National Poetry Month - #4

For spring . . .

Of the Surface of Things
by Wallace Stevens

I

In my room, the world is beyond my understanding;
But when I walk I see that it consists of three or four
          hills and a cloud.

II

From my balcony, I survey the yellow air,
Reading where I have written,
"The spring is like a belle undressing."

III

The gold tree is blue,
The singer has pulled his cloak over his head.
The moon is in the folds of the cloak.

Bye Bye, Ben

It looks like I've lost my chance to win big money and meet Ben Bailey on my next trip to NYC. That's too bad.

At least Tracy got a chance to meet him once. I just wish I could find the whole clip. And with better sound. Love 30 Rock.

National Poetry Month - #3

Names are funny things. Typically we have no say in what ours is and yet they become such a part of our identity. I have not yet been placed in a situation where I have to name another human being, and to be honest, the prospect frightens me a little bit. Such responsibility. I don't know if I could even name a dog if I got one.

I, however, love my name. People get it wrong a lot of the time {which I have talked about previously}, but I still like it. I know there are people who really dislike their name and that there are lots of people who are just ambivalent about it. I find it a very interesting topic.

So, for today's poem, I share one that's new to me by Patricia Smith. She brillantly illustrates the contrast between her given name and the wished-for one from her dad. Really solid - love it. Please pardon the bit of swearing at the end.

Does this prompt you to share any thoughts on your name?

Shoulda Been Jimi Savannah
by Patricia Smith

My mother scraped the name Patricia Ann from the ruins

of her discarded Delta, thinking it would offer me shield
and shelter, that leering men would skulk away at the slap
of it. Her hands on the hips of Alabama, she went for flat
and functional, then siphoned each syllable of drama,
repeatedly crushing it with her broad, practical tongue
until it sounded like an instruction to God and not a name.
She wanted a child of pressed head and knocking knees,
a trip-up in the doubledutch swing, a starched pinafore
and peppermint-in-the-sour pickle kinda child, stiff-laced
and unshakably fixed on salvation. Her Patricia Ann
would never idly throat the Lord’s name or wear one
of those thin, sparkled skirts that flirted with her knees.
She'd be a nurse or a third-grade teacher or a postal drone,

jobs requiring alarm clock discipline and sensible shoes.

My four downbeats were music enough for a vapid life
of butcher shop sawdust and fatback as cuisine, for Raid
spritzed into the writhing pockets of a Murphy bed.
No crinkled consonants or muted hiss would summon me.

My daddy detested borders. One look at my mother's

watery belly, and he insisted, as much as he could insist
with her, on the name Jimi Savannah, seeking to bless me
with the blues-bathed moniker of a ball breaker, the name
of a grown gal in a snug red sheath and unlaced All-Stars.
He wanted to shoot muscle through whatever I was called,
arm each syllable with tiny weaponry so no one would
mistake me for anything other than a tricky whisperer
with a switchblade in my shoe. I was bound to be all legs,
a bladed debutante hooked on Lucky Strikes and sugar.
When I sent up prayers, God's boy would giggle and consider.

Daddy didn't want me to be anybody's sure-fire factory,
nobody's callback or seized rhythm, so he conjured
a name so odd and hot even a boy could claim it. And yes,
he was prepared for the look my mother gave him when
he first mouthed his choice, the look that said, That's it,
you done lost your goddamned mind. She did that thing
she does where she grows two full inches with righteous,
and he decided to just whisper Love you, Jimi Savannah
whenever we were alone, re- and rechristening me the seed
of Otis, conjuring his own religion and naming it me.

National Poetry Month - #2

It's still close enough to Easter for an Easter poem, right? Good, because that's what I want to share today. Sometimes I have a hard time relating to and understanding poetry written many, many years ago. The words that are used, the way they are put together, and the symbolism employed can be more than my simple mind can handle. One of the few exceptions to this is John Donne. And I think part of that has to do with the fact that many of his themes are religious. Somehow, that makes them easier for me to understand.

Most readers are familiar with his Holy Sonnet 10 {Death, be not proud}, but one that I also enjoy is Ascension. It speaks to Christ overcoming death, which is beautiful, but I love the three images Donne shares of Christ - a mighty ram, a meek lamb, and a light to the world. All are quite fitting.

Ascension

by John Donne

Salute the last, and everlasting day,

Joy at the uprising of this Sun, and Son,
Ye whose true tears, or tribulation
Have purely wash'd, or burnt your drossy clay.
Behold, the Highest, parting hence away,
Lightens the dark clouds, which He treads upon;
Nor doth he by ascending show alone,
But first He, and He first enters the way.
O strong Ram, which hast batter'd heaven for me!
Mild lamb, which with Thy Blood hast mark'd the path!
Bright Torch, which shinest, that I the way may see!
O, with Thy own Blood quench Thy own just wrath;
And if Thy Holy Spirit my Muse did raise,
Deign at my hands this crown of prayer and praise.

National Poetry Month - #1

Happy National Poetry month! Once again I must share something from NPR. Some of you may have heard this story yesterday, but for those of you who haven't, you must check out the piece on Teju Cole. He is a Nigerian-American poet who uses old news and Twitter. He's amazing. I've only been following him for a day, and already I am blown away.

Here are a couple of my favorites:

The baby born to Mrs Flora, a watchmaker's wife in Schenectady, is normal in all respects, save his four teeth.

Hoping to be more careful, Mrs J. Leighton-Noble-Spriggs, of Long Island City, who accidentally shot her last husband dead, has remarried.

“Kathleen, you’d better put on your heavy coat,” Mr Lorillard said, at Holland House. His wife agreed, went upstairs, and hanged herself.

Because I'm Cool Like That

I don't want to toot my own horn too loudly, so I'm going to let Megan do it for me.

That's right, people. In my free time I wear a tutu and leg warmers for charity. And then look so good doing it that I get photographed and put in marketing information the next year.

Because my friends and I are cool like that.