FYI
I C U 2
lets hope reading poetry for 14 months has helped counter the soul-degenerating affect of spying on employees.
1.29.2010
problems not to be solved but lived through
First Marriage
I made it cross country
In a little under three days.
The engine blew out
About a hundred miles north
Of San Francisco, where I'd
Hoped to start living again
With a woman I'd abandoned
Only a few months before.
The reasons I'd left her were
Wincingly obvious
Soon as I got back
To her, and it didn't take long
Before I again left her.
In a few weeks I'd meet
The woman who became
My first wife, the one
With whom I spent
Almost the entirety
Of my twenties. It took
About twenty years
Getting over her, after
We divorced at thirty.
Broke then, I took
A bus cross-country
And was back in the East
By Christmas, thinking it
Would take three years maybe
To put this one behind me.
But getting over her
Happened as we were
Both in our third marriages,
Both then with children,
Heading for our fifties.
She came cross-country
To tend to me when I had
Cancer, with a 20% chance
Of recovery. The recovery
From all she had been to me,
Me abiding with her as long
As I did, took place finally
When we, her sitting on my bed
And me lying in it, held hands
And watched ourselves watching
TV, something we'd never quite
Been able to do comfortably
All those years ago. So many
Things turn this way over time,
So much tenderness and memory,
Problems not to be solved
But lived, and I resolved
Right then to start living
Only in this kind of time.
Cancer gave this to me: being
Able to sit, comfortably, to get
Over her finally, and to
Get on with the fight to live while
Staying ready to die daily.
by Liam Rector
I made it cross country
In a little under three days.
The engine blew out
About a hundred miles north
Of San Francisco, where I'd
Hoped to start living again
With a woman I'd abandoned
Only a few months before.
The reasons I'd left her were
Wincingly obvious
Soon as I got back
To her, and it didn't take long
Before I again left her.
In a few weeks I'd meet
The woman who became
My first wife, the one
With whom I spent
Almost the entirety
Of my twenties. It took
About twenty years
Getting over her, after
We divorced at thirty.
Broke then, I took
A bus cross-country
And was back in the East
By Christmas, thinking it
Would take three years maybe
To put this one behind me.
But getting over her
Happened as we were
Both in our third marriages,
Both then with children,
Heading for our fifties.
She came cross-country
To tend to me when I had
Cancer, with a 20% chance
Of recovery. The recovery
From all she had been to me,
Me abiding with her as long
As I did, took place finally
When we, her sitting on my bed
And me lying in it, held hands
And watched ourselves watching
TV, something we'd never quite
Been able to do comfortably
All those years ago. So many
Things turn this way over time,
So much tenderness and memory,
Problems not to be solved
But lived, and I resolved
Right then to start living
Only in this kind of time.
Cancer gave this to me: being
Able to sit, comfortably, to get
Over her finally, and to
Get on with the fight to live while
Staying ready to die daily.
by Liam Rector
home is when im alone with you
a lot of talk and thoughts about the concept of home lately. and on my walk "home" tonight through the wind three songs came on in a row that had to do with home. levi weaver's you are home and melissa etheridge's breathe, for starters, neither of which stupid grooveshark, but also the top song below by edward sharpe that ive had on repeat for the last week or so. anyway here are a few songs i love that deal with this concept we all spend life times defining.
1.28.2010
all I can give you
is february’s fruit
it will not be as sweet
as the flushed skin betrays
do not expect what you have held
on the tongue of your memory
since a summer when
all that could not be swallowed
ran down your face
to meet beneath your chin
but there is something to be savored
in this first imperfect effort--
promise
that a bitter winter
was not for nothing.
is february’s fruit
it will not be as sweet
as the flushed skin betrays
do not expect what you have held
on the tongue of your memory
since a summer when
all that could not be swallowed
ran down your face
to meet beneath your chin
but there is something to be savored
in this first imperfect effort--
promise
that a bitter winter
was not for nothing.
1.27.2010
apertura
sitting here trying to work through everything when a song comes on. and suddenly i feel like im expressing myself just by listening. each string put in motion sounds like the word i have been waiting to find.
each swell of energy is my unguarded self, the knowledge that i'm loved, the desire to be happy. each time the sound retreats there is always that persistent dark rhythm, a pawing at the ground. in the clarity of absence, it is so obvious that something is missing. in the simplicity of a single beat, there is the impatient knowledge that something has to change.
each swell of energy is my unguarded self, the knowledge that i'm loved, the desire to be happy. each time the sound retreats there is always that persistent dark rhythm, a pawing at the ground. in the clarity of absence, it is so obvious that something is missing. in the simplicity of a single beat, there is the impatient knowledge that something has to change.
are you a puma/is it bacon?
no comment on the did your cat eat it/is your cat healthy line of thinking.
see the source of this brilliance here.
Each day, we must learn again how to love, between morning's quick coffee and evening's slow return
In The Middle
of a life that's as complicated as everyone else's,
struggling for balance, juggling time.
The mantle clock that was my grandfather's
has stopped at 9:20; we haven't had time
to get it repaired. The brass pendulum is still,
the chimes don't ring. One day I look out the window,
green summer, the next, the leaves have already fallen,
and a grey sky lowers the horizon. Our children almost grown,
our parents gone, it happened so fast. Each day, we must learn
again how to love, between morning's quick coffee
and evening's slow return. Steam from a pot of soup rises,
mixing with the yeasty smell of baking bread. Our bodies
twine, and the big black dog pushes his great head between;
his tail, a metronome, 3/4 time. We'll never get there,
Time is always ahead of us, running down the beach, urging
us on faster, faster, but sometimes we take off our watches,
sometimes we lie in the hammock, caught between the mesh
of rope and the net of stars, suspended, tangled up
in love, running out of time.
-Barbara Crooker
of a life that's as complicated as everyone else's,
struggling for balance, juggling time.
The mantle clock that was my grandfather's
has stopped at 9:20; we haven't had time
to get it repaired. The brass pendulum is still,
the chimes don't ring. One day I look out the window,
green summer, the next, the leaves have already fallen,
and a grey sky lowers the horizon. Our children almost grown,
our parents gone, it happened so fast. Each day, we must learn
again how to love, between morning's quick coffee
and evening's slow return. Steam from a pot of soup rises,
mixing with the yeasty smell of baking bread. Our bodies
twine, and the big black dog pushes his great head between;
his tail, a metronome, 3/4 time. We'll never get there,
Time is always ahead of us, running down the beach, urging
us on faster, faster, but sometimes we take off our watches,
sometimes we lie in the hammock, caught between the mesh
of rope and the net of stars, suspended, tangled up
in love, running out of time.
-Barbara Crooker
1.25.2010
seriously, garrison, seriously? enough already. gettin creepy.
at this rate im just going to shut down this blog and put a big link to the writers almanac. 'wondering how im doing or whats on my mind? see poem of the day' (or yesterdays, such as the case may be).
also, really like that it was merwin. havent connected to one of his pieces in a while.
also, im going to resume putting some of my own shit up here. ive been hoarding it because everyone elses poetry is so, so much better. but ill man up soon.
One of the Butterflies
The trouble with pleasure is the timing
it can overtake me without warning
and be gone before I know it is here
it can stand facing me unrecognized
while I am remembering somewhere else
in another age or someone not seen
for years and never to be seen again
in this world and it seems that I cherish
only now a joy I was not aware of
when it was here although it remains
out of reach and will not be caught or named
or called back and if I could make it stay
as I want to it would turn to pain.
by W. S. Merwin
also, really like that it was merwin. havent connected to one of his pieces in a while.
also, im going to resume putting some of my own shit up here. ive been hoarding it because everyone elses poetry is so, so much better. but ill man up soon.
One of the Butterflies
The trouble with pleasure is the timing
it can overtake me without warning
and be gone before I know it is here
it can stand facing me unrecognized
while I am remembering somewhere else
in another age or someone not seen
for years and never to be seen again
in this world and it seems that I cherish
only now a joy I was not aware of
when it was here although it remains
out of reach and will not be caught or named
or called back and if I could make it stay
as I want to it would turn to pain.
by W. S. Merwin
1.23.2010
some people read their horoscopes, i read the writers almanac. todays:
The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
by Robert Frost
One of those poems i think i know because the first two lines are beaten over everyones heads. but i could know it better. a whole lot better.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
by Robert Frost
One of those poems i think i know because the first two lines are beaten over everyones heads. but i could know it better. a whole lot better.
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