tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-170196722024-03-26T02:19:49.684-05:00Karen EdmistenThe Blog with the Shockingly Clever TitleKaren Edmisten http://www.blogger.com/profile/04446214835142625161noreply@blogger.comBlogger3511125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17019672.post-34448013515679810612024-03-14T20:25:00.003-05:002024-03-14T20:25:36.581-05:00Poetry Friday: "The Lake Isle of Innisfree" <div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY-Uvb3GhyoV5Vd2-QZiUk7d9pbxJ7dxJe4eOg6l_v6OtBSgOuyQG7CbPFBsgPX348Y_V4NRCAjm71AmM8vkA9bKSiH_zxgTRioTwWtTCpXUPB4_mM4cMIdVfVvtW0S5tfm19ZRqtTNwmqgMMlenzA7lsyEtYbqS4T7e3BwQQkD9vy-0s8KVwF3Q/s160/poetryfridaybutton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="109" data-original-width="160" height="109" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY-Uvb3GhyoV5Vd2-QZiUk7d9pbxJ7dxJe4eOg6l_v6OtBSgOuyQG7CbPFBsgPX348Y_V4NRCAjm71AmM8vkA9bKSiH_zxgTRioTwWtTCpXUPB4_mM4cMIdVfVvtW0S5tfm19ZRqtTNwmqgMMlenzA7lsyEtYbqS4T7e3BwQQkD9vy-0s8KVwF3Q/s1600/poetryfridaybutton.jpg" width="160" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Some days call for a reliable, beloved, gorgeous one from William Butler Yeats. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium; font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div><b><span style="font-size: medium;">The Lake Isle of Innisfree</span></b></div><div><br />by W. B. Yeats<br /><br /><br /><div>I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,<br />And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:<br />Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee;</div><div>And live alone in the bee-loud glade.<br /><br />And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,<br />Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;<br />There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,<br />And evening full of the linnet's wings.<br /><br />I will arise and go now, for always night and day<br />I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;<br />While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,<br />I hear it in the deep heart's core.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">(This poem is in the public domain.) </span></div><div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">~~~~~~~~~~</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">The one and only <a href="http://tanitasdavis.com/wp/?p=13406" target="_blank">Tanita Davis is hosting Poetry Friday</a> this week. </div><div style="text-align: center;">Join her for all kinds of poetic goodness. </div></div>Karen Edmisten http://www.blogger.com/profile/04446214835142625161noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17019672.post-56221837127469134622024-03-07T19:52:00.001-06:002024-03-07T20:06:58.423-06:00Poetry Friday: "Don't Go Into the Library" by Alberto Ríos <div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvTw-j_C_n56GYec_jZy1rNoCoeG2L4mLLXSZhr6hka9gtq3RgMPcOF6JxNJ7PTnDiIhlJRxr19ut_tRYizU-Gad0EPgGKvJ95rVLa6g1nG2W0qwpzkrhDvgbY3gKJi8UUj0gnxiazjm9RCTiiyhrXbx_DE1urafaBRkTpGD4KcKjKIkTw0fOnMA/s1280/library-5641389_1280.jpg"><img border="0" data-original-height="854" data-original-width="1280" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvTw-j_C_n56GYec_jZy1rNoCoeG2L4mLLXSZhr6hka9gtq3RgMPcOF6JxNJ7PTnDiIhlJRxr19ut_tRYizU-Gad0EPgGKvJ95rVLa6g1nG2W0qwpzkrhDvgbY3gKJi8UUj0gnxiazjm9RCTiiyhrXbx_DE1urafaBRkTpGD4KcKjKIkTw0fOnMA/w400-h268/library-5641389_1280.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">I've missed a couple of weeks of Poetry Friday. I was very busy and then I was very sick. </div><div style="text-align: center;">Well, okay, not <i>very</i> sick, as in <i>seriously</i> sick, just sick in that sort of, "I have the stomach flu and it <i>feels</i> like I'm seriously sick but I'm not and I know this will pass eventually," way. And then, after three or four days, it did. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">After the first, worst day, I was able to read and I was grateful, as I always am, for the library. I read <a href="https://amzn.to/3wK8cO1" target="_blank"><i>Severance</i> by Ling Ma</a> and <a href="https://amzn.to/49IyZIW" target="_blank"><i>Someone</i> by Alice McDermott</a> and I read <i><a href="https://amzn.to/3PbXLZO" target="_blank">Betsy-Tacy</a> </i>at night because it's good medicine. (That one, <i>of course</i>, was not a library book. That one is part of the foundation of our home.) I also tried to listen to an audiobook for my book club but I kept falling asleep during that one — it's a book I loved many years ago but on this go-round, I kept tiring of the author's pretensions. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">I didn't haul my sick self to the library, by the way, lest you think I was being careless or stupid. I had several library books around here and Atticus brought home the McDermott book, read it, liked it immensely, and then told me he thought I would like it too. He was right, as he usually is about books I like, love, hate, and treasure. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">At any rate, I thought it was time for some library love, so here, once again, is "Don't Go Into the Library" by Alberto Ríos. A gem. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><br /><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Don’t Go Into the Library</span></b><br />by <a href="https://poets.org/poet/alberto-rios" target="_blank">Alberto Ríos</a><br /><br /><br />The library is dangerous—<br />Don’t go in. If you do<br /><br />You know what will happen.<br />It’s like a pet store or a bakery—<br /><br />Every single time you’ll come out of there<br />Holding something in your arms.<div><br /></div><div>....<br /><br />(Read the rest <a href="https://poets.org/poem/dont-go-library" target="_blank">here, at Poets.org</a>.) <br /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">~~~~~~~~~~</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://laurasalas.com/poems-for-teachers/poetry-friday-is-here-and-so-is-oskar/" target="_blank">Laura Purdie Salas has the Poetry Friday round-up this week</a>. Enjoy! And do go into the library! </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">(Photo courtesy of <a href="https://pixabay.com/photos/library-architecture-books-interior-5641389/" target="_blank">Oliver Götting/Pixabay</a>.)</span></div>Karen Edmisten http://www.blogger.com/profile/04446214835142625161noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17019672.post-17338227994443704472024-02-15T18:50:00.001-06:002024-02-15T18:52:18.340-06:00Poetry Friday: "Invisible Work" by Kwoya Fagin Maples <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho3Z8bM92hMYjuvWQ-2YNjn9gUxkwg9qALkeaYfiSGXm0ejVZDswy7ZEV_7rmx5osj9G_rtF0JIs8oqGo4jL40Jb1jj4SZUgP6Kuzn8R1XTiC4TcLiUkvlvNf7Nof06ykmP9b-hVKFQdgr-76zjiDurYfq4sTiKaQQtYwVwHcY9FvhNBYOjsFT0A/s160/poetryfridaybutton.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="109" data-original-width="160" height="109" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho3Z8bM92hMYjuvWQ-2YNjn9gUxkwg9qALkeaYfiSGXm0ejVZDswy7ZEV_7rmx5osj9G_rtF0JIs8oqGo4jL40Jb1jj4SZUgP6Kuzn8R1XTiC4TcLiUkvlvNf7Nof06ykmP9b-hVKFQdgr-76zjiDurYfq4sTiKaQQtYwVwHcY9FvhNBYOjsFT0A/s1600/poetryfridaybutton.jpg" width="160" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I subscribe to <a href="https://poets.org/poem-a-day" target="_blank">"Poem-a-Day" at Poets.org</a>, but I must admit my attention ebbs and flows. Sometimes I faithfully, and happily read the poem each day. In other seasons, poetry piles up in my Inbox and I later mass-delete in a frenzy of Inbox cleaning. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But recently I was walloped by marvelous finds two days in a row — <a href="https://karenedmisten.blogspot.com/2024/02/poetry-friday-eve-l-ewing-on-talking-to.html" target="_blank">Eve L. Ewing's "eschatology"</a> (which I shared last week) and Kwoya Fagin Maples' "Invisible Work." </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Obviously, that was enough to launch me back into my daily habit. Enjoy this beauty! </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><p></p><p><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Invisible Work</span></b></p><p>by <a href="https://poets.org/poem/invisible-work?mc_cid=51b8677606&mc_eid=8a0c68ac41" target="_blank">Kwoya Fagin Maples</a></p><p>or teachers, guides whose gestures I recall better than names</p><p> so much I’ve been taught I have yet to know</p><p>but ode to every stitch of braid past my mother’s fingertips </p><p>sewing countless</p><p> buttons for every day my grandmother</p><p>cooked and cleaned house twice</p><p>& Sis. Eugenia Foster </p><p>who kept my brother and I in summer who taught me </p><p> steeping and drinking tea & how I could call for someone </p><p>but not cry when they passed over</p><p>the wind chimes too all their constant worry with wind</p><p>even after her stroke my grandmother Dorothy rose on cold </p><p> nights </p><p>...</p><p>(Read the rest <a href="https://poets.org/poem/invisible-work?mc_cid=51b8677606&mc_eid=8a0c68ac41" target="_blank">here, at Poets.org</a>.) <br /><br /><br /></p><div style="text-align: center;">~~~~~~~~~~</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://reflectionsontheteche.com/" target="_blank"></a><a href="https://reflectionsontheteche.com/" target="_blank">Margaret, at Reflections on the Teche</a>, has the Poetry Friday round-up this week. </div><p></p>Karen Edmisten http://www.blogger.com/profile/04446214835142625161noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17019672.post-80207236826231532152024-02-09T05:39:00.002-06:002024-02-09T05:39:53.124-06:00Poetry Friday: Eve L. Ewing, on talking to bus drivers and the end of the world <div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiy08IrqcZMx7-T2jhCxjwiyuFRh39Be4vflvfkUAtpK_c-bP7y6x_49CvHuG6qpVwwzrX07QxgbsEIBSmFf6YuAw8PizXB6gkSRj0Ci9SSQXSxkh8nN7x3oFz2uBSTW18fi5FEQYzf9QwPAN_IcoUIaYhlhWBp8QGUXXvWtj5YseYfn2O9tkBOQ/s5568/pexels-william-larsen-12583051.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5568" data-original-width="3712" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiy08IrqcZMx7-T2jhCxjwiyuFRh39Be4vflvfkUAtpK_c-bP7y6x_49CvHuG6qpVwwzrX07QxgbsEIBSmFf6YuAw8PizXB6gkSRj0Ci9SSQXSxkh8nN7x3oFz2uBSTW18fi5FEQYzf9QwPAN_IcoUIaYhlhWBp8QGUXXvWtj5YseYfn2O9tkBOQ/s320/pexels-william-larsen-12583051.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Eve L. Ewing said of this piece: <div><br /></div><div>"This poem started out as being about the everyday moments that sustain us, born from an interaction with a bus driver. Due, probably, to both the times we live in and my generally apocalyptic character, it also became a poem about the end of the world." </div><div><br /></div><div>I gotta love any poet who combines small talk and eschatology. I'm there. </div><div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size: large;"><b>eschatology</b></span><br />by <a href="https://poets.org/poet/eve-l-ewing" target="_blank">Eve L. Ewing<br /></a><br /><p>i’m confident that the absolute dregs of possibility for this society,<br />the sugary coffee mound at the bottom of this cup,<br />our last best hope that when our little bit of assigned plasma implodes <br />it won’t go down as a green mark in the cosmic ledger,<br />lies in the moment when you say hello to a bus driver <br />and they say it back—<br /><br />when someone holds the door open for you <br />and you do a little jog to meet them where they are—</p><p>....</p><p>Read the rest <a href="https://poets.org/poem/eschatology?mc_cid=f3e18ff5ce&mc_eid=8a0c68ac41" target="_blank">here, at Poets.org</a>. </p><p>I think perhaps my favorite lines from this one — though it's hard to pick a favorite — is: </p><p style="text-align: center;">"and actually everyone who tried to keep me alive, keep me afloat, /and if not unblemished, suitably repaired."</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://beyondliteracylink.blogspot.com/2024/02/welcome-to-pre-valentine-poetry-friday.html" target="_blank">Carol Varsalona, at Beyond LiteracyLink</a>, has the Poetry Friday round-up today.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">(Photo courtesy of <a href="https://www.pexels.com/@wx7tech/" target="_blank">William Larsen, Pexels</a>.)</span></p></div></div></div>Karen Edmisten http://www.blogger.com/profile/04446214835142625161noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17019672.post-35568942010635361702024-02-01T20:52:00.005-06:002024-02-01T20:52:52.862-06:00Poetry Friday: James Weldon Johnson <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq-mstBgB-dSS9GsjoLCcbkcMa_2uQTO_KWBJzkaIRzSO4M9BKjoipZELKZE51yy7QAZdokKrqiuLjiRmPlkEJ3YtKskuQXB4kAmmF-i7O-3hWPIganiS5-4pHhCdJEGFtiaJ5OKTG6TLUsNONCcZ91k9AEPCQe4PP38icHxdUMvkpBTneQzun7w/s160/poetryfridaybutton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="109" data-original-width="160" height="109" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq-mstBgB-dSS9GsjoLCcbkcMa_2uQTO_KWBJzkaIRzSO4M9BKjoipZELKZE51yy7QAZdokKrqiuLjiRmPlkEJ3YtKskuQXB4kAmmF-i7O-3hWPIganiS5-4pHhCdJEGFtiaJ5OKTG6TLUsNONCcZ91k9AEPCQe4PP38icHxdUMvkpBTneQzun7w/s1600/poetryfridaybutton.jpg" width="160" /></a></div><br />I love this one from James Weldon Johnson (not that I could ever pick a favorite from among <a href="https://poets.org/poet/james-weldon-johnson" target="_blank">all these treasures</a>.) <p></p><p style="text-align: center;">Enjoy all kinds of Poetry Friday goodness with <a href="https://ayearofreading.org/2024/02/01/the-poetry-friday-roundup-is-here-3/" target="_blank">Mary Lee Hahn at A(nother) Year of Reading</a>. </p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Before a Painting</span></b></p><p style="text-align: left;">by James Weldon Johnson</p><br />I knew not who had wrought with skill so fine<br />What I beheld; nor by what laws of art<br /> He had created life and love and heart<br />On canvas, from mere color, curve and line.<br />Silent I stood and made no move or sign;<br />Not with the crowd, but reverently apart;<br />Nor felt the power my rooted limbs to start,<br />But mutely gazed upon that face divine.<br /><br />And over me the sense of beauty fell,<br />As music over a raptured listener to<br />The deep-voiced organ breathing out a hymn;<br />Or as on one who kneels, his beads to tell,<br />There falls the aureate glory filtered through<br />The windows in some old cathedral dim.<br /><p>(This poem is in the public domain.) </p>Karen Edmisten http://www.blogger.com/profile/04446214835142625161noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17019672.post-60804099336140999872024-01-26T10:05:00.000-06:002024-01-26T10:05:11.250-06:00Poetry Friday: When a poem gobsmacks <div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSLd5osv8nOqraaWUk9wgcJZiSmho8JDHVUtGFzWaKNatkzcZ3Vf02tPAkeHYa-VP1eQURw_FBTon8SKU3bgKcE7_o_3CxfVEyMjXzIJnwyDnU9kd1qG2XO23g5M8nJyJNP08bn8R1slvfuZ6Nlf4pqMGbfi_sbzegVnqhTp2nuKP2YwmpEe9XNA/s160/poetryfridaybutton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="109" data-original-width="160" height="109" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSLd5osv8nOqraaWUk9wgcJZiSmho8JDHVUtGFzWaKNatkzcZ3Vf02tPAkeHYa-VP1eQURw_FBTon8SKU3bgKcE7_o_3CxfVEyMjXzIJnwyDnU9kd1qG2XO23g5M8nJyJNP08bn8R1slvfuZ6Nlf4pqMGbfi_sbzegVnqhTp2nuKP2YwmpEe9XNA/s1600/poetryfridaybutton.jpg" width="160" /></a></div><br />It's surprising sometimes, the way Poetry Friday just <i>works</i>. You think of a poet, and you're drawn to that person, their poem, that moment. And it's the perfect poem for that imperfect day. </div><div><br /></div><div>This morning, coming late to the Poetry Friday party, I thought, "What shall I throw into the mix? What about some Barbara Crooker? What about that one mentioning glorious things around us?" These are days when I find myself looking for glorious moments in the smallest of things. </div><div><br /></div><div>I found the poem and was gobsmacked. I'd completely forgotten that this poem swerves into mention of her mother, medically struggling day by day. I looked at the screen, blinked, looked left, then right, as if I'd see the source of this coincidence. I didn't see anything, but I feel it. All around us. </div><div><br /></div><div>Later today I'll go to the hospital where my mother, too, is having more bad days than good, where I, too, will look around and try, try fervently, to remember all that is glorious around us. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>All That Is Glorious Around Us</b></span><br /><br />is not, for me, these grand vistas, sublime peaks, mist-filled<br />overlooks, towering clouds, but doing errands on a day<br />of driving rain, staying dry inside the silver skin of the car,<br />160,000 miles, still running just fine. Or later,<br />sitting in a café warmed by the steam<br />from white chicken chili, two cups of dark coffee,<div>....</div><div>(Read the rest of Barbara Crooker's poem <a href="https://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php%3Fdate=2008%252F02%252F10.html" target="_blank">here</a>.) </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">~~~~~~~~~~</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Wonderful, talented <a href="https://chickenspaghetti.typepad.com/chicken_spaghetti/2024/01/pi%C3%B1ata.html" target="_blank">Susan Thomsen is hosting the Poetry Friday round-up this week at Chicken Spaghetti</a>. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Karen Edmisten http://www.blogger.com/profile/04446214835142625161noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17019672.post-71923345505786872412024-01-12T10:09:00.000-06:002024-01-12T10:09:59.845-06:00Poetry Friday: Anne Porter, "Living Things" <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvn8KsEDANCFMaspaTs85i5ZaC8NtutRhiURI5V_L6s9imAMDH6bbXWwgLcq-JVeQN30oy_UXxLm8A1X_dU4CGFihMxzq45YGvT_WZ4z_eZ2WtKhneDBoKVQGBNsse3JQI9OhcVsPjegFHRbPMmXIhzW14VN-yP8xrZMQSI7Lm0b6xBiA5Wdvvsg/s1280/writesomething.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="1280" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvn8KsEDANCFMaspaTs85i5ZaC8NtutRhiURI5V_L6s9imAMDH6bbXWwgLcq-JVeQN30oy_UXxLm8A1X_dU4CGFihMxzq45YGvT_WZ4z_eZ2WtKhneDBoKVQGBNsse3JQI9OhcVsPjegFHRbPMmXIhzW14VN-yP8xrZMQSI7Lm0b6xBiA5Wdvvsg/s320/writesomething.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />I find Anne Porter utterly charming. <div><br /></div><div>Porter began seriously pursuing her poetry at the age of 64, after her husband, <a href="https://www.theartstory.org/artist/porter-fairfield/" target="_blank">artist Fairfield Porter</a> passed away in 1975. Her first collection of poetry was published 1994, when she was 83 years old. </div><div><br /></div><div>Read more about her <a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/anne-porter" target="_blank">here, at the Poetry Foundation</a>. </div><div><br /></div><div>For a <a href="https://blog.bestamericanpoetry.com/the_best_american_poetry/2021/02/on-anne-porter-poet-1911-2011-by-lucette-lagnado-1956-2019.html" target="_blank">longer bio, go to Best American Poetry</a>, where Porter, after being asked why she was still writing at her age, said that "art may be the only pursuit that old age can't wreck":<div><br /></div><div>"You can't sing anymore, you can't dance anymore, you can't drive anymore — but you can still write." </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Here's to continuing to create living things in 2024. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><br /><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Living Things</span></b><br />by Anne Porter</div><div>(1911-2011) <br /><br />Our poems<br />Are like the wart-hogs<br />In the zoo<br />It's hard to say<br />Why there should be such creatures<br /><br />But once our life gets into them<br />As sometimes happens<br />Our poems<br />Turn into living things<br />And there's no arguing<br />With living things<div>....</div><div><br /></div><div>(Read the rest <a href="https://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php%3Fdate=2011%252F09%252F29.html" target="_blank">here</a>.) </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">~~~~~~~~~~</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://traceykj.com/joomla/index.php/a-token-for-your-thoughts" target="_blank">Tracey Kiff-Judson is hosting today</a>. Join her as she ponders Monopoly pieces and pulls together the Poetry Friday round-up. </div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://pixabay.com/photos/write-author-a-book-office-5243230/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo courtesy of Pixabay</span></a>.</div>Karen Edmisten http://www.blogger.com/profile/04446214835142625161noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17019672.post-18348551115421638492024-01-04T17:39:00.002-06:002024-01-10T08:12:56.729-06:00Poetry Friday: "Journey of the Magi" by T.S. Eliot <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn0iewCMOXaUoWMY5r46IYbHMxlS8s0BNf2sBBHfbpHL9ldMCnye7ZG0i3AOtoRxX9b3WjupslUsiq8PU6dyuOMN2HtOYnivgDtuKIJMUUqxXWjEo-XwVEWHdJd8cq2a6uXQVJwKMTUJjDo9JAYqIzFFT5dCRrGS4LgrtLVkRCTEDPH2Aav0-KHA/s500/Thomas_Stearns_Eliot_by_Lady_Ottoline_Morrell_(1934).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="432" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn0iewCMOXaUoWMY5r46IYbHMxlS8s0BNf2sBBHfbpHL9ldMCnye7ZG0i3AOtoRxX9b3WjupslUsiq8PU6dyuOMN2HtOYnivgDtuKIJMUUqxXWjEo-XwVEWHdJd8cq2a6uXQVJwKMTUJjDo9JAYqIzFFT5dCRrGS4LgrtLVkRCTEDPH2Aav0-KHA/s320/Thomas_Stearns_Eliot_by_Lady_Ottoline_Morrell_(1934).jpg" width="276" /></a></div><br />Apparently, I haven't posted this one since 2020. (I thought I predictably posted it <i>every single year</i> but apparently, I am less predictable than I think.) Therefore, here is my not-quite-annual trek with Eliot. <p></p><br /><b>Journey of the Magi</b><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">by T.S. Eliot </span><br /><i><br /></i>'A cold coming we had of it,<br />Just the worst time of the year<br />For a journey, and such a long journey:<br />The ways deep and the weather sharp,<div><div>The very dead of winter.’</div><div>And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,</div><div>Lying down in the melting snow.</div><div>There were times we regretted</div><div>The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,</div><div>And the silken girls bringing sherbet.</div><div>Then the camel men cursing and grumbling</div><div>And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,</div><div>And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,</div><div>And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly</div><div>And the villages dirty and charging high prices:</div><div>A hard time we had of it.</div><div>At the end we preferred to travel all night,</div><div>Sleeping in snatches,</div><div>With the voices singing in our ears, saying</div><div>That this was all folly.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,</div><div>Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;</div><div>With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,</div><div>And three trees on the low sky,</div><div>And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.</div><div>Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,</div><div>Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,</div><div>And feet kicking the empty wine-skins,</div><div>But there was no information, and so we continued</div><div>And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon</div><div>Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.</div><div><br /></div><div>All this was a long time ago, I remember,</div><div>And I would do it again, but set down</div><div>This set down</div><div>This: were we led all that way for</div><div>Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,</div><div>We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,</div><div>But had thought they were different; this Birth was</div><div>Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.</div><div>We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,</div><div>But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,</div><div>With an alien people clutching their gods.</div><div>I should be glad of another death.</div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: x-small;">(This poem is in the public domain.) </span></div><div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">~~~~~~~~~~</div><br /><br /></div><div>What an astonishing poem, a melding of earthiness and supernatural doings. Eliot captures that down-to-the-bones discomfort of a life-shattering event, an alien revelation, the combination of comfort and terror. <br /><br /><div>You can also listen to Eliot read it <a href="https://poetryarchive.org/poem/journey-magi/">here</a>, at The Poetry Archive. </div><div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">~~~~~~~~~~</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">The <a href="https://www.marcieatkins.com/2024/01/04/poetry-friday-roundup-word-of-the-year-2024-and-new-adventures/" target="_blank">round-up this week is being hosted by the delightful and lovely Marcie Flinchum Atkins</a>. </div></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Karen Edmisten http://www.blogger.com/profile/04446214835142625161noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17019672.post-35642662723505509012023-12-28T19:46:00.003-06:002023-12-31T07:58:58.777-06:00Poetry Friday: Jason Bayani's "Someday, Again" <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6H8R6Aq7pME5qk76B5xHZOMiCoYRknc9Nn14eTDPXkVaVb2N73_KHizDJJflhhG87DG7-cr0Gx-p5hGBcKUSfROM7gefxsHLxIg4j4t3mPU5MnOg7bn7fCS-2Pp3QJ2zQc3fMWsB1lwIc5dnRm1qaZ_RBstqIKx88wgBK4-qbdeJGmHIZKwyd7A/s1280/eraser-316446_1280.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="862" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6H8R6Aq7pME5qk76B5xHZOMiCoYRknc9Nn14eTDPXkVaVb2N73_KHizDJJflhhG87DG7-cr0Gx-p5hGBcKUSfROM7gefxsHLxIg4j4t3mPU5MnOg7bn7fCS-2Pp3QJ2zQc3fMWsB1lwIc5dnRm1qaZ_RBstqIKx88wgBK4-qbdeJGmHIZKwyd7A/s320/eraser-316446_1280.jpg" width="216" /></a></div><br />When this poem appeared at <a href="https://Poets.org">Poets.org</a>, Jason Bayani said of it: <p></p><p></p><blockquote>"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."</blockquote><p></p><p>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. </p><p><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Someday, Again</span></b></p><p>by Jason Bayani</p><p><br /></p><p>I’m waiting for the words to catch up to my heart which is </p><p>elliptical at the moment there’s an apology </p><p>even I am expecting to bore out of my throat</p><p> but what for what for </p><p>I am continuing to write in a font that displeasures me </p><p> everything shifts so rapidly</p><p>my body the environment my body the environment</p><p>why not return to something as aggressively unspectacular as arial </p><p>....</p><p>(Read the rest <a href="https://poets.org/poem/someday-again?mc_cid=dc815cf9a8&mc_eid=8a0c68ac41" target="_blank">here</a>.) </p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">~~~~~~~~~~</p><p style="text-align: center;">The lovely and talented <a href="https://moreart4all.wordpress.com/2023/12/28/poetry-friday-roundup-is-here-with-elfchen-poems-more/" target="_blank">Michelle Kogan</a> is the gracious hostess this week for the Poetry Friday round-up. </p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">(<a href="https://pixabay.com/users/publicdomainpictures-14/" target="_blank">Photo courtesy of Public Domain Pictures</a>.) </span></p>Karen Edmisten http://www.blogger.com/profile/04446214835142625161noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17019672.post-72529588696464366852023-12-21T20:57:00.002-06:002023-12-21T20:57:36.310-06:00Poetry Friday: "Winter: Tonight: Sunset" by David Budbill <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPh4heG1lE_4MkzIEL_trYHOrW0R1zEcOrmCL7xQGQbRYIOOylqqP5GUBRcEN0SDl24rYqfLGapXc5ByoqPdd3IUnkxYiKr6SoLrs6Nqj8vwuQoCT5KiiAjF3Qc_LVbmvIAwGtYkBGxO7xnEAqJaYiYsP-_u11JKiZGLnchfSgLPDUugGZLkFa7w/s1280/winter-landscape-636634_1280.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="857" data-original-width="1280" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPh4heG1lE_4MkzIEL_trYHOrW0R1zEcOrmCL7xQGQbRYIOOylqqP5GUBRcEN0SDl24rYqfLGapXc5ByoqPdd3IUnkxYiKr6SoLrs6Nqj8vwuQoCT5KiiAjF3Qc_LVbmvIAwGtYkBGxO7xnEAqJaYiYsP-_u11JKiZGLnchfSgLPDUugGZLkFa7w/s320/winter-landscape-636634_1280.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo courtesy of <a href="https://pixabay.com/photos/winter-landscape-sunset-cold-snow-636634/" target="_blank">Pixabay</a></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>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: </p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>walking to the mailbox in the cold, crisp night air </i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></p><br /><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Winter: Tonight: Sunset</span></b><br /><br />by David Budbill<br /><br />Tonight at sunset walking on the snowy road,<br />my shoes crunching on the frozen gravel, first<br /><br />through the woods, then out into the open fields<br />past a couple of trailers and some pickup trucks, I stop<br /><br />and look at the sky. Suddenly: orange, red, pink, blue,<br />green, purple, yellow, gray, all at once and everywhere.<br /><br />I pause in this moment at the beginning of my old age<div>....<br /><p>(Read the rest <a href="https://www.writersalmanac.org/index.html%3Fp=9240.html" target="_blank">here</a>.) </p><p style="text-align: center;">~~~~~~~~~~</p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.jonerushmacculloch.com/blog/poetry-friday-week-51-winter-solstice-a-day-of-celebrations" target="_blank">Jone Rush MacCulloch has the round-up</a> this week. </p></div>Karen Edmisten http://www.blogger.com/profile/04446214835142625161noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17019672.post-16135687838497102992023-11-09T16:50:00.000-06:002023-11-09T16:50:52.877-06:00Poetry 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. <div><br /></div><div>Ramona had thoughts too. She suggested the nothing-but-poetic scene from <i>You've Got Mail</i> in which Joe Fox expresses the perfect fall thought.</div><div><br /></div><div>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: </div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"> <iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/gg6OnhvaU1w?si=4FkzhkM1nz0VDmLo" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe></div><div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/vViMeAkOsv8?si=YKzGMF00HR7FBCed" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe>
</div></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">~~~~~~~~~~</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Mr. Linky is helping me round up this week's Poetry Friday posts, </div><div style="text-align: center;">in his always-helpful, linky way. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Thanks for joining us! </div>
<link href="//www.blenza.com/linkies/styles/default.css" media="all" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"></link><script src="//www.blenza.com/linkies/loc_en.js" type="text/javascript"></script><script src="//www.blenza.com/linkies/opt_defaults.js" type="text/javascript"></script><script src="//www.blenza.com/linkies/misterlinky.js" type="text/javascript"></script><script src="//www.blenza.com/linkies/autolink.php?mode=standard&owner=KarenEd&postid=09Nov2023b" type="text/javascript"></script>Karen Edmisten http://www.blogger.com/profile/04446214835142625161noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17019672.post-73758347132914247052023-11-02T18:27:00.001-05:002023-11-02T18:27:13.509-05:00Poetry Friday: "I wanted to be surprised." <div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf9HOyauafbVkF6tgr72N-R5JZ6ifigsNWwNrIZJRicRSYqwBdO-Cu9y5dvB1nd5kULC2Ko_W41hLp_a8mw4vllHPkX6Be4Qtle1hQJ_HF5xIjmi4bs6Hbmrf2u8IFpbZvBecjKSjbnCiGGvHCchLkHzZPfMEX12hyphenhyphen-OrduBuAjQy0LpS_Z-fInA/s1280/hummingbird-3695578_1280.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="1280" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf9HOyauafbVkF6tgr72N-R5JZ6ifigsNWwNrIZJRicRSYqwBdO-Cu9y5dvB1nd5kULC2Ko_W41hLp_a8mw4vllHPkX6Be4Qtle1hQJ_HF5xIjmi4bs6Hbmrf2u8IFpbZvBecjKSjbnCiGGvHCchLkHzZPfMEX12hyphenhyphen-OrduBuAjQy0LpS_Z-fInA/s320/hummingbird-3695578_1280.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Of course, we should be careful about what we want. Reality is always surprising. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><div><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></div>I wanted to be surprised.</span></b><br />by Jane Hirshfield<p>To such a request, the world is obliging.</p>In just the past week, a rotund porcupine,<br />who seemed equally startled by me.<br /><br />The man who swallowed a tiny microphone<br />to record the sounds of his body,<br />not considering beforehand how he might remove it.<br /><br />A cabbage and mustard sandwich on marbled bread.<br /><br />How easily the large spiders were caught with a clear plastic cup<br />surprised even them.<br /><br />I don’t know why I was surprised every time love started or ended.<br />Or why each time a new fossil, Earth-like planet, or war.<br />Or that no one kept being there when the doorknob had clearly.<div><br /></div><div>What should not have been so surprising:</div><div>my error after error, recognized when appearing on the faces of others.<br /><br />What did not surprise enough:<br />my daily expectation that anything would continue,<br />and then that so much did continue, when so much did not.<div>....</div><div>(Read the rest <a href="https://poets.org/poem/i-wanted-be-surprised" target="_blank">here, at Poets.org</a>.) </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">The round-up this week is being <a href="https://buffysilverman.com/blog/" target="_blank">hosted by Buffy Silverman</a>. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Photo thanks to <a href="https://pixabay.com/photos/hummingbird-bird-wings-cuba-flight-3695578/" target="_blank">BarbeeAnne at Pixabay</a>. </div>Karen Edmisten http://www.blogger.com/profile/04446214835142625161noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17019672.post-32743020286437970622023-09-29T08:01:00.000-05:002023-09-29T08:01:54.632-05:00Poetry Friday: I need a little Emily Dickinson today <p> But then, who doesn't? </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGHYXWZPqiQ08CR4DZlTBuPitabhbSwgMGTSt-OMiINox-I-i-f8U34zjU2WrAwNmz3e44hvlCh8Ora_O1kittbvSJQyIfiUCi3Veytt6_J8pyNc2TeBZW-C37VT6rqW6PYMYJJ5oxPO6U8PPlbDuZlijn2w8AzqX9bGQ06oWyOGDjoW3QO_U0Vw/s794/640px-Emily_Dickinson_daguerreotype.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="794" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGHYXWZPqiQ08CR4DZlTBuPitabhbSwgMGTSt-OMiINox-I-i-f8U34zjU2WrAwNmz3e44hvlCh8Ora_O1kittbvSJQyIfiUCi3Veytt6_J8pyNc2TeBZW-C37VT6rqW6PYMYJJ5oxPO6U8PPlbDuZlijn2w8AzqX9bGQ06oWyOGDjoW3QO_U0Vw/s320/640px-Emily_Dickinson_daguerreotype.jpg" width="258" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">If I can stop one heart from breaking,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> I shall not live in vain;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> If I can ease one life the aching,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> Or cool one pain,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> Or help one fainting robin</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> Unto his nest again,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> I shall not live in vain.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">This poem is in the public domain. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">~~~~~~~~~~</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The <a href="https://jamarattigan.com/2023/09/28/poetry-friday-roundup-is-here-17/" target="_blank">incomparable Jama Rattigan has the Poetry Friday round-up today</a>. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Have a beautiful Friday and may you ease one life the aching today, </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">or be on the receiving end of such kindness. </div></div>Karen Edmisten http://www.blogger.com/profile/04446214835142625161noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17019672.post-47589358553864514612023-09-23T10:19:00.001-05:002023-09-23T10:19:05.723-05:00Poetry Friday on a Saturday: Irene Latham's new book! <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCx5J1pDJl2ThzjxcP0Rjwbj1OephxO4LWBZnGNVCPiFISavIaIku2AiAdS7U8al70uOfp6OSxa64cbPVIyDSHl9lbMMAM4PTx-3oEymqQ8FCN9LPmp6up5Y60Px2vtxOh1VddwmQeV7uGIffZdy2OOYkzqNRCIT8zMt2V9f2zXViNJcFDaxAkhg/s400/MOON%20cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="329" data-original-width="400" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCx5J1pDJl2ThzjxcP0Rjwbj1OephxO4LWBZnGNVCPiFISavIaIku2AiAdS7U8al70uOfp6OSxa64cbPVIyDSHl9lbMMAM4PTx-3oEymqQ8FCN9LPmp6up5Y60Px2vtxOh1VddwmQeV7uGIffZdy2OOYkzqNRCIT8zMt2V9f2zXViNJcFDaxAkhg/s320/MOON%20cover.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>Look at this gorgeous cover! </b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When I heard that Irene Latham had <a href="https://bookshop.org/p/books/the-museum-on-the-moon-the-curious-objects-on-the-lunar-surface-irene-latham/19037738?ean=9781638192039" target="_blank">a new book</a> coming out, I was over the moon. (<i>I know, I know</i>. I had to say it.) I've long admired Irene's endless talents. She is a wordsmith, poet, art aficionado, <a href="https://birminghamartsjournal.com/staff.html" target="_blank">editor extraordinaire</a>, and an incredible <a href="https://irenelatham.blogspot.com/search?q=charles+waters+" target="_blank">collaborator with the-also-endlessly-talented Charles Waters</a> (whose work also needs to be checked out as soon as you have time to get lost in <a href="https://www.charleswaterspoetry.com/" target="_blank">his website</a>). </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">What's the new book about? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">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. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My first dip into <i><a href="https://amzn.to/3RwUF4w" target="_blank">The Museum on the Moon: The Curious Objects on the Lunar Surface</a></i> left me charmed. The <a href="https://myriamwares.com/" target="_blank">illustrations, by Myriam Wares</a>, are consistently bewitching but also varied enough to match the mood of each poem perfectly. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My second dip into <i>The Museum on the Moon</i> 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. <i>The Museum on the Moon</i> 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. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Be sure to also check out Irene's <a href="http://www.irenelatham.com/pdf/moon_discussion.pdf" target="_blank">MOON Discussion Guide</a> and her <a href="https://padlet.com/irenelathambook/welcome-to-the-museum-on-the-moon-x6zzhrbpgghd09j6" target="_blank">Museum on the Moon Padlet</a>. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">~~~~~~~~~~</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The Poetry Friday round-up is being <a href="https://beyondliteracylink.blogspot.com/2023/09/destination-summers-end.html" target="_blank">hosted this week by Carol Varsalona at <i>Beyond LiteracyLink</i></a>. </div>Karen Edmisten http://www.blogger.com/profile/04446214835142625161noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17019672.post-83488106429424468412023-09-07T19:32:00.001-05:002023-09-08T05:44:27.669-05:00Poetry Friday: Her First Novel by James Tate <p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvuC6d7GFoF-EvjteOaR-qhM06xf_EZg8SRK8yAiJKF3yD3ou9IGndt4ZmD69XGgpAUL_nh0lmmgHPMTCFK-3NtMVxk4mOxF8y8-oebl_tNsQ_pL9Q2RBHCOtwxyyEImmjpg4y2f4VK0gqGJJNFPXWonwZounsSnVqwWh83BycBiWgawNyrbic_w/s5184/pexels-saliha-sevim-7871270.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5184" data-original-width="3456" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvuC6d7GFoF-EvjteOaR-qhM06xf_EZg8SRK8yAiJKF3yD3ou9IGndt4ZmD69XGgpAUL_nh0lmmgHPMTCFK-3NtMVxk4mOxF8y8-oebl_tNsQ_pL9Q2RBHCOtwxyyEImmjpg4y2f4VK0gqGJJNFPXWonwZounsSnVqwWh83BycBiWgawNyrbic_w/s320/pexels-saliha-sevim-7871270.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo: <a href="https://www.pexels.com/@kekremsi/" target="_blank">Saliha Sevim, Pexels</a></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>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. <p></p><br /><br /><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Her First Novel</span></b><br />by <a href="https://poets.org/poet/james-tate" target="_blank">James Tate</a><br /><br /><br />When Connie finished her novel she came<br />over to my place to celebrate. I mixed up a<br />shaker full of Manhattans and we sat out on the<br />porch. "Here's to… What's the title?" I<br />asked. "Well, that's a problem. The title's<br />kind of awful. It's called THE KING OF SLOPS."<br />"Gosh," I said, "that's unfortunate. I think<br />you can probably do better than that." We took<br />a drink and reflected. "It's about a hospital<br />orderly." "Ouch," I said. "It doesn't sound<br />very promising, does it?" "Is there a love<br />angle?" I asked hopefully. "No," she replied,<br />"everybody hates him. He's a creep." "Then<div>....</div><div>(Read the rest <a href="https://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php%3Fdate=2010%252F07%252F28.html" target="_blank">here</a>.) </div><div><br /><p style="text-align: center;">~~~~~~~~~~</p><p style="text-align: center;">The round-up this week is being hosted by <a href="http://www.poemfarm.amylv.com/2023/09/give-some-writing-advice.html" target="_blank">Amy Ludwig VanDerwater at The Poem Farm</a>. </p></div>Karen Edmisten http://www.blogger.com/profile/04446214835142625161noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17019672.post-6646448044536307382023-08-24T19:43:00.003-05:002023-08-24T19:43:45.267-05:00Poetry Friday: Pole-vaulting Grasshoppers <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJsi-W1d8Bjodqsj6-Tdtp0nth7qYyi4uYugFcokA6ELJMEY4Ep-U4iLEOwR8jA7kc3lbrqGINL-7XZ4M65JZdfRYoGEozdtuO0zp_fi0Ss7sD_N0UKhA4gq7qPw2NMPCQVLMIafj8QydffWxWgI_9yBrVimS-5EKdaBU4XrvpozXA3TV8Bw-gRw/s1280/grasshopper-8113345_1280.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="781" data-original-width="1280" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJsi-W1d8Bjodqsj6-Tdtp0nth7qYyi4uYugFcokA6ELJMEY4Ep-U4iLEOwR8jA7kc3lbrqGINL-7XZ4M65JZdfRYoGEozdtuO0zp_fi0Ss7sD_N0UKhA4gq7qPw2NMPCQVLMIafj8QydffWxWgI_9yBrVimS-5EKdaBU4XrvpozXA3TV8Bw-gRw/s320/grasshopper-8113345_1280.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Happy Poetry Friday! <div><br /></div><div>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. <div><br /></div><div>I hope that as your summer draws to a close, the subtle sense of shifting seasons brings you joy, surprise, or delight. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-size: large;">Summer's End</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">by Karen Edmisten</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">August, morning walk.</div><div style="text-align: center;">The grasshoppers' pole vaulting,</div><div style="text-align: center;">a season shifting.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">~~~~~~~~~~</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">The Poetry Friday round-up is being hosted by <a href="https://www.teacherdance.org/2023/08/poetry-friday-end-is-beginning.html" target="_blank">Linda at <i>TeacherDance</i></a>. </div></div></div>Karen Edmisten http://www.blogger.com/profile/04446214835142625161noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17019672.post-76298344913848886432023-08-10T21:06:00.000-05:002023-08-10T21:06:02.775-05:00Oops, I fell off the internet again <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijVWXDD2G4Nsj624sCbo9TOvpTlnHNTqSAAZEpFmjnWYiWOp3EwADdfMdvbb5dJ0mUZxuAvV2BaiMBbGKL62ciELg4uyH62lz-g0faeK5f3eAKB98mk-yamBrXvh4CYWIyIHt9l-M4uEvbo2aHq_Dwd93Ze7c70VDtk2R07TqPiYULxw2xjlwgqg/s1280/clocks-6664622_1280.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="1280" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijVWXDD2G4Nsj624sCbo9TOvpTlnHNTqSAAZEpFmjnWYiWOp3EwADdfMdvbb5dJ0mUZxuAvV2BaiMBbGKL62ciELg4uyH62lz-g0faeK5f3eAKB98mk-yamBrXvh4CYWIyIHt9l-M4uEvbo2aHq_Dwd93Ze7c70VDtk2R07TqPiYULxw2xjlwgqg/s320/clocks-6664622_1280.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />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. <p></p><p>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.) </p><p>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: </p><p><br /></p><p><b><span style="font-size: medium;">In the Middle</span></b><br /><br />of a life that's as complicated as everyone else's,<br />struggling for balance, juggling time.<br />The mantle clock that was my grandfather's<br />has stopped at 9:20; we haven't had time<br />to get it repaired. The brass pendulum is still,<br />the chimes don't ring. One day you look out the window,<br />green summer, the next, and the leaves have already fallen,</p><p>(Read the rest <a href="https://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php%3Fdate=2006%252F12%252F01.html" target="_blank">here</a>.) </p><p style="text-align: center;">~~~~~~~~~~</p><p style="text-align: center;">Tabatha has the weekly poetry round-up at <a href="https://tabathayeatts.blogspot.com/2023/08/sings-inside-us.html" target="_blank"><i>The Opposite of Indifference</i></a>. </p>Karen Edmisten http://www.blogger.com/profile/04446214835142625161noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17019672.post-86886504322811973322023-06-29T20:59:00.002-05:002023-06-29T21:37:01.088-05:00Poetry Friday: "Summer Song" by William Carlos Williams <div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLsUTplsQxWFCYikv90n8K6F71AGsa8TQGPnvsb8x8lHCXhoJXmyAqkFGpEpJpcxqvPcZ4aDW3WDMvQ2JLbfRMWLdzTBcBRiFHTRxNkS4sarwq-oQPt0y_nl7G0lHZbu0ReziMy4hzJnozgEldC6UGh1TZr9aUk6ZoSJMd0W4NCq9QKCZ_-a9pMQ/s1280/moon-g3f43f4cff_1280.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="1280" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLsUTplsQxWFCYikv90n8K6F71AGsa8TQGPnvsb8x8lHCXhoJXmyAqkFGpEpJpcxqvPcZ4aDW3WDMvQ2JLbfRMWLdzTBcBRiFHTRxNkS4sarwq-oQPt0y_nl7G0lHZbu0ReziMy4hzJnozgEldC6UGh1TZr9aUk6ZoSJMd0W4NCq9QKCZ_-a9pMQ/s320/moon-g3f43f4cff_1280.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />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, <i>Museum on the Moon</i>, will be released on August 8th. Take a look at this gorgeous cover: </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSJTXbo277VIU5ly1dCn1GfTp66b4YOUwG4r8NPSnfH6a2jDq7IrpEq3z0b76_9ply8ptlgKPG74WqKxn2vfk2Ed3ZVzWENwuZ-QJ9UYr69HErYH9yBKs_ntPQrhczppzzoqvJWl23PN4IuwcHgTIJnsiXNaOJM26TZ9xAbnkw2RCVJ--JfwEUwA/s3398/MOON%20cover%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2775" data-original-width="3398" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSJTXbo277VIU5ly1dCn1GfTp66b4YOUwG4r8NPSnfH6a2jDq7IrpEq3z0b76_9ply8ptlgKPG74WqKxn2vfk2Ed3ZVzWENwuZ-QJ9UYr69HErYH9yBKs_ntPQrhczppzzoqvJWl23PN4IuwcHgTIJnsiXNaOJM26TZ9xAbnkw2RCVJ--JfwEUwA/s320/MOON%20cover%20(1).jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>Can't wait to read this one! </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>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 href="https://poets.org/poem/red-wheelbarrow" target="_blank">a red wheelbarrow</a> or the sorry-not-sorry nature of a <a href="https://poets.org/poem/just-say" target="_blank">plum-eating confession</a>? Williams applies the same deft and inviting hand to the sharing of a summer morn. </div><div><br /></div><div>Enjoy! </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Summer Song</span></b></div>by <a href="https://poets.org/poet/william-carlos-williams">William Carlos Williams</a> <div><br /><br />Wanderer moon<br />smiling a<br />faintly ironical smile<br />at this<br />brilliant, dew-moistened<br />summer morning,—<br />a detached<br />sleepily indifferent<br />smile, a<br />wanderer's smile,—<br />if I should<br />buy a shirt<br />your color and<br />put on a necktie<br />sky-blue<br />where would they carry me?<div><br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">(This poem is in the public domain.)</span></div></div><div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">~~~~~~~~~~</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://irenelatham.blogspot.com/2023/06/the-moon-in-june-welcome-to-poetry.html" target="_blank">Irene has the complete round-up here.</a> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo <a href="https://pixabay.com/photos/moon-tomorrow-morning-sky-6507260/" target="_blank">courtesy of Pixabay</a>. </span></div>Karen Edmisten http://www.blogger.com/profile/04446214835142625161noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17019672.post-19384705246496999502023-06-22T18:55:00.003-05:002023-06-22T20:09:38.263-05:00Poetry Friday: Laura Shovan and Michael Rothenberg's *Welcome to Monsterville* <p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0DhvJrCPuYicC-bKiT8TAAExR2zeIJ7govwH7_Sy9KvyIkOUwccqwLvxo_Gfsi6S2zsdhhcyhku8WaxvKmeJGvrxL1636u2L1arNH3zUXrI8tBnFdQadgfROKuK4fUDbO8OUlxyyXcV4YbBeD7XkEhdhWDN-UEyX8HDLNB2MWXLCohC77cAPWgQ/s500/Monsterville%20cover.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="350" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0DhvJrCPuYicC-bKiT8TAAExR2zeIJ7govwH7_Sy9KvyIkOUwccqwLvxo_Gfsi6S2zsdhhcyhku8WaxvKmeJGvrxL1636u2L1arNH3zUXrI8tBnFdQadgfROKuK4fUDbO8OUlxyyXcV4YbBeD7XkEhdhWDN-UEyX8HDLNB2MWXLCohC77cAPWgQ/s320/Monsterville%20cover.jpeg" width="224" /></a></i></div><i><br />Welcome to Monsterville</i>, by <a href="https://laurashovan.com" target="_blank">Laura Shovan</a>, with illustrations by <a href="http://www.bigbridge.org/BB18/Michael_Rothenberg.html" target="_blank">Michael Rothenberg</a> 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. <p></p><p>The story behind this book is immensely touching. The seeds for the book were planted in early 2020, as Laura first mentions <a href="https://laurashovan.com/poetry-friday-michaels-monsters/" target="_blank">here</a>. How did the book grow? Check out <a href="https://laurashovan.com/poetry-friday-when-i-cry/" target="_blank">this post</a>, "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.) </p><p>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: </p><p></p><blockquote>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. </blockquote><p></p><p><br /></p><p>Michael began doing art therapy and one day sent Laura the first of many monsters: </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHW5tsqbtzKBVRAITitDSaUaVbqD2cRPqogxDMim5dL3w4vmlMJZaVlZVBTyppcvH9LKulqkYh4r7WyJFK8PdJOH759v-e55No8Fl-FOduBMn-l0dBf8XX8wt6juFVSn9vdzJ0dBjx-l_MqCjhciRaZj1O0J_cnzxeLRFCtuwmpKyKVXv-1lWHcw/s1024/%20blue%20monster.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="751" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHW5tsqbtzKBVRAITitDSaUaVbqD2cRPqogxDMim5dL3w4vmlMJZaVlZVBTyppcvH9LKulqkYh4r7WyJFK8PdJOH759v-e55No8Fl-FOduBMn-l0dBf8XX8wt6juFVSn9vdzJ0dBjx-l_MqCjhciRaZj1O0J_cnzxeLRFCtuwmpKyKVXv-1lWHcw/s320/%20blue%20monster.jpg" width="235" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">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: </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">...when it moved in, I wasn't sure </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">how this strange being, round and tall, </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">would squeeze in through a door so small. </div></blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><p><br /></p><p>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. </p><p>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." </p><p>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:</p><p><br /></p><blockquote>The monster sang about being so angry<br />that it feels like a million arrows are prickling your skin. <br /><br />Its wings beat to the song's rhythm like a soft, calm breath. <br /><br />Ever since then, when I'm so mad I can't stay inside, <br />I go to the green cave and listen for the monster's song. <p></p></blockquote><p><br /></p><p>Michael's perfectly paired drawing: </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8qxafyOUvs12owDlLp3ZCTNP7hOU_aCsrgeEb1oVKoWeSk51GcrVVpR98pE14TnshmqGSLkj7ypTLXJm298tcoGI7LlHu9OTY8kAxugW3-VJZ-mw7Ov8X9aw1l98OVd2rbBtuYzdbHCl42Pp_aSTZjpe2JNZXMPdH__sPqDI5KbQTEFsbDY1QsA/s4032/IMG_3808.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8qxafyOUvs12owDlLp3ZCTNP7hOU_aCsrgeEb1oVKoWeSk51GcrVVpR98pE14TnshmqGSLkj7ypTLXJm298tcoGI7LlHu9OTY8kAxugW3-VJZ-mw7Ov8X9aw1l98OVd2rbBtuYzdbHCl42Pp_aSTZjpe2JNZXMPdH__sPqDI5KbQTEFsbDY1QsA/s320/IMG_3808.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">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. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>Welcome to Monsterville</i> 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. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">An educator's guide can be downloaded <a href="https://laurashovan.com/book/welcome-to-monsterville/" target="_blank">at Laura's website</a> and you can buy this delightful creation <a href="https://laurashovan.com/book/welcome-to-monsterville/" target="_blank">wherever you love to buy your favorite delightful creations</a>. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><p style="text-align: center;">~~~~~~~~~~~~</p><p style="text-align: center;">Speaking of delightful, the Poetry Friday round-up this week is being hosted by the lovely and gracious <a href="https://awordedgewiselindamitchell.blogspot.com/2023/06/poetry-friday-is-here-and-clunker.html" target="_blank">Linda Mitchell at <i>A Word Edgewise</i></a>. She's not only welcoming us for Poetry Friday, but she's also hosting her annual Clunker Exchange. Details are in <a href="https://awordedgewiselindamitchell.blogspot.com/2023/06/its-comingclunker-exchange.html" target="_blank">this post</a>. </p><p style="text-align: center;">~~~~~~~~~~~~</p><p style="text-align: center;">Next week, Irene Latham has invited everyone to a "Moon in June" themed roundup. She's creating educator resources for her upcoming book, <i><a href="https://amzn.to/3NlwIcL" target="_blank">The Museum on the Moon</a></i>. </p><p style="text-align: center;">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!" </p><p style="text-align: center;">More details are <a href="https://irenelatham.blogspot.com/2023/06/meadow-song-moon-invitation.html" target="_blank">here</a>. </p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>Karen Edmisten http://www.blogger.com/profile/04446214835142625161noreply@blogger.com36tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17019672.post-87659669424312634372023-06-15T19:58:00.001-05:002023-06-16T09:21:50.403-05:00Poetry Friday: an unexpected encounter <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLicMLP4kDxfYcCYnQJkNgdPT7uNu_7hRva21j4M-FMbyToN5GurtbUPiqT6oinTC5M0_6O9_8--YaMcF-NlRfOrrh0HkyloT8RiSeCauSJp0I-HwzAJKCjT4S52_W3Vp_KZvs0CbeZJv3sAJ-NnXP7imHHzNoGNsZaO4fC-XXJLVufRSmqjo/s2560/pexels-emily-hopper-2984969.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2560" data-original-width="1920" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLicMLP4kDxfYcCYnQJkNgdPT7uNu_7hRva21j4M-FMbyToN5GurtbUPiqT6oinTC5M0_6O9_8--YaMcF-NlRfOrrh0HkyloT8RiSeCauSJp0I-HwzAJKCjT4S52_W3Vp_KZvs0CbeZJv3sAJ-NnXP7imHHzNoGNsZaO4fC-XXJLVufRSmqjo/s320/pexels-emily-hopper-2984969.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://www.pexels.com/@emhopper/" target="_blank">Photo courtesy of Emily Hopper/Pexels</a></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />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. <div><br /></div><div>I don't usually feel the need to protect <i>myself</i> from the inhabitants but, hey, I was, after all, the trespasser in this scenario. </div><div><br /></div><div><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Unvigilant</span></b></div><div><div>by Karen Edmisten </div><div><br /></div><div><div>An unexpected <br />encounter, the impact as if <br />a piece of sky pounced. <br />Thwacked from behind, </div><div>I was startled, unmoored,<br />looked around. <br />His innocently cocked head </div><div>fooled me not. <br />Red-winged blackbird thug.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;">~~~~~~~~~~</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://moreart4all.wordpress.com/2023/06/15/poetry-friday-roundup-is-here-2/" target="_blank"><br /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://moreart4all.wordpress.com/2023/06/15/poetry-friday-roundup-is-here-2/" target="_blank">The lovely Michelle Kogan has the Poetry Friday round-up this week.</a> </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div></div>Karen Edmisten http://www.blogger.com/profile/04446214835142625161noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17019672.post-45453633354237002602023-06-02T07:50:00.000-05:002023-06-02T07:50:07.779-05:00Poetry Friday: "New Moon Newton" by Oliver Baez Bendorf <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnIskisWEGtDwrP_jvyVdvRdLzsF5zeCePn6a7qH7IdvAGAyjqLR4JfA1_VXyAwxScmv-MU4KytB6HfY9IU3sFz_kDUSQeXj5rIMPhwR1elxTKccoxaW5S_Dqk6dYkhcwKEghWip_bxhM5dSm8F_UXM4Ru0L4Vo56PVG901shcOF8ScDqFGsg/s1280/heart-g1eebbd41c_1280.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="838" data-original-width="1280" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnIskisWEGtDwrP_jvyVdvRdLzsF5zeCePn6a7qH7IdvAGAyjqLR4JfA1_VXyAwxScmv-MU4KytB6HfY9IU3sFz_kDUSQeXj5rIMPhwR1elxTKccoxaW5S_Dqk6dYkhcwKEghWip_bxhM5dSm8F_UXM4Ru0L4Vo56PVG901shcOF8ScDqFGsg/s320/heart-g1eebbd41c_1280.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://poets.org/poem-a-day" target="_blank">Poem-a-Day, from Poets.org</a>, comes through again. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">This was yesterday's poem. Of it, the poet says: </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="color: #660000;">“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.”</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="color: #660000;">—Oliver Baez Bendorf</span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Enjoy, friends! </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">And be sure to visit Tricia at <a href="https://missrumphiuseffect.blogspot.com/2023/06/poetry-friday-is-here.html" target="_blank">The Miss Rumphius Effect</a> for the Poetry Friday round-up. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">New Moon Newton</span></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">by <a href="https://poets.org/poet/oliver-baez-bendorf" target="_blank">Oliver Baez Bendorf</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"> <i>God is Change,</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i> And in the end,</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i> God prevails.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i> But meanwhile . . .</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i> Kindness eases Change.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i> Love quiets fear.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i> —Octavia E. Butler, Parable of the Talents</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">stars</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">whole patterns of them</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">rocking around in the radiant arena</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">above and around our heads</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">on a night when the wind</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">sang like a scream</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">and the deer stood frozen</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">as a statue of itself</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">the sky was dark because</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">la luna had finished revealing themself</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">and was not yet ready to </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">begin again</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">and I get it now:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">(Read the rest <a href="https://poets.org/poem/new-moon-newton?mc_cid=8d49b756c9&mc_eid=8a0c68ac41" target="_blank">here, at Poets.org</a>.) </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">~~~~~~~~~~</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Photo courtesy of <a href="https://pixabay.com/illustrations/heart-moon-night-sky-love-thoughts-1164739/" target="_blank">Stux at Pixabay</a>. </div></div><p></p>Karen Edmisten http://www.blogger.com/profile/04446214835142625161noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17019672.post-17160421258220455042023-05-25T21:23:00.004-05:002023-05-25T21:26:50.659-05:00Poetry Friday: "To the Sea" by Anis Mojgani <div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMXfx4xAgrqZXi5V4wuvHIKW_7AQwL_xcLEC-HjyVI0uIzU-Ji7tR8Zf6-ijugG134e2-CGX_uiuk13EQrCdHVigUtDWxCNo0Qc6kXtYEJpFjiIMacMv6EjLx54lH57-ME2HmTkKOAY0zqhOFyIPXyXgr5uZjORGhDq391rsIoERbwrEeDwNU/s160/poetryfridaybutton.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="109" data-original-width="160" height="109" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMXfx4xAgrqZXi5V4wuvHIKW_7AQwL_xcLEC-HjyVI0uIzU-Ji7tR8Zf6-ijugG134e2-CGX_uiuk13EQrCdHVigUtDWxCNo0Qc6kXtYEJpFjiIMacMv6EjLx54lH57-ME2HmTkKOAY0zqhOFyIPXyXgr5uZjORGhDq391rsIoERbwrEeDwNU/s1600/poetryfridaybutton.jpg" width="160" /></a></div><span><div style="font-size: large; font-weight: bold;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></div><div>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 <a href="https://poets.org/poet/anis-mojgani" target="_blank">Poet Laureate of Oregon, Anis Mojgani</a>, landed in my Inbox. What have I done to deserve such gifts? (Oh, I'm glad I asked. I subscribed to the <a href="https://poets.org/poem-a-day" target="_blank">Poem-a-Day series</a>. Subscribe, read, bookmark, repeat.) </div><div><br /></div><div style="font-size: large; font-weight: bold;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>To the Sea</b></span></span><br />by Anis Mojgani<br /><br />Sometimes when you start to ramble<br />or rather when you feel you are starting to ramble<br />you will say <i>Well, now I’m rambling</i><br />though I don’t think you ever are.<br />And if you ever are I don’t really care.<br />And not just because I and everyone really <br />at times falls into our own unspooling<br />—which really I think is a beautiful softness<br />of being human, trying to show someone else<br />the color of all our threads, wanting another to know <br />everything in us we are trying to show them—</div><div>....</div><div>(Read the rest <a href="https://poets.org/poem/sea-2?mc_cid=98f7e30782&mc_eid=8a0c68ac41" target="_blank">here</a>.) </div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;">~~~~~~~~~~</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://patriciajfranz.com/an-anniversary-cento/" target="_blank">Patricia Franz at <i>Reverie</i> has the Poetry Friday round-up this week</a>. And be sure to wish her </div><div style="text-align: center;">a happy 40th anniversary! Huzzah! </div><br /></div>Karen Edmisten http://www.blogger.com/profile/04446214835142625161noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17019672.post-87275328472459738772023-05-18T18:05:00.004-05:002023-05-18T18:38:34.572-05:00Poetry Friday: Love After Love by Derek Walcott <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih2hYXaMwuEGxsR9UVAsbJhpHeAod0xpwzKD_zoWm9afZR5PFQduq4yiJJ7oEqZ4gR4dPsiq22JgpyTA7E5PJi1hmiVszNejiVcC41EvW7BDkqbXZdIhwwPrb5H1nnY-V0ELl4MJIJ-OvuUOSuPiOqGq6JkcIeluYlTH27O1X5Lr_lnZetZxg/s160/poetryfridaybutton.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="109" data-original-width="160" height="109" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih2hYXaMwuEGxsR9UVAsbJhpHeAod0xpwzKD_zoWm9afZR5PFQduq4yiJJ7oEqZ4gR4dPsiq22JgpyTA7E5PJi1hmiVszNejiVcC41EvW7BDkqbXZdIhwwPrb5H1nnY-V0ELl4MJIJ-OvuUOSuPiOqGq6JkcIeluYlTH27O1X5Lr_lnZetZxg/s1600/poetryfridaybutton.jpg" width="160" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p>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. <div><br /></div><div>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. <div><br /><br /><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Love After Love</span></b><br />by Derek Walcott<br /><br />The time will come<br />when, with elation,<br />you will greet yourself arriving<br />at your own door, in your own mirror,<br />and each will smile at the other’s welcome,<br />and say, sit here. Eat.</div><div>You will love again the stranger who was your self.<br /><div>....</div><div><br /></div><div>(Read the rest — and listen to the poem being read by Jon Kabat-Zinn — <a href="https://www.themarginalian.org/2015/04/21/love-after-love-derek-walcott/" target="_blank">here, at The Marginalian</a>. Or go <a href="https://www.npr.org/2017/03/19/520708160/a-reading-of-derek-walcotts-love-after-love" target="_blank">here, to NPR</a>, to hear another lovely reading by Tom Hiddleston.) </div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;">~~~~~~~~~~</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <a href="https://janicescully.com/poetry-friday-is-here-clouds-rain-and-thunder/" target="_blank">Janice Scully has the round-up this week at Salt City Verse.</a> </div><p></p></div></div></div>Karen Edmisten http://www.blogger.com/profile/04446214835142625161noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17019672.post-15181857868223156742023-05-12T09:08:00.002-05:002023-05-12T09:10:09.391-05:00Poetry Friday: "Throwing Children" by Ross Gay <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM7eal1lxWpdTs8lW72UX-1ywNjByCQBO-VXmIvMD97jZaX5frsN5ckXgI7Nx6AClChIfGkOFOSXNr0Z6Eakfr8vVMMacAaaGSLZgl8m83hJThnHGEE7lrhwa_oq3up2LW4RLNt0hv78BtLKkxb5kjysyuRLmI6f8r7QkIcFl7RIxmRpe9Okk/s160/poetryfridaybutton.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="109" data-original-width="160" height="109" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM7eal1lxWpdTs8lW72UX-1ywNjByCQBO-VXmIvMD97jZaX5frsN5ckXgI7Nx6AClChIfGkOFOSXNr0Z6Eakfr8vVMMacAaaGSLZgl8m83hJThnHGEE7lrhwa_oq3up2LW4RLNt0hv78BtLKkxb5kjysyuRLmI6f8r7QkIcFl7RIxmRpe9Okk/s1600/poetryfridaybutton.jpg" width="160" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>This one, by<a href="https://www.rossgay.net/" target="_blank"> Ross Gay</a>, was recently in my Inbox (thanks to <a href="https://poets.org/poem-a-day" target="_blank">Poem-a-Day at Poets.org</a>). I loved it and couldn't wait to share it with you. <div><br /><p></p><p><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Throwing Children</span></b></p>by <a href="https://poets.org/poet/ross-gay" target="_blank">Ross Gay</a><br /><br />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<div>....</div><div><br /></div><div>(Read the rest of this utterly delightful poem <a href="https://poets.org/poem/throwing-children?mc_cid=42c0ae6b37&mc_eid=8a0c68ac41" target="_blank">here, at Poets.org</a>.) <p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">~~~~~~~~~~</p><div style="text-align: center;"> <a href="http://www.robynhoodblack.com/blog/posts/42722">Robyn Hood Black is rounding us up for Poetry Friday at <i>Life on the Deckle Edge</i></a>. </div><p></p></div></div>Karen Edmisten http://www.blogger.com/profile/04446214835142625161noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17019672.post-25121075025580130382023-05-04T18:33:00.001-05:002023-05-05T07:06:11.490-05:00Poetry Friday: Morning, by Mary Oliver <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja2lEWgmspKVhXhhCDlSW7ZOExBzuC9UWzPHkgTQo-IYresz5mcgdfUKJzVfK0JbSQe8Ep16t8tjD9GYImZhj3_xxDxXUMd-sfShfTeswE0fx-S_hqXNolBcrYhJYBHaxOia-ie7HNSwzGHyUIJjp4slGLlFmiQocpu9cqJpeQ4BloDt6Fits/s1920/cat-3739702_1920.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1282" data-original-width="1920" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja2lEWgmspKVhXhhCDlSW7ZOExBzuC9UWzPHkgTQo-IYresz5mcgdfUKJzVfK0JbSQe8Ep16t8tjD9GYImZhj3_xxDxXUMd-sfShfTeswE0fx-S_hqXNolBcrYhJYBHaxOia-ie7HNSwzGHyUIJjp4slGLlFmiQocpu9cqJpeQ4BloDt6Fits/s320/cat-3739702_1920.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />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. <p></p><p>Here are two short poems by Mary Oliver about morning: </p><p><br /></p><p><b>Morning</b><br />by Mary Oliver </p><p><br />Salt shining behind its glass cylinder.<br />Milk in a blue bowl. The yellow linoleum.<br />The cat stretching her black body from the pillow.<br />The way she makes her curvaceous response to the small, kind gesture.</p><p>....</p><p>(Read the rest <a href="https://www.loc.gov/programs/poetry-and-literature/poet-laureate/poet-laureate-projects/poetry-180/all-poems/item/poetry-180-124/morning/" target="_blank">here</a>.) </p><br /><b>A Thousand Mornings </b><br />by Mary Oliver <br /><br />All night my heart makes its way<br />however it can over the rough ground<br />of uncertainties, but only until night<br />....<br /><br />(Read the rest <a href="https://www.npr.org/2012/10/14/162785079/a-thousand-mornings-with-poet-mary-oliver">here</a>.)<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>And if you love Mary Oliver, check out the new <a href="https://www.pushkin.fm/audiobooks/wild-and-precious-a-celebration-of-mary-oliver" target="_blank">audiobook </a><i><a href="https://www.pushkin.fm/audiobooks/wild-and-precious-a-celebration-of-mary-oliver" target="_blank">Wild and Precious: A Celebration of Mary Oliver</a>,</i> from Pushkin. I just downloaded it and can't wait to listen. </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">The Poetry Friday round-up this week is being hosted by the fantabulous <a href="https://www.teacherdance.org/2023/05/poetry-friday-is-here-welcome.html" target="_blank">Linda B. at TeacherDance</a>. </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo courtesy of <a href="https://pixabay.com/users/miller_eszter-5317196/" target="_blank">Eszter Miller at Pixabay</a>.</span> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Also? May the exquisite poet, <a href="https://www.rollingstone.com/music/music-features/gordon-lightfoot-dead-obituary-1234716529/" target="_blank">Gordon Lightfoot, rest in peace</a>. I loved him so. </div>Karen Edmisten http://www.blogger.com/profile/04446214835142625161noreply@blogger.com12