another lovely reading by Tom Hiddleston.) 

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 Janice Scully has the round-up this week at Salt City Verse. 

Poetry Friday: "Throwing Children" by Ross Gay

This one, by Ross Gay, was recently in my Inbox (thanks to Poem-a-Day at Poets.org). I loved it and couldn't wait to share it with you. 

Throwing Children

by Ross Gay

It is really something when a kid who has a hard time becomes a kid who’s having a good time in no small part thanks to you throwing that kid in the air again and again on a mile long walk home from the Indian joint as her mom looks sideways at you like you don’t need to keep doing this because you’re pouring with sweat and breathing a little bit now you’re getting a good workout but because the kid laughs like a horse up there laughs like a kangaroo beating her wings against the light because she laughs like a happy little kid and when coming down and grabbing your forearm to brace herself for the time when you will drop her which you don’t and slides her hand into yours as she says for the fortieth time the fiftieth time inexhaustible her delight again again again and again and you say give me til the redbud tree or

....

(Read the rest of this utterly delightful poem here, at Poets.org.) 

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 Robyn Hood Black is rounding us up for Poetry Friday at Life on the Deckle Edge. 

Poetry Friday: Morning, by Mary Oliver

Happy Poetry Friday! I missed last week again due to some family medical stuff but I'm here now, it's Friday, and there's poetry out there that's demanding to be read. Let's read it. 

Here are two short poems by Mary Oliver about morning: 

Morning
by Mary Oliver 

Salt shining behind its glass cylinder.
Milk in a blue bowl. The yellow linoleum.
The cat stretching her black body from the pillow.
The way she makes her curvaceous response to the small, kind gesture.

....

(Read the rest here.) 

A Thousand Mornings
by Mary Oliver 

All night my heart makes its way
however it can over the rough ground
of uncertainties, but only until night
....

(Read the rest here.)

And if you love Mary Oliver, check out the new audiobook Wild and Precious: A Celebration of Mary Oliver, from Pushkin. I just downloaded it and can't wait to listen. 

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The Poetry Friday round-up this week is being hosted by the fantabulous Linda B. at TeacherDance. 

Photo courtesy of Eszter Miller at Pixabay. 

Also? May the exquisite poet, Gordon Lightfoot, rest in peace. I loved him so. 

Poetry Friday: National Poetry Month Blues, Ted Kooser, and I'm Hosting!

"A poem is a record of a discovery." 

— Ted Kooser 

Every year in April I get the Poetry Month Blues. The Poetry Month Blues are formally defined as, "The state of being in which a blogger berates herself and indulges in melancholy for being too busy — every single April —  to do something spectacular in celebration of one of her favorite art forms." 

This year, however, I'm giving myself a hug and a complete pass because we've been going through some hard things. Things are looking up, though, and I'm back for this Poetry Friday (and I'm hosting!) I'm pretty sure I'll be around next week too. Hmmm. 50% of National Poetry Month. That's basically a failing grade but it feels like a win nevertheless. 

This week I've got some Ted Kooser for you. He's singing the praises of the humble spiral notebook and elevating it (of course) to a metaphor for life and aging. I love, love, love him. 

A Spiral Notebook

by Ted Kooser 

The bright wire rolls like a porpoise

in and out of the calm blue sea

of the cover, or perhaps like a sleeper

twisting in and out of his dreams,

for it could hold a record of dreams

if you wanted to buy it for that

though it seems to be meant for

more serious work, with its

college-ruled lines and its cover

that states in emphatic white letters,

5 SUBJECT NOTEBOOK. It seems

....

(Read the rest here.) 

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I'm hosting! Please leave your link with the ever-so-helpful Mr. Linky: 

Poetry Friday: "Revival" by Luci Shaw

"What makes a poet a poet? 

The slender antenna of awareness 

combing the air for messages." 

— Luci Shaw

In "Revival" Luci Shaw anticipates spring and, like Shaw, I'm here for it. 

Revival
by Luci Shaw

March. I am beginning
to anticipate a thaw. Early mornings
the earth, old unbeliever, is still crusted with frost
where the moles have nosed up their
cold castings, and the ground cover
in shadow under the cedars hasn't softened
for months, fogs layering their slow, complicated ice
around foliage and stem
night by night,

....

(Read the rest here.) 

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Rose Cappelli has the Poetry Friday round-up at Imagine the Possibilities. 

Photo courtesy of Don White at Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: "Emily Dickinson's To-Do List" by Andrea Carlisle

I've shared this one before but I have such affection for it that I felt compelled to share it again. Because who doesn't want to speculate about Emily's deliciously original brain? 

What will you wear, bake, or hide today? (Oooh, I sense a poetry prompt here.)

Emily Dickinson's To-Do List
by Andrea Carlisle

Monday
Figure out what to wear—white dress?
Put hair in bun
Bake gingerbread for Sue
Peer out window at passersby
Write poem
Hide poem


Tuesday
White dress? Off-white dress?
....

(Read the rest here, and find out more about Andrea Carlisle here.) 

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Be sure to visit Laura Purdie Salas for this week's Poetry Friday round-up. 

Poetry Friday: Jane Hirshfield's "Mathematics"

Jane Hirshfield asks intriguing questions: 

Does a poem enlarge the world, 

or only our idea of the world? 

Mathematics
by Jane Hirshfield

I have envied those
who make something
useful, sturdy—
a chair, a pair of boots.

Even a soup,
rich with potatoes and cream.

Or those who fix, perhaps,
a leaking window:
strip out the old cracked putty,
lay down cleanly the line of the new.

You could learn,

....

(Read the rest here, at the Poetry Foundation.) 

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Heidi Mordhorst is hosting the Poetry Friday roundup this week 

at My Juicy Little Universe. 

Poetry Friday: "Days" by Billy Collins

Just a bit of poignant beauty from Billy Collins today. 

Days

by Billy Collins 

Each one is a gift, no doubt, 

mysteriously placed in your waking hand 

or set upon your forehead 

moments before you open your eyes. 

Today begins cold and bright, 

the ground heavy with snow 

and the thick masonry of ice, 

the sun glinting off the turrets of clouds. 

Through the calm eye of the window 

everything is in its place 

but so precariously 

this day might be resting somehow 

on the one before it, 

....

(Read the rest here, at the Poetry Foundation.) 

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The Poetry Friday round-up is being hosted this week by the inimitable Tanita Davis. 

Photo courtesy of Nico Becker at Pexels. 

Poetry Friday: Two Ways of Looking at February

February is my least favorite month. 

By February, I'm weary of our Nebraska winter. I'm tired of thinking about negative numbers. I'm annoyed by lashing winds and I'd like to file snow shovels under "Never again." 

So when I came across "February" by Bill Christopherson, I had to share it. (Read it here, at the Poetry Foundation.) The whole poem is only fourteen lines, so I can't share much without violating copyright, but it begins: 

February

by Bill Christopherson 

The cold grows colder, even as the days

grow longer, 

and ends: 

and hope's a reptile waiting for the sun.

Oh, Bill. 

Oh, Bill, I can relate. 

I want to both laugh and cry at this poem, at that line. The bleakness of it delights me and keeps me from taking my February doldrums too seriously. Christopherson's February is a monster from the deep, a demon dragging us into the underworld. Hope has been lying dormant so long that we wonder: is revival possible? 

Every year, I think, "This is it. I'm going to die in this never-ending, sub-zero weather when a pipe bursts and I drown and freeze at the same time. Because: February." 

And yet, it always ends — February, winter, sub-zero temps, my whining. They all go away. But in the depths of February, I like keeping company with pessimistic poets. They feed my melancholy soul. 

However, for those who prefer something less bleak (and to assure you that I'm actually hanging in there and have even had some lovely days and nights this month), I am including a second poem. Sara Teasdale is, shall we say, a bit more optimistic? Her February is no ravenous monster, but rather a sparkling and inviting spirit: 

February Twilight 

by Sara Teasdale 

I stood beside a hill

Smooth with new-laid snow,

A single star looked out

From the cold evening glow.

There was no other creature

That saw what I could see—

I stood and watched the evening star

As long as it watched me.

If you've never felt Christopherson's anxieties, insomnia, or nightmares, Sara may be your cup of February tea. I wish I could be a Sara all the time, but it's more accurate to say that I'm a combo of Bill and Sara, a messy conglomeration of anxiety and appreciation. 

Most of the time, I'm okay with that. 

Except in February. 

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The Poetry Friday round-up is being hosted this week by the incomparable Tabatha at The Opposite of Indifference. 

Lent approaches (and socks still annoy her)

Lent approaches, and I sometimes really miss these kinds of conversations. (Ramona was 5, Betsy was 11, and Anne-with-an-e was 14.) 

Ramona: "I'm going to give up hanging off the kitchen cupboard door."

Betsy: "Wait a minute — I thought you were going to give up whining."

Ramona: "No. I gave up whining when I have to put socks on. But that was this morning. Now I'm giving up hanging off the cupboard."

Anne-with-an-e: "It's not fair to God if you keep changing what you're giving up."

Ramona: "Well, I won't change it anymore. I'm giving up hanging off cupboards, and every time I feel like doing it, but don't, I get to put a bean in the jar."*

(Why don't I remember her hanging off the cupboard? It seems like something I would have loudly said NO to.)

Tomorrow is Ash Wednesday and I'm going to try to make it a bean-filled Lent. Okay, sure, there are no actual beans anymore and no actual jar. My girls grew up and the jar-filling stopped happening, and their sacrifices became more personal and I had far less material for my blog. But the intent remains and I can still shoot for it: Every time I feel like doing it, but don't...

"As the world must be redeemed in a few men to begin with,

so the soul is redeemed in a few of its thoughts, 

and works, and ways to begin with:

it takes a long time to finish 

the new creation of this redemption."

~ George MacDonald

And so, once again, it begins. 

~~~~~~~~~~

*Beans in the "Sacrifice Jar": 

There are different versions of this all over the place, but here's what we did when the girls were little: We put out an empty jar and a bowl of dried beans. For every act of kindness, prayer, or sacrifice, the kids put a bean in the jar. On Easter morning they found the beans had been replaced by an overflowing supply of M&Ms. (God's goodness knows no bounds and He will always give us more M&Ms than we deserve.) 

Poetry Friday: "To Winter" by Claude McKay

I am a big Claude McKay fan. However, I must admit I don't normally share the sentiment in this particular poem. I never really want the "season of calm love and soulful snows" to stay. Well, I'm all for a soulful snow, but our snows rarely feel like soulful snows. They mostly feel like big interruptions to plans and postponements of road trips. My (not very) poetic sentiment is usually: 

Go away, Winter.  

Go. 

Away. 

I don't 

like you. 

Leave us. 

Now. 

And yet, and yet. McKay crafts such a tender plea, and offers such a poignant contrast to his homeland of Jamaica that he actually makes me long for winter, to feel grateful for the gifts it brings. 

Oh, Claude, you "ease my heart of its impassioned woe" of winter complaint and make me appreciate the unique loveliness of the season. 

Such is the gift of the poet. 

To Winter
by Claude McKay

Stay, season of calm love and soulful snows!

There is a subtle sweetness in the sun,
The ripples on the stream's breast gaily run,
The wind more boisterously by me blows,
And each succeeding day now longer grows.
The birds a gladder music have begun,
The squirrel, full of mischief and of fun,
From maples' topmost branch the brown twig throws.
I read these pregnant signs, know what they mean:
I know that thou art making ready to go.
Oh stay! I fled a land where fields are green
Always, and palms wave gently to and fro,
And winds are balmy, blue brooks ever sheen,
To ease my heart of its impassioned woe. 

~~~~~~~~~~

Carol Varsalona has the Poetry Friday round-up at Beyond LiteracyLink. 

Photo credit: Hal Moran, Pexels

Poetry Friday: "Thirty-nine Years" (wishing Atticus a happy anniversary and writing poetry again)

Last week, Atticus and I celebrated our 39th anniversary. 

(Umm, we're as shocked as you are. 

How can two people who are so incredibly young and vibrant 

have been married for thirty-nine years? It's a mystery, I know.) 

Happy anniversary, Atticus. 

Thirty-nine Years

by Karen Edmisten 

He was my first husband.
He is my now-husband,
my last husband, my only husband,
(in case you’re counting.) 

I'm counting.
Thirty-nine years and counting.
Not counting as in,
“I can’t wait for this to be over,”
but counting as in, 

I didn’t know I could count this high
in the category “Years married.”
I’m astonished and delighted by us.
We should win something on Jeopardy: 

“Alex, what is, Tom and Karen defied the odds and lasted?" 
(Now we have been married so long 

that Alex is gone.)

We married young and discovered 

what it means to weld one’s self to another.
It’s a tricky process, this welding. 
Rife with flame and light and danger
but with a distant goal in sight: 

a finished form, something sturdy and strong, 

a thing to behold. 

We have loved each other, hurt each other, 

lost each other, and found each other. 

We have died and risen again. 

We are each a Phoenix 

who learned to rise from ashes, 

discovering — this man and I —
that ashes are the stuff of life
and that new beginnings
can be shining, iridescent things,
unexpected fuel that will carry us 

on another orbit around the earth. 

Life never stops beginning.
Oh, yes, surely, it’s ending 

every moment it’s beginning 

and it’s beginning 

with each ending.
This is the beauty of the Phoenix, yes?
It keeps rising, flaming, 

swirling, changing, starting again.
It is immortal, like our marriage,
this thing that began as
an amateur piece of welding. 

We are a fusion that is somehow now 

aged and lovely in its flaws, 

sturdy as steel 

and gleaming like precious metal that is 

well-worn and well-loved.

 ~~~~~~~~~~

The lovely and delightful Laura Shovan is hosting the round-up this week. 

Poetry Friday: "On Gathering Artists"

I enjoyed last week's Alberto Rios poem so much that I decided to share another this week. "On Gathering Artists" is an ode, a celebration, a pondering, a question, and an answer. 

On Gathering Artists
by Alberto Ríos 

Who does a job well, and very well—
These are the artists, those curious
Lights.


We are cobblers of the song
And barkers of the carnival word,
We are tailors of the light
And framers of the earth.
We fish among the elements
And hunt the elusive green in gray and blue.
We drink forbidden waters
And eat an invisible food.

In this time of electronic-mail and facsimile
Conversation, we send as our voice
The poem, the bridge, the circuit, the cure

....

Read the rest here, at Poets.org and revel in these lines from the next stanza: 

How easy to spend a day writing a poem,

How hard to spend a life writing a thousand.

and 

Who knows what to make of us?

and

... a tip of the hat
To us, as we go about
The drumming of our stars.

Oh, just be sure to go read the whole thing. It's short and you'll be so pleased you did. Especially if you are a "cobbler of the song." 

~~~~~~~~~~

Jan at Bookseed Studio is hosting the Poetry Friday roundup this week.

Photo credit: Victor Dompablo

Poetry Friday: "Perfect for Any Occasion" by Alberto Rios

I'm back! I always fall off the earth (well, the blogosphere) sometime after Christmas and then feel behind for weeks. While everyone else is recapping the previous year and making resolutions for the new, I'm still gobbling Christmas candy, finding time to read books I love, and — as I look up from a book, wipe chocolate from my mouth, and sigh at the twinkling lights — find myself wondering if the tree will actually come down in February. (I say that as if I have no control over the matter, as if the tree will just fold itself up into a tidy package and trot off to a closet at some point.) 

Anyway, here I am, and I've decided to kick off 2023 with pie. Because, why not? And because Alberto Rios is a treasure. And because ... it's pie. A metaphor for life. Oh, sure, we all feel like mincemeat sometimes, but still. In general, "Pies," as Rios says, "live a life of applause." 

Happy, pie-ful 2023! 

Perfect for Any Occasion
by Alberto Ríos

1. 
Pies have a reputation.
And it’s immediate—no talk of potential

Regarding a pie. It’s good
Or it isn’t, but mostly it is—sweet, very sweet

Right then, right there, blue and red.
It can’t go to junior college,

Work hard for the grades,
Work two jobs on the side.

It can’t slowly build a reputation
And a growing client base.

A pie gets one chance

....

(Read the rest here, at Poets.org.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

Marcie Flinchum Atkins has the Poetry Friday round-up today. 

Photo credit: Asya Vlasova, Pexels