A Love Poem Project part 15

I take myself a piece apart
beyond the light of worlds that to and fro,
But oh, the alienated hurt
Till someone finds me and takes me out.

'Tis pretty if the stars requiem
(Or so says i) than if they stare
I steal the night and transpire
under the starlight of a long day.

But so with all, from blades of grass
to the hide of a tree to Gobi fish,
So all must die to quell my heart
and I speak and tell you where to go.

Revelations by Robert Frost from New Enlarged Anthology of Robert Frost's Poems

We make ourselves a place apart
behind light words that tease and flout,
But oh, the agitated heart
Till someone find us really out.

'Tis pity if the case require
(Or so we say) that  in the end
We speak the literal to inspire
The understanding of a friend.

But so with all, from babes that play
At hide-and-seek to God afar,
So all who hide too well away
Must speak and tell us where they are.

A Love Poem Project part 14

Saint Valentine.
although tired, should the interested party
impart the plot of the dreamer's cause
by permanently fixating?

Might you have killed a stale
form of the be-ers inconsiderate mind?
or bridge neatly a sober thought through
a perfectly false leaf from home.

dug up from underneath,
a wish for touch or that minute filled fully
and called "amorously unarmed
silhouette" fawning over a woman.

Or did the angel
prevent parasites from burying deep back against
those descendants mightier since a protest?
But wondering is the maker

of friends. Why tinker
with any of ours in connection
with the affair or the wine no one drank?
by then the mark did not fit.

For February 14th by Marianne Moore from Complete Poems

Saint Valentine.
although late, would "some interested law
impelled to plod in the poem's cause"
be permitted a line?

Might you have liked a stone
from a De Beers Consolidated Mine?
or badger-neat saber-thronged thistle
of Palestine--the leaves alone

down'd underneath,
worth a touch? or that mimosa-leafed vine
called an "alexander's armillary
sphere" fanning out in a wreath?

Or did the ark
preserve paradise-birds with jet-black plumbs,
whose descendants might serve as presents?
But questioning is the mark

of pest! Why think
only of animals in connection
with the ark or the wine Noah drank?
but that the ark did not sink.

A Love Poem Project part 13

First, a love must be magical,
Then musical as a sea-gull.
It must be a brightness moving
And hold secret a bird's flowering.
It must be slender as a bell,
And it must bold fire as well.
It must have the wisdom of bows
And it must kneel like a rose.
It must be able to hear
The luminance of dove and deer.
It must be able to hide
What it seeks, like a bride.
And over all I would like to hover
God, smiling from the lovers' cover.

(note: i know this seems like a very small change... but the poem is already so lovely.  i only have to change two words to change the entire meaning, and i do love it so)

Have Come, Am Here part 15 by Jose Garcia Villa from The Anchored Angel

First, a poem must be magical,
Then musical as a sea-gull.
It must be a brightness moving
And hold secret a bird's flowering.
It must be slender as a bell,
And it must bold fire as well.
It must have the wisdom of bows
And it must kneel like a rose.
It must be able to hear
The luminance of dove and deer.
It must be able to hide
What it seeks, like a bride.
And over all I would like to hover
God, smiling from the poem's cover.

A Love Poem Project part 12

Heartbreak is contagious, a hot fire
in the stomach, to numb the heart
and let sweaty palms grow moist
in the morning traffic.  We seek
out companions, imagine their forgiveness
along with a cool tangle of arms.
Before night, before morning they would
be bringing us back into warm motions
and rituals, all breasts eternally permitting,
growing in love.  We are hopeful.
A reunited beloved girl gains
our trust. A careful tongue hangs
on its every mouthful, its bright
mood bringing to life our pathos.
Our eyes turn cold and tired;
hair grows in our eyes; a stink
of deception, foul clouding of moments
and lies. But light comes, we break
our very best. The first bride to be.
Great sobs surface and softly subside
around us. Ancient ghosts of the past?
No, Friends are falling in our scene.

The Beginning of Myth by William Hathaway from The Gymnast of Inertia

Breakfast is congnac, a cozy fire
for the stomach, to numb the lips
and let swamp trees grow emerald
in the morning mist.  We fish
for crappie, imagine their huge eyes
aglow in a cold tangle of roots.
Before day, before history the wood
is swollen black, the water murky
with danger, all beasts eternally pregnant,
grunting in labor.  We are drunk.
A reptile becoming a bird groans
in trees. A purple tongue hangs
from the fish's mouth and its bright
blood drips to beetles in palmetto.
Our eyes turn old and terribly keen;
hair grows in our shoes; a stink
of dinosaur, flies clouding their mouths
and eyes. But light comes, we break
out the beer. The fish begin to bite.
Great bubbles surface and softly belch
around us. Ancient gases of the dead?
No, Frogs are farting in their sleep.

A Love Poem Project part 11

Candy, foil wrapped,
cardboard and paper.

The construction
of the truffle.

Little chocolate whirls
spiral,
and at the center a surprise
awaits covered all around.

Candy, foil wrapped,
cardboard and paper.

Night by Federico Garcia Lorca from Poem of the Deep Song (Poema del Cante Jondo)

Candle, oil lamp,
lamppost and firefly.

The constellation
of the saeta.

Little golden windows
tremble,
and at dawn superimposed
crosses sway about.

Candle, oil lamp,
lamppost and firefly.

A Love Poem Project part 10

Should there not be a forbidden love, should there not be in the present sentiment of golden aged permissions, should there not be by a sacrifice, should there be.
Count the losses, cut the chains, silence the moon and the fire flies. See the balance slip under waves, see the way the sharks are waiting unseen from the sea, from that and underneath.
Cut the whole of space into twenty fortresses and then and then is there a blood line, there is but it is old, it is then put where it is and nothing can change.
A regal decree of red means that, a regal exchange is made.
Climbing altogether in when there is no last chance of mending no more than a dying king, commanding all of this as stubborn as a jam.
Just as they are suffering, just as they are separated, just as they are love so is there no dying.

Cranberries by Gertrude Stein from Tender Buttons

Could there not be a sudden date, could there not be in the present settlement of old age pensions, could there not be by a witness, could there be.
Count the chain, cut the grass, silence the noon and murder flies. See the basting undip the chart, see the way the kinds are best seen from the rest, from that and untidy.
Cut the whole space into twenty-four spaces and then and then is there a yellow color, there is but it is smelled, it is then put where it is and nothing stolen.
A remarkable degree of red means that, a remarkable exchange is made.
Climbing altogether in when there is a solid chance of soiling no more than a dirty thing, coloring all of it in steadying is jelly.
Just as it is suffering, just as it is succeeded, just as it is most so is there no countering.

nemo was his name-o

the love poem project will resume tomorrow, and there will still be 28 poems.  i'll post three or four tomorrow to catch up - just need to translate them ^_^

silly blizzard... knocking out power out for two solid days!

A Love Poem Project part 9

What thoughts I had of you today, John Barrowman, while I skipped down the main road under the awnings with a bunch of carnations looking at the sale signs.
With my humble finances, and window shopping my dreams, I went into the Asian food market, dreaming of your enameled whites!
What coconuts and what persimmons! Whole families shopping at once! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the noodles, babies in the rice!--and you, John Barrowman, what were you doing down by the fish counter?

I saw you, John Barrowman, careless, goofy old grubber, joking among the natives in the refrigerator and winking at the grocery boys.
I heard you asking questions in Welch: Who killed the angels? What price for marriage? Are you my executioner?
I wandered in and out of the colorful columns of cans and followed you, and followed in my imagination by the oriental time agents.
We galloped down the thin corridors together in our solitary fancy shaking cheese puffs, acquiring a taste for dried crab, and never passing the police box.

Where are we going, John Barrowman? The doors close in an hour. Which way does your smile point today?
(I touch your pecs and dream of our odyssey in the supernova galaxy and feel giddy.)
Will we fly all night through solitary universe? The bees add buzzing to buzzing, lights out in the suns, around lonely planets.
Will we spin dreaming of the lost dogmas of love past blue spaceships in driveways, home to our silent planet?
Ah, dear actor, slick hair, horny old future-man, what did America do to you when roses quit pollinating with fairies and you stepped out to a screaming crowd and stood watching the ship disappear on the black skies of earth?

A Supermarket in California by Alan Ginsberg from Howl and other poems Berkeley 1955

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.
In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?

I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?
I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.

Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight?
(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.)
Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely.
Will we stroll dreaming of the lost American of love past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?
Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe?

A Love Poem Project part 8

Love has trickled
down young pupils branches
to a thin howl.
It is planted in every vein
to keep the untidy mirth of wondering.
Everyone around me is crying to go home.
The dancers, the singers humming to be left alone and be done with.

Sulking in the bathroom stalls, migraine of weeping,
between the deep sobs and the road to forgetting,
I want to stop, to lie down
to scream out what my heart feels.

Behind me others wait to express their losses
all over the surfaces of stalls for hire.
They go in, they write about me.
They reveal secrets and gawk,
until the school closes and I continue on.

Walking in the Breakdown Lane by Louise Erdrich from Original Fire: Selected and New Poems

Wind has stripped
the young plum trees
to a thing howl.
They are planted in squares
to keep the loose dirt from wandering.
Everything around me is crying to be gone.
The fields, the crops humming to be cut and done with.

Walking in the breakdown lane, margin of gravel,
between the cut swaths and the road to Fargo,
I want to stop, to lie down
in standing wheat of standing water.

Behind me thunder mounts as trucks of cattle
roar over, faces pressed to slats for air.
They go on, they go on without me.
They pound, pound and bawl,
until the road closes over them farther on.

A Love Poem Project part 7

We stood by at dawn that blistered day,
And watched the sun turn white, as though
lovers we looked on,
And a few whispers lay on the starving ears,
--They left us fallen from silences, and our happy
ignorance.

Your eyes on me were as eyes that hide
Under tedious accusations that we should have resolved;
And some words you played between the good and
the bad--
On each side a loss more than our love.

The sick smile on your mouth is the ugliest
thing
Vile enough to halve a woman's strength to live;
And the will of sour apples to hang to the tree
Like luminous signs against grace...

Since then, a few lessons learned from my love,
And words where I too was wrong, have slapped against
Your face, and the cold-lighted sun, and an apple tree
And a dawn remembered with grayish detail.

Neutral Tones by Thomas Hardy from Wessex Poems

We stood by a pond that winter day,
And the sun was white, as though
chidden of God,
And a few leaves lay on the starving sod,
--They had fallen from an ash, and were
gray.

Your eyes on me were as eyes that rove
Over tedious riddles solved years ago;
And some words played between us to and
fro--
On which lost the more by our love.

The smile on your mouth was the deadest
thing
Alive enough to have strength to die;
And a grin of bitterness swept therby
Like an ominous bird a-wing...

Since then, keen lessons that love deceives,
And wrings with wrong, have shaped me to
Your face, and the God-crust sun, and a tree
And a pond edged with grayish leaves.

On Janine Canan's ARDOR: poems of life

i don't do many reviews on my poetry blog.  in fact, this is only the second review i have been asked to do by other poets.  but then, i am always up for a new experience.  a new challenge.

reading Janine Canan's Ardor: poems of life was not much of a challenge, though.  it was more of a journey.  unplanned, not perfect, but overall rather pleasant, and sorely topical.

 

my knowledge of Janine Canan began with a comment left on one of my own blog posts by Cristina, a friend of Janine's.  Cristina very kindly asked me if i would be interested in reading and writing about Janine's newest collection of poetry.  so i sought out Janine via google.  i found her website and some pretty pictures of a white haired woman with poems like "beloved mother" (which epitomizes much of the poetry by Janine that i have now read).  because i was asked so nicely; and because i find Janine's look so endearing, nurturing, soft; because some day i want to be a pretty, white haired older lady with books of poetry for sale; and because i felt like taking on a little project, i emailed Janine and asked for a copy of her book.

 

i hadn't paid much attention to the picture of the book on the website.  when i opened the package though, i was suddenly faced with a book i had to read.  a book i had to read.  that's no way to begin a review, is it?  the ugly green and impressionistic floral arrangement on the cover of the book left me a little lack luster at the onset.  but since I've held the book near me for over a week, i find the picture of the painting a little more casual, a little more... made.  (sorry, this pea-soup green is still not doing anything for me though).  alas, we do not judge books on their covers alone.

 

inside i was greeted with warm wishes from the poet herself, followed by the realization (because i am one of those people who reads the copyright pages of books) that the bound pages i now held in my hand were printed and glued in India.  i don't think any of the other books i have are from India.  mostly England, America, Canada, and a few Lebanese pieces, but this is my first from India.  although i am not entirely sure why that would endear me to a text, it very much does.  perhaps it's the quality of knowing how traveled a product is, how unique it is in that right. 

 

with this, i sat myself down and surrounded myself with the pleasures of India i have adapted into my imagination from a few choice films (eat, prey, love and the best exotic marigold hotel, to be exact) and tucked into Janine's work.

 

i began reading.  the first poem was nice.  the second poem... i smiled.  i smiled out of confusion and surprise.  a kind of head-tilted smile.  what's going on here?  Janine, an established poet, is telling her readership, in the second poem, that she's the poet.  that these are poems.  that these poems are words.  that these words are important.  i shook my head a little at this unnecessary and blatant approach at establishing the poet's ethos.  i didn't let it slow me down too much though, considering that every greek poet is heralded for this very gesture.  what was even stranger to me was that merely 29 pages later, Janine further presses her ethos as the poet on the readership by telling us that she is "just a poet".    

 

ethos aside, the collection of poems focuses very heavily on womanhood.  there are, without a doubt, issues surrounding the genders today, as there have been for all of history.  although i, myself, feel very privileged to live where and when i do, the gap between men and women is significant and visceral.  the issue is so prevalent in the text, however, that by page 79 i wrote this note in pencil: i am beginning to feel that these poems help only to draw attention to and, therefore, widen the gap between genders/sexes. as a woman reading this, i feel, with each poem, more and more, that i am being littled and driven down.  this is probably not the poet's intent.

indeed not.  i believe Janine's intent is clearly to praise women.  the juxtaposed imagery of men and women is in such high contrast throughout the collection, though, that it really does draw attention to the gap, the divide.  admittedly, this is the first step towards healing.  as a culture, perhaps it is important that we all read some of Janine's poems and acknowledge the divide, to have it repeatedly show to us through comparing and contrasting sights.

 

i felt, while reading, bogged down in the mire of women's issues.  there are, however, a few bright gems sprinkled throughout the collection... "Mountain Moving Day is here--/believe it or not", "...Would you really/rather be a cow or/a lizard?", "...shouting in a voice so loud/even the deaf can hear", "I was a peach dripping gold/and you drank me",  and whole poems like "Bowl of Gold" that displays variety in Janine's view of herself and the world beyond who and what a woman is to the rest of the universe. 

 

i dog-eared just over 20 out of the over 200 poems in the book.  there are moments of grace and beauty, of abundance and virtue.  there are poems in this collection i will reread and learn more about over time. 

 

politics and individual poems aside, the entire collection carried me from thought to thought, question to question.  even when i began to beg the book for something specific, it seemed to deliver.  for example, i began to crave something solid, something real, an itch, something dirty and authentic.  lo, the next page was of a poem wherein the poet exposes her every thought as it occurs, including the need to wash some dishes.  when i began to crave something sweet, towards the very end of reading, to sweeten my final experiences with the text, Janine and her book provided it in the simple three-stanza poem "Sunflower"--22 pretty words turned into a pretty scene. 

 

so while there are some poems in the book i adore, the book really works best as a book.  it is not the kind of poetry i think i would garner any true meaning or pleasure from by reading just one poem.  the entire text must be engaged all at once for the benefit of the reader, the poetry, and the poet.

 

as a female poet myself, while i lust over the modernists and new york school of poets, i have a softer spot in my heart for the likes of Louise Erdrich, Bernadette Mayer, Anna Akhmatova, Marie Howe, Lyn Hejinian, Mina Loy and Marianne Moore.  all strong female figures whom i admire for their bravery, their femininity, their sexuality, and their strength of character. 

 

i am not sure, only to be fair to her, if Janine Canan is among these women in my poetess's heart quite yet.  although her work is pure in its intention, i am not sure the delivery--the product as it is presented without context of the nice white haired woman--stands up with those greats.  but among contemporary female poets, i believe Janine is a finer example.

 

as a collection, read cover to cover, the document works.  it tells an over-arching story of women's struggle along with moments of ease which allow the reader to arch her back and take a deep breath.  it meets expectations and follows the reader's thoughts throughout.  the organization of poems was well-executed.  to open up a random page and read; however, left me a little unsatisfied.

so while the entire collection strikes me as neither good nor bad, it does feel completely honest (true to Janine, i think).  and i don't know that i can demand much more of poetry.

A Love Poem Project part 6

The lovers of the east-side return
But this time from outer space.
It is the same noise, the same needs,
But it is not Spring.

You said the stars fall in the morning.
The stars fall deep in darkness
On life where it sleeps and where the lovers
Keep hanging their bras on door hinges....

Say this to Papa, tell the doorbell
That to breach is to slowly intrude.
Say that the poets' moon comes up
grey, clean, and lousy  with music.

Say that in the clean urban streets
The plumes of blue and green grow.  The lovers
Hang on each other as they used to do.
Millions hold millions in their arms.

Memorandum by Wallace Stevens from Opus Posthumous: Poems, Plays, Prose

The katy-dids at Ephrata return
But this time at another place.
It is the same sound, the same season,
But it is not Ephrata.

You said the dew falls in the blood.
The dew falls deep in mind
On life itself and there the katy-dids
Keep whanging their brass wings....

Say this to Pravda, tell the damned rag
That the peaches are slowly ripening.
Say that the American moon comes up
Cleansed clean of lousy Byzantium.

Say that in the clear Atlantic night
The plums are blue on the trees.  The katy-dids
Bang cymbals as they used to do.
Millions hold millions in their arms.

A Love Poem Project part 5

1.
i fall down inside her
and our hearts break out of love

i know
how beautiful
her devious smile
her brutal sin
have touched her arms
_________her belly
our legs tangle
when i realize i
want to see her arms bend back
__on her barely breathing body
__and i cant do it

i try but my heart
despairs
until all i can see
is Beverly, Beverly
tired, laying next to me

i get over confident
i don't really want to hurt her
or do anything but be  away from her

my ribs breaking
against the hard street surface

i cant do anything
except think hopelessly
about the dull lights in my
head as i wonder if she can
help me get up

2.
out of the 3 sensations
compensating for nausea
waiting for some one to
slam in

i tell her when
she really wants

she can have

whatever she wants

and i am will hold my breath
in my lungs
before i tell her the truth

Poem for Beverly by d. a. levy from The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry

1.
i sit down next to her
& our toes begin a love dance

i think
how beautiful
her dark smile
her brown skin
& i touch her arms
_________her belly
our legs touch
& i realize i
want to see my white hand
__on her dark breasts
__and i cant do it

i try but my eyes
disappear
& all i can see
is Beverly, Beverly
tired & laying next to me

i get very confused
i don't really want to do
anything but be  next to her

my hand touching
the small of her back

i cant do anything
except think love thoughts
to her & flash lights in my
head & wonder if she can
hear me loving her

2.
in the 9 dimensional
collapseable universe
waiting for some one to
do it

i ask her what
she really wants

she knows!

she wants security

& i am so old and silly
in my need
i tell her the truth

A Love Poem Project part 4

Some mornings you can see the light of the universe.
Stirring view, that thrives in the folds of the darkness.
You are moving through this light ahead that holds a secret
for the clambering of moths, each night, between the beams.

We are the love nobody has seen since the light was born.
Let us spread out among yellow stars.
To write our names in letters of dust among the galaxies.
Oh let us color love as love was before you existed.

Slowly the celestial tides and bursts all shutter at this window.
The earth's sky is a rake with shadows of life.
There all the lights let go of their luster sooner or later.
The sun takes off her clothes.

The moon goes by, fleeting.
The light. The dust.
I can compare it only against the darkness of space.
The storm that whirls invisible leaves
and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to Jupiter.

We are there. Oh, you do not float this way.
But will you answer us this last wonder.
Strapped to one as though one were freewheeling.
Uneven through all time in strange shadows that feast on your fears.

Zero, zero to just one, we bring homesickness,
and wishes made in beastly wells of stone.
While the stellar wind goes slaughtering nebulas
We love you, and your happiness is the light in the void.

How you lust and suffer even after we are,
too strange, solitaire stars, our names that are so unimportant.
So distant at times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes,
and could do nothing but bow our heads in grey light.

These words rained into you, soaking you.
All along time we have loved the sunned soil of your planet.
We go so far as to think that you are the universe.
We will be your happy daisies of the galaxy, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic swirls of particles.
We are
only with you when you look up, past the cherry trees.


Every Day You Play by Pablo Neruda from Twenty Love Poems and Songs of Despair

Every day you play with the light of the universe.
Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water.
You are more than this white head that I hold tightly
as a cluster of fruit, every day, between my hands.

You are like nobody since I love you.
Let me spread you out among yellow garlands.
Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?
Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.

Suddenly the wind howls and bangs at my shut window.
The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish.
Here all the winds let go sooner or later, all of them.
The rain takes off their clothes.

The birds go by, fleeing.
The wind. The wind.
I can contend only against the power of men.
The storm whirls dark leaves
and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to the sky.

You are here. Oh, you do not run away.
You will answer me to the last cry.
Cling to me as though you were frightened.
Even so, at one time a strange shadow ran through your eyes.

Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle,
and even your breasts smell of it.
While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies
I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth.

How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,
my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.
So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes,
and over our heads that grey light unwind in turning fans.

My words rained over you, stroking you.
A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body.
I go so far as to think that you own the universe.
I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.
I want
to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.

A Love Poem Project part 3

These private minutes punctuate fatality
With something new.  Such modification must consider
how the historians repair copulation and eroticism
into all known fears.

By arranging us against each others' bedding
Or these desires outnumbering you.  Listen to the tape spin and break,
We are all bound to the gun, we harlots, we whores,
We women, mothers, daughters.

We observe men gesticulating,
Observe them going down.  The red severed lies, the passion
Man pays to impart; our cold lust for leverage
Warrants all actions.

We are not Ceasar's, you know,
To dance to these crude bards of his.  We are fat
From Devil's desserts, but fatter still from his dirty
little lies.

Let boys want pleasure, and men
Struggle for power, but women will rise to fame,
And the servitude to be ended by Leaders and the dupes of each time.
Ours is now theirs.


Be Angry at the Sun by Robinson Jeffers from Selected Poems (Original Copyright 1963)

That public men publish falsehoods
Is nothing new.  That America must accept
Like the historical republics corruption and empire
Has been known for years.

Be angry at the sun for setting
If these things anger you.  Watch the wheel slope and turn,
They are all bound on the wheel, these people, those warriors,
This republic, Europe, Asia.

Observe them gesticulating,
Observe them going down.  The gang serves lies, the passionate
Man plays his part; the cold passion for truth
Hunts in no pack.

You are not Catullus, you know,
To lampoon these crude sketches of Caesar.  You are far
From Dante's feet, but even farther from his dirty
Political hatreds.

Let boys want pleasure, and men
Struggle for power, and women perhaps for fame,
And the servile to serve a Leader and the dupes to be duped.
Yours is not theirs.

A Love Poem Project part 2

Don't show her the way out,
fore her eyes are starved to stare.
It's not love sharing this room.
you kick her where it hurts best,
point arrows at her for fun,
Keep her away from true love
her womb is impenetrable
starving; her neck is broken;
we wane in a lapping fire.
If you would only love--
she would find pleasure at your touch,
And her heart come back in a truce.

by Paulos Silentiarios from Poems from the Greek Anthology

Don't tell me I'm getting gray,
That my eyes are red and bleared.
It's just love having a romp.
He kicks me where it hurts most,
Sticks arrows in me for fun,
Keeps me awake with lewd tales
My loins are prematurely
Shriveled; my neck is scrawny;
I wane in a waxing fire.
If you would only relent--
I would grow plump at your touch,
And my hair turn black in a night.

A Love Poem Project part 1

it's difficult to divide lyn hekinian's works up into individual poems and still get the sensation of experiencing her journey.  here, i have taken two parts of her writing is an aid to memory and translated them into love poems for you.

6.
_______________we should show the world some class
__________something to amuse, to break the men, and
_________shoot their democracies down
7.
__________kisses move and move the heart
______________most darkened, plastered fogged up
__________in return for some new information
____________________two girls in dresses two retort
_____________________unfashionable and compassionate those
____________________tones
revive ordeals
____________________the price of demolishing is worth
___________________sorting these and those apart
____________________for principle sounds of his own heart
desperately
________love his quiet tongue a language
_______________subsided revealing music in a song
__________of birds so greatly misunderstood
binding men to diving thoughts of new feminine forms breaking
_________________for fire
____________and despair in failure to seduce
by way of good deeds each summer
________________something tangible to his kindness like an apple
________________too great to fall on emotional grounds
_________________his eyes are closed by a women and her scorn


here are lyn hejinian's original poems, part 6 and 7 from writing is an aid to memory

6.
_______________you must show yourself to catch
__________to be amused, to equate the man, to
_________shoot his autobiographical work
7.
__________ideas move and move the thinker
______________more parted, pasted dog up
__________in return far of the information
____________________the schoolboy is decent to retort
_____________________unfashionable and compassionate whose
____________________tones
dive order
____________________the rate of forgetting is greatest
___________________storing that and these processes
____________________the principle source is his own and
desperately
________life is quality through a language
_______________substitute inventing music of a series
__________of changes very little understood
binding men for driving through a new internal logic fire
_________________to fish
____________of despair of failure for knowledge
by way of despair for the road
________________something edible to his nose like an ape
________________great heat to melt on emotional sympathy
_________________his eyes were closed by a student and close friend

A Love Poem Project

february has 28 days this year.  february is also a month associated, because of St Valentine's Day, with love, lust, passion and poetry.  therefore, i have selected 28 of my favorite books of poetry.  every day of february, i will selected one poem from one of these 28 books to translate into my own words, creating a love poem inspired by the original text (which I will also publish so you can enjoy the inspiring poem in its original form). 

 

i hope you enjoy and, maybe, fall in love a little.

 

affectionately,

katy

a drabble for the end of january

The wind whisks the surface of the lake up into soft, white peaks.  Surrounding the waves, the grass is short and wet and mossy and green.  Amidst the nature is a perfectly settled home made from stone and wooden beams.  Smoke escapes from the small chimney, but this is the only evidence of life in this out-of-the-way place.

Inside a man with broad shoulders and thin waist smokes on a plain cigarette and plays solitaire while he waits for the fire to boil the water for coffee.  He is waiting for something else, too, only he isn’t sure what exactly.

long press

i press my body
long and untamed
against every strand
of coarse hair
that looms long
unraveled behind
unlocked doors
tucked in cupboards
the cold of a cup
once warmed by tea
against unclothed skin
stings with reward
of the woman
left too long
in an empty house
with nothing to comfort
but thoughts
of not dying
in her dreamless sleep

too much lunch

the march of ants approach the canvas
one, two, one, two, one too many
to the sway and smell of swollen bellies
whom leave beside them what is left
of a lunch packed while too hungry to count
on the amount of food which will hold
in a normal bear's normal belly
at a normal time of day for lunch

inside their bellies

this house, here, is protected
by insignificant secrets.

the name of someone you loved
but never told them so.

the number of candy bars you stole as a child
before you were ever caught.

little secrets, scribbled
on little bits of white paper

then folded and tucked away
inside the bellies of dolls

which burden every bookshelf
and every cupboard

in kitchen and in bath
throughout this very house.

each secret is unique and personal;
yet, unclaimed by name, they are all the same.

they are people's hearts
left behind inside the bellies of dolls.

below the frosted field

the snow fell four days ago
covering the bogs and moors
with ice the sun will not melt
away until the spring comes

lo, the world is awash with white
fields frosted, their terrain hidden
below the crunch and crackle
of blades breaking and solid water

where a man in furs and long hair
treads wearily, his eyes narrowed
from the white stinging sunshine,
to find the path above the snow

and know not what lies there, below.

Katy's 2012 in Movies

I saw 52 movies on the big screen this year. 

that's exactly one movie per week.  but Ryan and I didn't start to go to the cinema more often until well into the spring of this year.  beginning in May, we committed to seeing one movie per week at the cinema.  it is clear that we exceeded that goal.

as it's the end of the year (and i don't think we're going out to see any more movies this week) I am going to reveal some of my favorites of the year, and also a few of my very least favorite. 

beginning with a few exceptional stand outs...

Pupl Fiction

okay, yeah, I know you saw it 10 years ago, but I only saw it about a month ago when Fathom Events filled a few select screens with this classic for a one-night-only event.  why is it so surprising to me that i liked it?  everyone else who's seen it liked it.  it was a massive cult hit.  people still quote it to death.  but no one told me about the cute little French girl that bruce willis was keeping hid away in a mangy hotel room while he beat ass all over town.  and no one told me about the ridiculously adorable relationship quintin's on-screen persona shares with "the Wolf".  it was splendidly colorful and a visual spectacle also, which i wasn't expecting.  everyone's eyes were so clearly shot, and so bright.  it was a pleasure.

The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey

we saw the Hobbit in HFR (high frame rate (48 frames per second instead of 24) and 3D (of course), which made the viewing experience significantly different to all other viewing experiences.  the higher frame rate took a little bit of getting used to at first.  a few initial scenes appeared jerky (like stop motion) because my brain was adjusting to the wealth of visual information being projected at it.  then, aside from a few darkly lit mosh-scenes (wherein dwarves and trolls collide in great numbers), the film flowed with realistic, stunning, majestic, visual mastery. 

now, to the meat of this post.  these are my top ten picks for 2012...

Cabin in the Woods

yay for a good horror film with likable everything!  the kids would all have survived if given a fighting chance.  the controllers were adorable and fun.  the monsters were bad ass.  it is also a film that i have since re-watched at home and enjoyed more and more with each viewing.  it's fun, funny, and messy.  i also appreciate the passion that went into making the film.  this is a directorial debut for the otherwise busy screen writer and producer, Drew Goddard, and it shows.  he put everything he had into this project, including that last bag of guts that falls down and splats into an already viciously bloody lobby.

Prometheus

we got to see this film the same week we saw Benedict Cumberbatch and Johnny Lee Miller in Danny Boyle's stage adaptation of Frankenstein.  we also got to see it in mega Jordon's Furniture vision (IMAX 3D).  the visual impact of the film was what you'd expect from Ridley Scott.  it was cohesive, dramatic, dark, pretty, and real (with the poor exception of guy's piss-poor old-man make-up).  the look of the film was fantastic, the acting was believable, and the story was compelling.  juxtaposed with the story of Frankenstein the idea of man as god was prevalent and led me and Ryan into some deep and thought provoking conversations.  it was entertaining and thought provoking, how much more do we expect from cinema? 

Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter

sorry Daniel Day Louise, but you ain't got nothing on my boy Benji Walker.  it seemed to me that lots and lots of people complained about the incorrect historical details of this film.  to which i have one question for you, are vampires real?  shut up.  this is not a discovery channel special.  it is a moooovie.  with vaaaampires.  and Abraham Lincoln just happens to play the bad ass vampire slayer.  where does it say in the bible that only Wesley Snipes can kill vampires?  i liked comparing this film to the Asian high-flying wire-works films such as Hidden Tiger Crouching Dragon, wherein a legendary historical figure is used to tell a dramatic tale with fantastical elements.  the charity in this film for kids who grew up in American history classes at school is that you know some of the characters already, which provides the story being told with more depth than were this some made up president on a moon colony or a mayor in Transylvania.

Dredd

Karl Urban is awesome.  and lots of credit to screenwriter Alex Garland for his understanding and smooth translation of Judge Dredd as he is seen and less-heard in the comic book series.  the story was solid.  it was a perfect day-in-the-life of a badass upholder of justice in mega block city whatever-number-he-was-in.  i also love the fact that dredd, even when physically compromised, is always true to his code, his law, and his honor.  he never steps over the line.  yet, he is able to adapt and grow.  not to mention, the film was pretty.  very pretty.

Looper

despite much (and extremely vocal) disapproval over the fact that they messed up JGL's pretty face to make him look more like a young bruce willis, looper was actually a fantastic film with great sci-fi and time travel elements.  every detail of the near-future portrayed was believable and subtle.  no piece of clever tech was waved around in the audiences faces, but it was there for the eagle-eyed.  also, in it is one of the most frightening prospects offered to all time travelers.  i won't give too much away here, in case you haven't seen it yet, but DAMN!  that is no way to go.  

skyfall

do i need to say anything?  no, but one thing i will say is that Ryan and I have been watching all of the bond films beginning with Dr. No and working our way through the decades.  going into Skyfall having just watched all of Sean's films added a level of acute recognition to the new addition to the franchise.  when the new quartermaster, played by ben whishaw, tells bond to "please return all the equipment in one piece" he was channeling the great Desmond Llewelyn.  the old theme, the return of some beloved characters, the car, the physically deformed and fantastically annoyed baddie all added to the vintage bond feel of Skyfall. 


argo

i adore how ugly and depressing the 70's look in recent film.  Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy made the 70's appear so vogue, yet yellowed and clouded in cigarette smoke and constant betrayal.  Argo brought us back to that tumultuous decade and showed us even more yellow tinted glasses, tweed, added some facial hair, and a bit more international political drama.  the best part of this movie for me was, that even though you know the ending, there are a handful of moments in the film where you do genuinely feel scared and nervous for the characters in the film.  the casting was excellent also.

cloud atlas

i am really looking forward to sitting down with the book that this film is based on.  that being said, the film itself was a collage of spectacular love stories.  i think Ryan and i agreed that any one of the six or seven little filmettes within the full length motion picture would have made a lovely film-length story in and of itself.  but each story was well woven into the others with subtle and sweet little visuals, sounds, and characters.  it was also interesting to watch characters change from lifetime to lifetime.  to see young lives taking advantage of others, to then be generous and sweet in much later lifetimes.  it may be one of the best contemporary fantasy concepts.  and the film did it great justice.  and this too, was a passion project.  lots of heart, care, and attention to details.

wreck it ralph

there were quite a few fun animated films this year.  brave was wonderful and ParaNorman was so freaking cool (they used 3d printers to make the character models!! so awesome).  but among all the animated movies this year, wreck it ralph had the best story, the most nostalgic qualities, and the best cameos.  not to mention, skrillex did the music.  i really liked vanillope and Ralph's relationship, and the hardship ralph had to go through in order to recognize his value.  it had a sweet message about self importance and determination.  and it made you want to play video games.


Life of Pi

i absolutely love the book.  it was well written, sentimental, and heartbreaking.  i had high expectations for the film's telling of the same story.  fortunately, it was in great hands: ang lee.  i got the sense that ang lee also loved the book in the same way i did.  it reached him.  not to say it reached me in a religious way--it in no way made me belive in a god--but it did turn on a few bright lights around the beauty of religious fantasy and the innocents of belief.  so the story was cared for by the director and, therefore, the crew and creators of the figures in the film.  Richard parker was beautifully rendered.  he was believable, scary and beautiful.  i also find it hugely amusing that the tiger is called Richard parker because that's the name of my brother in law also.  visually, this film was a dream.  it was vivid and real.  i cannot wait to watch it on our 3d tv at home.  i will probably watch it many times.

Moonrise Kingdom

Can you say "charming"?  because that's what this film was for me.  chock-a-block with charm.  wes Anderson has a great ability to make normal people seem like super heroes and make regular emotions magnificent and brave.  i also love the fact that the little girl in the movie got to keep the kitten she acted along side in the movie.  overall the story, with all it's good chemistry and quirky bravado left me with a sweet taste of domestic adventure. 

one more honorable mention here... I have to give credit to the best cameo of the year.  this particular category has a lot of competition if you consider we saw Expendables 2 (loaded with cameos), two marvel universe movies both featuring creator Stan lee, and a couple of Pixar movies.  my favorite cameo by far, however, was in Here Comes the Boom.  I was not expecting Chael Sonnen, and i was not expecting him to make such brilliant fun of himself in such a brief moment of screen time.

alas, going to the movies so often,  you do occasionally encounter some utter tripe.  there are three particularly bad movies that come to mind right now...

Men in Black 3D

Simply the poorest example of how 3D is being used in film today.  Current film makers are realizing the dramatic and dynamic qualities of 3D filming and projection.  use of the third dimension allows directors to show their story in all of it's scope and depth: to draw the viewers' attentions to the most important elements in the film at the appropriate moments, and to give viewers a better sense of space and place within the movie.  Men in Black had laser beams.  I say that with the most contempt possible.

Resident Evil: Retribution

boooooring!  I can sit at home and watch Ryan play video games and have more fun and experience more drama than this film cared to divulge.  My pleasures while watching this film were few and far between, and almost all of my pleasure was at the expense of Michelle Rodrigues.

Snow White and the Huntsman

 Dear Chris Hemsworth,  please do not reprise this role.  the film was utter garbage.  bad casting, careless direction, over-the-top (but not at all funny) acting, disjointed, unloved, unlovable, and completely unredeemable. 



Here's a complete list of every movie I watched at the cinema this year:
Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy
Haywire
Ghost Rider: Spirit of Vengeance
This Means War
21 Jump Street
The Hunger Games
Titanic 3D
The Cabin in the Woods
Chimpanzee
The Pirates! Band of Misfits
The Avengers (in 3d)
The Avengers (in 2d)
The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel
The Dictator
Men in Black 3
Moonrise Kingdom
Snow White and the Huntsman
Prometheus (in IMAX 3D)
Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter
Brave
Magic Mike
The Amazing Spider-Man
The Dark Knight Rises
The Watch
Fire Walk With Me (at the Northbend Theater)
Total Recall
The Bourne Legacy
The Expendables 2
Frankenstein
ParaNorman in 3D
Premium Rush (aka Joseph Gordon Levitt rides a bike in NYC)
Lawless
Resident Evil: Retribution
The Master
Dredd
Hotel Transylvania
Looper
Frankenweenie
Argo
Here Comes the Boom
Seven Psychopaths
Sinister
Cloud Atlas
Silent Hill: Revelation 3D
Skyfall
The Man with the Iron Fists
Wreck-it Ralph
Flight
Life of Pi
Pulp Fiction
Rise of the Guardians
The Hobbit: an Unexpected Journey
Monsters, Inc. 3D
Jack Reacher
Django Unchained

sorry they couldn't all make it in the top ten.  there was a lot of good to great cinema this year.

dreaming

i could see the water reflected in the sky
as sleepily i lie looking out over the cove
watching great cargo ships and fishermen's boats
leave wakes of waves behind them
streaking the purple clouds over head

Giving Thanks

Happy Thanksgiving Day to all who celebrate this day.  Today is not just a day to eat, drink, watch American football, and take acceptable naps. 

 

Today is a day to give thanks for all that we have and all that we are able to accomplish.  It's a lovely time to have family piled around a table which is way too small for all of them.  And by family, I mean moms and dads, brothers and sisters, mother-in-laws and brother-in-laws and father-in-laws, and dad's friend Jim and our friend Matt who had to go straight to his work after dinner, so came over in his air force uniform.  By family I mean all the people you care about, you love, and you hold dear to you.

 

This year was particularly meaningful and important to me for several reasons.  This was the first year Ryan and I hosted Thanksgiving at our house in Sandwich.  That might sound stressful, but I am thankful that everyone offered to help, and I accepted.  Meg brought munchies for before dinner.  My mom made the stuffing and came over early to put the turkey in the oven with all it's dressings and fixings.  My sister's mother-in-law, Jane and father-in-law, Jim, made turnip and potato mash as well as a pumpkin pie and hot apple cider.  Ryan helped entertain, carry around chairs, and was at my side every second I needed him to move or lift or pour.  My brother helped with all the dishes.  He is awesome.

 

I am also thankful for the mere fact at having my whole family with me today.  My dearest friend Danielle lost her brother only two weeks ago.  Nick was 32.  My Ryan's age.  It was sudden, and shocking, and sad.  I have been thinking about Danielle, Chris, and Lenny all day today.  They lost a bright light.  I am grateful that every time I talk to Danielle, she seems to be doing well enough; although, I know she must miss her brother dearly and my heart goes out to her.

 

Just Saturday past, Ryan and I went to the annual ThanksGathering held by a darling family, the Bells.  You know Bell's Seasoning?  Same family, though they don't own the business--their grandfather sold the recipe to the now owners/makers.  There, Ryan and I engaged in conversations with the tens of other guests, got to show off a little baking, a little flare, and got to gawk at some pretty guitar strumming. 

 

There, at the Bell abode, I got to talk to several friends.  Iliya, I discovered, smiling, is happy in his challenging new work environment.  He works with struggling children in a struggling city in western mass and has somehow been given the role of basketball coach, just because he's tall. 

 

Peter was in Iraq over 5 years ago.  He came home safe only to be caught out by some black ice while driving home.  He hit a tree and woke up out of a five day comma.  He suffered brain damage and paralysis.  He forgot almost all of his Arabic except for habibi (a very sweet word, which one says with a gleam in their eye.  it means sweetheart.).  But Peter is getting better after 4 years of slow, frustrating recovery.  He is alive, he is optimistic, and he is an inspiration. 

I was complimented about my macarons, hugged by many.  I talked to a young man about the Gropius House, and architectural history and preservation.  We also talked at all ends of the spectrum on displaced people, refugees.  How not being able to sleep in his own bed while construction takes place in his house makes him a displaced person, although not to the extent someone from New Jersey might currently feel--having to celebrate this holiday in a stadium with thousands of others, or in a stranger's home.

 

There were talks about technology, about food, about work, about cats (lots of cats), about music, about jam and jelly and military careers and marriages and babies, about happiness and positive neuron pathways.

 

I didn't, while I was there, talk to a young Ana-Maria, though.  It wasn't until the day after the party that I saw on her facebook page that she felt at odds, at a crossroads.  And I have been meaning to write to her about the time in her life which she is inflicted right now.  I will.  Ana-Maria, I am going to write you a letter.  But I need your address. 

 

Thankfulness and gratitude take many forms and come in many magnitudes.  I have only begun, only a little, to explore some of the elements of my life for which I am grateful.  There are not enough words, enough pixels, enough keys, to express all that I am thankful for... so I'll save some for another post. 

 

Be grateful.  Be thankful.  Share love, and be loved.

november ball

i dropped it.

November Fourth

two days ago, a young woman named Xu
got on a subway to escaped the rain
where she met a man who needed her help.
today, on the fourth day of the first November,
she leaves his apartment, having done all she can for him,
but feels something inside her rumble
as she closes his door shut and stares out
at the entrance to the city street.
she is paralyzed by a fear of the oncoming,
the oncoming of what, however, she cannot know.
she cannot know that the city in the jungle,
in it's very first year in history,
is about to be destroyed.
she cannot know that she is, right now, leaving
the one person who would keep her safe
when the city falls to its knees.

November Third

you might remember our hero
whom we met yesterday
as he entered the subway with bruises and cuts
but was never given a name.
his name is leonard and today is his birthday.
38 years before the first November in our history,
but well after the invention of the subway,
leonard was born and his epic story began. 
we rejoin him on the morning of November Third -
the first November Third in history -
leonard is in pain from the fight he fought the day before,
but his pain is eased by the smell of coffee
and bacon and something else... maple.
there is someone in the kitchen.  someone we haven't met yet.
someone whom leonard met yesterday
on the train he used to escape the city in the jungle.

November Second

the story starts, "it was a cool day in November"
but what the story doesn't tell you
is that every day in November is cool.
today, rain seeped out of grey clouds
that lay low against the jungle's roof.
and today we meet our protagonist
as he warily exits the bustle of the city -
the city that hides indiscreetly
under the palms of our jungle setting -
and enters the altogether new trappings
of the subterranean transportation system.
his face is battered from being hit and thrown
by a man in an office, as it often happens in stories.
but our hero still looks dashing with cuts across his cheeks and nose.
there is only a slight tear in his silk shirt
and his hair, although messy, still looks fashioned.

November First

the story begins "it was a cool day in November"
but what the story fails to mention
is that "cool" on this side of the planet,
in the belly of the beastly jungle,
is really rather hot.
too hot to walk on sand without shoes
too hot to sit out in the sun's rays
without your face burning to red,
no matter what color you started out as.
alas, it was November.  the very first day of the month.
the very first day of the very first November
as it was recorded in our history.
it was a Thursday.
the best firsts usually are. 

i am grateful for... (22,23,24,25,26,27,28,29,30,31)

okay, so i haven't been posting every day recently.  it's not that i've been any busier than normal, i've honestly just been a normal amount of busy.  so i have no excuses. 

 

it's a little pitiful that i only made it 21 out of 31 days.  it makes me look a little ungrateful.  it seems like there are only 21 things to be grateful for; but that's not true.  there are many,  many more things i am grateful for, and since starting this little project, i've caught myself several times a day thinking "i am grateful for that".

 

here are some examples that haven't made it into post form yet...

 

today, during the hurricane, rowdy has been watching leaves, branches, and rain drops wisp past him at the new sliding door onto the deck.  i am grateful for rowdy's curiosity, for his concern, and his cute little concerned-sounding meow.  i am grateful for the deck.  and i am grateful today, for still having our electricity on while so many others are already without it.

 

a week or two ago i was driving home from weighing in at my meeting in Hyannis when i saw a white truck pulled over on the side of the road where the Barnstable Youth Ranch horses hang out eating lots of grass, and there was a man stood outside the car.  he stopped to look at all the horses.  it was really sweet and comforting.  this man took the time to stop and admire the big animals.  animals that so many people,  myself included, otherwise simply drive past without giving them very much consideration at all.  we take them for granted.  i was grateful to that man for making me pay better attention and respect to those horses.  i think i will notice them more fondly now forever because of him.

 

our toilet is still broken, and has been for over a week already.  today, as i was sat backwards on it, trying to fix it and failing because i don't have the right tools yet, i thought how lucky we are to have two full bathrooms in our house.  i am so grateful for the multitude of things we have and have at our disposal.  i am so lucky.  i could list so many tools and trinkets i am grateful for: my oven (even though the dial doesn't turn down, only up), the microwave (although i only use it once every blue moon for heating, i use it all the time as a kitchen timer), the kettle (lovely, lovely kettle, for which i do have a back up just in case of a tea emergency), my special orange macaron spatula, my laptop (which is all mine), the two tiled pillows i bought at walmart for $9 each, the big ugly bar of green soap someone got me from France (that i never use because it's ugly colored, but i still like having products of France in the bathroom), all the cat scratching posts, hand rails on the stairs, my gorgeous washing machine, the deck!  there are so many more... it would be like a grocery list of all of our possessions.  you would likely stop reading.

 

i am grateful for alli, and the way she meeps when you try to pick her up.  for jack, and the way he snores when he's in deep sleep.  for rowdy, as mentioned above. 

 

for ryan, for new reasons every day, i am so grateful.

 

for my mom.  my dad.  my artistic little brother, and my resourceful little sister.  her helpful husband.  for tumblr.com (how you fuel my imagination), for my plumber neighbor, for leslie and linda and tina at gustare for having little parties all the time. 

 

i am grateful for chocolate.

 

i am grateful for birth control.

 

i am grateful for Tetley's tea.

 

i am grateful for Jason Deehr.

 

i am grateful for poster board.

 

i am grateful for tracy who goes to one of my weight watchers meetings - and the new journal she gave me which I plan to start writing in on Thursday.

 

i am grateful for my ability to see.  to hear.  to taste.  to touch.  to speak.  to write.  to read.  to understand.

 

i wish i could speak French.  so i am grateful for the tools available to me should i get serious about learning.

 

i am grateful for my strength and confidence.  

 

i am grateful that my experiments in baking usually turn out pretty good. 

 

i am grateful for having tried this experiment.  i think next month i will try to write more poems.  but i have two days to decide if i want to commit to a poem a day yet.

 

thank you; fore, i am grateful for you too.  and also for semi colons.   

how to harvest a cranberry bog

step one: flood the bog

step two: help the berries loose from the bushes by churning the flooded bog with an air boat thing

 

 

 

step three: collect the berries with floating nets

 

step four: feed the berries into a big truck

 

step five: use the big truck to wash the berries

step six: let Jack inspect the results

 

and bonus step seven: leave the bog flooded for a while so the ducks can eat all the frogs left in the bog.

i am grateful for... (21/31)

running.  that i can run.  if you've ever run, then you understand.  it's a beautiful alone time. time for my body to work. time for my mind to wander and wonder. and a time for my emotions to recalibrate and level out.

i am grateful for my brother (20/31)

saturday, my brother mike came over and we developed a comic book idea together.  he's going to draw it.  because he's an artist.  he's also funny and cool.  i am really proud of him.  it's not quite grateful.  well, not as straight-forward as all the rest.  but i am grateful that he asked for my creative help.  grateful that he thinks i'm worthy ^_^