Making Sense of Life

Poetry migration

2009-01-04T15:46:00.000-08:00

I'll be moving all the poems from this blog to my main blog

Porch Light

2008-11-08T12:52:00.000-08:00

(excerpt)
from Lips Stretched Out
by Vinx

How can I tell you that I missed you
In all those letters I meant to write
How can I tell you I wanted to be there for ya
I just couldn’t find myself in time
How can I tell you that I thought of you
With every other woman’s kiss
And how will you ever know, that I remember you most
And it’s good to be home

Full text to this song (and links to other songs) is here

Vinx is my favorite vocalist of all time. I have listened to his CDs for years and though I haven't heard him perform live in over a decade, I may get o see him next month!!!

I would write more about why I love his voice and how his words resonate with me but there isn't enough room in cyberspace to encompass my emotions!

Sunday: Lunch Poems

2008-09-13T11:01:00.001-07:00

Sorry about the short notice, but I thought some of you would like to know:

Sunday, 14 September from Noon - 1:00pm (EST), Lafayette Wattles will discuss a few pieces by poet Simon Armitage, as well as Lafayette's own Young Adult novel-in-verse A Boy Called Mo and topics such as identifty, adolescence, football, bullying, finding one's voice, and more. Lafayette will read a few selections from his novel-in-verse and dicuss them with the show's host Gigi Humming.

Check it out!

The link is here

Once you're on the website, to the right in the blue menu, it says Listen to the WKUF Webstream. Just click on that and another page will come up with the live show!

Sunset

2008-09-06T15:35:00.000-07:00

by Paul Laurence Dunbar
published in Lyrics of Lowly Life 1896

THE river sleeps beneath the sky,
And clasps the shadows to its breast;
The crescent moon shines dim on high;
And in the lately radiant west
The gold is fading into gray.
Now stills the lark his festive lay,
And mourns with me the dying day.

While in the south the first faint star
Lifts to the night its silver face,
And twinkles to the moon afar
Across the heaven's graying space,

Low murmurs reach me from the town,
As Day puts on her sombre crown,
And shakes her mantle darkly down.

I Crave Your Mouth

2008-08-31T23:21:00.000-07:00

(or Love Sonnet XI)

by Pablo Neruda

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
I hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

Parting at a Wine-shop in Nan-king

2008-08-10T04:38:00.000-07:00

by Li Bai

A wind, bringing willow-cotton, sweetens the shop,
And a girl from Wu, pouring wine, urges me to share it.
With my comrades of the city who are here to see me off;
And as each of them drains his cup, I say to him in parting,
Oh, go and ask this river running to the east
If it can travel farther than a friend's love!

About the Poet: Li Bai is a Chinese poet who lived in the 700s

Why I love this poem: We lived near Nanjing for a year and it is one of my favorite cities because it is a big university town, a place where many foreigners come to learn Chinese and one of the only Chinese cities where shopkeepers routinely speak to foreigners in Chinese even if they are fluent in English. But what I appreciate most about the poem is the feeling of leaving, the dull ache of it and then the ending note that the love of a friend reaches us wherever we may wander.

Also, this is a perfect example of the timelessness of poetry. Written in the 700s and still striking an emotional chord today.

Poetry Friday - FIRST POEM

2008-07-18T14:18:00.003-07:00

I wrote my first poem at the age of seven.

Mrs. Christy wrote on the chalkboard. Our subject was water. The class called out descriptions: wet, splash, river, cold, hot.
“In order to make a poem, just chose some of these words and write them on your paper.”

Easy enough. But my page stayed blank. When Mrs. Christy asked me why I wasn’t writing, I asked if I could use my own words (and asked her help with spelling most of them).

WATER

Water dripping
Water dropping
Water swirls
And
Water twirls
Water is beautiful
Water is powerful
Water is fun

LAST MEETING

2008-06-12T10:23:00.000-07:00

by Angela Cerrito

Your eyes
green stowaways upon
a familiar face
how they have changed
along the course
of your existence
curiosity and defiance
tossed overboard
bit by bit
acceptance and quiet comfort
filled the void

the void between us
was two years

your eyes spoke
the ancient language
of our past
mine could
not
detect the subtle tones

So your shinning stowaways
screamed
and I was purposefully deaf
to their clatter

Meanwhile
the words from our lips
floated to the sky
unable to transverse
the void
between us

Why am I even posting this?
I wrote this poem when I was a teenager. It still makes me smile. Not because I think it is actually a wonderful or happy poem. But because I tried so hard to write about something universal in a unique way... and ended up with something very common. But mostly I smile because of the story and the fact that this poem became my first "published" work.

The story:
I was discovered. Somehow a national poetry organization learned that I was an up and coming poet. The organization had well known poets, teachers, classes, conferences and they were having a special contest and wanted me to enter. How could my teenage self refuse? Best of all (better even than the prize money) if my poem was selected in the top five I would have a chance to read it to a live audience at one of their workshops. I wanted to win. I wanted to read my poem. I was a student sitting in class all day. The idea of being in front of a silent crowd was thrilling. So I sent in this poem. And I practiced reading it, just in case! And my poem... did not win, but it was selected for publication!!!! Wooo-hooo. Publication. I was on my way to becoming... rich? No. Famous? Double no. I was on my way to becoming published!!!!
Three months later I received an order form. If I wanted to see my poem in print, I had only to send around $50 to the poetry organization for the book of selected poems. I turned down that fabulous offer. Yet I know LAST MEETING is out there published in a collection of poetry!!!

Poetry Out Loud

2008-06-07T06:40:00.001-07:00

200,000 US High School Students competed in the 2008 Poetry Out Loud competition.

Congratulations to every single student who participated, the 12 finalists, and the winner Shawntay Henry a tenth grader from St. Thomas of the US Virgin Islands.

Read about Shawntay and the Poetry Out Loud competition here

But even better. Listen to Shawntay's moving reading of the poem Fredrick Douglas by Robert E. Hayden here . The reading was so beautiful, I wished for a video. Instead I just closed my eyes and felt Shawtay's voice. I'd encourage you to do the same. An amazing reading.

Thanks to Bish for the heads up!

Song of the Woods

2008-05-30T14:55:00.000-07:00

by Gottfried Keller

Arm in arm and crown in crown stands the twist oak forest devoured.
Today it was in a fine mood and sang me its old song.

Far in the distance, a young sapling bent and swayed,
then bowed over swishing and flexing;

There came a powerful surge, swelling into broad waves;
rolling high through the treetops, a storm flood.

And now it sang and whistled in the treetops, laughing
and in between, and below among the roots, a crunching and droning.

Sometimes, crashing, the greatest oak would brandish its trunk in solo,
followed by a chorus of the forest resounding thunderously!

Beautiful and playful like the wild surf of the sea;
all the leaves, gleaming white, shimmering in the northeast.

The old violin that Pan plays loudly and softly
teaching his woods the old melodies of the world.

The seven tones inexhaustibly wander up and down,
only seven notes that comprise all songs

And the young poets and young finches;
cowering in the dark shrubs and drink in the melodies.

Why I like it: I love the idea of a forest sharing secrets. I like how Keller put himself into the poem at the end.

Why I love it: Two years ago I was visiting a tiny coastal city in Italy. I needed to visit the sea near dusk for a project I was working on. My friend Raymond drove and we took the four girls. As we neared the sea the winds kicked up and by the time we made it to the beach grey clouds blanketed the sky and the wind was shoving us away from the water. But the girls ran for the waves. Kat and Mona reached the water first and, without planning ahead, they linked arms and began reciting this poem in German (they had learned it in class). Their voices grew with the storm and they were nearly screaming. The effect of two young girls (age ten) screaming the poem ... it was almost as if their words were at war against the weather. Afterward there was a double full rainbow. (A full rainbow seen end to end and another right beside it). This poem will always remind me of Kat and Mona and their ferocious strength!

I found many varied English transations for this poem. here is a different version.

Almost Twelve

2008-05-06T14:12:00.000-07:00

by Angela Cerrito

Today we found a fort
beside the river
You rushed to explore
I asked if you thought it
was the work of teenagers
“No, someone old made this,”
you said
poking your head out
"There’s a smoking pipe
from the olden days
inside
the kind with a water bowl.”
You tugged off your shoes
and eyed the water
“Whoever it is, must be
Over fifty,”
You concluded
“No one smokes with those
Anymore.”
I watched you leap
from rock to rock
and realized
that I am standing
On a bridge
and treading water
at the same time
I don’t regret
that your discovery
didn’t lead us to
another talk about drugs
I love this moment
and the possibility
that a bong
could really be
an ancient relic
from another time
It is such a
short bridge
before us
from almost twelve
to teenager
and I want
to pay close attention
and cherish
every step.

Poetry Friday

2008-04-25T14:59:00.000-07:00

My phone now has a poem!

Does yours?

Take the "Put a POEM on your PHONE challenge!"

It's easy:
1. Put a poem on your phone - write one of your own or enter someone elses
2. Ask your friends if they have a poem on their phone.
3. Share... use bluetooth / infrared / text messaging to share poems with your friends.

If phones come standard with games, mutliple languages, and other functions...they should include at least one poem!!!!

Imagine a world where every cell phone had a poem!

BTW... here's the first poem I entered onto my new phone... may it be one of many!

Poem No 1
-by Angela Cerrito

Bluetooth
Infrared
Chirps & Croaks
Like a frog that has swallowed
A sick bird
Double sided Keypad
To text love messages
Contact list
Empty
Missed calls
Many
43 languages
Limited Euros
And my
Phone
now
Has a poem

Put a POEM on your PHONE

2008-04-22T11:29:00.000-07:00

My new phone is still a blank slate

My goal is to have a new poem on my phone in time to post for POETRY FRIDAY

Write a poem on your phone and join me ... post it here.

Not a poet?

Post anything you want from your phone in the comments section....

What's in your notes? A grocery list .... one of the things I love about my man is he's always coming up with cool things to cook, I usually jot them down on my phone so I don't forget when I get to the store.

What silly meetings are on your phone's appointment book?

What's your CRAZIEST text message ever?
Last winter I got a message, "Meet me in the lobby..."
I responded, "wrong number"
He wrote back, "only fifteen minutes."
I responded, "WRONG NUMBER"
He wrote back about four times, "I'm waiting." "I'm in the lobby" "Where are you?"
Finally I phoned the guy and actually told him to stop.
He still kept texting.
So I figured out how to block numbers.

What is the point of this post?
Why?
Why should anyone put a poem on their phone.

Here's why... our phones are bossing us around all day. They've taken the place of notepads and appintment books, they ring or vibrate when we least expect it, they remind us of appointments and things to do as our lives grow every busy... scrolling through your phone to find a poem is a simple pleasure.

If you find one you like, you may decide to forward it to someone on your contact list.

Wouldn't it be great if everyone had at least one poem on their phone?

Kids wouldn't only ask, "What games are on your phone?" or "How many contacts do you have?" or "Let me see ur pics" but "What poem's on your phone?"

and then we'd all be able to share!

Do you have poetry on your phone?

2008-04-19T04:03:00.000-07:00

My phone had been falling apart for months... over a year ago, the casing cracked on a trip to Italy. It happened to be in a side pocket of a bag that got swung against a wall when we were swinging the kids around. OOPS.

Still... the phone still worked with a crack in it. No biggie.

Then one of the families I work sent me a text message. I thought it was to change an appointment or something. I was walking, mashing the buttons on the phone... reading the message... and one of the kiddos I had been working with just took his first steps.

I was so excited I dropped the phone. And a few little pieces came off. I gathered them all up, went into my office and called that MOm back.

Later, when I put my phone back together it was missing the on / off button. I adapted. It was just a button, right? Well I couldn't turn my phone off.. not in a movie theatre, not on an airplane. Never. It just didn't do that. I set it low and nothing dramatic happened.

I tried to charge it because I never knew if it would turn on if it lost power. But eventually I didn't even have to worry about that... because I could just wiggle a paperclip inside of the phone, or a plastic tooth pick. NO PROBLEM.

My phone would last forever.

When the paperwork failed I progressed to a fork, corkscrew, and finally the prong of a monsterous BBQ fork. It felt a bit like performing surgery each time I broght my phone back to life. I guess I should have realized ... it wouldn't last forever.

My phone died last week and I turned to my local e-bay and bought another just like it -except new. My new phone arrived today and the SIM card transplant was performed.

There were a few new messages and that was it.

No phone book.
None of the silly text messages / SMSs I saved
Empty notepad (it stored stuff I shouldn't have anyway...account info / passwords)
My reminders were all wiped out
And I lost some poems

The poems weren't anything great...just stuff I wrote waiting in lines ... but a few of them I really enjoyed. Finding them in my notepad when I was scrolling for something else was like finding an old letter or remembering a dream I had long ago.

I wish I had saved info from my phone to my SIM card. Now there is no way to get it back.

If you have something on your phone you like...download it, save it, scribble it on paper...whatever works.

Or you can post it here in the comments section!

At least today I have a new phone and a bunch of blank space for more work!

Poetry Friday

2008-04-18T00:59:00.000-07:00

If you haven't yet found this site: Poem Of The Week check it out. Weekly posts include old favorites like Langston Huges, T.S. Eliot, and Shel Silverstein as well as works by new poets. Weekly poetry posts go back to October 2006. See if you can find the poem by Donald Rumsfeld.

Dawn

2008-04-17T02:04:00.000-07:00

by Arthur Rimbaud (1886)

I have embraced the summer dawn

Nothing was stirring as yet in front of the palaces.
The water was dead.
The shadows did not leave the road in the woods.
I walked, awakening the live and warm breaths;
and the precious stones watched, and wings silently rose up.

The first venture was, on the path already filled with cool, pale light, a flower which told me its name.

I laughed at the blond waterfall that ran disheveling its hair through the pines: at its silver crest I recognized the goddess.

Then I took off her veils one by one. In the path, shaking my arms. Across the plain, where I denounced her to the cock. In the big city, she fled among the bell-towers and the domes; and running like a beggar along the marble quays, I pursued her.

At the top of the road, near a laurel grove, I enfolded her in her gathered-up veils, and I felt her vast body a little. Dawn and the child fell at the edge of the wood.

Upon awakening, it was noon.

Why I like it:
I love that it is a quest to embrace the sun. And I enjoy the flow of the story… you can sense the poet is in competition with all things that will feel the sun… racing against the rooster, the rocks on the path, the flowers…If you’ve read more than a few entries on this blog you can tell that this poem fits my tastes. I love nature personified and the idea that humankind is just a small part. However big we dream (even to embrace the dawn) we are still just a part of it all… rocks, trees, cities, waterfalls and flowers. Also there are so many poems that romanticize and fall in love with the moon. I’m a moongazer and always will be, still I like that here the sun has a chance to shine (ha!).

Poetry Link

2008-04-15T01:36:00.000-07:00

A beautiful poem at wordwrangler

Autopsicografia

2008-04-14T13:25:00.000-07:00

by Fernando Pessoa

The poet is a feigner
He feigns so completely
That he even feigns that he is suffering
he pains that he is really experiencing.

And those who read what he writes,
As they read, sharply feel
Not the two pains that he had
But only the one they do not

And so, upon its toy tracks,
Runs around, diverting reason
The wound-up mechanical train
That goes by the name of heart

Why I love it: This poem made me wish. I wish I could speak, read, write, understand Portuguese so that I could understand this poem better...feel it more deeply. I also wanted to learn more about the poem and the poet. Here's what I discovered.

THE POEM: Pessoa's mention of "two pains" refers to the poet first experiencing and then simulating (writing about) the pain. The 'one pain' is the reader and this is totaly separate from the poets two pains.

THE POET: Pessoa had four different poet personalities (names he wrote under). He didn't call them pseudonyms, but "heteronyms" becasue they were "autonomous entities of both nature and mode of expression."

Morning Ritual

2008-03-08T07:17:00.000-08:00

Morning Ritual

by Angela Cerrito

Sama insists
her toast be cut
into eight pieces.
Melted butter
poured corner to corner
spread thin
to cover every bit.
Required is the "purple" fork
part of the kitchen playset.
It is actually pink.
Sometimes honey.
Occassionally jam.
Always melted butter
spread from end to end.
Always eight pieces.
Only with the special
"purple" fork.

Making Sense of Life:
Inspired by my youngest.
Based on real life events.
I'm glad I ran across this poem again. It was a nice reminder that the persnickety-ness of age two - three is really in a class by itself!

San Leone

2008-03-08T07:10:00.000-08:00

San Leone

by Angela Cerrito

I looked out to the sea
And it regarded me.

I listened to the sea
And it serenaded me.

I ran to the sea
And it embraced me.

I reached into the sea
And it massaged my soul.

-Sicily with Grandpa in August

Poetry Friday "My Song"

2008-02-29T11:02:00.000-08:00

My Song

by Rabindranath Tagore

This song of mine will wind its music around you, my child, like the fond arms of love.

The song of mine will touch your forehead like a kiss of blessing.

When you are alone it will sit by your side and whisper in your ear, when you are in the crowd it will fence you about with aloofness.

My song will be like a pair of wings to your dreams, it will transport your heart to the verge of the unknown.

It will be like the faithful star overhead when dark night is over your road.

My song will sit in the pupils of your eyes, and will carry your sight into the heart of things.

And when my voice is silenced in death, my song will speak in your living heart.

Poetry Friday

2008-02-21T15:22:00.000-08:00

Motive

By Cecilia Meireles

I sing because the moment exists
and my life is complete.
I am neither happy nor sad:
I am a poet.
A brother of fleeting things,
I do not feel either joy or torture.
I traverse nights and days
in the wind.
Whether I crumble or build,
whether I remain or dissolve,
--I do not know, I do not know I do not even know whether I am staying
or only passing.
I do know that I sing. And the song is all that counts
it has eternal blood and rhythmed wing
and I know that one day I shall be muted:
--that is all.

Why I love it
It wows me from the first line. I love the idea of joy with abandon.
I feel pulled along with these words… the first for lines are straightforward direct. Then the tone changes to complex – the writer and the poem – the creator and the destroyer – the loss of self to work.
And the conclusion, the poem (song) with eternal blood and rhythemed wings...just beautiful!

How it make sense of life
It makes sense of a writer’s life, that’s for sure!

POETRY FRIDAY

2008-02-15T10:27:00.000-08:00

EVENING HARMONY

Charles Baudelaire

Now comes the hour when stirring on its stem
Each flower exhales like a censer
Sounds and perfumes swirl in the evening air
Melancholy waltz and languidly sensuous vertigo!
Each flower exhales like a censer
The violin quivers like a heart distressed
A melancholy waltz and languidly sensuous vertigo!
The sky is sad and splendid like a great altar.
The violin quivers like a heart distressed,
A tender heart, that hates the void vast and dark!
The sky is splendid and sad like a great altar’
The sun has drowned in its own congealing blood.
A tender heart, that hates the void vast and dark,
Gathers each trace of the luminous past!
The sun has drowned in its own congealing blood…
The memory of you shines within me like a monstrance!

Why I like it:
Beauty and emotion with so few words.
A poetry teacher may offer that this is a ‘pantoum’ and that there are only ten original lines with the other six repeating –blah blah blah. I like the words. I like the match of sensuous with vertigo, the violin, and the agonizing descriptions of the sky. I love that this short poem makes me FEEL.

Making sense of life:
I think our present emotional state colors how we see the world. This poem beautiful captures those emotions.
I once heard an editor at a conference offer this advice: “Look at the people you see each day, people you know and strangers too, really look at them and describe them in your writing. But remember, not to describe them as you see them; write about how they see themselves.”

DELIGHT IN DISORDER

2008-02-12T14:56:00.000-08:00

By Robert Herrick (1591 – 1674)

A sweet disorder in the dress
Kindless in clothes a wantonness:
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction;
An erring lace, which here and there
Enthrals the crimson stomacher;
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribbands to flown confusedly;
A winning wave, deserving note
In the tempestuous petticoat;
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility,
Do more bewitch me, than when art
Is too precise in every part.

Why I like it:
It’s short and flirty! I like the references to the style of dress – stomachers and lawns. I had fun looking up familiar words and discovering that their past usage isn’t the same as their modern usage. I like poems that send me to the dictionary.

How it makes sense of life:
I love the very idea –the essence of the poem. Things out of place can delight. Not just the excitement of glimpsing a petticoat or and untied shoe, but the very idea that something out of order has beauty, even more so than perfection. That’s the essence of humanness.

Poetry Friday: SNAKE

2008-02-08T09:57:00.000-08:00

SNAKE

D. H. Lawrence (1885 – 1930)

A snake came to my water-trough
On a hot, hot day, and I in pajamas for the heat,
To drink there.

In the deep, strange-scented shade of the great dark carob-tree
I came down the steps with my pitcher
And must wait, must stand and wait, for there he was at the trough before me.

He reached down from a fissure in the earth-wall in the gloom
And trailed his yellow-brown slackness soft-bellied down,
Over the edge of the stone trough

And rested his throat upon the stone bottom,
And where the water had dripped from the tap, in a small clearness,
He sipped with his straight mouth,
Softly drinking through his straight gums, into his slack long body,
Silently.

Someone was before me at my water-trough,
And I, like a second comer, waiting.
He lifted his head from his drinking, as cattle do,
And looked at me vaguely, as drinking cattle do,
And flickered his two-forked tongue from his lips, and mused a moment,
And stooped and drank a little more,
Being earth-brown, earth-golden from the burning bowels of the earth
On the day of Sicilian July, with Etna smoking.
The voice of my education said to me
He must be killed,
For in Sicily the black, black snakes are innocent, the gold are venomous.

And voices in me said, If you were a man
You would take a stick and break him now, and finish him off.

But must I confess how I liked him,
How glad I was he had come like a guest in quiet to drink at my water-trough

And depart peaceful, pacified, and thankless,
Into the burning bowels of this earth?

Was it cowardice, that I dared not kill him?
Was it perversity that I longed to talk to him?
Was it humility to feel so honored?
I felt so honored.

And yet those voices:
If you were not afraid, you would kill him!

And truly I was afraid, I was most afraid,
But even so, honored still more
That he should seek my hospitality
From out the dark door of the secret earth.

He drank enough
And lifted his head, dreamily, as one who has drunken,
And flickered his tongue like a forked night on the air, so black,

Seeming to lick his lips,
And looked around like a god, unseeing, into the air,
And slowly turned his head,
And slowly, very slowly, as if in thrice a dream,
Proceeded to draw his slow length curving round
And climbed again the broken bank of my wall-face.
And as he put his head into that dreadful hole,
And as he slowly drew up, snake-easing his shoulders, and entered farther,
A sort of horror, a sort of protest against his withdrawing into that horrid black hole,
Deliberately going into the blackness, and slowly drawing himself after,
Overcame me now his back was turned.

I looked round, I put down my pitcher,
I picked up a clumsy log,
And threw it at the water-trough with a clatter.

I think it did not hit him,
But suddenly that part of him that was left behind convulsed in undignified haste,
Writhed like lightening, and was gone
Into the black hole, the earth-lipped fissure in the wall-front,
At which, in the intense still noon, I stared with fascination.

And immediately I regretted it.
I thought how paltry, how vulgar, what a mean act!
I despised myself and the voices of my accursed human education.

And I thought of the albatross,
And I wished he would come back, my snake.

For he seemed to me again like a king,
Like a king in exile, uncrowned in the underworld,
Now due to be crowned again.

And so, I missed my chance with one of the lords
Of life.
And I have something to expiate;
A pettiness.

Why I like it:
Setting. I’m of Sicilian descent and my grandfather spoke of the giant carob tree by his home. I love Sicily!

I love how Lawrence goes beyond personification with the snake. The snake is personified as a guest, a fellow drinker at the water-trough, and even an exiled king. But to top it all is the comparison to cattle. The snake is so easily externally molded by Lawrence and this so carefully balances the inner struggle.

That’s what I love most about his poem. The conflict of what one is taught and what one knows to be true in his heart. Education, humanness even, is cast aside in the knowledge that Lawrence is one with the snake. However, it doesn’t come without regret. The bittersweet act at the end (human nature taking over). And REGRET.

Think about it. This poem could have ended with the snake slinking away. It would have been a pleasant account of the interaction between man and snake with a mild inner struggle and a happy resolution. But the ending so wonderfully builds on all that came before – the physical act of throwing the log and the emotional response.

Making sense of life:
Finding beauty in something that is feared. Recognizing that actions considered to be strong may, in fact, be acts of weakness.
Also, I wish I could talk to animals. And I have been in situations similar to above and felt that sense of humility, wonder, and awe.

SINGING SENSATION

2008-02-03T10:38:00.000-08:00

SINGING SENSATION
By Angela Cerrito

You embraced the new tongue
An ancient chant, a primitive dance
A fluid passionate forte
Mismatching languages along the way
Playing teasing experimenting
Yet, always able to find the thoughts to express your mind.

In a circle of friends
Gathered round to extol
A song of springtime senses
A seasons worth of remembrances
Voices mingle climb extend and excite
Yours ringing clear, touching all who are near

One by one, voices cease
Measured metered muted mouths
Yield to the request of the ears
They cannot sing, for they wish to hear
One voice alone: rising, surprising, confident
Teachers and kindergarteners pause to behold
The one who is but five and can so mesmerize

More about the poem: I wrote it about my oldest daughter. This actually happened to her in kindergarten after living in a foreign country for a month. She started singing the song with the class at the end of the day, and the student’s around her stopped singing to listen. Others followed until she was the only one singing.

How it makes sense of life: I wrote this poem six years ago, began it the very day her teacher told me what happened. It is amazing to look back on old poems (and journal entries) and see how the events in our lives connect.

At the time I thought the teachers and students stopped singing because they were impressed to hear my daughter singing in a new language. I always love to listen to my girls sing and didn’t really consider that the singing voice was anything out of the ordinary. However, two years later she was singing a solo in front of 2000 people at an outdoor Christmas concert. And these days she spends her time singing for a children’s rock band. I think this poem captured the memory of her first ever concert.

2008-01-27T17:01:00.000-08:00

On the Other Shore

By Juan Ramón Jiménez

All night long
the birds have been
singing their colors to me.
Not the colors
of their morning wings
in the cool air of suns rising.
Not the colors of their evening breasts
in the embers of suns setting.
Not the colors
of their everyday beaks
extinguished at night,
as the familiar colors
of leaves
and flowers are extinguished.
Other colors,
primeval paradise
completely lost by man,
the paradise
the flowers and birds
so enormously know.
Flowers and birds
that come and go perfuming,
encircling the whole orb.
Other colors,
of the unchangeable paradise
that man travels in his dreams.
All night long
the birds have been
singing the colors to me.
Other colors
which have in their other world
and which they bring out at night.
Some colors
I have seen, quite awake,
and where they are I well know.
I know whence
the birds have come
to sing for me in the night.
I know whence,
crossing the winds and the waves
they came singing their colors to me.

How I found it
I smothered myself in this poem. I was reading to my youngest who was having a restless night and I don’t recall reading Jiménez before ever. But this poem, especially when read aloud, has impact. I read it through three or four times and just felt the weight of the words, the enormity of the author’s experience.

Why I love it
1. Synesthesia. I use it in my writing. I’ve experienced it in life and the colors of birdsongs is perfect. I also work with kids who experience synesthesia.
2. I love that this poem made me see, feel, and hear colors without even the mention of one color.
3. I’ve been an expatriate many times over and I know the emotions expressed here (Jiménez writes about the birds of his native land while living in the US.) There is that faint sense of “disconnect” I’ve felt before when two worlds collide.
4. I love how Jiménez moved beyond isolation and longing for home to a sense of privilege. The birds are singing for him. Perhaps this is because of their shared homeland? He’s seen them before, speaks their language. Thus through the poem, the experience of birdsong, he has transported himself his status as a foreigner (outsider) to one who can see the bird song (the only insider.)

Making sense of life
This poem makes sense of my life because I work with people whose senses are unique. It helps me put into perspective living as an expat. Living in a foreign land, one sometimes longs for a taste (or song) from home. It reassures me that though I’m a foreigner here, I’m part of the vast sphere of nature. It reminds me of how easy it is to experience nature –the dance of a butterfly, sunprints in the sky, or the song of a bird. Because I can see, hear, feel, think, and remember…I am not alone.

The Battle of Blenheim

2008-01-26T14:56:00.000-08:00

The Batle of Blenheim

Robert Southey (1774-1843)

It was a summer evening,
Old Kaspar's work was done,
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun,
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll someting large and round,
Which he beside the rivulet
In playing ther ahd found;
He came to ask what he had found
That was so large, and smooth, and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by,
And then the old man shook his head,
And, with a natural sigh,
"'Tis some porr fellow's skull," said he,
"Who fell in the great victory.

"I find them in the garden,
For there's many here about;
And often when I go to plough,
The ploughshare turns them out:
For any thousand men," said he,
"Were slain in that great victory."

"Now tell us waht 'twas all about,"
Young Peterkin he cries;
And little Wilhlmine looks up
With wonder-waiting ees;
"Now tell us all abou tthe war,
And what they fought each other for."

"It was the English," Kaspar cried,
"Who put the French to rout;
But what they fought each other for,
I could not well make out;
But everybody said," quoth he,
"That 'twas a famous victory."

"My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by;
They burt his dwlling to the ground,
And he was forced to fly;
So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.

"With fire and sword the country round
Was wasted far and wide,
And many childing mother then
And newborn baby died;
But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.

"They say it was a shocking sight
Afer the field was won;
For many thousand bodies here
Lay rotting in the sun;
But things like that, you know, must be
Afer a famous victory.

"Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,
And our good Prince Eugene."
"Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!"
Said little Wilhelmine,
"Nay...nay...my little girl," quoth he,
"It was a famous victory.

"And everybody praised the Duke
Who this great fight did win."
"But what good came of it at last?"
Quoth little Peterkin.
"Why that I cannot tell," said he,"
"But 'twas a famous victory."

End

Why I like it:
1. Word use and word order
-‘twas
-“beside the rivulet in playing there had found” is such a more beautiful way of saying “found while playing beside the river” (or rivulet or stream)
-“large and smooth and round”
2. “things like that, you know”
-I really love the phrase and the repetition and the placement of this casual (almost modern-sounding) phrase after the most horrid descriptions – newborn babies dying and bodies rotting in the sun.
3. This poem does a wonderful job conveying the bluntness and wisdom of children
4. The form – Southey used the style of a Ballad to tell his tale, but instead of creating a true Ballad where the action of the tale is the story – he used the form and style to send his message. Clever!

How it makes sense of life:
Ahhhh… the feeling of not being able to explain the unexplainable to my kids. This poem reminded me of Samantha age six asking me if war was real. I didn’t understand her at first, until she explained “Do they just have it in movies and in stories or also in real life?” I had to tell her the truth. “Why?” She wanted to know why! And I was at a loss. It was almost a year later when I found this poem and I did read it to her. Although I couldn’t answer her question, I think this poem helped. She listened, asked me to read it again, nodded and said, “The children are right.”

Every time I read this poem, it reminds me not to be a parrot like Kasper, but to tell the truth!!!