Seven Impossible Things Before Breakfast

August is the cruelest month — Eliot had it all wrong. As a child I always hated that my birthday coincided with the end of summer and the beginning of the new school year. It took some of the shine off of the childish thrill of turning another year older, especially on those one or two years when school started exactly on the day itself. Once I was out of school and had passed all the good milestone birthdays, it didn’t matter so much. But now I find myself immersed in academia just in time for my 35th. Not good timing. I’m already finding new gray hairs on a near-daily basis, and I’m about to have to cope with knowing I’m closer to 40 than 30. Having everyone around me preoccupied with the passing of summer’s relative freedom and the beginning of the school year’s drudgery just doesn’t help my frame of mind.

So I’m sharing one of my very favorite poems of all time, “Fern Hill” by Dylan Thomas. Aside from the sheer gorgeousness of the poem — Thomas is a true Poet-with-a-capital-P, and every line just sings beauty — the whole youth-as-carefree-summer metaphor is working for me right now. Oh, and those last lines that sneak up on you after all the sing-songy run-on sentences about apples and foxes and sunshine; that whole last stanza when he realizes his own mortality, sees that every day he played in the sun was a day closer to death, reveals that Time is more of a jail warden than a generous benefactor… oof. It shakes me in my bones. It should be really depressing, but it’s just so lovely that every time I finish it my eyes zip right back up to the top to start it all over. It’s a good pain. Here’s a sample:

Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
——–The night above the dingle starry,
—————-Time let me hail and climb
——–Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
—————-Trail with daisies and barley
——–Down the rivers of the windfall light.

And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
——–In the sun that is young once only,
—————-Time let me play and be
——–Golden in the mercy of his means,

Click here to read the rest. Seriously, does it get better than that? No. No it does not. This is a poem to be savored — kind of like youth, like life itself. Savor the beauty and innocence and laughter while you can. We don’t get to play in the sun forever, you know.

Hey, ya’ll — check it out! My Cybils-buddy Becky is on Poetry Friday round-up detail over at Becky’s Book Reviews. Thanks, Becky!

The other night I was hanging out with The Poets Upstairs in their apartment. We were talking books and poetry (surprise!) and they asked if I’d heard of Phyllis Janowitz. “Nope,” I said. Well, they said, this will not do. She’s a professor of theirs at Cornell, and they feel very strongly that she is AWESOME and should be more widely known. Then Dana read the first part of this poem, “Veal,” to me, and my jaw dropped. “That IS awesome,” I said. They pushed me out the door with two of her books and some blueberry buckle. Or was it the lemon blueberry tart? I forget – they were both delicious. But the POEMS, people! Oh. My. God. I find myself in total agreement: we should all know who Phyllis Janowitz is.

See what you think:

I love to watch the butcher
wipe the sharp
blade on his
apron stained
with fresh blood. I’m
going to marry him

—-WHAM

the side of beef split open
he tenderly spreads
it like a woman’s legs
between smeared fingers
stroking the cold smoothness

from his fingertips
———–bloody red
drops on the floor spotting
the sawdust there fluffs of fat
lie covered decently
the meat is red and lean.

Want more? Here’s the rest. And spread the word.

(*I’m a vegetarian. I still like the poem. I’m pretty sure it’s not really about meat.)

Yay! Our sisters in two-girl-blogdom, Franki and Mary Lee, are hosting this week’s Poetry Friday roundup at A Year of Reading. Thanks, ladies!

Hey, ya’ll. We’ve got a new Poet Laureate: Kay Ryan. I suppose a lot of people will be posting her stuff today, so I won’t do a big thing about her. I’ll just say that I haven’t read that much of her stuff yet, but what I’ve read so far I generally like. Some of it I really love. She’s got a sharp sort of wit, a coolly detached voice, and a deceptive brevity that seems more straightforward than it is. Here’s an example, “Full Measure:”

You will get your full measure.
But, as when asking fairies for favors,
there is a trick: it comes in a block.
And of course one block is not
like another. Some respond to water,
giving everything wet a little flavor.
Some succumb to heat like butter.

You can read the rest here. This poem is especially resonant with me right now. I’m one of those people who has a strong creative impulse, but so far hasn’t really found an expressive medium in which I feel confident. I’ve tried quite a few: dance, theatre, writing, photography, guitar… but I didn’t excel at any of them. So I feel like my block is still mostly untouched, just sitting there, waiting for me to figure out how to get at it.

It’s probably something I just wouldn’t expect. Like, découpage.

Anyway. Congrats to Kay Ryan: thanks for sharing your full measure with us.

The inimitable Kelly Fineman is handling this week’s round-up, bless her. Go see.

Once again, The Poets Upstairs have come through for me in my time of need. I was just thinking how I felt like I was in a Poetry Friday rut, just lazily digging up old favorites instead of seeking out new stuff. And *poof* – without me even saying anything, Dana lent me a book of poetry by one of her professors, Lyrae Van Clief-Stefanon. The book, Black Swan, opens with an amazing piece, “Leda,” that simply begged to be shared with you all. From that headspin of a first line to the sharp irony of the last, it charges the old myth with a fierce energy. The taut, vivid imagery puts you there in that swampy Florida heat. You know this girl. And you could just about cry for her.

By the way, I can’t help but notice that I was also reminded of Leda by Dana’s poem “Nesting,” featured back in April. Does this mean something? Do I have a Leda problem? Do I need to start watching out for swans? And while we’re on the subject… seriously, how was that supposed to even work? Is their… equipment… you know, compatible?

Sorry, that was random. And gross. Back to Poetry Friday now. Here’s the opening of “Leda:”

Imagine Leda black–
skinny legs—–peach-switch
scarred—–vaselined to gleaming
like magnolia leaves—–Imagine
a teenager—–hips asway like moss
switchin’ down a dirt road
Florida orange blossom
water behind her ears
her tight sheath-skirt
azalea pink

Please read the rest of the poem here. Even though they left out the cool line-spacing that’s used in the book. And there are a couple of typos, which saddens me more than I can express. It’s still awesome.

Lisa Schellman is keeping a vigilant eye on this week’s Poetry Friday roundup. Thanks, Lisa.

Author Lynn Hazen asked us a good while ago to create a really bad poem for the Bad Poetry Friday contest she has going on over at her Imaginary Blog. We thought this sounded like a mighty fun thing to do, though M.T. Anderson is a tough act to follow with his touching poem about Peg. One-legged chickens. Pre-scrambled eggs and all that.

So, Eisha and I decided to write a sucktacular poem in two voices. Lynn is going to post it today, or so she said last night over at her fun blog. This means our Poetry Friday entry today is yet-to-come. Since I just KNOW you’re sitting on the edge of your seat waiting for our obscenely bad poem, I’ll update this post later.

In the meantime, Happy Poetry Friday, happy firecrackers and grilling out and such, and visit In Search of Giants for the poetry round-up today.

Addendum: Here it is. Happy (Bad) Poetry Friday to all . . .

Embarrassing confession: last week was my turn for Poetry Friday, and I COMPLETELY FORGOT. I didn’t forget that it was my turn, just forgot what day of the week it was. I was at that parade Thursday night, see, and got all bedazzled with visions of Volvos in tutus and Tibetan monks and stuff. Anyhoo, I’m sorry about that.

This week I’m trying to make up for it by sharing something extra-good: Emily Dickinson. I have a complicated relationship with ol’ Emily. I really hated her for a long time; I thought she was simpering, and that relentles rhythm: da DUM da DUM da DUM da DUM… However, somewhere late in college I was assigned to write a paper on her (the horror!), and started reluctantly reading through a big anthology… And I was shocked. I’d only really been exposed to a handful of her most famous poems before, the ones that end up on greeting cards and stuff: “I taste a liquor never brewed,” “How soft a caterpillar steps,” “Because I could not stop for death,”… you know the ones. But that later business, when she was all rebellious and pissed at God and finally busting out of that limping hymn-meter… Whoa. It blew me away. Almost literally — those later poems are like little explosions all over the page. And knowing she had that kind of power in her, that kind of fierce emotion, made me go back and look at her earlier poems in a new way. So yeah… we’re on pretty good terms now, me and Em.

Here’s one of the good ones I discovered. It’s speaking to me particularly strongly today, since I’ve finally gotten on the Twilight-obsession bandwagon. Seems like a nice little ballad for Edward and Bella.

Wild nights—wild nights!
Were I with thee
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!

Futile the winds
To a heart in port—
Done with the compass,
Done with the chart!

Rowing in Eden—
Ah, the sea!
Might I moor, tonight,
In thee!

Yeah, I think Emily’s out of copyright protection now, so I shared the whole thing. But here’s a link to the Poetry Foundation’s more legitimate page, to appease my librarian conscience.

So, how about you? Did you always love Emily, or did you have to get to know her better, too? Or do you still hate her? Is it the Yellow Rose of Texas/Gilligan’s Island/Amazing Grace thing? ‘Cause that was really really hard for me to get past, I can tell you.

Looking for the Poetry Friday round-up? Jennie at Biblio File’s got your back.

Yes, you get choices today for this Poetry Friday entry, and that would be because I had Poetry Friday plans and then kind, thoughtful Alkelda came along and stood them on their head.

Your first option today is a more traditional Poetry Friday entry — an actual poem, that is, though it’s hardly reverent in nature. Your second option is a more non-traditional entry: Song lyrics and a performance.

Or you can go with both options. I happen to like them both myself.

My girls and I read Perrault’s Cinderella yesterday. The four-year-old listened attentively and all wide-eyed (the two-and-a-half-year old jumped around like a monkey on crack, as usual, after about two minutes of the story, but this is to be expected). I was reminded, after reading it, of my old and tattered copy of Roald Dahl’s Revolting Rhymes, so I pulled it off the shelf in honor of the recent post on “demented” stories that Adrienne and I did. Dahl’s version of Cinderella is the first poem in this anthology.

Whoa. I had read these before — but a long time ago. This is far from your feel-good Cinderella (hence, my goofy image at the top of this post). This is some seriously offbeat stuff. Beheadings. The Prince calling Cindy a “dirty slut.” And the ending? She chooses a “simple jam-maker by trade / Who sold good homemade marmalade” instead.

Good goin’, Cindy. Always good to marry one talented with baking (and the one who, uh, doesn’t call you names). Even better than royalty, I say. Not to mention, Dahl’s prince is choppin’ off heads, leftrightandcenter. Read the rest of this entry �

Whoa, hey… Now there’s an image I didn’t really mean to invoke…

Yeah, it’s me. I’m still here. I didn’t actually intend to take a blog break along with Jules – but with one thing and another, it kind of worked out that way. Sorry, y’all.

But let me tell you something: SUMMER has finally come to Ithaca. The husband and I just got our little air conditioner stuck in the window, and not a minute too soon – they’re predicting temps in the 90s tomorrow. We get thunderstorms about every other day, everything’s green, most of the flowers are gone, and those fuzzy black-and-yellow caterpillars are EVERYWHERE. Seriously, looking too closely at the trunk of any given tree is like watching a sci-fi movie. I made the mistake of cutting across the grass in my flip-flops, and got a caterpillar sandwich between my foot and shoe. Aside from that ickiness, though, it’s pretty glorious. Makes me want to take things a bit more slowly, savor the new warmth, soak in the green…

So here’s an excerpt from a poem that celebrates taking it easy, indulging in a little me-time, just lazing around watching ripples in the bathwater… “Bath” by Amy Lowell:

Little spots of sunshine lie on the surface of the water and dance, dance, and their reflections wobble deliciously over the ceiling; a stir of my finger sets them whirring, reeling. I move a foot and the planes of light in the water jar. I lie back and laugh, and let the green-white water, the sun-flawed beryl water, flow over me.

Click here to read the whole poem – it’s got lovely bits of imagery, so you’ll want to savor it slowly. Then, in homage to Robin Brande and her erstwhile Friday List, do something nice for yourself today. Take a bubble bath, buy that perfect black cardigan you’ve had your eye on, go for a walk in the sunshine… or the rain… or the caterpillars. It’s summer, people! Relax. Enjoy it.

We’ll see you all again on Sunday.

Sarah Reinhard is on round-up duty today. When you feel like it, you know, just mosey on over there and see what other poetry fans are posting today. No rush. Whenever.

I finally got my library copy of Naomi Shihab Nye’s newest book, Honeybee: Poems & Short Prose (Greenwillow; February 2008), and it was really worth the wait. (Eisha’s Poetry Friday post on Nye two weeks ago held me in good stead, though.) I’m still reading, but I wanted to share some poems and prose from it, and when I asked Naomi if I could do so—share some poems in their entirety—she gave me the go-ahead. Yes, this moment of beauty is brought to you by Naomi Shihab Nye, and I extend warm thanks to her.

Honeybee, thus far, has been a rewarding read, and I suspect that reading it again later is only going to unveil even more layers, more threads, more insights. In the introduction, she explains her fascination with bees in college and discusses the “bee woes” of today — “many reports said {in 2007} at least one third of the honeybees in the United States had mysteriously vanished.” She collected theories, she tells us, and became “obsessed…This is what happens in life. Something takes over your mind for a while and you see other things through a new filter, in a changed light. I call my friends ‘honeybee’ now, which I don’t recall doing before. If I see a lone bee hovering in a flower, I wish it well.” Read the rest of this entry �

This poem was my introduction to Naomi Shihab Nye. I don’t even remember how or when I came across it, but it has stayed with me forever after:

For the first time, on the road north of Tampico,
I felt the life sliding out of me,
a drum in the desert, harder and harder to hear.
I was seven, I lay in the car
watching palm trees swirl a sickening pattern past the glass.
My stomach was a melon split wide inside my skin.

“How do you know if you are going to die?”
I begged my mother.
We had been traveling for days.
With strange confidence she answered,
“When you can no longer make a fist.”

Click here to read the final stanza, and to hear Nye herself give a reading of it.

I think this poem really showcases Nye’s economy of language. This poem is stripped of any unnecessary details: where they were going and why, what was really wrong with the poor kid… The line “My stomach was a melon split wide inside my skin” is all we need. Ten words, and I know exactly the kind of pain she’s in, and why she thought she was dying.

And then there’s the quiet power of the last line: “I who did not die, who am still living…” The last stanza acknowledges life’s hardships, but puts them in perspective when measured against the strength of a child’s fist.

The fine femmes at Two Writing Teachers are rounding up for this week’s Poetry Friday. Head on over and see what they got.