Into the Wild Wood and Home Again

High school was pretty awful in a lot of ways. I had a scant handful of friends, who, quite often, were not all that kind, either. I liked a few of my teachers, but mostly, I endured. I loved band and chorus, English was fine, history classes were good, and science was okay. Math, gym, and French were abysmal, mostly because of poor teaching and a poor self-image-- a deadly combination for an awkward girl. Typing class was a complete joke. Mostly, I liked to read, and there was a table I preferred in the library-- one where I could be out of view. And on and on it went for four years, and I was happy to go to college, to find my "tribe," and to flourish, finally. I still didn't have a large circle of friends, but mainly because I didn't party much, and I certainly had plenty of homework and papers to crank out every day. But I survived and thrived, and here we are, several decades and degrees later.  One of the things that got me through the high school yuck was a quo...

I've been trying to write a draft of a poem every morning, and the exercise I tried yesterday was one I am borrowing from my friend, Dawn Potter. I used the first line of this poem by Wordsworth, ran it word by word down the left margin, and wrote between. It was interesting as an exercise, and I'm pretty sure it won't go anywhere as it currently stands, but it was fun to push myself to make sure that the words fit the sentences and the general sense of things.  It is one of my favorite poems, too, which is helpful. The trick, I think, is to make the new poem honor the sense of the original. At any rate, here's Wordsworth, and have a good day! C The World Is Too Much With Us By  William Wordsworth The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;— Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-...

Winter is having a hard time letting go, it seems. We have a very unusual inclement weather delay (2 hours) to start the school day today. It's a mix of rain, sleet, ice, and general unpleasantness out there. So, in keeping with that general setting, here's the first few lines of T.S. Eliot's " The Wasteland " -- most folks know the first line, and I've linked the rest of the very long poem as well. Hey, if you have a delay, too, maybe you'll have time to read the whole thing. Have a good day, friends. C April is the cruellest month , breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers.

I watched the last full hour of Cory Booker's filibuster, and I was in tears. He is a powerful speaker, and he reminded all of us what we are: American citizens. He said, among other memorable things, "the power of the people is stronger than the people in power." That reminded me of this poem by Claude McKay, dating from the early years of last century, during the Harlem Renaissance. I hope you like it, too. Have a good day, friends. C America By  Claude McKay Although she feeds me bread of bitterness, And sinks into my throat her tiger’s tooth, Stealing my breath of life, I will confess I love this cultured hell that tests my youth. Her vigor flows like tides into my blood, Giving me strength erect against her hate, Her bigness sweeps my being like a flood. Yet, as a rebel fronts a king in state, I stand within her walls with not a shred Of terror, malice, not a word of jeer. Darkly I gaze into the days ahead, And see her might and granite wonders there, Beneath the tou...

April Fools' Day spread throughout Britain during the 18th century. In Scotland, the tradition became a two-day event, starting with “hunting the gowk,” in which people were sent on phony errands (gowk is a word for cuckoo bird, a symbol for fool) and followed by Tailie Day, which involved pranks played on people's derrieres, such as pinning fake tails or “kick me” signs on them. And, as promised, a poem. This one is by Dorothy Parker: Comment Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song, A medley of extemporanea; And love is a thing that can never go wrong; And I am Marie of Roumania.