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.