The thirtieth of November.
Snow is starting to fall.
A peculiar silence is spreading
over the fields, the maple grove.
It is the thirtieth of May,
rain pours on ancient bushes, runs
down the youngest blade of grass.
I am trying to hold in one steady glance
all the parts of my life.
A spring torrent races
on this old slanting roof,
the slanted field below
thickens with winter's first whiteness.
Thistles dried to sticks in last year's wind
stand nakedly in the green,
stand sullenly in the slowly whitening field.
My brain glows
more violently, more avidly
the quieter, the thicker
the quilt of crystals settles,
the louder, more relentlessly
the torrent beats itself out
on the old boards and shingles.
It is the thirtieth of May,
the thirtieth of November,
a beginning or an end,
we are moving into the solstice
and there is so much here
I still do not understand.
If I could make sense of how
my life is still tangled
with dead weeds, thistles,
enormous burdocks, burdens
slowly shifting under
this first fall of snow,
beaten by this early, racking rain
calling all new life to declare itself strong
or die,
if I could know
in what language to address
the spirits that claim a place
beneath these low and simple ceilings,
tenants that neither speak nor stir
yet dwell in mute insistence
till I can feel utterly ghosted in this house.
If history is a spider-thread
spun over and over though brushed away
it seems I might some twilight
or dawn in the hushed country light
discern its grayness stretching
from molding or doorframe, out
into the empty dooryard
and following it climb
the path into the pinewoods,
tracing from tree to tree
in the failing light, in the slowly
lucidifying day
its constant, purposive trail,
til I reach whatever cellar hole
filling with snowflakes or lichen,
whatever fallen shack
or unremembered clearing
I am meant to have found
and there, under the first or last
star, trusting to instinct
the words would come to mind
I have failed or forgotten to say
year after year, winter
after summer, the right rune
to ease the hold of the past
upon the rest of my life
and ease my hold on the past.
If some rite of separation
is still unaccomplished
between myself and the long-gone
tenants of this house,
between myself and my childhood,
and the childhood of my children,
it is I who have neglected
to perform the needed acts,
set water in corners, light and eucalyptus
in front of mirrors,
or merely pause and listen
to my own pulse vibrating
lightly as falling snow,
relentlessly as the rainstorm,
and hear what it has been saying.
It seems I am still waiting
for them to make some clear demand
some articulate sound or gesture,
for release to come from anywhere
but from inside myself.
A decade of cutting away
dead flesh, cauterizing
old scars ripped open over and over
and still it is not enough.
A decade of performing
the loving humdrum acts
of attention to this house
transplanting lilac suckers,
washing panes, scrubbing
wood-smoke from splitting paint,
sweeping stairs, brushing the thread
of the spider aside,
and so much yet undone,
a woman's work, the solstice nearing,
and my hand still suspended
as if above a letter
I long and dread to close.
by Adrienne Rich
Friday, November 30, 2012
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Thursday, November 8, 2012
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight
(In Springfield, Illinois)
It is portentous, and a thing of state
That here at midnight, in our little town
A mourning figure walks, and will not rest,
Near the old court-house pacing up and down.
Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards
He lingers where his children used to play,
Or through the market, on the well-worn stones
He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away.
A bronzed, lank man! His suit of ancient black,
A famous high top-hat and plain worn shawl
Make him the quaint great figure that men love,
The prairie-lawyer, master of us all.
He cannot sleep upon his hillside now.
He is among us:—as in times before!
And we who toss and lie awake for long
Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door.
His head is bowed. He thinks on men and kings.
Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep?
Too many peasants fight, they know not why,
Too many homesteads in black terror weep.
The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart.
He sees the dreadnaughts scouring every main.
He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now
The bitterness, the folly and the pain.
He cannot rest until a spirit-dawn
Shall come;—the shining hope of Europe free;
The league of sober folk, the Workers' Earth,
Bringing long peace to Cornland, Alp and Sea.
It breaks his heart that kings must murder still,
That all his hours of travail here for men
Seem yet in vain. And who will bring white peace
That he may sleep upon his hill again?
by Vachel Lindsay
Sunday, November 4, 2012
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Dispatch from the Home Front: Halloween 2001
like every other year I sit outside with a guitar
while kids roam in small packs
from lit door to lit door
the costumes tonight are not that frightening
angels and fairies and superheroes abound
a few bloodsuckers and ghouls
a sprinkling of skeletons
no terrorists
the adults pretend to be scared
jessie (the giraffe from across the street)
solemnly hands me M & Ms from her stash
when I put the Snickers in her pumpkin
“honey,” I tell her
“it’s not a trade – it‘s a gift”
and she solemnly takes them back
the young girl in the bathrobe and curlers
wearing the sign that says
I AM NOT A MORNING PERSON
says to me
“I want to hear you play your prettyful music”
so
I hand her candy
and I pick up my guitar
to play a song appropriate to the season
(a song by the Grateful Dead)
for this world’s recent ghosts
this world
where unimaginable ashes
sift down on children’s beds
in one part of this world
the very rocks and baseballs
smell of abrasives, jet fuel, burning rubber, corpses
in another part of this world
they are making the mail glow white
long enough to kill what lives on the words
in another part of this world
this guitar would be
illegal
in that country a shrouded woman
has been carefully picking food from a minefield
(food that was airdropped in my name)
she runs and lifts her child from the ground
raising his head high up onto her shoulder
vainly trying to keep the frightening blood from spilling too much
it will take her years to fall asleep again
when she does fall asleep
she will dream of picking up a yellow bomblet
wrapping it in swaddling clothes
suckling it until it blooms hot and bright
but she will not cry
as she holds him in that dream
we all dream that dream these days
we all hold our children closer
while holding back tears
a dream like that
is not a gift
it is a trade
we have all already given
more than enough in return for this one
and you do not let go of your tears
when tears are all you have left
Halloween night
I am pushing aside the veil between the worlds
a mourning person waiting for dawn
pretending to be scared to cover real fear
while I give sweets and prettyful music
to my neighbors’children
we are all a long way from home
if I knew the way
I would take you home
by Tony Brown
while kids roam in small packs
from lit door to lit door
the costumes tonight are not that frightening
angels and fairies and superheroes abound
a few bloodsuckers and ghouls
a sprinkling of skeletons
no terrorists
the adults pretend to be scared
jessie (the giraffe from across the street)
solemnly hands me M & Ms from her stash
when I put the Snickers in her pumpkin
“honey,” I tell her
“it’s not a trade – it‘s a gift”
and she solemnly takes them back
the young girl in the bathrobe and curlers
wearing the sign that says
I AM NOT A MORNING PERSON
says to me
“I want to hear you play your prettyful music”
so
I hand her candy
and I pick up my guitar
to play a song appropriate to the season
(a song by the Grateful Dead)
for this world’s recent ghosts
this world
where unimaginable ashes
sift down on children’s beds
in one part of this world
the very rocks and baseballs
smell of abrasives, jet fuel, burning rubber, corpses
in another part of this world
they are making the mail glow white
long enough to kill what lives on the words
in another part of this world
this guitar would be
illegal
in that country a shrouded woman
has been carefully picking food from a minefield
(food that was airdropped in my name)
she runs and lifts her child from the ground
raising his head high up onto her shoulder
vainly trying to keep the frightening blood from spilling too much
it will take her years to fall asleep again
when she does fall asleep
she will dream of picking up a yellow bomblet
wrapping it in swaddling clothes
suckling it until it blooms hot and bright
but she will not cry
as she holds him in that dream
we all dream that dream these days
we all hold our children closer
while holding back tears
a dream like that
is not a gift
it is a trade
we have all already given
more than enough in return for this one
and you do not let go of your tears
when tears are all you have left
Halloween night
I am pushing aside the veil between the worlds
a mourning person waiting for dawn
pretending to be scared to cover real fear
while I give sweets and prettyful music
to my neighbors’children
we are all a long way from home
if I knew the way
I would take you home
by Tony Brown
Monday, October 29, 2012
National Cat Day!
Today is National Cat Day! I explained this to my cats and gave them lots of hugs. They appeared unimpressed.
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Sonnet LXX
Maybe - though I do not bleed - I am wounded,
walking along one of the rays of your life.
In the middle of the jungle the water stops me,
the rain that falls with its sky.
Then I touch the heart that fell, raining:
there I know it was your eyes
that pierced me, into my grief's vast hinterlands.
And only a shadow's whisper appears,
Who is it? Who is it?, but it has no name,
the leaf of dark water that patters
in the middle of the jungle, deaf along the paths:
so, my love, I knew that I was wounded,
and no one spoke there except the shadows,
the wandering night, the kiss of the rain.
Pablo Neruda
walking along one of the rays of your life.
In the middle of the jungle the water stops me,
the rain that falls with its sky.
Then I touch the heart that fell, raining:
there I know it was your eyes
that pierced me, into my grief's vast hinterlands.
And only a shadow's whisper appears,
Who is it? Who is it?, but it has no name,
the leaf of dark water that patters
in the middle of the jungle, deaf along the paths:
so, my love, I knew that I was wounded,
and no one spoke there except the shadows,
the wandering night, the kiss of the rain.
Pablo Neruda
Saturday, October 20, 2012
The cat's song
Mine, says the cat, putting out his paw of darkness.
My lover, my friend, my slave, my toy, says
the cat making on your chest his gesture of drawing
milk from his mother’s forgotten breasts.
Let us walk in the woods, says the cat.
I’ll teach you to read the tabloid of scents,
to fade into shadow, wait like a trap, to hunt.
Now I lay this plump warm mouse on your mat.
You feed me, I try to feed you, we are friends,
says the cat, although I am more equal than you.
Can you leap twenty times the height of your body?
Can you run up and down trees? Jump between roofs?
Let us rub our bodies together and talk of touch.
My emotions are pure as salt crystals and as hard.
My lusts glow like my eyes. I sing to you in the mornings
walking round and round your bed and into your face.
Come I will teach you to dance as naturally
as falling asleep and waking and stretching long, long.
I speak greed with my paws and fear with my whiskers.
Envy lashes my tail. Love speaks me entire, a word
of fur. I will teach you to be still as an egg
and to slip like the ghost of wind through the grass.
by Marge Piercy
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
What The Living Do
Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up
waiting for the plumber I still haven't called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It's winter again: the sky's a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through
the open living-room windows because the heat's on too high in here and I can't turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,
I've been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,
I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.
What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss--we want more and more and then more of it.
But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep
for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless:
I am living. I remember you.
by Marie Howe
And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up
waiting for the plumber I still haven't called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It's winter again: the sky's a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through
the open living-room windows because the heat's on too high in here and I can't turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,
I've been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,
I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.
What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss--we want more and more and then more of it.
But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep
for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless:
I am living. I remember you.
by Marie Howe
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Silent Sunday
This is another of my favorite old family pictures. This is a picture of my mother's family. It was taken sometime in the 1920's. The man with the dog is my great-grandfather, the woman behind him, my great-grandmother and the little girl standing next to him is my grandmother. The other two children are her siblings and the other adults were neighbors I believe.
Saturday, October 13, 2012
Family History Day
Today was Family History Day at the California State Archives! It was a day devoted to, as they sub-titled it, Discovering Ancestral Gold. There were numerous classes to choose from, archive tours and exhibits by many genealogy societies.
I started doing genealogical research years ago but haven't done anything for the last, probably 12-15 years. Today was a great re-introduction and reminded me that I had enjoyed doing this. I learned a lot about local resources, got lots of handouts and overall had a fun day!
I'm anxious now to get started. Fortunately in the years I wasn't doing anything other people were and I know that members of my family have found a lot of information. I'll tap into that as a starting point and then move forward.
I have a number of old family pictures that I really like. The first two pictured below are my great-great grandparents from my mother's side, Frances and Peleg Carson. As you can probably guess, he was in the Civil War and I have a copy of his military record that I obtained years ago when I started doing research.
The last picture is my great-grandparents on the father's side, Lila and Ray Cook. This is one of my very favorite pictures. It was taken in the late 1910's or early 20's and I always think of them as the flapper and the gambler. I don't know that they were but I think they look like it!
I started doing genealogical research years ago but haven't done anything for the last, probably 12-15 years. Today was a great re-introduction and reminded me that I had enjoyed doing this. I learned a lot about local resources, got lots of handouts and overall had a fun day!
I'm anxious now to get started. Fortunately in the years I wasn't doing anything other people were and I know that members of my family have found a lot of information. I'll tap into that as a starting point and then move forward.
I have a number of old family pictures that I really like. The first two pictured below are my great-great grandparents from my mother's side, Frances and Peleg Carson. As you can probably guess, he was in the Civil War and I have a copy of his military record that I obtained years ago when I started doing research.
The last picture is my great-grandparents on the father's side, Lila and Ray Cook. This is one of my very favorite pictures. It was taken in the late 1910's or early 20's and I always think of them as the flapper and the gambler. I don't know that they were but I think they look like it!
Friday, October 12, 2012
The Thirty-Eighth Year
the thirty eigth year
of my life,
plain as bread
round as a cake
an ordinary woman.
an ordinary woman.
i had expected to be
smaller than this,
more beautiful,
wiser in Afrikan ways,
more confident,
i had expected
more than this.
i will be forty soon.
my mother once was forty.
my mother died at forty four,
a woman of sad countenance
leaving behind a girl
awkward as a stork.
my mother was thick,
her hair was a jungle and
she was very wise
and beautiful
and sad.
i have dreamed dreams
for you mama
more than once.
i have wrapped me
in your skin
and made you live again
more than once.
i have taken the bones you hardened
and built daughters
and they blossom and promise fruit
like afrikan trees.
i am a woman now.
an ordinary woman.
in the thirty eighth
year of my life,
surrounded by life,
a perfect picture of
blackness blessed,
i had not expected this
loneliness.
if it is western,
if it is the final
europe in my mind,
if in the middle of my life
i am turning the final turn
into the shining dark
let me come to it whole
and holy
not afraid
not lonely
out of mother’s life
into my own.
into my own.
i had expected more than this.
i had not expected to be
an ordinary woman.
by Lucille Clifton
of my life,
plain as bread
round as a cake
an ordinary woman.
an ordinary woman.
i had expected to be
smaller than this,
more beautiful,
wiser in Afrikan ways,
more confident,
i had expected
more than this.
i will be forty soon.
my mother once was forty.
my mother died at forty four,
a woman of sad countenance
leaving behind a girl
awkward as a stork.
my mother was thick,
her hair was a jungle and
she was very wise
and beautiful
and sad.
i have dreamed dreams
for you mama
more than once.
i have wrapped me
in your skin
and made you live again
more than once.
i have taken the bones you hardened
and built daughters
and they blossom and promise fruit
like afrikan trees.
i am a woman now.
an ordinary woman.
in the thirty eighth
year of my life,
surrounded by life,
a perfect picture of
blackness blessed,
i had not expected this
loneliness.
if it is western,
if it is the final
europe in my mind,
if in the middle of my life
i am turning the final turn
into the shining dark
let me come to it whole
and holy
not afraid
not lonely
out of mother’s life
into my own.
into my own.
i had expected more than this.
i had not expected to be
an ordinary woman.
by Lucille Clifton
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
My Halloween Tree!
I finally got my tree out and put on the ornaments! I finished a new one last night and I'm working on another today. I also sent my daughter two to make. I think I have plenty of Halloween ornaments! I don't keep it on the patio - it was the only place I could get some good pictures. I'd better go bring it in before the cats decide to knock it over!
Sunday, October 7, 2012
Saturday, October 6, 2012
I Crawled!
I participated in the Sacramento Archives Crawl today! It's an event that happens every October (which is Archives Month). There were four hosting archives that had displays of some of their treasures. It was a lot of fun but my feet sure hurt! I wore sandals - next time I'll wear tennis shoes!
I started at the California State Archives. Their collection is mainly records from state agencies, courts, governor and state legislature. They also have genealogical materials and I'll be going back there next Saturday for an all-day Family History event! Here's a few pictures from the Archives. None of the pictures are great. Given the delicate nature of the display materials, they were mainly under glass or, for a lot of the maps, heavy plastic.
Second stop was the California State Library. I liked this one best I think! They have California history resources, genealogy, and much more. You can also borrow books from them through your local library branch. They had an exhibit of posters, brochures, and other materials that were used to entice people to California. An ostrich farm, an alligator farm, and a monkey farm were some of the unusual ones! The first picture is of the California Swearing In Bible. It was first used in 1871 to swear Newton Booth in as the 11th Governor of California. I thought this was interesting because I live in the Newton Booth neighborhood!
Third on my journey was the Sacramento Room at the Central Library. They have a lot of research material on Sacramento County history. Books, maps, periodicals, photographs, etc. It's a lovely room also! Being unable to leave a library without a book, I made a short stop in the main part of the library and checked out a couple of books. I couldn't help myself.
The final stop was the Center for Sacramento History. I wish that I had started here because it was one place I wanted to see a lot of. By the time I got there I was very tired and didn't stay long. Although I would have felt that way about any of the archives I had left for last! Oh well. They are a research center for City and County historic collections. They also have things like household items, toys, and textiles which they loan to other organizations for display. Since this was my last stop I received my free commemorative coasters here! I also collected bookmarks, lots of brochures and a sticker. They even provided a bag that says Sacramento Archives Crawl to put all your loot in!
I started at the California State Archives. Their collection is mainly records from state agencies, courts, governor and state legislature. They also have genealogical materials and I'll be going back there next Saturday for an all-day Family History event! Here's a few pictures from the Archives. None of the pictures are great. Given the delicate nature of the display materials, they were mainly under glass or, for a lot of the maps, heavy plastic.
Second stop was the California State Library. I liked this one best I think! They have California history resources, genealogy, and much more. You can also borrow books from them through your local library branch. They had an exhibit of posters, brochures, and other materials that were used to entice people to California. An ostrich farm, an alligator farm, and a monkey farm were some of the unusual ones! The first picture is of the California Swearing In Bible. It was first used in 1871 to swear Newton Booth in as the 11th Governor of California. I thought this was interesting because I live in the Newton Booth neighborhood!
Third on my journey was the Sacramento Room at the Central Library. They have a lot of research material on Sacramento County history. Books, maps, periodicals, photographs, etc. It's a lovely room also! Being unable to leave a library without a book, I made a short stop in the main part of the library and checked out a couple of books. I couldn't help myself.
The final stop was the Center for Sacramento History. I wish that I had started here because it was one place I wanted to see a lot of. By the time I got there I was very tired and didn't stay long. Although I would have felt that way about any of the archives I had left for last! Oh well. They are a research center for City and County historic collections. They also have things like household items, toys, and textiles which they loan to other organizations for display. Since this was my last stop I received my free commemorative coasters here! I also collected bookmarks, lots of brochures and a sticker. They even provided a bag that says Sacramento Archives Crawl to put all your loot in!
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