a dream of white crinolines
in a lush ballroom
the violets are lively pages
or maybe skittish maids of honour
Friday, May 30, 2008
May in My Garden, 2
a dream of white crinolines
in a lush ballroom
the violets are lively pages
or maybe skittish maids of honour
Monday, May 26, 2008
Dear Vesper
The other day, the guy I mentioned about a year ago on the blog sent me an e-mail in which he wrote out of the blue, “Do you want me to send you a poem?”
“Certainly,” I answered, rather curious to see if it was going to be one of those little poem-jokes that circulate on the Internet.
What he sent surprised me and moved me in an unexpected way.
“It’s a little bit romantic,” he wrote afterward as a half-embarrassed justification. “I had to learn it for some acting lessons.”
This tickled my silly, artistic, romantic soul even more. Acting lessons?
“I thought of you at the recital,” he added. Huh? Impressive enough?
Yes, I think it is very romantic and I’m glad I got to read it because I had no idea it existed. It is a beautiful love song, immensely sad but somehow hopeful at the same time. Here it is.
Paul McNeely
By Edgar Lee Masters
(from the Spoon River Anthology, 1916)
DEAR Jane! dear winsome Jane!
How you stole in the room (where I lay so ill)
In your nurse’s cap and linen cuffs,
And took my hand and said with a smile:
“You are not so ill—you’ll soon be well.”
And how the liquid thought of your eyes
Sank in my eyes like dew that slips
Into the heart of a flower.
Dear Jane! the whole McNeely fortune
Could not have bought your care of me,
By day and night, and night and day;
Nor paid for you smile, nor the warmth of your soul,
In your little hands laid on my brow.
Jane, till the flame of life went out
In the dark above the disk of night
I longed and hoped to be well again
To pillow my head on your little breasts,
And hold you fast in a clasp of love—
Did my father provide for you when he died,
Jane, dear Jane?
“Certainly,” I answered, rather curious to see if it was going to be one of those little poem-jokes that circulate on the Internet.
What he sent surprised me and moved me in an unexpected way.
“It’s a little bit romantic,” he wrote afterward as a half-embarrassed justification. “I had to learn it for some acting lessons.”
This tickled my silly, artistic, romantic soul even more. Acting lessons?
“I thought of you at the recital,” he added. Huh? Impressive enough?
Yes, I think it is very romantic and I’m glad I got to read it because I had no idea it existed. It is a beautiful love song, immensely sad but somehow hopeful at the same time. Here it is.
a painting by Pino Daeni
Paul McNeely
By Edgar Lee Masters
(from the Spoon River Anthology, 1916)
DEAR Jane! dear winsome Jane!
How you stole in the room (where I lay so ill)
In your nurse’s cap and linen cuffs,
And took my hand and said with a smile:
“You are not so ill—you’ll soon be well.”
And how the liquid thought of your eyes
Sank in my eyes like dew that slips
Into the heart of a flower.
Dear Jane! the whole McNeely fortune
Could not have bought your care of me,
By day and night, and night and day;
Nor paid for you smile, nor the warmth of your soul,
In your little hands laid on my brow.
Jane, till the flame of life went out
In the dark above the disk of night
I longed and hoped to be well again
To pillow my head on your little breasts,
And hold you fast in a clasp of love—
Did my father provide for you when he died,
Jane, dear Jane?
Sunday, May 18, 2008
May in My Garden
The lilac is gorgeous...
The squirrel who took over the bird house had three babies. (Cute rats with bushy tails, aren't they?)
The bird house is destroyed, but it's fun seeing them there. For a few days their mother has been trying to convince them to climb down but they're reluctant. She comes up to them all the time, and they all get out, and she hugs them while they hug her, and she cleans them, and then she goes back down with a "Follow me!" that they're too scared to obey.
They look down with longing then climb back up to the safety of their little house...
The lilac is gorgeous. So is the sky...
The squirrel who took over the bird house had three babies. (Cute rats with bushy tails, aren't they?)
The bird house is destroyed, but it's fun seeing them there. For a few days their mother has been trying to convince them to climb down but they're reluctant. She comes up to them all the time, and they all get out, and she hugs them while they hug her, and she cleans them, and then she goes back down with a "Follow me!" that they're too scared to obey.
They look down with longing then climb back up to the safety of their little house...
The lilac is gorgeous. So is the sky...
Friday, May 09, 2008
What's Another Year
A year of blogging...
Unbelievable...
Aaaah, and I missed the anniversary. It was on the seventh of May.
What can I say? I think it's been a beautiful, interesting year.
First, I've met many wonderful people, full of talent and humanity. I think I've learned a lot from them - from you. Thank you!
Then, I wrote things I've never thought I would. I love science fiction and the literature of the fantastic in general (not fantasy, but fantastic or fantastique as Wikipedia nicely defines it) - instead, I took to ...poetry. I've only written a poem once before, when I was at the University.
Finally, I've been terribly, horribly stressed out for having to constantly fight the lovely void in my head and an unimaginable lack of time - and all this just to reconcile the writing for the blog with whatever little writing I can manage for my stories. I think I haven't done too badly considering the circumstances. A full-job at... work and then another full-job at... home, no other time for myself other than stolen minutes, here and there, maybe the luxury of half hour late at night, constantly thinking of my stories, frantically scribbling at work or in the car...
Well, here's to another year, just as good as this one and hopefully even better...
And this is Johnny Logan, singing and winning for Ireland, at the 1980 Eurovision Song Contest. Not very related to this post, except for the title, but a song I like very much.
Unbelievable...
Aaaah, and I missed the anniversary. It was on the seventh of May.
What can I say? I think it's been a beautiful, interesting year.
First, I've met many wonderful people, full of talent and humanity. I think I've learned a lot from them - from you. Thank you!
Then, I wrote things I've never thought I would. I love science fiction and the literature of the fantastic in general (not fantasy, but fantastic or fantastique as Wikipedia nicely defines it) - instead, I took to ...poetry. I've only written a poem once before, when I was at the University.
Finally, I've been terribly, horribly stressed out for having to constantly fight the lovely void in my head and an unimaginable lack of time - and all this just to reconcile the writing for the blog with whatever little writing I can manage for my stories. I think I haven't done too badly considering the circumstances. A full-job at... work and then another full-job at... home, no other time for myself other than stolen minutes, here and there, maybe the luxury of half hour late at night, constantly thinking of my stories, frantically scribbling at work or in the car...
Well, here's to another year, just as good as this one and hopefully even better...
And this is Johnny Logan, singing and winning for Ireland, at the 1980 Eurovision Song Contest. Not very related to this post, except for the title, but a song I like very much.
Monday, May 05, 2008
Another Spring
Image from Wikipedia Commons
For Tante Paula…
I know you will never read these words of mine, but I still want to say this. I love you very, very much. Please fight, for at least a few more years…
immutable things
have unknowingly moved to the horizons
forever unreachable
or
forever lost
winter lingers a bit more in your eyes
with every passing February
an alien
has seized you
an incongruous stranger
has punished you to bear
his inelegant flesh
this face that you see in the mirror
could not possibly be yours
no, you will
forever be eighteen
only to others
not to you
this absurd thing they call old age
or death
happens
or does it?
luckily
spring returns every year
wild crocuses smear the hills
in yellow and mauve
birds whistle their sweetness
into the sweet air
yet strangely not just for you
anymore
doubt
like a forgotten icicle
will never again melt
still
you find a smile
as you take your grandson’s hand
and
somehow puzzled at your
acquired clumsiness
try to match his bounciful gait
on the path to the playground.
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