Step this way, please!

I think I’ve finally figured out a way to spend more time appreciating, enjoying, and being grateful for what I have (instead of focusing on what I want that I don’t already have). Over the course of the summer, I’m going to get my stacks of books organized. They may not end up well organized, but whatever I end up with will be an improvement over the random, mixed stacks lying hither and yon. In the process, I hope to distinguish among those already read, those partially read, and those unread. At the risk of being excessively optimistic, I may also get my fly-fishing gear organized so that, if the wind stops blowing and the rain stops falling torrentially, I may get to go fishing.

these are now overfilled to overflowing

Photo by J. Harrington

It has slowly occurred to me that I can’t try to better organize my personal library until I’ve first organized my personal library. As Lao Tzu noted some years ago “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” My single step is this public announcement of my intent to organize my library. I almost typed “try to organize” until I remembered Yoda “Do or do not. There is no try.”

That’s all for now. I’m going to clean oak catkins out of the gutter so it will stop overflowing onto the front stoop. It will be interesting to see if my strength matches my growing ambitions.

Happiness

By Jane Kenyon

There’s just no accounting for happiness,

or the way it turns up like a prodigal

who comes back to the dust at your feet

having squandered a fortune far away.

And how can you not forgive?

You make a feast in honor of what

was lost, and take from its place the finest

garment, which you saved for an occasion

you could not imagine, and you weep night and day

to know that you were not abandoned,

that happiness saved its most extreme form

for you alone.

No, happiness is the uncle you never

knew about, who flies a single-engine plane

onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes

into town, and inquires at every door

until he finds you asleep midafternoon

as you so often are during the unmerciful

hours of your despair.

It comes to the monk in his cell.

It comes to the woman sweeping the street

with a birch broom, to the child

whose mother has passed out from drink.

It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing

a sock, to the pusher, to the basketmaker,

and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots

in the night.

                     It even comes to the boulder

in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,

to rain falling on the open sea,

to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.

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’Tis the season of looking forward to...

With the unusually warm weather we’ve been enjoying, I started thinking about reconnecting the outside hoses and turning on the water supply. The prospect of grassfires remains moderate in our area so a readily available water source might be advisable. Then again, we can expect below freezing overnight temperatures through the rest of this month. Frozen hoses wouldn’t be very helpful. Then again, I didn’t drain the hoses last autumn when we shut off the water to the outside faucets. Maybe the best option will be to check things out next week if we really get several days in the 60s.

winter woods with leaf-covered ground

Photo by J. Harrington

Even with, perhaps especially with, an almost snowless and coldless winter, I’m feeling pent up and penned in as a consequence of excessive time spent resting on my gluteus maximus muscles during the past several months, combined with day upon day spent looking at a drab, oak-leaf covered landscape.

Sometime, I think last year, the Better Half gave me a copy of Things to Look Forward to. I believe it’s time to reread it, perhaps several times. The next seven+ months are likely to be trying, regardless of the results come November. Many, probably most, of US are going to need things to look forward to and (re)learn to be grateful for. Trials, tribulations and turmoil are likely to beset US until we again reach a more stable balance and restore a modicum of, if not tranquility, at least tolerance for those with variant viewpoints.

Nuns Fret Not at Their Convent’s Narrow Room

By William Wordsworth

Nuns fret not at their convent’s narrow room;

And hermits are contented with their cells;

And students with their pensive citadels;

Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,

Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,

High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells,

Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells:

In truth the prison, into which we doom

Ourselves, no prison is: and hence for me,

In sundry moods, ’twas pastime to be bound

Within the Sonnet’s scanty plot of ground;

Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be)

Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,

Should find brief solace there, as I have found.

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Planning will never replace dumb luck

Our Air Quality Alert is still with us. I believe it’s the same one that was initially supposed to end last night about 7 pm. Meanwhile, cumulous clouds pile up every afternoon, do their best to become storm clouds, fail, or succeed somewhere nearby, and leave us muttering about cloudy skies and continuing drought. I think we’re close to three inches below normal precipitation so far this month. Maybe this afternoon, or tonight, or tomorrow, or next week sometime, we’ll finally get some rain? [For the record, the preceding paragraph is somewhere between an observation and a complaint, an observelaint?]

I’ve looked at clouds from both sides now... J. Mitchell

Photo by J. Harrington

Due to the air quality (or lack thereof), I’ve been pretty much staying inside this morning and reading about reciprocity and gifts in traditional ecological knowledge, at the moment in the form of Robin Wall Kimmerer’s essay on Mishkos Kenomagwen, the Lessons of Grass, in which she tells a version of the story of the Women Who Fell from the Sky. That caused me to remember that Joy Harjo has a volume by that title, so I went to see if I have a copy. The answer is not yet. As I was looking online to refresh my memory on what the cover looks like, I also discovered Harjo has a recently published illustrated volume of her poem Remember. The latter looks as though it would almost perfectly complement the book our granddaughter gave me for Father’s Day this year [see this June 19 posting]. Since I also received a gift card at one of my favorite book stores on Father’s Day, I intend to reciprocate by using it to get a copy of both Remember and Woman to share with that same granddaughter. See how sometimes it just all comes together?

I think we may have also begun a positive feedback loop with the assembly of the two bookshelves our son gave me for Father’s Day. Beginning to turn stacks of books into semi-organized collections feels rewarding enough that we’ll do some more of it the next time we get a rainy day that’s too stormy and full of lightening to stand in a river waving a graphite stick. We may well salvage most of this summer if we keep this going with the flow attitude.

Remember

Joy Harjo     1951 – 

Remember the sky that you were born under,
know each of the star’s stories.
Remember the moon, know who she is.
Remember the sun’s birth at dawn, that is the
strongest point of time. Remember sundown
and the giving away to night.
Remember your birth, how your mother struggled
to give you form and breath. You are evidence of
her life, and her mother’s, and hers.
Remember your father. He is your life, also.
Remember the earth whose skin you are:
red earth, black earth, yellow earth, white earth
brown earth, we are earth.
Remember the plants, trees, animal life who all have their
tribes, their families, their histories, too. Talk to them,
listen to them. They are alive poems.
Remember the wind. Remember her voice. She knows the
origin of this universe.
Remember you are all people and all people
are you.
Remember you are this universe and this
universe is you.
Remember all is in motion, is growing, is you.
Remember language comes from this.
Remember the dance language is, that life is.
Remember.

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Poetry can make things happen

Today’s snow was wet and sticky. It piled up under my footwear as I walked the dogs. It almost felt like I was walking on stilts. This kind of experience is a major reason I gave up tromping across snow-covered fields to wade a winter trout stream. I wouldn’t wade or tromp well if I slipped off a "stilt" and broke an ankle.

Once again the driveway has been cleared of snow. It would be wonderful if the snow forecast for later this week magically turned into all rain but I’m doubtful that will happen.

I’ve been diverting myself from the irritation of this perpetually cloudy, never-ending winter, when the snow won’t stop, by reading, most recently, Thomas R. Smith’s Poetry on the Side of Nature. I’m about halfway through and he’s doing a great job of convincing me that Auden’s (in)famous line “For poetry makes nothing happen:” is almost entirely incorrect.

poet bios at poetry reading

Photo by J. Harrington

These days I relish the encouragement that writers like Smith offer. Our societies and governments are overdue to act responsibly on the increasingly evident evidence that we are undermining the very life support systems on which we depend. If that’s not terminal stupidity I don’t know what is. Alternatively, I’ve been growing concerned that reading and writing poems and stories won’t change enough hearts and minds quickly enough to make a difference in a population that seems hell-bent for self-destruction, which wouldn’t trouble me as much if that population weren’t taking the rest of us along as collateral damage.

Read all of Auden’s poem below to decide for yourself about his assessment of poetry. Then, ideally, read all of Smith’s book. If we can make things happen through poetry [and other arts], it’s preferable to using guns, bullets, and bombs, isn’t it?

In Memory of W. B. Yeats

W. H. Auden - 1907-1973

I

He disappeared in the dead of winter:
The brooks were frozen, the airports almost deserted,
And snow disfigured the public statues;
The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day.
What instruments we have agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.

Far from his illness
The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests,
The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays;
By mourning tongues
The death of the poet was kept from his poems.

But for him it was his last afternoon as himself,
An afternoon of nurses and rumours;
The provinces of his body revolted,
The squares of his mind were empty,
Silence invaded the suburbs,
The current of his feeling failed; he became his admirers.

Now he is scattered among a hundred cities
And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections,
To find his happiness in another kind of wood
And be punished under a foreign code of conscience.
The words of a dead man
Are modified in the guts of the living.

But in the importance and noise of to-morrow
When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor of the bourse,
And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly accustomed
And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom
A few thousand will think of this day
As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual.

What instruments we have agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.

 

II

You were silly like us; your gift survived it all:
The parish of rich women, physical decay,
Yourself. Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.
Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still,
For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives
In the valley of its making where executives
Would never want to tamper, flows on south
From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs,
Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives,
A way of happening, a mouth.

 

III

Earth, receive an honoured guest:
William Yeats is laid to rest.
Let the Irish vessel lie
Emptied of its poetry.

In the nightmare of the dark
All the dogs of Europe bark,
And the living nations wait,
Each sequestered in its hate;

Intellectual disgrace
Stares from every human face,
And the seas of pity lie
Locked and frozen in each eye.

Follow, poet, follow right
To the bottom of the night,
With your unconstraining voice
Still persuade us to rejoice;

With the farming of a verse
Make a vineyard of the curse,
Sing of human unsuccess
In a rapture of distress;

In the deserts of the heart
Let the healing fountain start,
In the prison of his days
Teach the free man how to praise.

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Spring dreams

 It’s the eve of Valentine’s Day and the Ides of February [scroll down on the linked page]. Tomorrow is supposed to be rainy [½ an inch or more]. What kind of a mess do you think we’ll be faced with on Wednesday as temperatures drop back below freezing? Late winter and early spring in our North  Country  are as often full of problems as promises. This time the problem is we won’t get above freezing again until mid-day Saturday. Remember when studded tires were legal?

Two of the amaryllis that missed blooming for winter solstice have developed nice flower buds. It looks like they’ll be in bloom well before Easter, maybe by Ash Wednesday? Most of the tulips and hyacinths in the  downstairs bulb garden are fading. Once the roads get de-iced, we may need to consider getting something to help us maintain a reason to believe until outside begins to bloom and green after it rethaws once, or twice, or thrice, or ??? more this season.

will the dreaded dragon’s teeth return?

Photo by J. Harrington

 I was reminded earlier today that T. S. Elliot wrote, in The Waste Land, that “April is the cruellist month,”. If he had lived in Minnesota during February and March, his famous poem may well have opened differently. This transitional season leaves me feeling like a piñata, getting hit by the weather each time I turn around.

On the brighter side, I’ve been enjoying more time to read and finally got around to looking through a couple of issues of american poets. The Fall-Winter 2021 issue has a wonderful Margaret Noodin poem I want to share today. As the poet wrote, nicely linking the poem with  Black History Month:

“This poem was written after hearing Kwame Alexander and Rachel Martin talk about Martin Luther King Jr.’s speech ‘I Have a Dream’ which was inspired by Langston Hughes’ poem ‘I Dream a World.’ With all we’ve lost and learned this past year, and all that remains to be repaired, I thought perhaps we should all sit down and dream harder and more often with more clarity and infinite diversity.”
—Margaret Noodin

Nimbawaadaan Akiing / I Dream a World

Margaret Noodin

Nimbawaadaan akiing 
I dream a world 

atemagag biinaagami 
of clean water 

gete-mitigoog 
ancient trees 

gaye gwekaanimad 
and changing winds. 

Nimbawaadaan akiing 
I dream a world 

izhi-mikwendamang 
of ones who remember 

nandagikenindamang gaye 
who seek the truth and 

maamwidebwe’endamang waabang 
believe in tomorrow together. 

Nimbawaadaan akiing 
I dream a world 

izhi-biimiskobideg giizhigong 
where our path in the sky 

waabandamang naasaab 
can be seen as clearly as 

gaa-izhi-niibawid wiijibemaadizid 
the place where our neighbor once stood.

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It’s “both, and” time again

I know it won’t be easy, but I’m determined to put more energy every day into accomplishing something good than I do into bitching about what’s wrong with people. (Complaints about weather, bugs, etc. come under a different category.) With that in mind, today I call your attention to a recent article published in the Daily Yonder: The Power of Place: Educator Helps Literature Teachers Connect Students to Their Rural Roots. 

Parton, Ph.D., spoke to the students about her project, Literacy In Place, which promotes expanding literature curriculums to include works that speak directly to young rural students in middle school and high school classrooms.

Rural

Photo by J. Harrington

We are losing more and more of our rural population and I don't believe that's good for the country. In part, my New England upbringing accounts for my concern. Town meetings are a fundamental form of democracy. In part, I am vehemently opposed to industrial agriculture and Confined Animal Feeding Operations. Providing sustainably raised and grown food requires more people in farm country. If kids are ashamed of where they come from, they’re less likely to want to live there when they grow up.

We need urban and rural. We need country and city. That doesn’t have to mean that rural is dumber or that urban is slicker. I find that, while I concur with much of Parton’s thinking, I can’t agree with this:

“I realized that rural culture is a culture and that it’s different,” Parton said.

Place

Photo by J. Harrington

Based on my experience, education and reading, there is more than one rural culture. I’m more and more interested in exploring the concept of bioregionalism, which incorporates urban, rural, working lands and sometimes wilderness or oceans, and various cultures and subcultures in a bioregion.

With the exception about cultural pluralism stated above, I heartily agree with Parton’s principles:

Parton said that she based Literacy in Place on three principles: 

1. Rural stories are worth telling.
2. Rural stories are worth reading and worthy of study.
3. And rural cultures (imperfect as they may be) are worth sustaining.

 I was surprised to see her listings didn’t appear to include any of Wendell Berry’s fiction. He’s fundamental to contemporary rural culture as far as I’m concerned.

Do not be ashamed

by Wendell Berry

You will be walking some night
in the comfortable dark of your yard
and suddenly a great light will shine
round about you, and behind you
will be a wall you never saw before.
It will be clear to you suddenly
that you were about to escape,
and that you are guilty: you misread
the complex instructions, you are not
a member, you lost your card
or never had one. And you will know
that they have been there all along,
their eyes on your letters and books,
their hands in your pockets,
their ears wired to your bed.
Though you have done nothing shameful,
they will want you to be ashamed.
They will want you to kneel and weep
and say you should have been like them.
And once you say you are ashamed,
reading the page they hold out to you,
then such light as you have made
in your history will leave you.
They will no longer need to pursue you.
You will pursue them, begging forgiveness.
They will not forgive you.
There is no power against them.
It is only candor that is aloof from them,
only an inward clarity, unashamed,
that they cannot reach. Be ready.
When their light has picked you out
and their questions are asked, say to them:
"I am not ashamed." A sure horizon
will come around you. The heron will begin
his evening flight from the hilltop.

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Make them rue the day!

Minnesota’s August primary election starts early voting today. In response to recent disheartening news out of Washington, D.C., it is both helpful and necessary to respond with something more than a snarky media posting. I fear too many of US are reaching a “why bother?” mode. Here are some suggestions:

Read Dirt Road Revival, An account of unlikely wins by a young Democrat in rural Maine could serve as blueprint for progressive candidates setting their sights on rural America.

It is a how-to manual for those on the left who want to win in rural America. “An unwavering commitment to stay connected to the working class and rural people is a must in order to achieve long-term success,” they write. That includes rural voters who may have voted for Trump, a group for whom too often on the left “people’s tremendous empathy stops cold…”

Are you ready to vote?

Support individual candidates more than a political party. I once considered myself a Democrat. I even almost forgave the party for the 1968 police riot at the Democratic Convention in Chicago. [Yes, I’m that old.] I’m not sure if I’ve moved further left, the Democratic party has moved right, or some of each, but I can no longer find a sufficiently comfortable alignment with the party to blindly support it. I’m more in alignment with Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez than with more mainstream Dems. In fact here’s an excerpt from her message in light of the overturn of what had been established as women’s health rights.

A lot of people, especially on days like today’s SCOTUS ruling, ask me about hope. I shared some thoughts on Instagram last night during a Q&A, when someone asked me, “Are we screwed?”:

My honest view is that things are likely going to get harder before they get better, and we will need to stick together. 

What is important in moments like these is not to think in binaries. Good/bad, screwed/not screwed. There is no doubt that things are bad. Some things, really bad. And they may likely get worse. 

But that does not preclude the fact that slowly but surely, some good can be growing as other things fall apart. This is not some syrupy sweet silver lining case for optimism. Rather, it is really about a choice all of us will have to make in life, either consciously or unconsciously: will I be a person who is safe and creates good for others? 

Will I be a person who stands up? Will I be a person who primarily minds my business and serves myself or try to be part of something bigger? Or will I just be a passive, “neutral” observer of it all? 

What I sometimes tell my staff is that the world we are fighting for is already here. It exists in small spaces, places, and communities. We don’t have to deal with the insurmountable burden of coming up with novel solutions to the world’s problems....

Her message is consistent with what I’m observing in the world, a world that has grown small enough that there are few, if any, places to hide. Her message also echoes one of my favorite observations from a writer whose science fiction I have read and enjoyed:

“The future is already here – it's just not evenly distributed.

The Economist, December 4, 2003”

― William Gibson

Have you observed the growing resilience of Native Americans in the life of North America. I have, and it pleases me no end. They have been persecuted and driven from their native lands for hundreds of years. Never-the-less, they are still here and contributing. That creates, it seems to me, a model for those of us feeling overwhelmed by recent and current events. Stay, maintain a life-supporting, equitable culture. Resist. Be ready when opportunities present themselves. Don’t give up or in.

But then, in a democracy, the choice of how to respond and how to live is yours, isn’t it? It’s supposed to be.

For Calling the Spirit Back from Wandering the Earth in Its Human Feet 

Joy Harjo - 1951-

Put down that bag of potato chips, that white bread, that bottle of pop.

Turn off that cellphone, computer, and remote control.

Open the door, then close it behind you.

Take a breath offered by friendly winds. They travel the earth gathering essences of plants to clean.

Give it back with gratitude.

If you sing it will give your spirit lift to fly to the stars’ ears and back.

Acknowledge this earth who has cared for you since you were a dream planting itself precisely within your parents’ desire.

Let your moccasin feet take you to the encampment of the guardians who have known you before time, who will be there after time. They sit before the fire that has been there without time.

Let the earth stabilize your postcolonial insecure jitters.

Be respectful of the small insects, birds and animal people who accompany you.
Ask their forgiveness for the harm we humans have brought down upon them.

Don’t worry.
The heart knows the way though there may be high-rises, interstates, checkpoints, armed soldiers, massacres, wars, and those who will despise you because they despise themselves.

The journey might take you a few hours, a day, a year, a few years, a hundred, a thousand or even more.

Watch your mind. Without training it might run away and leave your heart for the immense human feast set by the thieves of time.

Do not hold regrets.

When you find your way to the circle, to the fire kept burning by the keepers of your soul, you will be welcomed.

You must clean yourself with cedar, sage, or other healing plant.

Cut the ties you have to failure and shame.

Let go the pain you are holding in your mind, your shoulders, your heart, all the way to your feet. Let go the pain of your ancestors to make way for those who are heading in our direction.

Ask for forgiveness.

Call upon the help of those who love you. These helpers take many forms: animal, element, bird, angel, saint, stone, or ancestor.

Call your spirit back. It may be caught in corners and creases of shame, judgment, and human abuse.

You must call in a way that your spirit will want to return.

Speak to it as you would to a beloved child.

Welcome your spirit back from its wandering. It may return in pieces, in tatters. Gather them together. They will be happy to be found after being lost for so long.

Your spirit will need to sleep awhile after it is bathed and given clean clothes.

Now you can have a party. Invite everyone you know who loves and supports you. Keep room for those who have no place else to go.

Make a giveaway, and remember, keep the speeches short.

Then, you must do this: help the next person find their way through the dark. 

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Happy Birthday, Bob! Many, many happy returns!

Today is Bob Dylan’s, nee Robert Zimmerman’s, 81st birthday. As far as I know, he’s one of very few Minnesotan’s to win a Nobel Prize in Literature (Sinclair Lewis is the other.) His chords and words have been part of the soundtrack of my life since I was a teenager. I remember his songs as part of the anti-Vietnam War and civil rights movements. That was back in the days before Walt Kelly, via Pogo, also informed US about consequences of the American way of life:

Pogo: "the enemy is us"

Every year, for more and more reasons, it’s clear we’ve lost ground, literally and metaphorically, since Dylan sang protests and Pogo pontificated truisms. It’s past time for the rest of US to learn from Dylan how to reinvent ourselves. He provided very clear directions years ago in one of my favorites of all his songs:

Forever Young

Written by: Bob Dylan 

May God bless and keep you always
May your wishes all come true
May you always do for others
And let others do for you
May you build a ladder to the stars
And climb on every rung
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young

May you grow up to be righteous
May you grow up to be true
May you always know the truth
And see the lights surrounding you
May you always be courageous
Stand upright and be strong
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young

May your hands always be busy
May your feet always be swift
May you have a strong foundation
When the winds of changes shift
May your heart always be joyful
May your song always be sung
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young

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April is National Poetry Month!

 Tomorrow begins National Poetry Month for 2022. In the St. Croix Valley, much of the celebration will focus on the National Endowment for the Arts Big Read of US Poet Laureate Joy Harjo’s An American Sunrise. There’s also a traveling exhibit of the work of Minnesota’s Poet Laureate, Gwen Nell Westerman.

As if that’t not enough, check out:

30 Ways to Celebrate the 25th Annual National Poetry Month at Home or Online

1. Sign-up for Poem-a-Day, curated this month by award-winning poet Naomi Shihab Nye, and read a poem each morning.

2. Sign-up to receive a free National Poetry Month poster, featuring lines by U.S. Poet Laureate Joy Harjo, or download the PDF and display it for the occasion.

3. Read 2021’s most-read poem by a contemporary poet, Amanda Gorman’s “In This Place (An American Lyric).”

4. Record yourself reading a poem, and share why you chose that work online using the hashtag #ShelterinPoems. Be sure to tag @poetsorg on Twitter and Instagram!

5. Subscribe to the Poem-a-Day podcast.

6. Check out an e-book of poetry from your local library.

7. Begin your virtual meetings or classes by reading a poem.

8. Talk to the teachers in your life about Teach This Poem and encourage students in grades 5 - 12 to participate in the Dear Poet project. 

9. Learn more about poets and virtual poetry events nationwide.

10. Read about your state poet laureate.

11. Browse Poems for Kids.

12. Buy a book of poetry from your local bookstore.

13. Make a poetry playlist.

14. Browse the glossary of terms and try your hand at writing a formal poem.

15. Create an online anthology of your favorite poems on Poets.org.

16. Organize a poetry reading, open mic, or poetry slam via a video conferencing service. 

17. Sign up for an online poetry class or workshop.

18. Donate books of poetry to little free libraries and mutual aid networks.

19. Research and volunteer with poetry organizations in your area.

20. Take a socially safe walk and write a poem outside.

21. Start a virtual poetry reading group or potluck, inviting friends to share poems.

22. Read and share poems about the environment in honor of Earth Day. 

23. Take on a socially safe guerrilla poetry project. 

24. Read essays about poetry like Edward Hirsch’s “How to Read a Poem,” Mary Ruefle’s “Poetry and the Moon,” Mark Doty’s “Tide of Voices: Why Poetry Matters Now,” and Muriel Rukeyser’s “The Life of Poetry.”

25. Watch a movie, lecture, or video featuring a poet.

26. Write an exquisite corpse or a renga with friends via email or text.

27. Make a poetry chapbook.

28. Share a poem for Poem in Your Pocket Day on April 29, 2021, on social media using the hashtag #PocketPoem.

29. Attend Poetry & the Creative Mind on April 29, 2021, a free, virtual reading of favorite poems in celebration of 25 years of National Poetry Month.

30. Make a gift to support the Academy of American Poets free programs and publications and keep celebrating poetry year-round!

 

so you want to be a writer?

Charles Bukowski - 1920-1994

if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.

don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was. 

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Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

Time for sweet dreams of warmer days

This afternoon we get to enjoy some sunshine and melting before a week of well below normal temperatures sets into our North Country. We took advantage of the warm spell today to refresh the mouse repellant in the tractor. No signs of dashboard inhabitation yet this Winter, thank heavens. We wouldn't begrudge them the living space if they didn't also consume critical sections of the wiring harness.

February thaws often grow icicles

Photo by J. Harrington

Noticing a few drips of snow-melt from the roofline and catching a whiff of moisture on the breeze gave us a taste of days to come. By month's end the average daily high should be above freezing. If only the extra moisture doesn't make the skies even more cloudy. Given the time of year and the extended weather forecast, next week's primary objective will be to get the taxes information organized while continuing the early start of our "Spring cleaning." If we manage that, we'll be in good shape to relax and enjoy Valentine's Day come mid-month.

This year is a time when most of us dream of a life free of the threat of COVID-19. February is a month when many of us dream of warmer days. February 3, 2021 is another day we can honor Black History Month and see what Langston Hughes has to say about

Dreams

Langston Hughes - 1902-1967

Hold fast to dreams 
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

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Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.