So apparently I've discovered that one can practically write e-mails to one's friends via blog commentary. At least, that is one of the reasons Xanga is growing so dear to my heart.
I got a call from work today (while still in bed *sigh*), and I decided to go in and pick up a few more hours. Paychecks are slimmer pickin's this time of year, and everyone is battling for more hours. Hopefully this will not last long.
It's grown cold again. 40s outside, and--ugh! More rain...a very important but nonetheless dreary part of spring. On a brighter note, the daffodils are blooming here and I saw some very beautiful crocuses at April's house in Madison last weekend. (I think they were particularly beautiful because they were the first ones I saw this year.)
I've decided to include dashes of poetry here in my blog. Well, not just mine. But that of other poets; writers who are actually splendid on occasion. Writers lucky and/or diligent enough to be published.
And while I know this will be a somewhat lengthy post, I hope there's somebody out there who enjoys at least part of it. I enclose two poems from two separate books (well, one is technically a literary magazine). And at the end, I humbly enclose a poem of my own. I make no claims that it is fantastic, because I'm not sure what I think about it, or if I'm even pleased with it, but I felt like including it.
*This first poem is included in Pleiades, Volume 24 Number 1, a literary publication of the Department of English and Philosophy, Central Missouri State University.
Creature's Love Song by Jerry Harp
My city's lights shift on and off all night
Like secret codes I'm learning how to read,
But only in their rudiments. I write
What I can understand, revise, reread
Like studying text that rolls across the river
In forms of ripples and the breaking waves.
The car exhaust has meaning to deliver.
I'm learning to discern what the smoke weaves.
The very concrete sparkling beneath the moon
Gives hints and intimations concerning death.
The streets configure into a twisting rune.
The traffic patterns form a shibboleth.
Dear city, reveal your intimate desires
Through sirens, smoke alarms, and telephone wires.
*The second poem is taken in its entirety from a book given to me for Christmas by my brother, Christopher. The book is simply called Good Poems, and is comprised of--you got it!--miscellaneous poems by miscellaneous authors on miscellaneous topics. The poetry was handpicked and gathered into a book by Garrison Keillor, who is best known for his radio program called A Prairie Home Companion (which is the basis for a recent movie of the same name). He has written several books himself.
What I Want Is by C. G. Hanzlicek
What I want is
Enough money
To have what I want
What I want is
My own hill
And beneath that hill
A pond
In the pond a lazy
Bass or two
And duck feathers
Resting on the mud
Of the shore
Between the hill
And mud a patch
Of grass where I
Can lie and count
My seven trees
My seven clouds
And count the coyotes
Coming down the hill
To drink
Coyote 1 Coyote 2
*This last poem was written this morning at 6:36 a.m. It's still untitled.
Yesterday I caught a cold
or, shall I say, a cold caught me
quite by surprise.
I have never been humble
about my health, and happiness
just staggers me.
When I've fallen into joy
before, I wind up the vanquished
one, heart bursting,
fevered eagerness in my
head. High buildings and high hopes make
easy targets.
The body's not immune to
germs, nor mind immune to envy,
nor heart to dreams.
The soul is not adept at
lying, stumbles when posturing,
faints for heaven.
Tomorrow I will catch hold
or, more properly, be swept upward
by chariot.
~ E.K. Olson
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