Do I stop in Cambridge on the way to Chelsea?
Do I stop in Chicago on the way to Santiago?
Do I stop in a whiskey emporium on the way to the hamburger joint?
Do I pay a visit to the peach-pit museum on the way to the boob-job gallery?
Do I stop at the French library on the way to the Mandarin newsstand?
Do I perpetrate nonsense as someone asks for directions to the nearest polling place?
Do I sip black coffee as my denim-clad galpal shouts, "Myocardium! Pre-Raphaelite!"?
Do I make a thousand-smackeroonie withdrawal from the mackerel-scented ATM?
Do I proclaim to the blogosphere that, yes, it is snowing again?
Do I zip when the President zaps? Do I live in Wrentham and drive a pick-up truck?
Do I give a rat's patoot about the Golden Globes?
Do I visit my friends at Seacrest and mumble Zen koans at tea-time?
Do I campaign for clear green skies and turbulent purple oceans? Do I take to the airwaves 24/7 with my nutball ideas?
Do I go through the shoeboxes in my closet and search for a metric converter?
Do I bemoan the laxity of modern morals? Do I ever give it a rest?
Monday, January 18, 2010
Sunday, January 17, 2010
NFL team names in Latin
Funny title
And weirdly unselfflattering. Spotted in a used bookstore yesterday:
The Prosaic Soul of Nikki Giovanni.
!!!
Yes, quite.
The Prosaic Soul of Nikki Giovanni.
!!!
Yes, quite.
The Jury Box
New blog from MCNS (of Irish Elk). Cheerful Republicanism from the bluest of blue states.
I love you as a sheriff searches for a walnut
"To You" -- an early poem by Kenneth Koch (1925-2002), at the Poetry Foundation website. With audio!
Lorca
En las últimas esquinas
toqué sus pechos dormidos,
y se me abrieron de pronto
como ramos de jacintos.
In the farthest street corners
I touched her sleeping breasts,
and they opened to me suddenly
like spikes of hyacinth.
(from "The Faithless Wife," trans. Stephen Spender and J. L. Gili)
:: :: :: :: ::
Los relojes se pararon,
y el coñac de las botellas
se disfrazó de noviembre
para no infundir sospechas.
The clocks ceased to strike
and the bottles of brandy,
to arouse no suspicion,
wore the mask of November.
(from "Ballad of the Spanish Civil Guard," trans. A. L. Lloyd)
:: :: :: :: ::
From The Selected Poems of Federico García Lorca (New Directions, 1961), pp. 70-71, 90-91.
toqué sus pechos dormidos,
y se me abrieron de pronto
como ramos de jacintos.
In the farthest street corners
I touched her sleeping breasts,
and they opened to me suddenly
like spikes of hyacinth.
(from "The Faithless Wife," trans. Stephen Spender and J. L. Gili)
:: :: :: :: ::
Los relojes se pararon,
y el coñac de las botellas
se disfrazó de noviembre
para no infundir sospechas.
The clocks ceased to strike
and the bottles of brandy,
to arouse no suspicion,
wore the mask of November.
(from "Ballad of the Spanish Civil Guard," trans. A. L. Lloyd)
:: :: :: :: ::
From The Selected Poems of Federico García Lorca (New Directions, 1961), pp. 70-71, 90-91.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Proust questionnaire
(via A Momentary Taste of Being)
Your favorite virtue: Compassion.
Your chief characteristic: A very good memory for trivial things; garrulity.
Your main fault: Laziness, I fear.
Your favourite occupation: Wandering through used bookstores; reading; blogging.
Your idea of happiness: Being among friends. Writing. Peace and quiet. Autumn.
Your idea of misery: The late spring and early summer of 2003, when I was hospitalized and under the care of The Least Compassionate Doctor In The World.
If not yourself, who would you be: A famous poet or an obscure monk.
Where would you like to live: Alaska, or any place with cool summers.
Your favourite colour and flower: Blue, I think, in spite of the purple of my prose! Rose or carnation.
Your favorite prose authors: Oscar Wilde, Walker Percy, Marianne Moore for her reviews and essays, Donald Hall for his writing on poetry and on Eagle Pond
Your favorite poets: Dylan Thomas, Edward Estlin Cummings, William Shakespeare, Theodore Roethke, Emily Dickinson, John Ashbery (guilty pleasure), Kenneth Koch, Wallace Stevens, and lately Mary Oliver.
Your favorite heroes in fiction: I don't read much fiction, but can identify with Tom More of Walker Percy's Love in the Ruins.
Your favorite heroines in fiction: ?
Least favorite heroines in fiction: ?
Least favorite male characters in fiction: ?
Your favorite painters and composers: Composers: Mozart for the Requiem, Schubert for Ave Maria, The Beatles. Painters: Vincent van Gogh, Salvador Dalí.
Your heroes/heroines in real life: The two most recent Bishops of Rome; several saints and martyrs of holy Church. Literary heroes include Edward Estlin Cummings and Marianne Moore.
What characters in history do you most dislike: Anyone who persecuted the Church.
Your favorite food and drink: Pizza, pasta; beer, wine, gin martinis, "clear water, cold, so cold."
Your favorite names: Elizabeth (with a "z", not with an "s"!)
What I hate the most: Excessively hot weather; bullies of any variety.
World history characters I hate the most: Wasn't this already asked?
The military event I admire the most: ?
The reform I admire the most: Any attempt to preserve or to restore liturgical dignity to the celebration of Mass in the Roman Catholic Church.
The natural talent I’d like to be gifted with: Singing.
How I wish to die: Not suddenly! Prepared, and in the state of grace.
What is your present state of mind: Trying to forget about some tedious errands I have to do next Tuesday, but otherwise upbeat.
For what fault have you most toleration: A fault or a sign of a disease? I tend not to condemn persons who indulge excessively in alcohol.
Your favorite motto: I like Mallarmé's line (not really a motto, but noteworthy nonetheless): "Poems are made of words, not of ideas." Marianne Moore: "Humility is a quality that attracts our admiration oftener than it impels our imitation" (inexact; from memory). Cummings: "unbeingdead isn't beingalive."
Your favorite virtue: Compassion.
Your chief characteristic: A very good memory for trivial things; garrulity.
Your main fault: Laziness, I fear.
Your favourite occupation: Wandering through used bookstores; reading; blogging.
Your idea of happiness: Being among friends. Writing. Peace and quiet. Autumn.
Your idea of misery: The late spring and early summer of 2003, when I was hospitalized and under the care of The Least Compassionate Doctor In The World.
If not yourself, who would you be: A famous poet or an obscure monk.
Where would you like to live: Alaska, or any place with cool summers.
Your favourite colour and flower: Blue, I think, in spite of the purple of my prose! Rose or carnation.
Your favorite prose authors: Oscar Wilde, Walker Percy, Marianne Moore for her reviews and essays, Donald Hall for his writing on poetry and on Eagle Pond
Your favorite poets: Dylan Thomas, Edward Estlin Cummings, William Shakespeare, Theodore Roethke, Emily Dickinson, John Ashbery (guilty pleasure), Kenneth Koch, Wallace Stevens, and lately Mary Oliver.
Your favorite heroes in fiction: I don't read much fiction, but can identify with Tom More of Walker Percy's Love in the Ruins.
Your favorite heroines in fiction: ?
Least favorite heroines in fiction: ?
Least favorite male characters in fiction: ?
Your favorite painters and composers: Composers: Mozart for the Requiem, Schubert for Ave Maria, The Beatles. Painters: Vincent van Gogh, Salvador Dalí.
Your heroes/heroines in real life: The two most recent Bishops of Rome; several saints and martyrs of holy Church. Literary heroes include Edward Estlin Cummings and Marianne Moore.
What characters in history do you most dislike: Anyone who persecuted the Church.
Your favorite food and drink: Pizza, pasta; beer, wine, gin martinis, "clear water, cold, so cold."
Your favorite names: Elizabeth (with a "z", not with an "s"!)
What I hate the most: Excessively hot weather; bullies of any variety.
World history characters I hate the most: Wasn't this already asked?
The military event I admire the most: ?
The reform I admire the most: Any attempt to preserve or to restore liturgical dignity to the celebration of Mass in the Roman Catholic Church.
The natural talent I’d like to be gifted with: Singing.
How I wish to die: Not suddenly! Prepared, and in the state of grace.
What is your present state of mind: Trying to forget about some tedious errands I have to do next Tuesday, but otherwise upbeat.
For what fault have you most toleration: A fault or a sign of a disease? I tend not to condemn persons who indulge excessively in alcohol.
Your favorite motto: I like Mallarmé's line (not really a motto, but noteworthy nonetheless): "Poems are made of words, not of ideas." Marianne Moore: "Humility is a quality that attracts our admiration oftener than it impels our imitation" (inexact; from memory). Cummings: "unbeingdead isn't beingalive."
Spring
Yam yaw plinth shouts, "Lirpa! Bend splurb!"
And the beeswax brigade zithers, "No fie! Piazza!"
Fat rivers mow plows with laughter's daughters, and Pluto's
Platonic lobby sneezes, "Root beer conundrum!"
Oat my nubby! Chewable pamplona dingbat!
Pink squelch of caparisoned rubaiyat, field felt.
What goes with por favor better than pity back curl?
The lottery brink should exult, "Nab mabel flap!"
Intimate punchdrunk rebellions succeed George Meredith's
Armoire, and purchase rustling shadows for my onliest best :
Wade righteous, ye swabs, through sorrows by the rind muck hamper.
Experience, thou proper Glaswegian! Fractional bunch of grapes!
So long as funnels leak or sieves drain dry,
So long lives Petrarch O'Herlihy, Private Eye.
2003
And the beeswax brigade zithers, "No fie! Piazza!"
Fat rivers mow plows with laughter's daughters, and Pluto's
Platonic lobby sneezes, "Root beer conundrum!"
Oat my nubby! Chewable pamplona dingbat!
Pink squelch of caparisoned rubaiyat, field felt.
What goes with por favor better than pity back curl?
The lottery brink should exult, "Nab mabel flap!"
Intimate punchdrunk rebellions succeed George Meredith's
Armoire, and purchase rustling shadows for my onliest best :
Wade righteous, ye swabs, through sorrows by the rind muck hamper.
Experience, thou proper Glaswegian! Fractional bunch of grapes!
So long as funnels leak or sieves drain dry,
So long lives Petrarch O'Herlihy, Private Eye.
2003
Friday, January 15, 2010
Arthur Golding
For those of you who have suffered patiently through the surrealistic exuberances posted here in recent days (and I fear there may be more to come!), a link to some real poetry : Arthur Golding's mammoth 1567 translation of Ovid's Metamorphoses, with prefatory epistle in verse.
Five poems
Wine, guitars, blue bulls, red sun,
outmoded whispers --
*
The haiku of blue
by Kobayashi-Rimbaud
shines like jolie lune ...
*
Ashberyana:
traceries of yestermorn,
forgeries of night
*
Hoosegow bumpkin strums
a mighty mandolin
*
Weightless grams of simple sound --
eccola! Spring rain
drops like light
2003
outmoded whispers --
*
The haiku of blue
by Kobayashi-Rimbaud
shines like jolie lune ...
*
Ashberyana:
traceries of yestermorn,
forgeries of night
*
Hoosegow bumpkin strums
a mighty mandolin
*
Weightless grams of simple sound --
eccola! Spring rain
drops like light
2003
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Etymologies of circumstance
Should come.
Whelmed thicket.
Went while.
Journeyings oft.
Bright other.
Peasant pleasant.
With lunch.
Made fact.
Crass what.
And clash.
We see.
Yes after.
Abscond properties.
Filchpenny Square.
Gallon whole.
Cloned incline.
Apply aptly.
Bend therefore.
Stopping station.
Derelict dactyl.
Reason seasons.
Much struggle.
Facile starter.
Disrobe burlap.
Weep vale.
Comfort confront.
Lung space.
Achieves aim.
Have you.
Whence voice.
Lark spark.
Holiday concert.
Scribble straw.
Hexed native.
Finished missive.
Spoke speech.
2003
Whelmed thicket.
Went while.
Journeyings oft.
Bright other.
Peasant pleasant.
With lunch.
Made fact.
Crass what.
And clash.
We see.
Yes after.
Abscond properties.
Filchpenny Square.
Gallon whole.
Cloned incline.
Apply aptly.
Bend therefore.
Stopping station.
Derelict dactyl.
Reason seasons.
Much struggle.
Facile starter.
Disrobe burlap.
Weep vale.
Comfort confront.
Lung space.
Achieves aim.
Have you.
Whence voice.
Lark spark.
Holiday concert.
Scribble straw.
Hexed native.
Finished missive.
Spoke speech.
2003
Awake
Second mug of coffee now.
Can I jingle? Tell me how.
Grant me wit to spin a rhyme,
Wind a yarn in mirthful time,
Tell a tale of long and short,
Drinking coffee by the quart:
Put it in a gallon-jug,
Or (more modest) in a mug.
2003
Can I jingle? Tell me how.
Grant me wit to spin a rhyme,
Wind a yarn in mirthful time,
Tell a tale of long and short,
Drinking coffee by the quart:
Put it in a gallon-jug,
Or (more modest) in a mug.
2003
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Suggestion box
Celebrities are ghosts on the oblong glass. With voices as graspable as a wavelet's delicate motion, are they worth going green over? Pas du tout. And as for the pseudonymity of last year's valentines, dropped through the slot of an erstwhile address, should it raise the hackles of a copper weathervane? Slapping the breeze on its back is a fractious pastime. Let all tin-can quibbles grow placid. Don't lash out at the spectres of someone else's daydream. Spare Miss Watkins and her two cheerful cheeks. Don't wring the neck of the cinema's dapper usher. Don't fling rocks at chickadees because they chirrup so yellow and blithe. Unsnit the remains of daylight. Have some peace, and a snippet of splendor.
2003
2003
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Memoranda
I loaf and loiter at my ease. Misquoting the textbook, and improving it a bit.
Where are the words that will enchant the hooligans? They're comin' up on PBS.
A vegetarian's obnoxious virtue. And clever games, and talk of mercy.
It's the best thing on commercial television. So I've heard. I haven't watched television since the Watergate hearings.
The vowel-and-consonant distribution of exotic names.
One is a juice and one is a "beverage."
Attention is a loan shark. Pay attention.
Carols and lessons at three o'clock. I'll be asleep, in all likelihood.
O spirit of optimism, am I man enough to sustain thy cordial stresses?
There's a party next Thursday night at seven. Will you be there? We're meeting at the Bow and Arrow Pub.
We don't know each other, but I met you in the summer. I don't have any college degrees. In fact, my presence here is probably lowering property values.
Why not just listen to the radio? I love a rainy night.
I was sixteen before I could mispronounce "Adonaïs" correctly.
It's patently obvious that we are becoming inventive.
Where are the words that will enchant the hooligans? They're comin' up on PBS.
A vegetarian's obnoxious virtue. And clever games, and talk of mercy.
It's the best thing on commercial television. So I've heard. I haven't watched television since the Watergate hearings.
The vowel-and-consonant distribution of exotic names.
One is a juice and one is a "beverage."
Attention is a loan shark. Pay attention.
Carols and lessons at three o'clock. I'll be asleep, in all likelihood.
O spirit of optimism, am I man enough to sustain thy cordial stresses?
There's a party next Thursday night at seven. Will you be there? We're meeting at the Bow and Arrow Pub.
We don't know each other, but I met you in the summer. I don't have any college degrees. In fact, my presence here is probably lowering property values.
Why not just listen to the radio? I love a rainy night.
I was sixteen before I could mispronounce "Adonaïs" correctly.
It's patently obvious that we are becoming inventive.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Ghazal
Beshrew this Persian form, this sticky glue-puzzle!
I'm ready to throw it out and start a new puzzle.
Give me synesthesia and a splash of color,
Give me tradition, apple pie, a true-blue puzzle.
Give me nuts and bolts, brass tacks, the hard facts,
Give me a child-proof difficult-to-unscrew puzzle.
I despise the ease of pedestrian enigmas,
Of the winding path, of the pebble-in-the-shoe puzzle.
I require a larger-than-life brain-tease, a tall order;
Give me a six-foot-eleven or seven-foot-two puzzle.
It's hard to write a ghazal when you've had beer to guzzle,
But I'm willing to try a hearty stout, a dark brew-puzzle.
Where are you going with this, O Eastie-bred dylan?
I'm off to Wales to solve a Cwmrhydyceirw puzzle.
I'm ready to throw it out and start a new puzzle.
Give me synesthesia and a splash of color,
Give me tradition, apple pie, a true-blue puzzle.
Give me nuts and bolts, brass tacks, the hard facts,
Give me a child-proof difficult-to-unscrew puzzle.
I despise the ease of pedestrian enigmas,
Of the winding path, of the pebble-in-the-shoe puzzle.
I require a larger-than-life brain-tease, a tall order;
Give me a six-foot-eleven or seven-foot-two puzzle.
It's hard to write a ghazal when you've had beer to guzzle,
But I'm willing to try a hearty stout, a dark brew-puzzle.
Where are you going with this, O Eastie-bred dylan?
I'm off to Wales to solve a Cwmrhydyceirw puzzle.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Coffee
O coffee most matutinal and mighty!
O fortifying friend! O cup o' joe!
You strengthen and you waken sluggish brains!
O happy Saturday of indoor leisure!
Long morning at the keyboard, with a mug
Full of your dark mysterious potency!
O energizing java, you inspire
Poets across the continents and oceans
To sing your praise with strenuous hearty sounds!
Critics may counsel calmer beverages,
Elegant orange juice or Adam's ale,
But we find joy in you, O coffee bold!
O fortifying friend! O cup o' joe!
You strengthen and you waken sluggish brains!
O happy Saturday of indoor leisure!
Long morning at the keyboard, with a mug
Full of your dark mysterious potency!
O energizing java, you inspire
Poets across the continents and oceans
To sing your praise with strenuous hearty sounds!
Critics may counsel calmer beverages,
Elegant orange juice or Adam's ale,
But we find joy in you, O coffee bold!
Saturday, January 09, 2010
Lazy Bastardism: A Notebook
Great essay by poet Carmine Starnino (a name that is new to this reader) at the Poetry Foundation website. Beginning with Italian-Canadian dialect expressions, going on to the poetic aspects of certain Catholic prayers (and the modernistic draining of all poetry therefrom), approbatory mentions of everyone from Cummings to Donne, from Simic to Stallings, and a swipe at the "lazy bastardism" of a recent US poet laureate.
Friday, January 08, 2010
Thursday, January 07, 2010
Wednesday, January 06, 2010
Quotation
To tell someone "I love you" is tantamount to telling him or her, "you shall never die."
Gabriel Marcel, quoted by Metropolitan Anthony of Sourozh in God and Man (Darton, Longman & Todd, 2004), p. 114
Gabriel Marcel, quoted by Metropolitan Anthony of Sourozh in God and Man (Darton, Longman & Todd, 2004), p. 114
Sunday, January 03, 2010
Semi-significant anniversaries
2010 will mark:
-- 20 years since I left college
-- 25 years since my discovery of Dylan Thomas
-- 25 years since The Breakfast Club (mega-popular John Hughes film) and "Apostasy of Love" (one of my weirder poems)
-- 25 years since that Seamus Heaney reading at Boston College, where I got my copies of Field Work and Station Island autographed
-- 30 years since my first day at Boston Latin School
-- 30 years since my first trip, with my parents, to Quebec City
-- 70 years since my dad was born! (Yikes!)
-- 20 years since I left college
-- 25 years since my discovery of Dylan Thomas
-- 25 years since The Breakfast Club (mega-popular John Hughes film) and "Apostasy of Love" (one of my weirder poems)
-- 25 years since that Seamus Heaney reading at Boston College, where I got my copies of Field Work and Station Island autographed
-- 30 years since my first day at Boston Latin School
-- 30 years since my first trip, with my parents, to Quebec City
-- 70 years since my dad was born! (Yikes!)
Saturday, January 02, 2010
Music at yesterday's Mass
Ding dong merrily on high,
In heav'n the bells are ringing:
Ding dong! verily the sky
Is riv'n with angel singing.
Gloria, Hosanna in excelsis!
E'en so here below, below,
Let steeple bells be swungen,
And "Io, io, io!"
By priest and people sungen.
Gloria, Hosanna in excelsis!
Pray you, dutifully prime
Your matin chime, ye ringers;
May you beautifully rime
Your evetime song, ye singers.
Gloria, Hosanna in excelsis!
In heav'n the bells are ringing:
Ding dong! verily the sky
Is riv'n with angel singing.
Gloria, Hosanna in excelsis!
E'en so here below, below,
Let steeple bells be swungen,
And "Io, io, io!"
By priest and people sungen.
Gloria, Hosanna in excelsis!
Pray you, dutifully prime
Your matin chime, ye ringers;
May you beautifully rime
Your evetime song, ye singers.
Gloria, Hosanna in excelsis!
Friday, January 01, 2010
In defense of Pope Pius XII
Cardinal Seán O'Malley devotes the initial part of this week's post at his blog to defending the late Pontiff against charges of Nazi sympathies.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
The true meaning of ALL ARE WELCOME
"I don't think you should check us out." If you're not a welcoming sort (read: leftist), stay away!
Via Mark Shea.
Via Mark Shea.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Poetry meme UPDATED
Found at Inscapes (a blog that comes recommended by the sagacious William Luse), after clicking on the label "poetry."
UPDATE (12/28): I was just rereading the post from which I stole the meme below, and found this sentence:
Yikes! Lawrence? Lawrence??
The ghost of Dylan Thomas, I'm sure, forgives the blogger!
:: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: ::
1. The first poem I remember reading/hearing/reacting to was .....
2. I was forced to memorize ..... in school and .....
3. I read/don't read poetry because .....
4. A poem I'm likely to think about when asked about a favorite poem is .....
5. I write/don't write poetry, but .....
6. My experience with reading poetry differs from my experience with reading other types of literature .....
7. I find poetry .....
8. The last time I heard poetry .....
9. I think poetry is like .....
My answers:
1. The first poems were of course the songs I heard on AM radio before the age of three ("American Pie" and "A Horse with No Name" were particular favorites). Then, later: Beatles lyrics, and Robert Frost (age 11, just as I was beginning to write rhymes of my own).
2. Memorably, I was forced to memorize Poe's "Annabel Lee" in school. I was out of school when the assignment was given, to be done by the following day. So that following day I was in class, sweating bullets and frantically hoping the teacher wouldn't call on me before I had the chance to memorize the piece right then and there! In 30 minutes, I managed to memorize enough of the poem to earn a grade of 15 out of 20.
3. I read poetry because for me, it is almost the only kind of literature worth reading!
4. Favorite poems include Dylan Thomas's "Prologue"; Shakespeare's sonnet 18; Catullus's "Odi et amo" (I hate and I love); many poems by Cummings; Theodore Roethke's "I knew a woman, lovely in her bones"; Countee Cullen's "A Song of Praise"; "O Holy Night" in French (Minuit, chrétiens); and a hundred others.
5. I used to write poetry. Nowadays, I perpetrate a feeble kind of light verse every once in a blue moon.
6. See answer to #3!
7. I find poetry where it can be found, which is almost everywhere.
8. The last time I heard poetry was my own viva voce reading of A Child's Christmas In Wales last night. Prose poetry, but poetry nonetheless!
9. I think poetry is like nothing else in the world. (Oh, what am I supposed to say?) I think poetry is loads of fun. And more, I think poetry is necessary, at least for me.
UPDATE (12/28): I was just rereading the post from which I stole the meme below, and found this sentence:
Some of the most beautiful and moving poems I know are not “pretty”; they are harsh, maybe even dissonant, and treat ugly subjects, for example, “Dulce et Decorum Est” by Wilfred Owens, or Lawrence’s “Do Not Go Gentle.”
Yikes! Lawrence? Lawrence??
The ghost of Dylan Thomas, I'm sure, forgives the blogger!
:: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: ::
1. The first poem I remember reading/hearing/reacting to was .....
2. I was forced to memorize ..... in school and .....
3. I read/don't read poetry because .....
4. A poem I'm likely to think about when asked about a favorite poem is .....
5. I write/don't write poetry, but .....
6. My experience with reading poetry differs from my experience with reading other types of literature .....
7. I find poetry .....
8. The last time I heard poetry .....
9. I think poetry is like .....
My answers:
1. The first poems were of course the songs I heard on AM radio before the age of three ("American Pie" and "A Horse with No Name" were particular favorites). Then, later: Beatles lyrics, and Robert Frost (age 11, just as I was beginning to write rhymes of my own).
2. Memorably, I was forced to memorize Poe's "Annabel Lee" in school. I was out of school when the assignment was given, to be done by the following day. So that following day I was in class, sweating bullets and frantically hoping the teacher wouldn't call on me before I had the chance to memorize the piece right then and there! In 30 minutes, I managed to memorize enough of the poem to earn a grade of 15 out of 20.
3. I read poetry because for me, it is almost the only kind of literature worth reading!
4. Favorite poems include Dylan Thomas's "Prologue"; Shakespeare's sonnet 18; Catullus's "Odi et amo" (I hate and I love); many poems by Cummings; Theodore Roethke's "I knew a woman, lovely in her bones"; Countee Cullen's "A Song of Praise"; "O Holy Night" in French (Minuit, chrétiens); and a hundred others.
5. I used to write poetry. Nowadays, I perpetrate a feeble kind of light verse every once in a blue moon.
6. See answer to #3!
7. I find poetry where it can be found, which is almost everywhere.
8. The last time I heard poetry was my own viva voce reading of A Child's Christmas In Wales last night. Prose poetry, but poetry nonetheless!
9. I think poetry is like nothing else in the world. (Oh, what am I supposed to say?) I think poetry is loads of fun. And more, I think poetry is necessary, at least for me.
Friday, December 25, 2009
José Garcia Villa
Bring the pigeons watermelons, Abelard.
The order has cool philosophic purity.
This is not largesse but Roman nobility.
Bring the peacocks oranges.
Turn the philosophy to sensuousness.
Pallas Athene is Greek thereby.
But if we bring the watermelons pigeons?
If we bring the oranges peacocks?
Is that very difficult?
This would not be Greek nor Roman,
This would be purity without philosophy.
This would be artistry.
José Garcia Villa, poem #34, in Doveglion: Collected Poems, ed. John Edwin Cowen, intro. Luis H. Francia (Penguin Books, 2008), pp. 21-22.
The order has cool philosophic purity.
This is not largesse but Roman nobility.
Bring the peacocks oranges.
Turn the philosophy to sensuousness.
Pallas Athene is Greek thereby.
But if we bring the watermelons pigeons?
If we bring the oranges peacocks?
Is that very difficult?
This would not be Greek nor Roman,
This would be purity without philosophy.
This would be artistry.
José Garcia Villa, poem #34, in Doveglion: Collected Poems, ed. John Edwin Cowen, intro. Luis H. Francia (Penguin Books, 2008), pp. 21-22.
Prayers
This Christmas evening, it's probably a good idea to pray for the peace of mind of the troubled woman who ran at the Holy Father as the late-night Christmas Mass began, and for the healing of Cardinal Etchegaray who broke a bone (his hip, was it?) during the confusion.
Incarnation
by Dr. Eric Milner-White (1884-1963)
What is man that thou visitest him,
and the son of man that thou so regardest him?
LORD, let me kneel before thy miracle
-- an infant in a stable
on a human mother's breast,
from all eternity thine only begotten Son,
thy Word from before beginning,
God of God, Light of Light, Very God of Very God,
of his own choice, of thine own purpose,
made mortal man.
What is man that thou visitest him,
and the son of man that thou so regardest him?
O CHRIST, let me kneel before the wonder of thy Glory
thus made manifest to all flesh;
to be made one with thy lowliness,
one with thine obedience,
one with thy majesty of love,
in a union, that by thy grace
shall know no divorce
unto the ages of ages. Amen.
Eric Milner-White, My God, My Glory : Aspirations, Acts, and Prayers on the Desire for God, ed. Joyce Huggett (London : Triangle/SPCK, 1994), p. 57
What is man that thou visitest him,
and the son of man that thou so regardest him?
LORD, let me kneel before thy miracle
-- an infant in a stable
on a human mother's breast,
from all eternity thine only begotten Son,
thy Word from before beginning,
God of God, Light of Light, Very God of Very God,
of his own choice, of thine own purpose,
made mortal man.
What is man that thou visitest him,
and the son of man that thou so regardest him?
O CHRIST, let me kneel before the wonder of thy Glory
thus made manifest to all flesh;
to be made one with thy lowliness,
one with thine obedience,
one with thy majesty of love,
in a union, that by thy grace
shall know no divorce
unto the ages of ages. Amen.
Eric Milner-White, My God, My Glory : Aspirations, Acts, and Prayers on the Desire for God, ed. Joyce Huggett (London : Triangle/SPCK, 1994), p. 57
Thursday, December 24, 2009
O come, all ye faithful ...
Adeste, fideles,
laeti triumphantes,
venite, venite in Bethlehem.
Natum videte regem angelorum!
Venite adoremus Dominum!
En, grege relicto,
humiles ad cunas
vocati pastores approperant :
et nos ovanti gradu festinemus!
Venite adoremus Dominum!
laeti triumphantes,
venite, venite in Bethlehem.
Natum videte regem angelorum!
Venite adoremus Dominum!
En, grege relicto,
humiles ad cunas
vocati pastores approperant :
et nos ovanti gradu festinemus!
Venite adoremus Dominum!
A kid's answer to a Santa question
This was on the news around here. A reporter was asking little kids questions about jolly old St. Nick, and one of the questions was, "How fast does Santa's sleigh fly?"
A girl of about six came up with the best answer. She thought about it and said, "Ten seconds per second."
A girl of about six came up with the best answer. She thought about it and said, "Ten seconds per second."
Monday, December 21, 2009
Take it up to the next level
Do you or some of your co-workers utilize -- I mean, use -- these jargonistic terms?
Sunday, December 20, 2009
On a happier note!
Enbrethiliel gives us a characteristically cheery post for her Sacerdotal Sunday: about the Curé of Ars; about "sin detection" and running shoes; about smiling at the thought of returning to dust, and other good things.
And yes, on Ash Wednesday, I wish I could hear the priest say to me, in "sexist" iambic Elizabethan: "Remember, man, that thou art dust, and unto dust thou shalt return."
And yes, on Ash Wednesday, I wish I could hear the priest say to me, in "sexist" iambic Elizabethan: "Remember, man, that thou art dust, and unto dust thou shalt return."
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