In memory of a dear friend who's birthday would have been today. You died too young and you're missed every single day. You were a shining light and the world is a far darker and drearier place without you.
| A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning | | |
| by John Donne | ||
As virtuous men pass mildly away, | ||
I was going to post about raulsalinas, who died a few days ago and reference some of his marvelous Chicanindio poetry but I remembered that I did post about him when I learned that he had he died and I stumbled onto this while looking for something else and, well I just had to post it. It made me laugh out loud when I was feeling very sad about the loss of a great poet like Raul. The wry sense of humor in the poem that chose me for Poetry Friday reminded me of my grandfather and his jokes and I thought to myself, "this is perfect for today."
He wasn't really bad to look at
if you don't mind your men so short.
His head was disproportionate
but forceful, and his neck was taut,
his eyebrows were pointed and curly
and of course his black eyes burned
with mad glee, his arms were fully
muscled, his booted feet neatly turned.
He made his offer, good as gold,
so confident I would accept his special skill
to save my skin, but I, surprisingly bold,
countered with the skin itself, the heart, the will.
The straw was scratchy but the man was smooth,
he brought down pillows to cushion our elation;
I slept then while he labored to produce
the glitter that insured my royal station.
Read the rest here. The round-up is here at Hip Writer Mama's. Thanks for hosting!
My apologies for the delayed round-up. As indicated in the previous post, I was crazed getting ready for the Annie Awards, the animation industry's biggest night. It was an amazing night too. The food was great, Ratatouille and Brad Bird won just about everything there was to win, one of my favorite shows El Tigre and it's creator Jorge Gutierrez won awards and I met and saw lots of interesting and fun people. I thought you'd might like to take a peek at the dress I ended up with so I'm tacking in a picture. There's this kind of weird guy in between me and my date, maybe you'll recognize him. He's a really nice guy.
I apologize if I didn't get to comment on your poems, I'll be swinging by throughout the week to do so. I did read them all and they were wonderful and I've so many new poets to add to my list.
On to the round up, I really enjoyed making these mashed up nonsensical story poems of our postings so I'm going to give it another shot.
It began in Frenzy over at the little house
Where Billy, charming Billy was looking for a pearl.
At the Wild Rose, there's everything from Lincoln to Moses, so why dream?
"Well" said The Blue Rose Girls, "how about a love poem with toast?"
Each of us has a name given by God, even when the clouds come.
The red wheel barrow puzzles us while the mother in the refugee camp
breaks out hearts and Lady Macbeth reminds us to be ourselves.
Wherever in the wastes of our days, there should always be time for haiku
At the very least poetry in 15 words or less
or things like painting in the sweet spring.
In every heart there is a room still and quiet
when it is peace.
Though I am old with wandering (welcome Laurel!),
I imagine children's faces are replacing flower pots
in a fabulous March to the Sea.
Oh to be of use!
Beetle-bop, beetle-bop!
The mouse of Amherst calls
It's time for Langston's train ride.
There's a conference you see, on the neuroscience of Mother Goose.
In the land of Nod
there is a fury of overshoes
Death's second self, the Armadillo is preening
as much as the books that fillt it.
A clear midnight, in an Irish winter
they are getting ready as if for a Bronx masquerade
He is already beside me, that honeybee
and if you will be my valentine
and write me epyllions of love
then i will stop forcing spring
Climb inside a poem
puppy poems
are good to start with.
This little bag of poetry is becoming heavy
or maybe it's just that
I'm tired.
Defenseless under the night,
the blind men and the elephant dream
of Snow White and apples, while
Miss Lee and Mrs. Fuller end Poetry Friday.
I found this and thought it was lovely. The round up is over at Karen Edmenstein's shockingly clever blog.
On Speaking French after Twenty Years by Catherine Jagoe
for Massan
Strange, these words in my mouth—
the disappeared returned.
I am no longer agile,
but I offer them hamfistedly to you,
new to America from Mali,
your print skirt
the cloth of my childhood in west Africa,
the tongue between us
the green summer
I spent in France feasting
on freedom and being
twenty-one.
Strange, what is still here
and what has been removed
to somewhere deeper.
Tomorrow and today are here
but yesterday is gone
as is the verb for missing.
Low is here, but high
has vanished.
Read the rest of the poem here.
It's been raining here in Eagle Rock for days off and on, but last night it never stopped and is still going strong. Great torrents and sheets of hard rain, a blessing on drought-ridden Southern California but I've had enough of it. I've been sick with the flu and if I go out into the wet, I start coughing. Blah. Puts me in a mood because I know I have to go out in a few hours to the doctor's office and then from there to work.
I heard a bird singing outside my bedroom window this morning, just a few minutes ago and it changed my mood. How can it sing so sweetly? It must be drenched, the poor thing. I hope it's found shelter in some strange, dry spot in the huge magnolia tree in our backyard. I hope its song isn't a cry of despair.
The brave bird (for somehow in my mind, he is now a he and a very brave he) gave me some of his courage to go out and slog through the rain and cold. He put a smile on my face and got me to thinking about birds in general. I found a poem about swallows that I fell in love with from a poet I didn't know. The bird brought me courage, a smile, a poem and a new poet whose beautiful name I covet, think is perfect for a poet and makes me smile more. I think that makes my bird an angel.
barbs of outer wing-feather
recurved into minute hooklets
from base to tip a rasping
dusky throated northern rough
as a bolus is pushed pons and pharynx
the anterior tongue lifts to hard palate
elevates to soft and seals
lores darker than eyes bill black
forager with forked tail weak feet
more wing than any other song
To read the rest of this magnificent poem click here. Poetry Friday is being hosted by Mentor Texts and More. Thanks for hosting!
Someone opens an orange in silence, at the entrance
to fabled nights.
He plunges his thumbs down to where the orange
is rapidly thinking, where it grows, annihilates itself, and then
is born again. Someone is peeling a pear, eating
a bunch of grapes, devoting himself
to fruit. And I fashion a sharp-witted song
so as to understand.
I lean over busy hands, mouths,
tongues that devour their way through attention.
I would like to know how the fable of the nights
grows like this. How silence
swells, or is transformed with things. I write
a song in order to be intelligent about fruit
on the tongue, through subtle channels, unto
a dark emotion.
It's the last Poetry Friday of the year and I've found an amazing poem on the nature of belief on Writer’s Almanac today. It moved me so profoundly. It got me to thinking about belief, faith and all the things my grandparents taught me about living life well and being a good person.
It’s beautiful when poetry digs deep into your very soul and gets you to start looking deeper at the person you are and wonder if it’s enough, makes you want to do more, be more.
I’ve included the first few lines.
What My Father Believed by John Guzlowski, from Lightning And Ashes. © Steel Toe Books, 2007
He didn't know about the Rock of Ages
or bringing in the sheaves or Jacob's ladder
or gathering at the beautiful river
that flows beneath the throne of God.
He'd never heard of the Baltimore Catechism
either, and didn't know the purpose of life
was to love and honor and serve God.
Head on over to Writer’s Almanac for the rest.
The round-up is here.
Have a Happy New Year everyone and thank you for letting me part of this amazing Poetry Friday experience this year.
On December 12th, at 2a.m. I was out at Placita Olvera (Olvera Street) dancing barefoot on the cold ground along with many, many others to pay homage to the Virgen de Guadalupe. Before I left, I wrote up a post about her and how much she means to me, my family and to the Mexican people. See the December 11th post for more about La Virgen Morena.
There is poetry to her as well as songs written in her honor. I thought I'd include some here along with the words to Las Manañitas - the traditional birthday song that we sing to her on her feast day.
Las Mañanitas is a traditional Mexican song that is sung on birthdays and other important holidays. It is often sung as an early morning serenade to wake up a loved one. At birthday parties it is sung before the cake is cut.
Las Mañanitas Lyrics:
Estas son las mañanitas
que cantaba el rey David
a las muchachas bonitas
te las cantamos aquí
Si el sereno de la esquina
me quisiera hacer favor
de apagar su linternita
mientras que pasa mi amor
Despierta mi bien despierta
mira que ya amaneció
ya los pajarillos cantan
la luna ya se metió
Ahora sí señor sereno
le agradezco su favor
encienda su linternita
que ya ha pasado mi amor
Amapolita adorada
de los llanos de Tepic
si no estás enamorada
enamórate de mí
Despierta mi bien despierta
mira que ya amaneció
ya los pajarillos cantan
la luna ya se metió
Here's just about the whole of Mexico singing it to her in the Basilica
and check this out!
The round up is here at The Miss Rumphius Effect. Thanks for hosting Tricia!
Poetry Friday is here and with it my last feature of a Robert’s Snow snowflake and artist. These weeks have been a tremendous feast of visual delights and creativity. I can’t get over how beautiful each snowflake is. Just like a real snowflake, no two are alike and this one, “Titania’s Flowery Bed” is no exception. It’s based on Victorian lullaby and it features a sleepy little fairy.
Today, I’m featuring Elizabeth Sayles, who has illustrated more than 20 books for children. Her latest book is "The Goldfish Yawned" (Henry Holt) and it is the first book that she wrote as well as illustrated. It is a winner of the Bank Street College Best Childrens Book, 2005. She also illustrated "I Already Know I Love You" written by Billy Crystal which was a NY Times #1 best selling picture book.
Her Titania made me think of Shakespeare and A Midsummer Night’s Dream so my Poetry Friday offering is Elizabeth Sayles, her magical snowflake and Shakespeare. Makes a nice trio, doesn’t it?
Today is the birthday of Dylan Marlais Thomas, one of my favorite poets.
In my craft or sullen artTo read the rest of this poem, click here. To find out more about Dylan Thomas, click here.
Exercised in the still night
When only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in their arms,
I labor by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart.
Robert's Snow was founded by children's book illustrator Grace Lin and her husband Robert as a fundraiser to benefit Dana-Farber Cancer Institute. The story is a touching one and you can read all about it here.
I first heard of Robert’s Snow while doing my daily reading at 7-Imp, one of the blogs I read religiously. Eisha and Jules had a fantastic idea, get the kidlit bloggers to pitch in and feature an illustrator or two or five to drive traffic to the Robert’s Snow Snowflake auctions. The response was terrific (who wouldn’t want to pitch in?) and I eagerly threw my hat in the ring.
My first illustrator/snowflake feature landed on a Friday and I was torn. I couldn’t miss Poetry Friday! I love Poetry Friday and I loved the idea of featuring an illustrator. I was committed to the feature and determined to have my Poetry Friday cake too. But how? At 7:15 a.m. just before running out the door to work, an answer landed right into my laptop with the name Roald Dahl. I know! You’re mystified. Well, stay with me and you’ll see what I mean.
My illustrator today is Jeff Mack. Born in Syracuse, New York, Jeff Mack spent most of his childhood drawing monsters, writing horror stories, and building haunted houses in his basement.
Having spent five years as a full-time muralist, he began illustrating children's books in 2001, starting with Linda Ashman's Rub-a-Dub Sub, a Junior Library Guild selection and Bill Martin Jr. Award nominee. Since then he has illustrated thirteen picture books, including James Howe's Ready-to-Read Bunnicula series and Eve Bunting's Hurry! Hurry ! He has also written and illustrated Hush Baby Polar Bear to be published by Roaring Brook in 2008.
Now at home in the high peaks of Western Massachusetts, he continues to write and illustrate books, paint murals, and talk with school groups about his work.
Jeff is currently in Buffalo, NY visiting elementary schools but he still managed to take time from his busy schedule to write me a nice email about Robert’s Snow and a bit about his snowflake.
I chose Jeff’s snowflake for the title alone – Pensive Pig. Anyone who reads me here at AmoXcalli knows my granddaughter Jasmine has a thing for pigs. Together, we occasionally review books about pigs so when I saw a snowflake with a pig in the title, well I just had to choose it. When I saw it, I wanted it for Jasmine. I’ll be bidding but I hope I have lots of competition. Here are Jeff’s own words about his snowflake and Robert’s Snow below his very Piggerific snowflake.
About a year ago I heard someone on the radio talking about the structural similarities between pig and human brains. I starting imagining pigs using their brains to have some of the same moments of epiphany that humans sometimes have (like the ones pictured in old Renaissance paintings). I made a few portraits of pigs involved in deep concentration. When the snowflake project came along, I thought that the snowflake may someday be used as a Christmas gift. So I decided to put one of the thinking pigs on the snowflake to remind the receiver that "it's the thought that counts".
What brought me to Robert's Snow was meeting Grace Lin at the Smith College Campus School Book fair in Northampton, MA. We talked about illustrating books, and she asked me if I'd like to be involved in the snowflake project.
You can find out more about Jeff Mack’s work on his website. I’m especially fond of his murals.
When I read this email from Jeff this morning and his words about the thinking pig, I remembered that Roald Dahl wrote a very dark little poem about a thinking pig and that’s when I knew I had not only a post about Robert’s Snow, but my Poetry Friday post as well.
The Pig
In England once there lived a big
And wonderfully clever pig.
To everybody it was plain
That Piggy had a massive brain.
He worked out sums inside his head,
There was no book he hadn't read.
He knew what made an airplane fly,
He knew how engines worked and why.
He knew all this, but in the end
One question drove him round the bend:
He simply couldn't puzzle out
What LIFE was really all about.
What was the reason for his birth?
Why was he placed upon this earth?
His giant brain went round and round.
Alas, no answer could be found.
Till suddenly one wondrous night.
All in a flash he saw the light.
He jumped up like a ballet dancer
And yelled, "By gum, I've got the answer!"
Read the rest of the poem here.
The round up is over at Kelly Fineman’s today. Thanks for hosting Kelly! This post will also post on Cuentecitos.
Once again it is Poetry Friday and this week the round up is over at Two Writing Teachers. Thanks for hosting!
My contribution this week is a bit of one of my favorites, Borderlands by Gloria Anzaldua.
Gloria Evangelina Anzaldua was an amazing woman and my copy of This Bridge Called My Back: Writings by Radical Women of Color is almost worn thing from so much reading. Anzaldua remains one of my heroes. She fought racism, sexism and oppression and paved roads for Chicanas and women in general. She died in May of 2004 and the world is a lesser place without her.
To live in the Borderlands means knowing
that the indian in you, betrayed for 500 years,
is no longer speaking to you,
that mexicanas call you rajetas,
that denying the Anglo inside you
is as bad as having denied the Indian or Black;
Poetry Friday is here! I feel like that needs to be shouted off rooftops this week for some reason. Could it be that I've been completely swept away by poetry all this week? I'm currently reading Marjorie Agosín's phenomenal Among the Angels of Memory and I can't think of anything else but the beautiful and powerfully evocative language. My review of it will be up this weekend, hopefully with some snippets of it). Head for the roundup over at Whimsy to see what other poetry you find.
I've also been reading two other powerful poets, Drive: The First Quartet by Lorna Dee Cervantes and Bent to the Earth, a favorite of mine by Blas Manuel de Luna (reviewed here). I've been assaulted by poetry, embraced by it, am breathing it this week.
Here's a little portion of de Luna from The Sky Above Your Grave, his poem in honor of his brother.
“If you could see through satin and wood and earth and bits of grass,
if you could see through the trees in winter
when their leaves are gone.
if, little brother, there were a way for the dead to see,
you would see all the ways the sky has to be beautiful.
Another portion of his poem Today
Today, where my mother works,
a young man,
no older than myself,
lost his hand
in a machine.
He screamed when his hand came off.
My mother told me
she could not get the scream
out of her head. All around them,
the pistachios, on the conveyor belt,
and on the ground, reddened.
Or perhaps a bit of his title poem for the collection Bent to the Earth
spun the five-year-old me awake
to immigration officers,
their batons already out,
already looking for the soft spots of the body,
to my mother being handcuffed
and dragged to a van, to my father
trying to show them our green cards.
They let us go. But Alvaro
was going back.
So was his brother Fernando.
So was his sister Sonia. Their mother
did not escape,
and so was going back. Their father
was somewhere in the field,
and was free. There were no great truths
revealed to me then. No wisdom
given to me by anyone. I was a child
who had seen what a piece of polished wood
could do to a face, who had seen his father
about to lose the one he loved, who had lost
some friends who would never return,
who, later that morning, bent
to the earth and went to work.
A little story tells a tale of flowers and song,
while Life longs for itself through a father's eyes
and a daughter's memories.
A swing in the air; nebulas, the universe locked in
While elsewhere there is tap dancing on the roof.
Greene connection with the dirt and grass,
Teeth, sneakers, foxes and rhyme.
A spiral of translucent words
Leads the brave poet past her fear.
Who but Martha spins her tales
Nearby, the autumn bonfires burn
As fairies dance for Michaelmas
and women, brave and daring leave fragments of themselves
but don't riot.
Bright ladies with cold hands
Face it all alone
The resurrection fern of iron and wine
while the eyes of a hungry dog look on andGod takes time to write a book
in long low notes the path to peace.
A baby cries in a bed of roses
and the impression I get
here in Burma
is that nonsense makes sense as much sense say
as noodles for breakfast do or frogs singing lullabies in a swamp.
Joy such a small word for such a big thing
like geese flying at night beyond the face of fear - a blessing.
Promises on a hillside, the discovery of plums in an icebox
a summer rich oak under which, the degenerate sons
release their Greek and Latin to the brownish beetle
as the King Monarch watches intently and thinks on
the luscious, impeccable fruit of life.
The rabbit in the mirror stops to stare behind daylight
at an army of words
and cowboy poetry rounds up Poetry Friday.
A long time ago, another lifetime really, I was sitting in an Irish pub called Fado in Atlanta with the man I'd fall in love with over something as silly as him handing me a bottle of water later that evening when I noticed that my placemat had this poem printed on it in big blue letters.
I'm still in love with the guy, still have the placemat, still love Yeats and this poem always makes me want to be dreamy and cuddle up with my guy. It always makes me smile.
I love the sense of longing the poem invokes and the image of a peaceful place.
The round up is here.
The Lake Isle Of Innisfree by William Butler Yeats
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the mourning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.
One of the things I love most about poets is their ability to see the beauty in what seems to be the most mundane things. A great poet can make a pile of trash seem fascinating and beautiful just by the way they arrange simple words and rhythm.
Pablo Neruda was a master at this. His gorgeous poem Oda a la cebolla/Ode to an Onion is one of the most beautiful poems in both English and the original Spanish. He makes an onion seem like the most glorious of jewels.
The round up is here.
Oda a la cebolla
Cebolla,
luminosa redoma,
pétalo a pétalo
se formó tu hermosura,
escamas de crystal te acrecentaron
y en el secreto de la tierra oscura
se redondeó tu vientre de rocío.
Bajo la tierra
fue el milagro
y cuando apareció
tu torpe tallo verde,
y nacieron
tus hojas como espadas en el huerto,
la tierra acumuló su poderío
mostrando tu desnuda transparencia,
y como en Afrodita el mar remoto
duplicó la magnolia
levantando sus senos,
la tierra
así te hizo,
cebolla,
clara como un planeta,
y destinada ,
a relucir ,
constelación constante,
redonda rosa de agua,
sobre
la mesa
de las pobres gentes.
Nos hiciste llorar sin afligirnos.
Yo cuanto existe celebré, cebolla,
pero para mi eres
más hermosa que un ave
de plumas cegadoras
eres para mis ojos
globo celeste, copa de platino,
baile inmóvil
de anémona nevada
y vive la fragancia de la tierra
en tu naturaleza cristalina.
Ode to the Onion
Onion,
luminous flask,
your beauty formed
petal by petal,
crystal scales expanded you
and in the secrecy of the dark earth
your belly grew round with dew.
Under the earth
the miracle
happened
and when your clumsy
green stem appeared,
and your leaves were born
like swords
in the garden,
the earth heaped up her power
showing your naked transparency,
and as the remote sea
in lifting the breasts of Aphrodite
duplicating the magnolia,
so did the earth
make you,
onion
clear as a planet
and destined
to shine,
constant constellation,
round rose of water,
upon
the table
of the poor.
You make us cry without hurting us.
I have praised everything that exists,
but to me, onion, you are
more beautiful than a bird
of dazzling feathers,
heavenly globe, platinum goblet,
unmoving dance
of the snowy anemone
and the fragrance of the earth lives
in your crystalline nature.
translation by Stephen Mitchell
Seven Impossible Things Before Breakfast has a beautiful idea and both AmoXcalli and Cuentecitos want to be part of it! Head on over to 7 for a look. More on that later.
For this week's Poetry Friday I offer an old and dear favorite, The Lady of Shallot. I've always loved this poem and was thrilled when I read Lisa Ann Sandell's story version of this Arthurian lady in her book Song of the Sparrow.
The Round-up is here.
The Lady of Shalott
by Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson
August 6, 1809 – October 6, 1892
PART I
ON either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro' the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.
By the margin, willow-veil'd,
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?
Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
Down to tower'd Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers ''Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott.'
PART II
There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.
And moving thro' a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot:
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village-churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls,
Pass onward from Shalott.
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.
But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often thro' the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights,
And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed;
'I am half sick of shadows,' said
The Lady of Shalott.
PART III
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.
The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armour rung,
Beside remote Shalott.
All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
Moves over still Shalott.
His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flash'd into the crystal mirror,
'Tirra lirra,' by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.
She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces thro' the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
'The curse is come upon me!' cried
The Lady of Shalott.
PART IV
In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.
And down the river's dim expanse—
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance—
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.
Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right—
The leaves upon her falling light—
Thro' the noises of the night
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.
Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darken'd wholly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot;
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.
Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
And round the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.
Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they cross'd themselves for fear,
All the knights at Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, 'She has a lovely face;
God in His mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott.'
Yay! It’s Poetry Friday and I get to share another one of my favorite poems. I’ve always loved anything by Edna St. Vincent Millay and today I’m sharing one of her poems. Eel Grass is short, simple and says so much. It’s just beautiful.
Today the Round-up is here.
Eel-grass
NO matter what I say,
All that I really love
Is the rain that flattens on the bay,
And the eel-grass in the cove;
The jingle-shells that lie on the beach
At the tide-line, and the trace
Of higher tides along the beach:
Nothing in this place.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Today I awoke feeling wistful and when I feel wistful I always think of the Garcia Lorca poem Romance Sonambula. It's so evocative and the sense of longing is so strong that it just pulls at me. I find myself thinking the words, "Verde te quiero verde" often throughout my days.
The poem haunts me with it's sadness and longing. It makes me think of a man I used to know who exuded longing and sadness.
Federico Garcia Lorca was murdered by Frankist soldiers during the Civil War in Spain and his booked were banned and burned in the Plaza del Carmen in Granada. To this day, no one knows where his body is.
I'm adding his haunting poem here in the original Spanish with the translation below it. The Poetry Friday roundup is here.
Romance Sonambulo
by Federico Garcia Lorca
Verde que te quiero verde.
Verde viento. Verdes ramas.
El barco sobre la mar
y el caballo en la montaña.
Con la sombra en la cintura
ella sueña en su baranda,
verde carne, pelo verde,
con ojos de fría plata.
Verde que te quiero verde.
Bajo la luna gitana,
las cosas la están mirando
y ella no puede mirarlas.
Verde que te quiero verde.
Grandes estrellas de escarcha
vienen con el pez de sombra
que abre el camino del alba.
La higuera frota su viento
con la lija de sus ramas,
y el monte, gato garduño,
eriza sus pitas agrias.
¿Pero quién vendra? ¿Y por dónde...?
Ella sigue en su baranda,
Verde came, pelo verde,
soñando en la mar amarga.
--Compadre, quiero cambiar
mi caballo por su casa,
mi montura por su espejo,
mi cuchillo per su manta.
Compadre, vengo sangrando,
desde los puertos de Cabra.
--Si yo pudiera, mocito,
este trato se cerraba.
Pero yo ya no soy yo,
ni mi casa es ya mi casa.
--Compadre, quiero morir
decentemente en mi cama.
De acero, si puede ser,
con las sábanas de holanda.
¿No ves la herida que tengo
desde el pecho a la garganta?
--Trescientas rosas morenas
lleva tu pechera blanca.
Tu sangre rezuma y huele
alrededor de tu faja.
Pero yo ya no soy yo,
ni mi casa es ya mi casa.
--Dejadme subir al menos
hasta las altas barandas;
¡dejadme subir!, dejadme,
hasta las verdes barandas.
Barandales de la luna
por donde retumba el agua.
Ya suben los dos compadres
hacia las altas barandas.
Dejando un rastro de sangre.
Dejando un rastro de lágrimas.
Temblaban en los tejados
farolillos de hojalata.
Mil panderos de cristal
herían la madrugada.
Verde que te quiero verde,
verde viento, verdes ramas.
Los dos compadres subieron.
El largo viento dejaba
en la boca un raro gusto
de hiel, de menta y de albahaca.
¡Compadre! ¿Donde está, díme?
¿Donde está tu niña amarga?
¡Cuántas veces te esperó!
¡Cuántas veces te esperara,
cara fresca, negro pelo,
en esta verde baranda!
Sobre el rostro del aljibe
se mecía la gitana.
Verde carne, pelo verde,
con ojos de fría plata.
Un carámbano de luna
la sostiene sobre el agua.
La noche se puso íntima
como una pequeña plaza.
Guardias civiles borrachos
en la puerta golpeaban.
Verde que te qinero verde.
Verde viento. Verdes ramas.
El barco sobre la mar.
Y el caballo en la montaña.
Romance Sonambulo
by Federico García Lorca
Translated by William Logan
Green, how I want you green.
Green wind. Green branches.
The ship out on the sea
and the horse on the mountain.
With the shade around her waist
she dreams on her balcony,
green flesh, her hair green,
with eyes of cold silver.
Green, how I want you green.
Under the gypsy moon,
all things are watching her
and she cannot see them.
Green, how I want you green.
Big hoarfrost stars
come with the fish of shadow
that opens the road of dawn.
The fig tree rubs its wind
with the sandpaper of its branches,
and the forest, cunning cat,
bristles its brittle fibers.
But who will come? And from where?
She is still on her balcony
green flesh, her hair green,
dreaming in the bitter sea.
--My friend, I want to trade
my horse for her house,
my saddle for her mirror,
my knife for her blanket.
My friend, I come bleeding
from the gates of Cabra.
--If it were possible, my boy,
I'd help you fix that trade.
But now I am not I,
nor is my house now my house.
--My friend, I want to die
decently in my bed.
Of iron, if that's possible,
with blankets of fine chambray.
Don't you see the wound I have
from my chest up to my throat?
--Your white shirt has grown
thirsty dark brown roses.
Your blood oozes and flees a
round the corners of your sash.
But now I am not I,
nor is my house now my house.
--Let me climb up, at least,
up to the high balconies;
Let me climb up! Let me,
up to the green balconies.
Railings of the moon
through which the water rumbles.
Now the two friends climb up,
up to the high balconies.
Leaving a trail of blood.
Leaving a trail of teardrops.
Tin bell vines
were trembling on the roofs.
A thousand crystal tambourines
struck at the dawn light.
Green, how I want you green,
green wind, green branches.
The two friends climbed up.
The stiff wind left
in their mouths, a strange taste
of bile, of mint, and of basil
My friend, where is she--tell me--
where is your bitter girl?
How many times she waited for you!
How many times would she wait for you,
cool face, black hair,
on this green balcony!
Over the mouth of the cistern
the gypsy girl was swinging,
green flesh, her hair green,
with eyes of cold silver.
An icicle of moon
holds her up above the water.
The night became intimate
like a little plaza.
Drunken "Guardias Civiles"
were pounding on the door.
Green, how I want you green.
Green wind. Green branches.
The ship out on the sea.
And the horse on the mountain.
From The Selected Poems of Federico García Lorca, translated by William Logan. Published by New Directions, 1955. Used with permission.
The round up is here.
Well it's late on a Friday night, but I'm doing it. Adding my two cents into the Poetry Friday ring. It's Aiden's 2nd birthday party tomorrow and I'm in a whimsical mood as I bake his cake and cook up a storm tonight. Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll seemed just the ticket.
Jabberwocky
by Lewis Carroll
(from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872)
`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, has 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!
The round-up is here.
