Poem of the Month

My heads been all jumbled and tumbled the last little bit--just lots to think about and lots to do.  

During a lecture of the "Think Again: How to Reason and Argue" class that I'm taking through Duke University via Coursera, this poem was featured.  Perfect!  I've been in just a tizzy the last little bit, I feel like my thoughts and how I express myself is just gibberish. 

 (You guys should have heard my Relief Society lesson 2 weeks ago.  Hilarious and sad at the same time!  What in the world was I saying?!  Thank goodness for the Spirit and inspiration.  Also, I'm sure if anyone is interested in taking "Think Again" via Coursera that there is plenty of room!  First quiz is in 2 weeks.) 

Jabberwocky

  by Lewis Carroll

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves 
   Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
   And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son 
   The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun 
   The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand; 
   Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree, 
   And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood, 
   The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, 
   And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through 
   The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head 
   He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? 
   Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!" 
   He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves 
   Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
   And the mome raths outgrabe.

Poem of the Month

Dear Emily D,
I finally get it. I think I understand why you want retreat into your home and write wonderful poetry--with dashes--and random Capitalization.
I've always loved your work.  I mean, you are a genius, and one of the best American poets--ever.  It's hard not to be swept away with your words, but I've never understood you and the root of your crazy mind.  Why were you cut off from the world?  What could happen?  I mean, they are just people, they aren't going to bite your head off...
...  The fear is real, though.  And it's paralyzing.  Such fear can cripple the soul.  I've only had a few experiences with it--just this summer, in fact--but it's made me so much more aware of people, like you, dear Emily.
I'm sorry you didn't live in a time with 21st century doctors, councilors, helpful medication, etc.   I'm sorry that you had to suffer so.
You are appreciate, and you speak to so many people.  So thank you.  I'll now share a poem of yours, picked at random, for my blog.  

Shannon


Forever -- is composed of Nows -- (690)
Emily Dickinson 

Forever -- is composed of Nows --
'Tis not a different time --
Except for Infiniteness --
And Latitude of Home --

From this -- experienced Here --
Remove the Dates -- to These --
Let Months dissolve in further Months --
And Years -- exhale in Years --

Without Debate -- or Pause --
Or Celebrated Days --
No different Our Years would be 
From Anno Dominies --

Poem of the Month

It's hot.  Like, really hot.  This week Boise's highs are close to 110.  But the heat is dry, humidity staying at 25%.  So it's bad... but not like 98 degrees, with 90% humidity.  Which I've lived through, which was miserable.

When it starts to get so hot, I start to think back to my family's first summer in 1873 home.  An ancient house, with ancient air-conditioning units.  I remember literally being in my underwear and laying sprawled out on the hardwood floors to try keep "cool."  

I laughed when I read this poem.  Heat messes with sanity.  And I'd bet my bottom dollar I'd be a crazy tree planter myself if I was in this person's situation.  

Hot?  Plant a tree.  

  

Landscape, Dense with Tress 

Ellen Bryant Voigt 

When you move away, you see how much depends   

on the pace of the days—how much

depended on the haze we waded through

each summer, visible heat, wavy and discursive   

as the lazy track of the snake in the dusty road;

and on the habit in town of porches thatched in vines,   

and in the country long dense promenades, the way   

we sacrificed the yards to shade.

It was partly the heat that made my father

plant so many trees—two maples marking the site

for the house, two elms on either side when it was done;   

mimosa by the fence, and as it failed, fast-growing chestnuts,   

loblolly pines; and dogwood, redbud, ornamental crab.   

On the farm, everything else he grew

something could eat, but this

would be a permanent mark of his industry,

a glade established in the open field. Or so it seemed.   

Looking back at the empty house from across the hill,   

I see how well the house is camouflaged, see how   

that porous fence of saplings, their later

scrim of foliage, thickened around it,

and still he chinked and mortared, planting more.   

Last summer, although he’d lost all tolerance for heat,   

he backed the truck in at the family grave

and stood in the truckbed all afternoon, pruning

the landmark oak, repairing recent damage by a wind;   

then he came home and hung a swing

in one of the horse-chestnuts for my visit.

The heat was a hand at his throat,

a fist to his weak heart. But it made a triumph   

of the cooler air inside, in the bedroom,

in the maple bedstead where he slept,

in the brick house nearly swamped by leaves.

Poem of the Month

I got this Amazon gift card for participating in a survey about Eli and his stay in Primary Children's Medical Center.  [My post about these surveys HERE]

What in the world to buy?! 

Then I heard this interview with Caroline Kennedy, and her new poetry book for children.  Solid.  I'm getting that.  Plus another one of her books!

The pictures are gorgeous, the poems are fun, and the boys will actually want to read a few each night (when I remember to bring them down).  

Books on my lap.  And yes, I am wearing a blue bathrobe.  It's my "Matt's Deployed Uniform"!  

So I'm going to pick one from the Poems to Learn by Heart by Langston Hughes called "Bad Morning."
It's pretty much about misplacing things, which happens to me all the time!  Even as I type I don't know where my wedding ring is, nor where my spare 4runner key is located.  Oh, I'll find them, know worries.  But there is defiantly daily frustration when dealing with my brain.  


Bad Morning 
by Langston Hughes 

Here I sit
With my shoes mismated.
Lawdy-mercy!
I's frustrated!

Poem of the Month

It's probably not a good thing if I'm already crying, before I even write...

I found it.  The One.  The poem that I've loved since my senior year in high school, but could never recall it's name, author, or exact words.  After much frustration, and much googling and reading, The One has been found.

It's such a personal favorite of mine that I'm not sure I even want to share it.  I've been contemplating--for weeks--to share, or not to share.   TODAY, 10 minutes ago in fact, I came to the conclusion that it is best to share.



This is about a husband and wife, narrated by view point of the child, now grown and looking back.  Free verse, about normal everyday life, but with an intimate undertone.  

It is the those simple things, those patterns and habits, which make us individualized and endearing to our loved ones.   Those are the things that matter, those are the things which are truly romantic.
I could list all that I miss about Matt, but I'm not--it'll make me sad (I write as I cry, haha)--instead I'll look to our future:  a future of everyday life.

Early in the Morning 
by Li-Young Lee 

While the long grain is softening
in the water, gurgling
over a low stove flame, before
the salted Winter Vegetable is sliced
for breakfast, before the birds,
my mother glides an ivory comb
through her hair, heavy
and black as calligrapher's ink.

She sits at the foot of the bed.
My father watches, listens for 
the music of comb
against hair.

My mother combs,
pulls her hair back
tight, rolls it 
around two fingers, pins it
in a bun to the back of her head. 
For half a hundred years she has done this. 
My father likes to see it like this. 
He says it is kempt.

But I know 
it is because of the way 
my mother's hair falls
when he pulls the pins out. 
Easily, like the curtains
when they untie them in the evening. 

Poem of the Month

The poem that I'm posting today is one I didn't think I'd post for a while, but yesterday when I saw the Calvin and Hobbes comic strip I couldn't get it out of my mind.  I've long enjoyed "The Tiger," by William Blake; and yesterday felt really impressed and struck by it's message.  It is a poem about the great evil--Satan.  His is a perfect, symmetrical evil.  He has a beauty that is alluring (being a grand tiger) that draws in men, and completely destroys them.   He will never feel mercy for his victims.  His path set, and his way is sure--there is no weakness in his resolve to lead mankind to Hell.   While this may seem like an unlikely pick of an Easter Sunday, I feel it is really appropriate.  How overwhelmed the disciples of Christ must have felt those days after Christ's crucifixion, believing that Lucifer had won--how much sadness and despair must have filled their hearts.   How grateful I am for Christ's Atonement and his resurrection, knowing that through him and Heavenly Father's plan I can return to their presence--that this Tiger shall not prevail.   The Tiger by William Blake  b. 1757 - d. 1827 TIGER, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies	5
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?	10
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp	15
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?	20
Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

Poem of the Month

This is the post which I talk about one of the most influential books of my reading:
Les Miserables by Victor Hugo.

Growing up I was pretty self aware of how not "smart" I was.  Pretty much I was a B+ student, when I tried.  When I didn't try I'd make Ds, and if I really, really, really studied I could maybe get an A.  And my motivation in my middle school/high school studies wavered tremendously, getting Ds and up A--yup, I was that versatile!  Ds only in middle school, and I started getting my act together by 10th grade because: 

I read Les Miserables.   I read the whole thing.  And it was A. Mazing.  

Really turned my world upside down.

I've always struggled with spelling, in very big ways.  Which in turn made me struggle with reading.  I've always loved to read, but big books were very intimidating.  By the time 9th grade came around I was tired of missing out on all the knowledge the world had to offer, so I started to look at the library books.  And I picked up The Jungle, by Upton Sinclair.  It was really cool, BUT it was also talked about in my history classes--and I had read it!  Me, Shannon!  Not the smarties tarties, but plain, crazy, wild 'ol Shannon.  From then on I tried to read as many classics as I could, because classics = smarts (so I thought).  

In the middle of 10th grade I needed to read a book for an English assignment.  I browsed the library classic section, saw a really thick old book, picked it up, and started to read.  It took me 2 months to read unabridged Les Miserables, but I finished it, and I was in love.  The characters, the plot, all of it.  And it was BIG--1,400 hundred pages, actually.  That's when I knew I could learn and do hard things.  That's when I knew I didn't have to be an outsider to real academic classes.  

--In 11th grade I put myself in the English "honors" class (being in "general" English my whole life);  I also enrolled in the first AP history course offered at our high school--I got a 4 on the final national test;  and I helped start up the new high school paper.

--In 12th grade I took AP English, and didn't do that great on the test, but that's okay :);  continued in the high school paper, becoming the layout editor (but NOT the copy editor, because if one can't tell the difference between "who" and "how," he/she really shouldn't be in charge of editing words).  

--I loved my college experience, and though I struggled sometimes, I'm grateful for all the knowledge gained.  And I can't wait to figure out what I really want to do!  Love to get a masters, then a doctorate... my goal is to get those by age 60.  So I have sometime to work it out.  

I don't think every success I've had in high school and beyond is attributed to reading Les Mis, but it was a big boost that I desperately needed. 

When I heard that a movie was being made, I got really excited!  So excited, in fact, that I decided to reread the book--like the unabridged version like I did before.  I started it in the summer and I finished up by 25th of October, 2 months before the movie's release.  Wow, I followed along so much better this time.  Does Hugo ramble, or does he ramble?  Pretty sure he's the "King of the Ramble."  Seriously man, 100 pages dedicated to the usefulness of human poop?

On December 26th I saw the movie with my mom and sister.  I just about fell apart, in very literal ways.
Then a few days later me and Matt saw it, and I was just weepy, not completely bawley and snotty.

Since then I've had Les Mis stuck in my head, about everyday.  Sometimes I sing the whole dang thing. It like a very personal theater going on up there!  What's great is that Matt loves the music too.  And he SINGS it.  Total hotness. I also catch Isaac signing his own songs, but to the tune of Les Mis--which he denies, but I know what's going!

What I think is funny is that when I was reading Les Mis for the first time I didn't know that there was a play about it, that it was hugely famous, and tons of people were also in love with the characters.  Isn't that a hoot? Someone asked me one day, "So have you seen the play?"
And I was like, "Er, what?"
Then that person said, "Yeah, it's coming into town."
And I shrugged my shoulders, and said, "Well... I guess not."

I actually didn't know ANY of the songs till THIS summer (of 2012).  Okay, okay, I knew "I Dreamed a Dream" because of that British reality tv show thing, but I didn't know that was part of Les Mis.  Then I was like, "Matt, I gotta buy this sound track.  I need to be prepared when I see the movie.  Okay?"
And he was like, "Oh sure, but the movie doesn't come out for another 6 months."
But I said, "That's true... But I'm going to buy it anyway... Do you think the 25th anniversary live soundtrack is a good one?"
And he shrugged and said, "I bet it's great.  Go ahead and buy!"
So I did.  And it's been a regular on long car trips, house cleaning days, and just because I want to play it.



So all of this to introduce the "Poem of the Month."
I decided to share the lyrics of one of the songs that I sing in my head (okay, out loud and in my opera voice) more often than most.  And I'm not sure why, but man, it gets me.  Especially the "my friends, my friends" part.  Holy smokes.


Les Miserables [Act 2]
Empty Chairs at Empty Tables 
Sung by Marius 

There's a grief that can't be spoken
There's a pain goes on and on
Empty chairs at empty tables
Now my friends are dead and gone

Here they talked of revolution
Here it was they lit the flame
Here they sang about tomorrow
And tomorrow never came.

From the table in the corner
They could see a world reborn
And they rose with voices ringing
I can hear them now!
The very words that they had sung
Became their last communion
On the lowly barricade..
At dawn.
Oh my friends, my friends forgive me.

That I live and you are gone
There's a grief that can't be spoken
There's a pain goes on and on

Phantom faces at the window
Phantom shadows on the floor
Empty chairs at empty tables
Where my friends will meet no more.








FYI Matt, if you actually read this whole post, I'd love to get an older copy of Les Miserables... you know, one day :)

Blogging Goal, Poem of the Month

Been thinking bout this blog of mine, blog of mine.
Indeed it's been on my mind
For some time.

There are readers out there, readers out there
Who come to see what I share
Even if I swear.

Setting some goals I am, goals I am:
Know these readers, is my plan.
Is your name Sam?

If you have a blog I don't know, I don't know,
Well... please let me know!
Email me your link, yo!  


..................


Another goal I've set is to start back with the "Poem of the Month."  Pretty much really enjoyed doing it.  So... I should do that. YES!

Been thinking about my childhood and the authors that influenced my life and love of the written word.    I was not a great reader or speller, which kept me shy about really diving into stuff.  Reading was so laboring, but I loved it!  I've always been able to, if I have the time, disappear into a book/story.

Shel Silverstein really drew me in.  Not only was his writing easy and funny to read, but he had great drawings!  As a childhood artist, I loved him.  So very, very much.


So I'm just going to flip open one of the books I own of his, and see what I'm going to share...
... Okay.  Got it.  Here it is:


Thumb Face
By Shel Silverstein

There is a face upon my thumb--
I did not paint it there--
With pointy ears and winky eyes
And greenish bristly hair.
I keep it hidden from my friends
So that they will not stare.
It has a little twisty mouth,
And yellow teethes, too.
It snickers when I hold my fork,
It giggles when I'm blue,
And laughs and laughs and laughs
At everything I try to do.

[A Light in the Attic, p. 55]


Wow, so that was a lot deeper than what I was anticipating.
Isn't it always the case?  There is some blemish/characteristic of ourselves that we are embarrassed about--which makes us feel so weak--and we do our best not to show our friends.  And in our darkest moments our insecurities come out and mock us.

Okay, everyone!  Lift your head!  Everyone has an awful thumb, so let's not let the ugly thumb drag us down.  

Peach and Love to everyone.

Poem of the Month

Tonight is a quiet night.  We no longer have cable, and nothing is on PBS.  The boys are asleep, hopefully having wonderful dreams...  

... And snow is falling. Matt and I have been watching it fill up the parking lot. 

Have you guessed what poem I'm going to choose? That's right, Robert Frost's "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening." It seems so right, and fits perfectly. It is close to the longest night of the year, it is gently snowing, and we have lots to do to get ready for Christmas and family, but all we want to do is sit and watch the snow. 

Or maybe I'm the only one who wants to watch the snow. Matt just ran down to get the presents to wrap. Oh well.  We "have promises to keep," and many hours before we sleep. 

Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening

Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Hope everyone is able to find a quiet moment and reflect on the true meaning of this time of year. May you find peace, joy, and love this holiday season! 

Poem of the Month

On this Black Friday, while people are out celebrating great deals, I want to celebrate my great deal! 

On Tuesday me, my sister-in-law, and my sister-in-law-to-be checked out a fabulous consignment shop. Racks and racks of gently used items, sold at 70% off the original price.

There is the jean section, was a beautiful pair of Banana Republic jeans. Classic boot cut. The perfect size. Very well made. I have worn them everyday since I bought them!

Second Hand Coat

Ruth Stone 

I feel

in her pockets; she wore nice cotton gloves,

kept a handkerchief box, washed her undies,

ate at the Holiday Inn, had a basement freezer,

belonged to a bridge club.

I think when I wake in the morning

that I have turned into her. 

She hangs in the hall downstairs,

a shadow with pulled threads.

I slip her over my arms, skin of a matron.

Where are you? I say to myself, to the orphaned body,

and her coat says,

Get your purse, have you got your keys? 

Why am I celebrating these jeans? Once previously worn? I'll tell you: 

Once upon a time I had a beautiful pair of GAP jeans. They fit wonderfully. Perfectly length, perfect color, perfect cut. This was before the "stretch" jean took hold of everything in sight. Remember that time? All you could find was "stretch jeans"? They were very well made. For 2 years they were my best friend. Made me feel special, and kept my secret that I had no butt. Summer of 2005 the zipper broke. I mean it split in two. They was no way to fix them. 

For 5 and a half years I have searched for a well fitting jean. (Minus the 3 times I was pregnant.) 

So these jeans mean a lot. I love them. And they love me, and tell me that I am special, and that my bum will be alright. 

Poem of the Month

October has flown by so quick! Has anybody else felt that way? I haven't had really anytime to reflect on a poem. So last night I asked Matt if he wanted to pick one.

He says, "Well you've already done the 'Ball Turret Gunner.'"

Me, "No I haven't."

Matt, "Then do that one."

Me, "Why that one, does it relate to anything we're up to?"

Matt, "No, but I understand it." 

So Babe, this one is for you:

The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner

Randall Jarrell

From my mother's sleep I fell into the State,

And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.

Six miles from earth loosed from its dream of life,

I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.

When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose. 

[1945]

Okay, so a ball turret is a rotating plexiglas sphere hanging from a bomber fuselage in which a man defended the plane by firing machine guns at enemy fighters.

And "black flak" is anti-aircraft fire.

This was written during WW2. Jarrell was in the US Army Air Force, and one can presume how much he saw and witnessed. I cannot find the statistic--I know it's out there--but the casualty rate of the ball turret gunners was really, really high. 

I'm looking through Matt's notes in his old literature book from his undergraduate, and he has written by the first line in the poem that "[the ball turret is] like a mother's belly, being born into the 'machine.'"

................................

I think this poem makes us think of the sacrifice of men and women. 

Me and Matt have checked out Ken Burns' The Civil War documentary. We are in the middle of it. Man, it has really sobered us to the reality of war. I know, I know, Matt has been part of war, and is training to become an officer in the Army. But today's war is so much different than yesteryear's war. 

I have also just finished Augustus by Anthony Everitt. (Augustus is Rome's first emperor. Good read, by the way.) Wow. Thousands and thousands of men lost their lives in battles. 

What the human race does to its self is astounding. 

And know what Matt? This is quite a poem to pick and understand. I know I didn't get it the first time I read it. You're a deep dude, Dude. 

Poem of the Month

This month I chose... wait for it... LANGSTON HUGHES! About time, right?! (Every month I pick a poem to share that I think is cool, or relates to how I'm feeling.)

About a month ago Matt and I spoke in church. 

(Mormons don't have a "preacher," instead people from the congregation are assigned a topic one to two weeks in advance, then present a 10 to 15 min talk on the topic.)

Anyway, we could choose are own topics off of General Conference talks that were given in the past two years. 

(General Conference: a world wide broadcast, 4 two hour sessions, twice a year, given from Salt Lake City.)

I picked Ann M. Dibb's talk from October 2009 General Conference "Hold On" (click here). And I opened the talk with this poem from Langston Hughes:

Mother to Son

Langston Hughes

Well, son, I'll tell you:
Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
It's had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor --
Bare.
But all the time
I'se been a-climbin' on,
And reachin' landin's,
And turnin' corners,
And sometimes goin' in the dark
Where there ain't been no light.
So boy, don't you turn back.
Don't you set down on the steps
'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.
Don't you fall now --
For I'se still goin', honey,
I'se still climbin',
And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.

This poem needs to read out loud, for sure! (Click here for one being read out loud.) I did my best to keep my southern accent under control when I read this to the congregation. It was so hard! Not sure if I succeeded. Some people out here say I talk funny, so I do my best to cover up the "funny."

Why did I choose this poem? Well... 

... This past year has been crazy. Nothing that Matt nor I expected. A few heart surgeries, a birth of a third child, a change in career paths, another change in career paths, a move to a different city, more student-family poverty stress. To name a few. 

And though I am grateful we always had shelter over our heads and food on the table (even if it was cereal) I haven't been handling everything as well as I had hoped.

But this poem, wow, slapped me in the face. Each day will come. And life is hard, but that's what it is supposed to be. Just keep going, keep climbing, do your best, and things will work out.

What do you think? 

Poem of the Month

The Red Wheelbarrow 

William Carlos Williams

so much depends 

upon

a red wheel

barrow

glazed with rain 

water

beside the white

chickens.

[1923]

.........................

Kinda a cool little poem, don't you think? Maybe a little different? Do you see how Williams created little wheelbarrows with the structure of the stanzas? My 12th English teacher swears there are chickens too, but I still haven't been able to seem them. 

This poem has been on my mind for the past few weeks. Matt has started his MBA at Boise State! So much depends on him. We are looking at 50+ hours a week of studying and school, and on top of that the ROTC program (to become an officer in the Army). 

I drew this one day, just trying to wrap my mind around everything. Kinda illustrates Matt and his wheelbarrow full of responsibility. 

Well, this is this months poem! Hope you enjoy! To learn more about said poem click here.

Poem of the Month

Every month I choose a poem to share. Sometimes it's deep, other times not. Just something fun to do, to do, to do. 

This poem "Babies Don't Keep" is one of the first poems that I remember encountering. Where from? On a little stitch work hung in my Great Aunt Lanette's home. Oh I think she's had it forever! It took me a long time to work out the words, and even longer to understand its meaning. Only the last stanza was on the stitch work, but I think I'll share the whole thing. 

The poem:

Babies Don't Keep

Author Unknown (but rumored to be Ruth Hamilton)

Mother, O Mother, come shake out your cloth,
Empty the dustpan, poison the moth,
Hang out the washing, make up the bed,
Sew on a button and butter the bread.

Where is the mother whose house is so shocking?
She’s up in the nursery, blissfully rocking.

Oh, I’ve grown as shiftless as Little Boy Blue,
Lullabye, rockabye, lullabye loo.
Dishes are waiting and bills are past due
Pat-a-cake, darling, and peek, peekaboo

The shopping’s not done and there’s nothing for stew
And out in the yard there’s a hullabaloo
But I’m playing Kanga and this is my Roo
Look! Aren’t his eyes the most wonderful hue?
Lullabye, rockaby lullabye loo.

The cleaning and scrubbing can wait till tomorrow
But children grow up as I’ve learned to my sorrow.
So quiet down cobwebs; Dust go to sleep!
I’m rocking my baby and babies don’t keep.

..........................

Welcoming a newborn into the family is always a special time. Sometimes I get overwhelmed with the house work, but I have to remind myself that children are only children for so long. I have been really trying to enjoy this stage. Also me and Matt are starting to realize jut how quickly this little boys grow up. It's fun and hard all at the same time. I hope their childhood is wonderful and that they will know we tried our best...  

Poem of the Month

Last night I went thrift store shopping with a friend. It was fabulous! (To go shopping and hang out with said friend. Thanks Helen.) I picked up a new literature text book--I love to collect those things. I turned to the poetry section, and this was the first poem I read. It brings me to tears... I'm crying now... 

Ballad of Birmingham 

By Dudley Randall (1914-2000)

(On the bombing of a church in Birmingham, Alabama, 1963)

"Mother dear, may I go downtown 
Instead of out to play, 
And march the streets of Birmingham 
In a Freedom March today?"

"No, baby, no, you may not go, 
For the dogs are fierce and wild, 
And clubs and hoses, guns and jails 
Aren't good for a little child."

"But, mother, I won't be alone. 
Other children will go with me, 
And march the streets of Birmingham 
To make our country free."

"No, baby, no, you may not go, 
For I fear those guns will fire. 
But you may go to church instead 
And sing in the children's choir."

She has combed and brushed her night-dark hair, 
And bathed rose petal sweet, 
And drawn white gloves on her small brown hands, 
And white shoes on her feet.

The mother smiled to know that her child 
Was in the sacred place, 
But that smile was the last smile 
To come upon her face.

For when she heard the explosion, 
Her eyes grew wet and wild. 
She raced through the streets of Birmingham 
Calling for her child.

She clawed through bits of glass and brick, 
Then lifted out a shoe. 
"O, here's the shoe my baby wore, 
But, baby, where are you?"

.................................

Image of the aftermath of the 16th Street Baptist Church Bombing 

The four young girls who lost their lives

I grew up in a small town 25 miles south of Birmingham, AL, but the Civil Rights movement was hardly ever talked about. It wasn't till I moved out West and enrolled in college history classes untill I realized the scope and magnitude Birmingham played in US history. I wonder why this wasn't covered in the 4th grade Alabama history curriculum... maybe too dark and too recent of a past?

The lives lost and the fight of the underclassmen and women is powerful.  I am grateful for all those who have ever fought to change their situation for the better. But sometimes I wonder why this needs to happen; for, in the words of the Beatles, "All we need is love," then "Come together," and just "Imagine all the people sharing all the world."  

Learn more about the bombing here.

Poem of the Month

(FYI: Every month I pick a poem to share in a post. Keeps my mind working and is fun to see what others think.)

......................

First, I want to say that I am not looking for pity. Second, I think this sonnet is wonderful and funny. And third, I am so glad I am loved by my Honey! 

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun (Sonnet 130)

by William Shakespeare 

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;

Coral is far more red than her lips' red;

If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;

If hairs be wires, black wires grown on her head.

I have seen roses damasked, red and white,

But no such roses see I in her cheeks.

And in some perfumes is there more delight

Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.

I love to hear her speak, yet well I know

That music hath a far more pleasing sound;

I grant I never saw a goddess go;

My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.

      And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare

      As any she belied with false compare.

.........................

Did you laugh? I did. I personally love this sonnet. Makes me think: "If Matt wrote a love poem, would this be the kind I would want?" I used to think yes. But now things have changed, because to me, this is how I think Matt sees me. So it's more of a love/hate relationship I now have with it! 

I am realizing that I am vain. What has brought this revelation? This pregnancy. It has not been nice to me--lots of skin problems which I am trying to resolve. If I put makeup on or blow dry my hair, it's a miracle of miracles! Any "runner's body" that I had last summer is long gone. And my long hair is no more... I like the short look, but I miss my long hair--makes me feel young.

So, Matt, if you could hold off on writing that love poem for another 2 months, that would be great! Give me time to get myself together after the birth/pregnancy, so that way if you add a line about beauty I might actually take it seriously!

What kind of love poem would you want? One filled with your beauty? One about your intelligence? Humor? Grace? It's something to think about anyway... 

Poem of the Month Honors 5 Year Anniversary

That's right, we have been married 5 years. 

Wedding day, and we looked good. Or maybe just young:

I was very pale because of my semester in Rexburg, and Matt was WAY thin because of deployment to Kirkuk, Iraq. (Lunch was not served on his small base, and he was worked to the bone... so if he look 145 lbs, it is probably because he was.) We had a lovely 2 weeks together before he left to finish his deployment. 

And since then we have had 5 lovely, hard, insane, crazy, fun years. 

Here now is the poem. It is a love poem, true, but one that is deep and touches my heart.  

To My Dear and Loving Husband

Anne Bradstreet

If ever two were one, then surely we. 

If ever man were loved by wife, then thee;

If ever wife was happy in a man,

Compare with me, ye women, if you can.

I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold

Or all the riches that the East doth hold. 

My love is such that rivers cannot quench,

Nor ought but love from thee, give recompense.

Thy love is such I can no way repay,

The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray.

Then while we live, in love let's so persevere 

That when we live no more, we may live ever. 

[1678]

Oh, I did a post about Eli and his first surgery on his blog. Check it out here.

Poem of the Month

The past two months were hard. Matt did not have a job, school and life were up in the air, and the move to Boise was at a stand still. Every day was boring and stressful. I am glad that is all behind us... we are now here in Boise, Matt is getting school and ROTC in order, and job interviews are being lined up. I feel like we are living again. Not to mention the weather is a lot warmer here allowing us to be outside!

This said the poem below seems very appropriate. 

Making a Fist

by Naomi Shihab Nye

For the first time, on the road north of Tampico,

I felt the life sliding out of me,

a drum in the desert, harder and harder to hear.

I was seven, I lay in the car

watching palm trees swirl a sickening pattern past the glass.

My stomach was a melon spilt wide inside my skin.

"How do you know if you are going to die?"

I begged my mother.

We had been traveling for days.

With strange confidence she answered,

"When you can no longer make a fist."

Years later I smile to think of that journey,

the borders me must cross separately,

stamped with our unanswerable woes.

I who did not die, who am still living, 

still lying in the backseat behind all my questions,

clenching and opening one small hand. 

To here Nye read this poem herself, click HERE.

Poem of the Month

I love literature. I love poetry. During high school I was very fortunate to have two fantastic English teachers. (I am from a small/rural town in Alabama... recourses a bit limited.) These two teachers taught me so much about the English language and the literature produced. 

I feel that I am loosing a bit of my knowledge. To help retain this knowledge I have decided to start a series in which once a month I post a poem. Make sense? Hence the name: Poem of the Month. 

This month is Black History Month. I LOVE THIS MONTH! Forget Valentine's Day, let's celebrate some awesome people! 

This month's featured poem:

We Real Cool

THE POOL PLAYERS.

SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL.

We real cool. We

Left school. We

Lurk late. We

Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We

Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We

Die soon.

by Gwendolyn Brooks 

 

How did you read this? It's "We real cool. We," said in one sentence. Then on to the next line: "Left school. We." Follow it this way through out the stanzas. 

Did you notice the last line and how it ends? Isn't that amazing?! I love this poem. 

I found this neat site about this poem which Brooks reads it herself. CLICK HERE 

I'd love hear your thoughts on this; be it this poem, Black History Month, or literature in general. Thanks for stopping by!