Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Dorothy Parker: "Inventory"




"Inventory"

Four be the things I am wiser to know:
Idleness, sorrow, a friend, and a foe.

Four be the things I’d been better without:
Love, curiosity, freckles, and doubt.

Three be the things I shall never attain:
Envy, content, and sufficient champagne.

Three be the things I shall have till I die:
Laughter and hope and a sock in the eye.

~Dorothy Parker

Sunday, October 17, 2010

Beyond.

Today's poem on The Writer's Almanac is just beyond.

"The Past"


by Nin Andrews

If she closed her eyes, she could see it
in the dark room of her mind,
the jukebox of her soul
developing so slowly,
she especially liked the way
he said the word, blouse,
when he unbuttoned her
silk blouse, blue blouse, flowered blouse,
his favorite one was pink
and hung on a green lamp
like a flower on a stem
now that he was gone,
and so was she
and no one lived there anymore,
the town kept lighting up without them
as if it were the first dusk.

Thursday, October 14, 2010

It is the birthday of the poet I love most.

"We do not believe in ourselves until someone reveals that deep inside us something is valuable, worth listening to, worthy of our trust, sacred to our touch. Once we believe in ourselves we can risk curiosity, wonder, spontaneous delight or any experience that reveals the human spirit."

~e e cummings

Friday, September 17, 2010

Happy birthday, WCW.

"Slow Movement"

All those treasures that lie in the little bolted box whose tiny space is
Mightier than the room of the stars, being secret and filled with dreams:
All those treasures—I hold them in my hand—are straining continually
Against the sides and the lid and the two ends of the little box in which I guard them;
Crying that there is no sun come among them this great while and that they weary of shining;
Calling me to fold back the lid of the little box and to give them sleep finally.


But the night I am hiding from them, dear friend, is far more desperate than their night!
And so I take pity on them and pretend to have lost the key to the little house of my treasures;
For they would die of weariness were I to open it, and not be merely faint and sleepy
As they are now.

~William Carlos Williams

Friday, August 27, 2010

Paradise Lost

(Eve speaks to Adam)


With thee conversing I forget all time,
All seasons and their change, all please alike.
Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet,
With charm of earliest birds; pleasant the sun
When first on this delightful land he spreads
His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower,
Glistering with dew; fragrant the fertile earth
After soft showers; and sweet the coming on
Of grateful evening mild, then silent night
With this her solemn bird and this fair moon,
And these the gems of heav'n, her starry train:
But neither breath of morn when she ascends
With charm of earliest birds, nor rising sun
On this delightful land, nor herb, fruit, flower,
Glistring with dew, nor fragrance after showers,
Nor grateful evening mild, nor silent night
With this her solemn bird, nor walk by moon,
Or glittering starlight without thee is sweet.
~John Milton, from Paradise Lost
There's something magical about finding a poetic love letter in your email inbox when you wake up. Thank you, Writer's Almanac, over and over again, for words upon words of perfection, every single day.

Monday, August 23, 2010

Saturday, July 10, 2010

On words.

I really think that my blog would be best served just regurgitating the daily Writer's Almanac. Today's poem makes me realize I haven't read ole Walt in a while, and I miss him.

"Once I Pass'd Through a Populous City"

Once I pass'd through a populous city imprinting my brain for future
         use with its shows, architecture, customs, traditions,
Yet now of all that city I remember only a woman I casually met there
         who detain'd me for love of me,
Day by day and night by night we were together—all else has long
         been forgotten by me,
I remember I say only that woman who passionately clung to me,
Again we wander, we love, we separate again,
Again she holds me by the hand, I must not go,
I see her close beside me with silent lips sad and tremulous.

In other news, I woke up with Pedro the Lion in my head this morning which made me feel the worst kind of unsettled in the best kind of way. While listening to a bunch of old Pedro and newish David Bazan stuff, I stumbled upon this cover. I love it.

Thursday, April 29, 2010

Things that charm me today.

* Asian plum white tea...I'm addicted
* Another adorable illustrated Missed Connection
* Printable vintage ephemera
* MGMT's "Kids" covered on ukuleles.
* "I love you more than all the stars" decal...makes me want a chalkboard wall, too.
* These blue wingtips...I love vintage-looking men's footwear
* Today's "Writer's Almanac" was perfect. Wesley McNair's poem "Waving Goodbye" was sad and gorgeous--the end, especially:
Yet in that moment
before she and all the others and we ourselves
turn back to our disparate lives, how
extraordinary it is that we make this small flag
with our hands to show the closeness we wish for
in spite of what pulls us apart again
and again: the porch light snapping off,
the car picking its way down the road through the dark.

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

Pen & Ink

"Elegy for the Personal Letter"

I miss the rumpled corners of correspondence,
the ink blots and crossouts that show
someone lives on the other end, a person
whose hands make errors, leave traces.
I miss fine stationary, its raised elegant
lettering prominent on creamy shades of ivory
or pearl grey. I even miss hasty notes
dashed off on notebook paper, edges
ragged as their scribbled messages—
can't much write now—thinking of you.
When letters come now, they are formatted
by some distant computer, addressed
to Occupant or To the family living at
meager greetings at best,
salutations made by committee.
Among the glossy catalogs
and one time only offers
the bills and invoices,
letters arrive so rarely now that I drop
all other mail to the floor when
an envelope arrives and the handwriting
is actual handwriting, the return address
somewhere I can locate on any map.
So seldom is it that letters come
That I stop everything else
to identify the scrawl that has come this far—
the twist and the whirl of the letters,
the loops of the numerals. I open
those envelopes first, forgetting
the claim of any other mail,
hoping for news I could not read
in any other way but this.
~Allison Joseph

When I read this poem on The Writer's Almanac this morning, I couldn't believe how fitting it was. Lately, I've been getting back in touch with people via handwritten letter and I thrill at the whole process--staring at your thoughts in ink on a page, sealing them up in a tidy envelope and shipping them across the country or across the ocean, and then racing home every day to check the mail for a reply. Allison Joseph's poem captures the magic in letters, "the twist and the whirl of the letters, the loops of the numerals." Receiving a handwritten letter satisfies something in me that can't be met any other way.

Sunday, January 31, 2010

When it's Springtime...

...I'm going to sleep in light, airy things like this:

Aerie Vintage Chambray Romper (sold out online...)


...I'm going to memorize short poems, such as Louise Bogan's "Epitaph for a Romantic Woman":
She has attained the permanence
She dreamed of, where old stones lie sunning.
Untended stalks blow over her
Even and swift, like young men running.

Always in the heart she loved
Others had lived, -- she heard their laughter.
She lies where none has lain before,
Where certainly none will follow after.

...I will make mixes that include songs like Juana Molina's "Salvese quien pueda":


I've only had a day of snow, and I'm already looking forward to spring in Charleston, which is maybe the most beautiful thing imaginable. Only a little over two months until the farmers market opens, bringing with it giant containers of lemonade, stands selling crepes and fruit and flowers and fresh bread. There will be people and music and sunshine and everything that is good about spring.

Monday, January 25, 2010

Today was Virginia Woolf's birthday.

1902

"I can only note that the past is beautiful because one never realises an emotion at the time. It expands later, and thus we don't have complete emotions about the present, only about the past."

~"A Sketch of the Past," 1939

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

How Keatsian.

Ninety years ago today, John Keats wrote this love letter to Fanny Brawne:

My dearest Girl,

This moment I have set myself to copy some verses out fair. I cannot proceed with any degree of content. I must write you a line or two and see if that will assist in dismissing you from my Mind for ever so short a time. Upon my Soul I can think of nothing else — The time is passed when I had power to advise and warn you again[s]t the unpromising morning of my Life — My love has made me selfish. I cannot exist without you — I am forgetful of every thing but seeing you again — my Life seems to stop there — I see no further. You have absorb'd me. I have a sensation at the present moment as though I was dissolving — I should be exquisitely miserable without the hope of soon seeing you. I should be afraid to separate myself far from you. My sweet Fanny, will your heart never change? My love, will it? I have no limit now to my love — You note came in just here — I cannot be happier away from you — 'T is richer than an Argosy of Pearles. Do not threat me even in jest. I have been astonished that Men could die Martyrs for religion — I have shudder'd at it — I shudder no more — I could be martyr'd for my Religion — Love is my religion — I could die for that — I could die for you. My Creed is Love and you are its only tenet — You have ravish'd me away by a Power I cannot resist: and yet I could resist till I saw you; and even since I have seen you I have endeavoured often "to reason against the reasons of my Love." I can do that no more — the pain would be too great — My Love is selfish — I cannot breathe without you.
Yours for ever
John Keats

He was 23 when he wrote that. By 25, he was dead from tuberculosis, buried in Italy with a lock of her hair and one of her letters. (Info from The Writer's Almanac.)

In case you haven't heard about Bright Star, the film about their love story, before, here you go:

Tuesday, July 7, 2009

Edna St. Vincent Millay

I am currently devouring this book:



It's by the same author who wrote the biography of Zelda Fitzgerald that I adored.

Though I've always loved her poetry, I knew practically nothing about her as a person. She was an enigma...people were falling over themselves to be near her and it seems that the whole nation was in love with her.





Even though she wasn't conventionally beautiful, she had charm, natural flirtatiousness and wit, and then that wonderful je ne sais quoi that must be vital to enchant as many people as she did. And not only that, but she was brilliant. She could just sit down and churn out work--amazing things.

This biography is so good that I'm rationing it out...I only allow myself to read a few chapters every day. I'm going to be so sad when I've finished it. I need to find another interesting person to read about. Any ideas?

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

Today is the first of April and it's raining...


...so this poem was perfectly fitting.

"April Rain Song"


Let the rain kiss you
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops
Let the rain sing you a lullaby
The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk
The rain makes running pools in the gutter
The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night
And I love the rain.


~Langston Hughes

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

Happy Birthday, William Carlos Williams

"A Love Song"

What have I to say to you
When we shall meet?
Yet—
I lie here thinking of you.

The stain of love
Is upon the world.
Yellow, yellow, yellow,
It eats into the leaves,
Smears with saffron
The horned branches that lean
Heavily
Against a smooth purple sky.

There is no light—
Only a honey-thick stain
That drips from leaf to leaf
And limb to limb
Spoiling the colours
Of the whole world.

I am alone.
The weight of love
Has buoyed me up
Till my head
Knocks against the sky.

See me!
My hair is dripping with nectar—
Starlings carry it
On their black wings.
See, at last
My arms and my hands
Are lying idle.

How can I tell
If I shall ever love you again
As I do now?

First published in Poems 1919.


Also, this famous painting,"The Figure Five in Gold" was done by Charles Demuth in 1928 as an homage to William Carlos William's poem, "The Great Figure." You can see in the painting that the artist put "W.C.W." at the bottom of the painting, as well as "Bill" at the top, to reference Williams.



"The Great Figure"

Among the rain
and lights
I saw the figure 5
in gold
on a red
fire truck
moving
tense
unheeded
to gong clangs
siren howls
and wheels rumbling
through the dark city

Tuesday, October 9, 2007

Can you live in a song?



I like when she goes to the ocean.

A poem:

Into My Own
by Robert Frost

One of my wishes is that those dark trees,
So old and firm they scarcely show the breeze,
Were not, as 'twere, the merest mask of gloom,
But stretched away unto the edge of doom.

I should not be withheld but that some day
Into their vastness I should steal away,
Fearless of ever finding open land,
Or highway where the slow wheel pours the sand.

I do not see why I should e'er turn back,
Or those should not set forth upon my track
To overtake me, who should miss me here
And long to know if still I held them dear.

They would not find me changed from him they knew--
Only more sure of all I thought was true.


A line of another poem from Robert Frost:

"One could do worse than be a swinger of birches."