We could do it right here

QFC wine aisle

We were in QFC tonight, buying wine.  Me, Amy, and Jamie.  And since this morning I told my Anatomy & Physiology study partner that we had to recite our poem in the grocery market, I suggested we do it right there.  Tonight, in the wine aisle, while the store was pretty much empty.

Nope, turns out I was mistaken.  This morning in my study/post-flight delirium, I remembered the poll results all wrong.  We are to recite our poems on a BUS! (despite my best efforts at finding every free computer I could and voting for the private party)

And no, that is NOT cheating.  Especially since it didn't work!

Yes, tomorrow at this time I may have already spoken the words of Kipling.  Straight from my memory while aboard a Seattle Metro bus, ripe for your viewing pleasure, or perhaps comical entertainment.  Or maybe you won't even be able to watch it from the sheer embarrassment of it all.  (that would be best, do not watch)

Believe me, please do not watch.  For your sake.

For now, I leave you with my lame attempt at a new background.  I'd have a better one, but Blogger can kiss my ass.  The file is always too big, or not big enough.

That's what she said!

-Melissa

That's what she said

posted by Melissa
I think I am still delirious.  From the air travel, wine at high altitudes, and the amount of information I attempted to memorize in the past two days.

The Jersey Shore

I flew my kids to the east coast on a Wednesday night red eye (read: 3 hours of sleep) last week and arrived at the Jersey shore for some fun in the sun.  It was a great weekend of family, lots of family I had not seen in years.  And we even met a distant relative that shared my father's penchant for family history.  Don drove down from near New York City to share some photos and stories of what he knows of the Terry family history.  I was surprisingly entertained by it; history typically bores me.

We also spent an evening on the boardwalk.  Riding roller coasters and other daring rides.  Eating ice cream.  Drinking lemonade.  Whining when the night had to end.

I love the beach and the sun.  It leaves me wondering why we moved to Seattle, land of the dreary.  Where summer is but a flicker in your memory, like when someone turns the light on in the middle of the night.  You squint from the light, startled, and when you wake up you think maybe it was a dream.  But there was plenty of sun in Jersey, and I soaked as much of it in as I could.

One day I was pacing on the sunny beach, poetry book in hand, memorizing the Kipling poem, "If."  (Which I have accomplished! although the last stanza is a bit evasive)  A lone kid's shoe on the sand caught my eye.  I recognized it because we walked to the beach behind the kid that was wearing the black Croc flip flops just like the one I spied on the sand.  I feel like people must think I am such a stalker, because I notice so many details like that.  I spend a lot of time watching and observing people.

I walked over to the family, and pretended I didn't know if it was theirs or not.
"Is this yours?" I asked the kid.  He didn't speak to me, but his eyes said yes.
The Mom overheard and  thanked me.  Then she asked me what I was reading.  I told her and she asked a few more questions, and before I knew it, I was telling her all about the blog.  As I walked off, guess what she said?

"Well, good luck with that!"

"That is the name of my blog!" I told her, a little too excitedly, because I kinda swallowed some saliva and my voice sounded funny like there was an air bubble in my throat.  And I almost choked.

"What?" She said, puzzled and perhaps concerned.

Then I gave one of those fake laughs and told her again that it was the name of my blog.  And quickly walked away.  Human interaction can be so odd, or maybe I just over think it all.

Now I am back home in Seattle.  Without my kids.  I call myself a person that doesn't miss people, but you know what?  I do miss them.  A lot.  They are staying on the east coast for a few weeks of grandparent time.  I know they'll have fun, and so will we.  So, I stay grounded in that thought.

Back to Seattle = back to school.  I struggled through one test this morning after minimal sleep, and am working on studying for the next one this evening.  I know it is the first of the month, so I am also preparing for the reading of my poem.  The one I am going to read ON THE BUS!  I can't believe it.  I think I might for real choke and die.  I can't believe I agreed to this.

We are hoping to get the page all changed up for hiking/backpacking (yes, another think I can't believe I thought was a good idea) month in the next couple days...stay tuned.

-Melissa

I need your help! Quick!

posted by Melissa

I like to pace while I memorize poetry.

It is July 12th and I have memorized 7 lines of poetry.  I partly feel accomplished, and defeated at the same time.  The 7 lines I have committed to memory are really there, I can recall them at any point and recite them fluidly.  In this I have gained a little confidence to take into my big poem of the month.  But, what poem will that be????

This is where I need your help!  If you could please pick one that you like and let me know which one I should memorize in the comments below, I would greatly appreciate it.

I have narrowed it down to four.  Two of them are "classic" poems, and two are contemporary.  And there too, I wonder, should it be before a certain year, to be old enough to consider it a classic?  What makes a poem or anything a classic?  Was it a classic in it's time, or just later after it aged and its widespread appreciation grew.

Wikipedia defines the term classic as this:

The word classic means something that is a perfect example of a particular style, something of lasting worth or with a timeless quality. The word can be an adjective (a classic car) or a noun (a classic of English literature). It denotes a particular quality in art, architecture, literature and other cultural artifacts. In commerce, products are named 'classic' to denote a long standing popular version or model, to distinguish it from a newer variety. Classic is used to describe many major, long-standing sporting events. Colloquially, an everyday occurrence (e.g. a joke or mishap) may be described as 'an absolute classic'.

So far, looks like I'll be reciting the poem here.

I'll let you be the judge of whether or not the poems I have as your options are classic or not.

I have been having fun with the results of our "Where to recite" poll (It's a close race! and you'll find where to place your vote up on the right hand corner of the blog) and am hoping this poll will be as helpful.  I will start memorizing whichever poem you choose on Thursday at 5pm.  That gives two days to vote on your favorite.

Here they are:

1.  Space, in chains

by Laura Kasischke

Things that are beautiful, and die.  Things that fall asleep in the afternoon, in 

sun.  Things that laugh, then cover their mouths, ashamed of their teeth.  A

strong man pouring coffee into a cup.  His hands shake, it spills.  his wife falls

to her knees when the telephone rings.  Hello?  Goddammit, hello?

Where is their child?

Hamster, tuplis, love, gigantic squid.  To live.  I'm not endorsing it.

Any single, transcriptional event.  The chromosomes of the roses.  Flagella,

cilia, all the filaments of touching, feeling, of running your little hand

hopelessly along the bricks.

Sky, stamped into flesh, bending over the sink to drink the tour de force of

water.

It's all space, in chains - the chaos of birdsong after a rainstorm, the steam

rising off the asphalt, a small boy in boots opening the back door, stepping

out, and someone calling to him from the kitchen,

Sweetie, don't be gone too long.

2.  anyone lived in a pretty how town

by e.e.cummings

anyone lived in a pretty how town

(with up so floating many bells down)

spring summer autumn winter

he sang his didn't he danced his did

Women and men(both little and small)

cared for anyone not at all

they sowed their isn't they reaped their same

sun moon stars rain

children guessed(but only a few

and down they forgot as up they grew

autumn winter spring summer)

that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf

she laughed his joy she cried his grief

bird by snow and stir by still

anyone's any was all to her

someones married their everyones

laughed their cryings and did their dance

(sleep wake hope and then)they

said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon

(and only the snow can begin to explain

how children are apt to forget to remember

with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess

(and noone stooped to kiss his face)

busy folk buried them side by side

little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep

and more by more they dream their sleep

noone and anyone earth by april

wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men(both dong and ding)

summer autumn winter spring

reaped their sowing and went their came

sun moon stars rain

3.  If
by Rudyard Kipling


If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!

4.  Summer

by Laura Kasischke

She drank too much

She was after

Some meadow

Some orchard

Some childhood night with the window open, and it was summer, and her

own mother was humming in another room, and through the screen the

fuzzy blue, and suddenly she was out there swimming, too, in softness, a

permanent candle, invisible, beautiful.

She drank too much

For many years

Some stairs

Some cosmetics

Once

I stood in the threshold and watched her disintegrate before a mirror.

My lovely mother before a tray full of bracelets

(Repeat: My lovely mother before a tray full of bracelets)

She invited me in to fish the ice cubes from her drink.  They were warm. On

my tongue.  Such calm.  Like a small bomb detonated in an isolated barn.  Like

a beloved pet in the middle of a busy street, just standing there, looking

around.

Thanks for helping a sista out.

There you have it, your 4 choices.  Just click on where it says comments below the post and you can type in your pick.  You can leave it anonymously, or choose a name to post it with.  

Maybe this was just my way to (hopefully) get you to read four of my favorite poems.  Here's to the fact that you actually did.  You did, right?  You did actually read the poems?

Cheers!
Melissa

Poetry in Baseball

posted by Melissa

Levi in the dugout.

Today was the last day of our baseball season.  We hurriedly drove our rental car down to Renton to watch Levi and his All-Star team, the Senators, make one more attempt at winning. We were up against the Eastlake Jettas.  The first few innings were tight, but we were up by 4 by the end of the third.  6-2.

Then, I don't know what happened, but I guess I should have guessed because it usually does fall apart.  We started giving up runs.  First just a few, and then before I knew it, we were down 13-6.   The spirit was dwindling, and let me tell you, we are a spirit filled bunch of Senator's parents.

It was the top of the 5th (they only play 6 innings, but because of time we were going to have to stop at 5) and we were up to bat.  We needed 6 runs, at least, to tie it.  We rallied, and heroically, the Senator's started hitting and scoring.  Run after run were stepping their cleats onto home plate.  We even had a few scores but stealing home.

Then, we were down by one, two outs, and the our batter had hit at least 5 foul balls (read: 2 strikes, over and over again.)  The parents were feeling the stress, I was going to text Jamie (who was not able to come because of work) but I couldn't because I was trembling from the excitement.

Nico, who was at bat, hit one again; but this time not a pop up over the backstop, it travelled out just past the first base, right near the line.  And it landed just inside the foul line!  It was fair!  Our runner on third came in to tie the game and every parent on the bleachers stood up and cheered!  The kids were hugging each other in the dugout and I don't know if I ever felt a joy like that at a baseball game.

It turns out that because of the rules of the tournament, we had to end the inning at two outs; since we had scored the limit of 7 runs.  I thought, and so did a lot of other mothers in the stands, that in the last inning you were allowed to score as many runs as you could.  But, since it was the last inning due to time limitations, and not the *sixth* inning; the 7 run rule still applied.

G*d F*&king damnit.  The other team scored one run in the bottom of the fifth and we lost.  They had one out, and it was a high fly ball to left field.  Even if our player had caught it, he wouldn't have got the third base runner out at home after he tagged up.

And so goes Seattle Pony Mustang baseball.  But the good news is that we all got to gather at a teammates house and had a pizza party, ending on the high of a near come from behind win.  And not a possible trampling by another really good team.

That is 9 year old baseball.  And I love it!  I did recite my poem a few times today, and feel pleased that I remember it.  I am still unsure about trying to memorize the whole thing.  Or should I choose something else for the big recitation?  We'll see.

For now, I leave you with a Baseball poem:

Building my Beach, 1 Grain of Sand at a Time

posted by Melissa

that possibly topless person is not me.

I did it!

I memorized my first poem yesterday.  It as passed on to me from my friend, Abbe, in Baltimore.  First, I recited it to Jamie this morning.  I even recited it in front of Amy today.  I noticed she averted her eyes, guess she's been keeping up with my posts.  Although, I felt totally fine if she had watched me.  I stumbled through the words at first and mistakenly thought I forgot the third line.  I stated over and went smoothly through.

It turns out it is an excerpt from a longer poem, and who knows, maybe I'll be inspired to learn the whole thing.  I memorized the part in bold type, lines 57-62.


Auguries of Innocence

William Blake (1757–1827)


To see a world in a grain of sand,
  And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
  And eternity in an hour.

A robin redbreast in a cage        5
Puts all heaven in a rage.
A dove-house fill’d with doves and pigeons
Shudders hell thro’ all its regions.
A dog starv’d at his master’s gate
Predicts the ruin of the state.        10
A horse misused upon the road
Calls to heaven for human blood.
Each outcry of the hunted hare
A fibre from the brain does tear.
A skylark wounded in the wing,        15
A cherubim does cease to sing.
The game-cock clipt and arm’d for fight
Does the rising sun affright.

Every wolf’s and lion’s howl
Raises from hell a human soul.        20
The wild deer, wand’ring here and there,
Keeps the human soul from care.
The lamb misus’d breeds public strife,
And yet forgives the butcher’s knife.
The bat that flits at close of eve        25
Has left the brain that won’t believe.
The owl that calls upon the night
Speaks the unbeliever’s fright.
He who shall hurt the little wren
Shall never be belov’d by men.        30
He who the ox to wrath has mov’d
Shall never be by woman lov’d.
The wanton boy that kills the fly
Shall feel the spider’s enmity.
He who torments the chafer’s sprite        35
Weaves a bower in endless night.
The caterpillar on the leaf
Repeats to thee thy mother’s grief.
Kill not the moth nor butterfly,
For the last judgment draweth nigh.        40
He who shall train the horse to war
Shall never pass the polar bar.
The beggar’s dog and widow’s cat,
Feed them and thou wilt grow fat.
The gnat that sings his summer’s song        45
Poison gets from slander’s tongue.
The poison of the snake and newt
Is the sweat of envy’s foot.
The poison of the honey bee
Is the artist’s jealousy.        50

The prince’s robes and beggar’s rags
Are toadstools on the miser’s bags.
A truth that’s told with bad intent
Beats all the lies you can invent.
It is right it should be so;        55
Man was made for joy and woe;
And when this we rightly know,
Thro’ the world we safely go.
Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine.        60
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.

I Want to Pay Homage, Too! But to What?

posted by Melissa
I just found this passage on www.poets.org

Memorize a Poem   

"We speak of memorizing as getting something 'by heart,' which really means 'by head.' But getting a poem or prose passage truly 'by heart' implies getting it by mind and memory and understanding and delight." —John Hollander

Select a poem from the book you're reading, or an old favorite, and begin to memorize it. While memorization may seem like a relic from your school days, the rewards of recalling a private anthology of well-loved poems are both immediate and long-lasting.

If you are new to memorization, pick a short poem with a strong rhythmic underpinning. Rhythm has long been used as a tool to aid the memory, particularly by oral storytellers before the advent of the written word. By choosing and memorizing a poem that you love, you connect yourself to this long tradition of passing along stories and customs through the power of poetic language. Make sure that you understand the sense of the poem—this will give meaning to the rote act of learning each line and transform a string of sounds into a message that you can easily absorb and transmit.

Committed to Memory: 100 Best Poems to Memorize (1996) is a great guide to choosing poems which lend themselves easily to memorization. Published in conjunction with The Academy of American Poets and edited by John Hollander, this anthology presents a group of classic, celebrated poems which emphasizes the pleasure of memorization and recitation.

You can also browse a list of poems to memorize, perform, or recite—part of a feature on Great Poems to Teach.

I think this advice is going to be very helpful to me, and I might just purchase the book today.  Is it too late to change my mind?  Maybe I do have commitment issues when it comes to poetry?  I want to memorize the "Summer" poem by Kasischke, but is it too modern?  Thew title of our month is "Memorize a Classic Poem."  This website, poets.org, has a lot of great information.

If you click on the "Great Poems to Teach" link above, you can find some wonderful audio and visual poetry pieces like this one by Lucille Clifton, "Homage to My Hips."

Damn that was good.  So many questions, so many choices!  What would you choose?

-Melissa

Darting fears in Summer

posted by Melissa

Pete and Jamie playing at the cookout (notice dirty feet)

The other morning, on the 4th of July,  I was studying for my Anatomy & Physiology class up at Victrola Coffee.  Amy texted me to see if I was around the building to talk to, and I immediately thought, "Ok, if this cookout coordinator thing is getting to be too much for her, I can totally take some of it on.  We'll be Co-Co-ordinators."

I texted her back to walk up to Victrola and have a chat there.  When she showed up, very chipper, and announced that she wanted to share some of her poems that she memorized out loud; I was both relieved (that Amy was happy and looking forward to the festivities of the day) and very nervous.

I realized that my public speaking fears stretched father than I had thought.  I was even having that stomach tumbling and heart rising to my tight throat feeling when I thought of Amy sitting across the table reciting aloud to me, no book between us, just her words and my ears.  And two sets of eyes, possibly darting here and there, or maybe more comfortably staring off into space.

I handled it OK.  She gave me her book of the "Declaration of Independence" that she was reciting, so there was that to look at and buffer my insecurities.  Amy did great, besides a few small word changes, she totally nailed two whole paragraphs, at least.  That experience also brought up the unending conversation of the day (and into the night) of my intense fears of hiking/backpacking.  The thing I picked for August.  What was I thinking!?! (more on that another time.)

Later on that same sunny day, we were all hanging out on the front steps of the Boathouse (our apartment building), having a PBR and enjoying some poetry.  I decided we had to go on a poetry run to our local bookstore, Elliot Bay Books.  Me, Amy, Tallulah and our neighbor (and young poet) Pete all walked down through the park.  Pete was walking barefoot through the city and Tallulah couldn't seem to let that go:

"Pete isn't wearing shoes." repeated Tallulah.

"I know, he's an adult.  He makes his own choices." I responded to her with each announcement.

"Pete doesn't have shoes on.  He should be wearing shoes." Tallulah said, now looking to Amy.

"Yes, he could get cut, Tallulah, but his Mom can't tell him what to do anymore." Amy replied.

Pete's feet never got cut and Tallulah got more involved in whining about not wanting to walk.  But the good news was that the bookstore had one copy left of Laura Kasischke's (pronounced Ka-ZISS-kee) newest poetry book.  Whew.  It is called Space, In Chains.  So our holiday poetry run was a success and I love her work, all of it.  This is one of my favorite's today.

Summer
by Laura Kasischke

She drank too much
She was after
Some meadow
Some orchard

Some childhood night with the window open, and it was summer, and her
own mother was humming in another room, and through the screen the
fuzzy blue, and suddenly she was out there swimming, too, in softness, a
permanent candle, invisible, beautiful.

She drank too much
For many years
Some stairs
Some cosmetics
Once

I stood in the threshold and watched her disintegrate before a mirror.

My lovely mother before a tray full of bracelets
(Repeat: My lovely mother before a tray full of bracelets)

She invited me in to fish the ice cubes from her drink.  They were warm. On
my tongue.  Such calm.  Like a small bomb detonated in an isolated barn.  Like
a beloved pet in the middle of a busy street, just standing there, looking
around.


Hope you enjoyed it...
Melissa

Serendipitous

posted  by Melissa
What is Serendipitous?   Today, several components.

yes, yet another.

1. It was the name of my drink tonight at Smith. (which I wanted to showcase in a photo, hence the repeat of our fun photo shoot, but my phone took a terrible picture in the dim Smith light.)

2. The fact that I asked Amy if the reason why she wanted to have a meeting about the blog with me before she leaves for Hawaii was because she wanted to quit and she said, "No!!! It's because I am wanting to get more into the blog!!!"  (Yes, I used a lot of exclamation points, but if you know Amy, you know that she is often loud.)

3. I decided on my first poem to memorize and I started the process.  I no longer have a commitment issue.

4. I saw a post by the Sweatbox on FB that shared a TED link about a guy doing a new thing for 30 days.  I clicked the link and watched it.  I though, "Hey!  That is what me and Amy are doing!"  And so, instead of being a quiet watcher, I commented and shared our blog link.

5. Some random person saw my comment, clicked our link, read our blog, shared a poem on my "Kitchen Song" post, and said they liked the blog!  (*super exciting*)

6. Amy and I had our first blog meeting in months, by chance at Smith, where we had our best poutine ever, and the sangria that was the aforementioned...Serendipitous.

7. And now, the name of my new (silly, for fun) poem:

Amy and I had a meeting at Smith
Where we shared the most delicious dish.
I declared that we be brought our own plate
because sharing cheesy, gravy fries is something I hate.

We both had a glass of cabernet coke sangria
and we laughed loud like we do.

We talked about who could be reading our blog
and who doesn't, What? are they snobs?
While we may be twisted and believe in dark fate,
We hope that you read along, because you relate.

And if you don't, well that's alright and we'll see ya.
Because some other people do.


That's it for tonight good people that read.  Don't miss voting on our newest poll!
-Melissa

Résumé

Résumé

Behind where I blog.

By Dorothy Parker

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
you might as well live.

One of my favorite poems yet.  I cannot wait to read more of her works.

Last night I hosted a night of Poetry and Poker.  We fired up the grill out behind the Boathouse (the name of our apartment building), we used the one that sits near the flagstone patio that Amy built.  It is such a sweet little spot.  We feasted on grilled burgers and sausages, grilled corn, coleslaw, tomato salad and an amazingly beautiful salad from lettuce that Amy grew.

After dinner we all sat around the table and shared some poetry.  Amy started us off with a piece by Jack Prelutsky called "The New Kid on the Block."  The kids in the room shared a few pieces, Lily read at least four of her original works.  Carol also read an original poem, with vivid imagery of a soldier's cemetery and reflections on war.  I found an old notebook from when Jamie and I lived in Bellingham and read the lyrics to one of Jamie's songs he wrote back when he was first learning to play the guitar.

There was lots of snapping and hushed clapping, you know poetry kind of noises.

At that point is was time for poker.  There were five weary, bleary stragglers left at the table and we all anted in.  Mostly, we played Texas Hold 'Em and at one point, about an hour in, I made a fatal mistake.

"Wow!  I think I might actually win my first game of poker." I said aloud, my self consciousness wishing I hadn't before the sentence was over.

The choice to fold on a crucial hand, where had I stayed in I would have won, started my decent into Loser-ville last night.  But how could I have known that Bob was working on a piece for the "Bluffington Post."  (a pun from Jamie last night...we contemplated pun month during the night.)

In the end, I lost.  And here, a poem on losing (sounds more like baseball, but still fitting.  And especially if you are a Mariner's fan...)


Losing the Game
BY DIANE ACKERMAN

Ichiro.

On the face of this midfielder,
a saint’s passion.

Sweat brilliantines his hair
flat as a seal pup’s fur.

Thorns rake one knee, and fatigue
is a train whistle that never quits.

In his mind, the falcon of defeat
slips off its own hood

and sails into the vapory cold December,
hangs like a crucifixion over the field,

then slants down the wide thermal
of his shame. Today 2 + 2 is algebra,

and nothing will transmute
his base metal to gold leaf.

When crowd and players have gone,
he watches the sun set

under a tumultuous bruise of sky,
below the empty grin of the bleachers,

deep into the valley,
a ghastly, yellow bile draining out.


-Melissa

This Is Just to Say

Backwards, and fierce.

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold


-William Carlos Williams, 1934

And also to say, it's July!  Memorize a poem month for me and Amy.  We capped off Bowling month with a final trip to Imperial Lanes last night.  We took the kids, Poo Poo Head was there and joined us for a couple games, and I bowled a turkey straight out of the gate.  It was a banner evening of bowling.

We spent way too much time trying to fit a free table we found on the corner into my kitchen.  It was so cute and retro, but after many attempts and cleaning behind appliances, it just never worked.  Upon our home improvement defeat, Amy was saying her goodbyes when we realized that we had not taken our picture for this month.

She came back in and we got to work.  We were inspired by a poem by Ogden Nash titled, "Reflections on Ice-Breaking."  It goes a little something like this:

Candy is dandy
but Liquor is quicker.

I have to say, it was a fun night.  It felt like the Holidays all over again.  Laughter and good tidings.  and one of our best monthly photo shoots yet.

I picked up a Norton Anthology of Poetry from Seattle Central yesterday.  I am hoping that I don't "lose' it like I did the mushroom book in April.  I had to buy the library a new copy and then I found this one in a bag in Tallulah's room.  Now I have this gem to commemorate Mushroom month.  Really? a tux and a horn and you're foraging for mushrooms?  What?

Yesterday, instead of reading my Anatomy & Physiology, I leafed through the poetry anthology.  Reading certain poems aloud in hopes to find one that "felt" right.  My kids thought I was crazy.  When don't they?  But I do think I found a few good ones.  Poems I remember from my undergrad.  Auden, WCW, DH Lawrence, TS Eliot.

Then, Amy introduced me to Dorothy Parker.  Amazing.  I'll save that one for tomorrow.

Until then,
Adieu

-Melissa

internet poetry foraging: found 1 mushroom

Posted by Melissa

Amy, holding her first mushroom specimen.

Amy and I were sharing dinner and wine together after our PSMS Mushroom ID class this past Thursday night, and as usual, we got to chatting.  Our conversations roamed through life and death, the fallible nature of humanity, and of course, mushrooms.  The night was edging on as the hours grew larger in number, and when I realized it was 11pm, I sadly had to call it a night and get to my studying for Algebra and Chemistry.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I should have left earlier." Amy obliged.

"Whatever.  I love hanging out and talking about all this stuff.  Anyway, I have been getting up super early and doing my work while everyone else is in bed.  So, no worries."  I volleyed back.

"You know," Amy shared, "Sylvia Plath use to get up early and write her poetry when she had kids."

"Yeah," I laughed, "but didn't she drown herself in a lake? Looks like it didn't work out too well."

"No, head in the oven. Virginia Woolf went in the lake, pockets full of stones." Amy corrected me.

I kept thinking of those words "head in the oven."  So blunt, so evocative.   I kept seeing my own head lying in my filthy oven, pink kitchen walls cheerily in the background.  In my vision, I must have been there for quite some time because I looked confused as to why nothing was happening.  Finally, I raised my head and shaking it while rolling my eyes with a huff.  The black chunks of burnt food fell from my dirty cheeks that were marked in lines from the oven rack.

Kneeling awkwardly, still over the oven door, it dawns on me...I have an electric oven.

***

As I sat down to write my post mushroom class blog post, I kept thinking of that ironic scene in my imagination and feeling strangely connected to Sylvia Plath.  I studied poetry in college, but I didn't remember any of her writing.  So, I got sidetracked searching for her works on line.
Serendipitously, I came across this poem.





Volunteer Park mushroom find on 4.8.11.

I'd love to dissect this poem, key it out so to speak, to use the terms of mushroom identifying.

Anyone have any thoughts as to what she is alluding to?

Anyone know of any other great mushroom poetry?

Do you think I should use this as one of my poems I memorize?

Leave me a comment below.  I would really love to hear what you think.

-Melissa