In celebration, everyday epistle is hosting a Poetry Slam Party.
best remembered poems
This is not your ordinary poetry slam. You don’t have to write the poem you share or read it on an open mic in front of strangers. There are no hidden judges in the audience. We’re just here to enjoy reading and remembering the selections you choose.
All you have to do is share the title and author of a favorite poem.
If the mood strikes, tell why you like it, dazzle us with its best lines, or be my guest and share the whole enchilada.
Why?
Because Poetry is the shock of cool water on the tenth day of triple digits. Bonfire smoke and goose bumps in October. A wool coat wrapped in the silence of the first snow. A nest of newborn robins in the regal holly tree.
the poems of emily dickinson
Who couldn’t use more of that?
I’ll get us started with Emily Dickinson’s My life closed twice before its close:
My life closed twice before its close—
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me
So huge, so hopeless to conceive
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.
Let the Poetry Slam Party begin, good readers. The floor is yours.
Last night, I read in said book about a Japanese novelist who awoke at 4 a.m. every morning for seven months to write his most important work. He would write for five hours, then jog. Requires discipline and strength, he said. Writing and running, that is.
So at 4:27 a.m. today, unplanned, I awoke. Beckoned by the power of suggestion. I can explain it no other way.
I lag behind the author from Japan. Twenty-seven minutes and umpteen books to be exact. He’s accomplished. I’m but a lowly blogger. Unsure. Beginning.
The blackness of the morning yields itself to the task. A complement to the blank white of the screen, the darkness hangs in the air, and all is quiet.
Requires concentration, I read in the book. Uninterrupted stretches of lonely pounding out, writing and jogging. Words to page, feet to pavement.
Two and a half hours, a thousand words later, the sun is up and I’m going back to bed. No jogging for me. It’s Saturday after all.
Will I do this again? Wake up in the third watch and write? I can’t say. Strength can come at any hour.
There’s a field behind our neighborhood. Carpeted with brome in the summer, scruff in the winter. It’s a magical place where my son, the dog and I walk.
in the field
We saw a deer run across the north end the first time we explored the field. We were a few acres south, but we spotted him clear as day. Our eyes followed his white tail and long, bounding strides.
Our part of Kansas is flat. Flatter than Illinois. If there weren’t lines of trees and houses blocking the view, no telling how far you could see.
The field is covered with short, dry grass now. Besides the ground and the wind, there’s nothing but sky. Wide, blue, voluminous sky.
image of La Lune print used with permission from Double Merrick, doublemerrick.myshopify.com
The moon often watches us when we walk the field. Even in sunlight, its bald head nods as we plod along the soft ground.
My son would play there forever if I let him.
In freedom he scampers ahead of me. Kneels. Lifts his arms. Stares down the barrel and through the cross hairs. Imagines sniping enemy troops.
The dog is also at home there. She parts the grass like water and swims. Without warning, she pops straight up and over, jumping like a rabbit. Ears pricked. Her body alert to the possibility of field mice beneath these waves.
Except for the one deer, the only wildlife we’ve seen are small birds. They congregate, hidden in the grass, then spring into flight as we approach. Dozens of tiny, floating kites, cut loose to lift and sail away.
One day, my son called to me from where he crouched. The inflection in his voice danced over the field.
“Mom,” he said. “I found a deer track!”
Sure enough, he’d found one perfect, heart-shaped deer track imprinted in the dried dirt.
far
We could tell—from the shape of the print, the deer that left it there had been walking. Just like us.
These are the moments I wish I could capture. They bound away, impossible to hold. Photographs don’t do them justice.
Must be what it’s like to walk on the moon.
An ordinary action, walking. Elevated here. Beyond measure in its fullness. Silent. Solitary. Surrounded by nothing but God and ground and sky.
Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to His power that is at work within us, to Him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen. Ephesians 3:20-21 NIV
When I was pregnant with my son, I listened to Beethoven. Relax and savor the tender, magical, masterful strains of Moonlight Sonata.
Double Merrick
The La Lune print featured in today’s post is the work of English designer/illustrator Merrick Angle.
Merrick’s charming prints were a hit when he started selling them on Etsy. One has only to view his art to understand why.
Merrick presently works out of a studio near Limoges in rural France. His online shop, Double Merrick, continues to wow.
Visit his shop to see for yourself and read more of his story. Warning: you may fall in love with what you see.
I have a friend who’s just two weeks younger than I am. Much smarter though.
She argues 40 shouldn’t be different from any other year. Every year we ought to live with no holds barred.
Maybe I’m a late bloomer, but 40 was different for me. It all started around 38 when I began using the two-letter word NO.
No, I will not do what you want me to do if it’s not right for me. No, I will not let you walk all over me. No, I will not play silly, little reindeer games. No, you are not the queen of the universe.
At 38, NO squeaked out as an anxiety-filled whisper. By 39, I could say it out loud with less hesitation, but the timing was all wrong. Now at 40, I can say it plainly, thoughtfully, and without much hand wringing.
The timing is better too. I’ve said NO this year to several people and things that weren’t right for me before I tried to find a way to accommodate them.
more gifts from the Garden, love that place
A polite, well-placed NO is liberating and gets easier with practice. It frees up time for YES.
Yes, I would like to try a blog. Yes, I will make mistakes, but that’s okay because I’m learning. Yes, I will have fun doing it. Yes, I will write with no holds barred.
Several years back, there was this commercial. I’ve combed the web and cannot find the actual spot. You web crawler people, let me know if you find it so I can post a link.
In the ad, a stodgy professor tells a writing class that none of them will likely ever be published. Editors sift through thousands of manuscripts. The best they could expect was a writing career at the top of the slush pile rather than the bottom.
Then, from within the masses of the lecture hall, a student’s hand pops up. Much to his professor’s chagrin and his fellow students’ triumph, he announces he’s already been published. Online.
and one more
That far-fetched dream is coming to fruition in my lifetime and yours. Imagine the possibilities. David McRaney did.
Hate is such strong word. Let’s just say I was above it.
My college poetry professor stressed the importance of editing. Said we should rewrite several times before presenting a piece.
Not I, said the cat! But not aloud of course. Kept my sentiments to myself.
Edit? Rewrite? Destroy the raw emotion, the fire fueling the original choice of words, rhythm, and meaning? The less editing the better. Keeps it pure.
Oh, the drama of it all.
image with permission from http://mycameramyfriend.wordpress.com/
“How long does it take you to, you know, come up with one of those stories?” said my friend the would-be stand up comedian last time I saw her.
“Depends,” I said. Nice, safe answer. But it’s true. Some posts come quickly. Others not so much.
If WordPress took note of the number of edits I make to a post before it goes live, they’d think I’m daffy.
Scratch that. It’s arguable whether I’m daffy no matter how many revisions.
I’m not sure what WordPress would think. Or what my professor would think. Or what you would think if you saw the unending stream of corrections and rewrites.
I can guess what you’re thinking now: All that, and she still manages to miss at least one typo per post!
If this were an old-school movie edit, I could adorn myself with the ringlets of film on the cutting room floor. Fashion them into a translucent wig. A Gaga dress.
fallen leaf
I could sweep them up into a pile. Invite children to jump in them like autumn leaves, only better. No crumbling bits breaking off and sticking in socks. No hidden night crawlers or pungent cedar mulch in the mix of sterile, celluloid ribbons.
What’s left is a reduced, boiled down idea. The essence of the original, but stronger. That’s the hope anyway.
How I wish I could exercise the same discipline with the words I speak. They bolt out. They are gone and cannot be recaptured.
They wriggle and squirm. They resist careful pruning. Resist being held.
These spoken ones may combust or fizzle. They may scale heights or burrow deep in the hearts of their receivers. But they do not go willingly to the cutting room floor. If I could tame them, I could tame the world.
People can tame all kinds of animals, birds, reptiles, and fish, but no one can tame the tongue. It is restless and evil, full of deadly poison. James 3:7-8 NLT
“It’s not what you think. I mean, it’s not a devotional per se.”
“What’s it about?”
That question strikes me dead in my tracks. What’s it about? What’s it about?
At a marriage conference once, I heard a speaker talk about a woman’s talent to “spiderweb” in conversations. How it can drive a man into circuit overload.
Spiderweb used as a verb. Very appropriate. Goes something like this:
I don’t like ice. Except when I take my child ice skating. We wear bike helmets to protect his sweet little noggin.
She shoots a gossamer thread.
He insists we both wear helmets to ride our bikes in the neighborhood. I like my bike. And I love my neighborhood.
Vanilla Ice is cool too, pun intended. He may be more down-to-earth now that he’s rehabbing houses on DIY. Yeah, Vanilla Ice is all right even though, as I said before, I don’t like ice.
You’re caught.
“So what’s your blog about?”
“It’s about a lot of things. You should probably just read it for yourself.”
Good idea.
She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come. Proverbs 31:25 NIV
Spider-Man and I would like to wish you a fun and happy Halloween!
I Like My Bike won’t be on the front page for long. If it’s gone when you get there, scroll down and hit the Earlier button. Look for the shiny, purple bike.
Thank you for your readership, comments and encouragement. You’re the best!
Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows. James 1:17 NIV
Ever have one of those days? Yesterday was one for me.
Worked all morning on Thursday’s serious blog post when, oh, look at that. It’s noon! And by the way, the post is mopping the floor with me. Hmm. Wonder what’s for lunch?
Stumbled to the kitchen to pour myself a cup of ambition. But I got nothing.
No caffeine in the house. No appetizing morsel awaiting me in the fridge. Blood sugar is plummeting. Approaching meltdown status.
Suddenly I felt the urge to escape. To break free from the four walls of the house. Flee from the heavy subject matter I’d been tackling. Make a run for the border. Come on, baby, drive south!
That’s it, I thought. I’ll simply escort myself out. Next thing I know, I’m in the truck driving down our friendly neighborhood street. Headed for some destination yet unknown to me.
Had I been showered and dressed I’d have gone to the mall. Where else does a Gen X girl go when in flight?
But a shower had evaded me that morning, I hadn’t even brushed my hair, and I was still wearing Monday’s outfit. Nix the mall.
How about a drive thru? Nu-uh. That would mean I’d have pick up and go home to eat alone. I was escaping, remember?
The truck, sensing my distess, turned south on a major thoroughfare.
“Ah,” I said. “I know where we’re going.”
The truck didn’t answer. It just carried me forward, meticulously obeying traffic signals all the way.
“We’re going to McDonald’s, aren’t we?” I said.
happy meal 4 me
Sure enough, we soon arrived at the Golden Arches. Three dollars and 71 cents later, I had lunch, CNN, and people watching. And no one cared about my hair or how I was dressed.
There are healthier options than a cheeseburger, like making a salad at home. More ecological means of transport than the truck, like riding that shiny purple bike. Maybe I’ll try those today. Or tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow’s looking better already.
But I’m reminded how my grandparents used to take us kids to McDonald’s as a special treat. How the Happy Meal was elevated to near comfort food status.
And I for one am thankful McDonald’s will still do fine for lunch in a pinch on a day otherwise in peril.
Over the weekend, took the Mac back to the techies at the store for the data transfer. The wait was five days when we bought it. Now it’s only 48 hours. Gulp.
True, it’s been a bit of a circus hopping between two machines. Will be nice to have everything on one computer again. But I was becoming proficient.
Felt like I was commanding the bridge of the Starship Enterprise. “Uhara, pull up the photos on the Dell. Spock, hit Publish on the Mac. Beam me up, Scotty!”
Maybe it’s the anxiety of being laptop-less for a couple days that got to me. Whatever it was, last night I had the strangest dream.
I dreamed I traveled to a writing seminar where there were no computers. It was old school, the way we used to do things. Back in the 80s.
In the course of my stay, I ran out of paper. So I wrote poetry on the bed sheets in my room, folded them, and turned them in as my project. My thesis. My magnum opus. And I passed with highest honors.
Read into it what you will. It was sweet and it was mine.
Now give me back my laptop, Mac guys, before I start writing on your sheets too.
And they replied, “We both had dreams last night, but no one can tell us what they mean.”
“Interpreting dreams is God’s business,” Joseph replied. “Go ahead and tell me your dreams.” Genesis 40:8 NLT
Last night I had the strangest dream… Oh, I already said that. Enjoy Blue Lagoon’s fun 2004 cover of Matthew Wilder’s Break My Stride.
as seen at the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum
Dreams by Langston Hughes (1926)
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is
a barren field
Frozen with snow.
image used with permission from Dan Dreyfus, dreyfusphoto.com
Life on the blog is life on the wild frontier. Bring your bravado. There’s no established etiquette, no paved roads, and often no rules.
How many posts per week? One, two, seven? How long should they be? There are no rules.
Should every post be announced on Facebook or is that annoying to your friends? What about your friends who only know about a post if you announce it? Should you ask them to subscribe? There are no rules.
What about RSS feeds? You can’t see them. How do you know you can trust them?
What about a Facebook page for your blog? Rihanna’s page has more than 42 million likes. What’s the harm in suggesting your kemosabes like yours? What good is it if you never reach 42 million? There are no rules.
Should you tweet? What qualifies me, a lone ranger, to have a Twitter account? What qualifies me to have a blog? There are no rules.
Speaking of lone ranger, should you join a blogging network? Seems helpful to form alliances with fellow cowpokes, but this desperado is right fond of her freedom. Will a network support or hinder it? There are no rules.
image used with permission from Winsdown Farms, winsdown.com
What if someone knowingly borrows your ideas or words without a link back, credit or notification? Should you challenge the outlaw to a shootout at sundown? Hope they ride off into the sunset never to copycat again? There are no rules.
What about photos? WordPress suggests using your own pictures or grabbing photos off the net and crediting sources. Copyright, anyone?
We drive on into the unknown for love of the great wide open. For breathtaking sunsets on the edge of civilization. There’s a lot to learn. Some of it we make up as we go. Have to because the landscape itself is in a state of flux.
image used with permission from Dan Dreyfus, dreyfusphoto.com
So sidle up to the saloon and raise a toast. To the west, young woman, as far as this horse will take you.
By faith Abraham, when called to go to a place he would later receive as his inheritance, obeyed and went, even though he did not know where he was going. Hebrews 11:8 NIV
Happy trails, pardners. Before you go, check out Don’t Fence Me In by David Byrne of Talking Heads. You may find yourself humming it all weekend long.
Special thanks to my friend Kari for use of the photos of her beautiful horses.
See the sidebar quote? Over there. To your right. From Erica Jong.
Jong is famous as the writer of “Fear of Flying,” a 480-page tome published in 1973. I read it in my undergrad Modern American Lit class.
It was vile. I hated it. Not sure I read the entire thing, yet still managed to ace the test. Even without reading it all, I could guess what was on the next page.
The same thing that was on every page before. A gross account of protagonist Isadora Wing’s promiscuous encounters as she traipsed around Europe. Vile, I tell you.
Quintessential women’s lib. Unrestrained, revolutionary, Boomerish. Must be why my overeducated class of Gen-Xers was assigned to read it. There could be no other reason, save more than 18 million copies in print.
Fast forward to 2011. I’m planning this blog, working on the inaugural post Maiden Flight. Fear of Flying flits across my mind, mostly because of the title.
Here I was, preparing to launch into the unknown in a way I hadn’t before. It could fly. It could bomb. It could lead to something. It could lead to nothing. I was afraid, excited, nervous.
On a whim I entered her name on Brainy Quote: Erica Jong. What appeared next was love in alphabetical order.
Advice is what we ask for when we already know the answer but wish we didn’t.
Like.
And the trouble is, if you don’t risk anything, you risk even more.
Like. Like.
Everyone has talent. What is rare is the courage to follow the talent to the dark place where it leads.
Will someone please plaster this to my site—and my forehead?
Fame means millions of people have the wrong idea of who you are.
Maybe I’ve misread this woman.
I have accepted fear as part of life—specifically fear of change… I have gone ahead despite the pounding in the heart that says: turn back.
You didn’t turn back and neither will I.
I write lustily and humorously. It isn’t calculated; it’s the way I think. I’ve invented a writing style that expresses who I am.
And you opened the door for us to write as we are. So I may not care for Isadora’s sexual diary? She may not care for my Bible verses.
Jealousy is all the fun you think they had.
Love.
No one has ever found wisdom without also being a fool. Writers, alas, have to be fools in public, while the rest of the human race can cover its tracks.
Swoon. And she used the word alas.
Show me a woman who doesn’t feel guilty and I’ll show you a man.
Amen, sister.
Solitude is un-American.
Prescient creature spoke the basis for social media decades before we all posted our status updates.
Amelia Earhart’s Lockheed Vega at Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum in Washington, DC
I scurried to the basement, to my boxes of books. Searched for my copy. Alas, it must have fallen victim to an earlier purge.
Checked the library and reserved all her books. Surprisingly, Fear of Flying is no longer among them. Fell victim to a purge there as well.
Her poetry and other books remain. Her poetry is what I prefer, from “Fruits & Vegetables“ to “Love Comes First.” I skip the sexually loaded lines, as I imagine she might skip the Bible verses if she read me.
No matter. We’re family now, she and I. Grace abounds between relations.
The grace of our Lord was poured out on me abundantly, along with the faith and love that are in Christ Jesus. 1 Timothy 1:14 NIV
Everyone I know’s been so good to me. Twenty-five years old. My mother, God rest her soul. I just wanna Fly…
The park is quiet. Only me and the dog in the early morning dew.
My dog is a lowrider. Stands about a foot high. Doesn’t know it and wouldn’t believe it if I told her.
A squirrel climbs the overgrown honeysuckle hedge. My dog doesn’t notice much above eye level. She’s focused on the game about to begin.
I palm a tennis ball, neon green. She crouches, leans back and springs, breaking into full speed before I have thrown the ball.
Whizz! She runs past me, her eyes fixed straight ahead.
My arm swings back, then forward and release! Straight and low as if bowling. The ball flies silently, lands out in front of her, bounces and rolls.
She catches up. Overtakes it. Talks trash. Growling and complaining. Attacking. The bloodless prey is caught. It fills her mouth. She claspes it between her teeth, smiling.
No fetch with this dog. No jumping for the frisbee or turning flips in the air. No herding sheep or children. No crazed obsession with water.
Her line is European, bred to hunt vermin in the rock pile cairns of Scotland. Rabbits, weasels, moles and voles, rats and field mice. Go to ground. Corner them in their burrows. Fight to the death. It’s what she’s born to do.
We aren’t in Scotland. We’re in St. Louis. There are no cairns to climb here. No ancient Grendel-like rodents to pick off as bagpipes hum and drums beat sharp. Only a park with an open field of grass, clover and dandelions.
It’s illegal for her to be off lead. But we hunt this high country alone. Our crime goes unwitnessed by human eyes.
Victorious she drops the dead ball. Runs full bore past me again. I pull back and bowl another ball out in front of her, neon pink this pitch.
unlikely carrion
Again and again we repeat the jig until she collapses and sprawls in the wet grass. She pants and licks the blades, selectively chewing the sweetest ones.
I jog out to retrieve the unlikely carrion. I hold them as gingerly as a collection of arrowheads, a cache of unpublished posts.
Soon she pricks her ears. Makes eye contact. “Throw it, mama. Throw it!”
It’s exercise. Good to keep her spry. More than that though, the hunt is on.
Soon we’ll take the hill and head back up to the house, our short legs muddied with earth. We’ll trot across the yard, through the gate, unlock the back door. We’ll drink long laps of water from a stainless steel bowl. Lie on our sides on the cool floor. Now still and able to settle.
frog on guard
God arms me with strength, and He makes my way perfect. Psalm 18:32 NLT
Bold hearts and nodding plumesWave o’er their bloody tombs.Deep-eyed in gore is the green tartan’s wave.Shivering are the ranks of steel,Dire is the horseman’s wheel,Victorious in battlefield, Scotland the Brave!
Special thanks for help finding the song goes to Laura H., a most remarkable woman who also happens to play the bagpipes.
