Weekend poetry blogging (and more)

It's been an intense fortnight or so. Lots of ups and downs. The major downer was finding a fat letter from the IRS in my mailbox just as I was rushing in the door last Saturday to take a quick shower and breather before our Feed the Homeless enterprise. I had hoped to spend some time this weekend cleaning and organizing the house - I didn't do squat last weekend - but this is ridiculous.

(The good news is that I found one important supporting document within 30 minutes of beginning to search for it, but prayers appreciated. I'm pretty fried in general even without this.)

I was more than a little "I don't have TIME for this right now" earlier in the week, but started getting moving on some of the necessary tasks through the procrastination. I did make the conscious decision to attend a friend's poetry reading last night, and I'm glad I took the break. She. was. fabulous. I'll see if I can get permission to publish one of hers on the blog - quite seriously, I was reminded of Really Good Poets like Sharon Olds when she read. (And she reads very, very well.)

It was also a revelation to Shy Girl here that I can go to an open mic and read someone else's poetry (as long as I properly credit, of course). It could be good practice for my mic-fright/performance anxiety.

OK, enough blogging procrastination for the moment. Time to call the credit card company and ask them to send statement copies.

Happy Cyril and Methodius!

Oh, you want something for that other guy?

LC's throwing flowers; I'll provide the chocolate.





Yes, I did make that! I just posted the recipe. Thanks to the fab Biggles for the pic.

in memorium poetry blogging

Someone around the RGBP blogring has a "Friday Poetry Blogging" thing going on. I will probably get back to Friday Cat Blogging in the not too distant future but as I will be posting a cat pic as part of my response to bls' m*m* tag, I'll pass for now.

In working out my responses for the tag ("What were you doing ten years ago?") I realized that my friend Susan Hattie had been dead ten years just about to the day. In early February 1996 I was very much processing that (on top of my paternal grandmother's death a month before, but my grandmother was 91 and wanted to die). The usenet group I knew her in, rec.food.cooking, was definitely going through a group grieving period.

k.d. lang's "Constant Craving" is the song that always reminds me of Susan, but I offer this poem from W. H. Auden, as I burn a yahrzeit for Susan:

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

somewhat belated poetry

There was a m*m* spreading to post some poetry on Candlemas/Groundhog Day. I've been off the computer (at home) much of that time, so just caught up.

Emily posted the "Midwinter spring" bit from Little Gidding, so I'll post another one for this change of seasons - which we feel acutely in Northern California, because it really is when our spring starts. It also connects with my returning to the babysteps of Flylady life-clean and stuff-clean.

Prothalamium
Fifth section of "Astoria" sequence
© Aaron Kramer

Come, all you who are not satisfied
as ruler in a lone, wallpapered room
full of mute birds, and flowers that falsely bloom,
and closets choked with dreams that long ago died!

Come, let us sweep the old streets--like a bride;
sweep out dead leaves with a relentless broom;
prepare for Spring, as though he were our groom
for whose light footstep eagerly we bide.

We'll sweep out shadows, where the rats long fed;
sweep out our shame--and in its place we'll make
a bower for love, a splendid marriage-bed
fragrant with flowers aquiver for the Spring.
And when he comes, our murdered dreams shall wake;
and when he comes, all the mute birds shall sing.