Poetry Friday: Thirteen Ways of Looking...

I'm joining the Poetry Pals/Sisters/Princesses for their monthly challenge. Tanita shared this prompt for September: 

Poetry Peeps! You’re invited to our challenge for the month of September! Here’s the scoop: We’re wandering through Wallace Stevens’ “13 Different Ways of Looking…” at something. Maybe it’s not 13 ways – maybe it’s only seven. Maybe it’s not a blackbird or anything alive, but something inanimate. Whatever happens, your way of looking will be different than mine, and I’m here for it. Are you in? Good! You have a month to craft your creation and share it on September 27th in a post and/or on social media with the tag #PoetryPals.

I'm cheating a little because I wrote this one a while ago, when my daughters were young. And saying I "wrote" it is a wee bit of a stretch since I borrowed lines from Stevens and interspersed them throughout my version. But I've always liked it and thought it would be fun to share it again, especially given this month's challenge. 

If you joined in the challenge, let us know! 

(Original lines from Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird are in italics. All the good lines belong to Stevens, but hey, the children are mine.)

Thirteen Ways of Looking at an Interruption 
Karen Edmisten
(with apologies and thanks to Wallace Stevens)

I
In the stillness of night,
The only moving thing
is a child.

II
I was of three minds:
sleep, motherhood, sleep.

III
I pretended not to care that I was awakened.
It was a small part of the pantomime.
There is my "to do" list, and then there is God's.
These are not the same thing.

IV

A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a child
Are one.
Add, mix and stir: my daughters' "to do" lists are mine.


V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The life with the child
or the thought of that life.

VI
Chatter filled the long day
The company of children
Transformed a mood. Sometimes
for better. Sometimes ... not.


VII
O, dear control-freak-self,
Why do you imagine a different life?
Do you not see how the life
you've been given is unspeakable gift?

VIII
I know of a tidy life,
of elegance, rhythm and control.
But I know, too, That a child is involved
In what I know.

IX
When my children have grown,
They will mark the edge
Of one of many circles.
I will be grateful for their imprint.

X
At the sight of children
I used to say, "Not for me, please.
An unwelcome interruption."
But something shifted. I gave myself
Over to motherhood, and held on tight.

XI
Once, a fear pierced me,
that I would never rise to this task,
would not die to self.


XII
3:20 a.m.: A nightmare. She needs me more
than I need this sleep. 
I rise. I go.
A child will not wait for morning.


XIII
It was nighttime all day.
I loved her and I was going to love her.
The child sat entwined in my limbs.
The interruption sweetly complete.

~~~~~~~~~~

Join the #PoetryPals and loads of other bloggers and poets for the Poetry Friday round-up. The incomparable Irene Latham is hosting this week at Live Your Poem. 

Poetry Friday: "To Autumn" by John Keats

Autumn sweeps in, her official debut on Sunday, so Keats makes his official reappearance here on the blog, courtesy of a suggestion from Atticus. An excellent choice from my better half. 

To Autumn
by John Keats

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
  Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
  With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
  And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
   To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
  With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,

  For summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

  Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
   Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,

  Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

   Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
  Steady thy laden head across a brook;
  Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
   Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
  Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
  And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

  Among the river sallows, borne aloft
   Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

  Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
  The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
    And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

(This poem is in the public domain.)

~~~~~~~~~~

The marvelous Linda Baie has the Poetry Friday round-up at TeacherDance. 

Photo Courtesy of Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: Wendell Berry

I don't have much to add to this one, other than:

1. It's Wendell Berry. Win/win. 

2. It's lovely imagery. 

3. It's Wendell Berry. 

Before Dark
by Wendell Berry

From the porch at dusk I watched
a kingfisher wild in flight
he could only have made for joy.

He came down the river, splashing
against the water’s dimming face
like a skipped rock, passing

on down out of sight. And still

....

(Read the rest here.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

Heidi Mordhorst has the Poetry Friday round-up at My Juicy Little Universe. 

Apparently, I often think of Wendell Berry in September, and Heidi often hosts in September, because three years ago, I shared another Berry poem on the day she hosted. Berry-endipity. 

What I've been reading: a handful of NetGalley ARCs

I love NetGalley 

If you're not familiar with it, check out this appreciated-by-all system for getting new books into readers' and reviewers' hands. Here are a few things I've read of late, thanks to NetGalley ARCs: 

I Promise It Won't Always Hurt Like This: 18 Assurances on Grief by Clare Mackintosh

A gorgeous, honest, heartfelt memoir that I could endlessly relate to. I would never say, "I know how you feel" to Clare Mackintosh, because I don't exactly how she feels. After my five miscarriages, I was in a different situation and had experienced a different kind of grief than Mackintosh and her husband endured, having lost their son Alex when he was five weeks old. What I share with her is simply this: we were both  grieving, we needed to heal, it would take a long time, and we needed the promises of others who had walked this path before us. Mackintosh pays it forward and offers that comfort and assurance. 

~~~~~

No Two Persons by Erica Bauermeister 

This one's from 2023, but I don't think I ever blogged about it. A marvelous book about the power of writing and the magic of connecting through storytelling. At first, I felt slightly disappointed by the varying points of view, but I was quickly won over, immersed in each new story-within-this-story. Bauermeister subtly pulled threads from here and there, weaving them into surprising new places.

The epigraph, a quote from The Writings of Madame Swetchine, is, "No two persons ever read the same book, or saw the same picture." This truth is elegantly illustrated as we dip in and out of the lives of disparate readers of a fictional author's book. One character doesn't even read the book but uses it in a brilliant way.

Some favorite quotes:

But he understood the feeling of living in a world where few questions had a single, solid answer. Understood, too, that in that world, creativity often dwelt next to confusion.

Science heard that fragment of a second and wondered how to make it fit into a whole. Fiction wondered what hearing it felt like.

...but that was the beauty of books, wasn't it? They took you places you didn't know you needed to go.

Ignoring the fact that grief is not a stalker but a stowaway, always there and up for any journey.

A gorgeous, moving, and fully satisfying read.

~~~~~

When Religion Hurts You: Healing from Religious Trauma and the Impact of High-Control Religion by Laura E. Anderson 

An excellent guide to understanding, dealing with, and healing from AREs (adverse religious experiences) and HCRs (high-control religions) and the trauma that can result. While Anderson doesn't go into extensive personal detail, she includes just enough of her own painful story to establish her credibility, authenticity, and empathy as a survivor of religious trauma. Her personal story/understanding of the issues and her professional credentials as a trauma-informed therapist come together for a compelling and helpful read. 

~~~~~

The Borrowed Life of Frederick Fife by Anna Johnston

A sweet (sometimes bittersweet) tale that kept me wondering how Fred, a lonely widower with no one to turn to, would resolve a unique dilemma. Mistaken identity and good intentions lead to second chances for these warm, likable characters. Surprise reveals, and a satisfying, lovely ending add to the charm of this poignant story about family, aging, loss, and forgiveness. 

I'll be back soon with a couple of picture books that made their way to me through NetGalley too. 📚

Photo thanks to Pixabay.

Poetry Friday: "To the Light of September" by W.S. Merwin

Mullein 

Here's a bit of perfection, a knowing nod to September, from the incomparable W.S. Merwin. 

To the Light of September
by W. S. Merwin

When you are already here
you appear to be only
a name that tells of you
whether you are present or not
....

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

~~~~~~~~~~

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

(Photo thanks to Hans at Pixabay.)