Just Normal Joy

This morning, via text, a friend of mine exclaimed how happy she was. When I asked if there was any particular reason for this happiness, she responded, "No, just normal joy." Normal joy. I like that thought, a lot. It reminds me of this poem:

The Orange

Wendy Cope

At lunchtime I bought a huge orange--
The size of it made us all laugh.
I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave--
They got quarters and I had a half.

And that orange, it made me so happy,
As ordinary things often do
Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park.
This is peace and contentment. It's new.

The rest of the day was quite easy.
I did all the jobs on my list
And enjoyed them and had some time left over.
I love you. I'm glad I exist.

Like Wendy Cope? I thought think the Poetry Archive's page on Wendy Cope is a great introduction to the poet. Check it out here, and be sure to click the link to "Strugnell's Haiku," as it is a humorous joy. Thank goodness for happy poets. And thank goodness for Garrison Keillor's anthology, Good Poems, for introducing me to this poem.

Subtle Electric Fire

A Sunday tidbit of Whitman...

O You Whom I Often and Silently Come

Walt Whitman

O YOU whom I often and silently come where you are, that I may be with you;
As I walk by your side, or sit near, or remain in the same room with you,
Little you know the subtle electric fire that for your sake is playing within me.

Redheaded Women with Tattoos

I know, I just shared some clips of performance poetry. But in case you liked what you saw, check out Urbana Poetry Slam's Channel on YouTube. It's one awesome goldmine, with gems such as this one, by Jared Singer. Click here for my favorite audio clip by Jared Singer.

You Gotta Speak with It Too

This man is brilliant. Watch, observe, then canvas YouTube for more of Taylor Mali. 

I especially enjoy Mali's clips with Billy Collins chilling on the wings of the stage. Can you imagine performing poetry in front of Collins, and what's more, making him laugh? 

And be sure to check out Bowery Poetry Club, where a few of Mali's poetry readings take place. The Bowery Poetry Club website leads to a wealth of information on the current world of poetry. It's really quite spectacular.

I do apologize for brief profanity within this first clip.

And thank you, Shelbi, for the Facebook link that led me to this.

Shaken by the Strangeness

I know, I've been a rather pathetic blogger as of late. Today? I'd just like to offer you a little gem by Mary Oliver. I recently borrowed her collections Dream Work and American Primitive from the library and enjoyed both collections, although, admittedly Oliver failed to engross me. Today's poem is my favorite from American Primitive.

FLYING
by Mary Oliver

Sometimes,
on a plane,
you see a stranger.
He is so beautiful!
His nose
Going down in the
old Greek way,
or his smile
a wild Mexican fiesta.
You want to say:
do you know how beautiful you are?
You leap up
into the aisle,
you can't let him go
until he has touched you
shyly, until you have rubbed him,
oh, lightly,
like a coin
you find on the earth somewhere
shining and unexpected and,
without thinking,
reach for. You stand there
shaken
by the strangeness,
the splash of his touch.
When he's gone
you stare like an animal into
the blinding clouds
with the snapped chain of your life,
the life you know:
the deeply affectionate earth,
the familiar landscapes
slowly turning
thousands of feet below.

One interesting fact about Mary Oliver is that, as a teenager, she spent time in the home of Edna St. Vincent Millay (possibly my favorite female poet), helping the family sort out papers of Millay. This little connection strikes me as oddly wonderful. 

After Work

I spent an hour of Father's Day scouring books and books of poetry, looking for a certain poem of a father and son that, alas, I did not find. I read and in many cases reread poems of fathers and families, but of all that I read, Richard Jones' "After Work" stayed with me the longest. I love it.

After Work
Richard Jones

Coming up from the subway
into the cool Manhattan evening,
I feel rough hands on my heart—
women in the market yelling
over rows of tomatoes and peppers,
old men sitting on a stoop playing cards,
cabbies cursing each other with fists
while the music of church bells
sails over the street,
and the father, angry and tired
after working all day,
embracing his little girl,
kissing her,
mi vida, mi corazón,
brushing the hair out of her eyes
so she can see.

* mi vida, "my life"

* mi corazon, "my heart"

While searching the internet for a copy of "After Work," I came across this brilliant little site, Poetry 365, that posts a poem a day, tagged by author and subject. Judging by the limited selection I perused, this poet lover and I share very much the same tastes in poetry. I will certainly be visiting again.

Happy Father's Day, most particularly to my own dear Dad.

Children's Poetry Archive

I've recently come to adore the Children's Poetry Archive. I love how colorful it is and how easy the website is to navigate. You can search by poet, poem, theme, or even form. Other things I love are recordings of each poem, poet bios, links to other poetry sites, lists of publishers,  and links to buy CD's and books of the poetry. My only complaint is the limited number of poets included on the site, which excludes many of my childhood favorites. Still it's definitely worth a look, particularly if you, dear reader, have small children you want to lure into the world of poetry, or if you yourself wish to be lured.

Drifted Away

The human memory has always been intriguing to me. I am one who scrawls away in journal after journal, taking pictures of each day, haunted by all that there is ahead of me to be forgotten. And yet, a thousand words and a hundred pictures can only freeze the memory on paper, and not in the mind. Just today, I remembered having forgotten the name of a boy I was once friends with, and the word for "mother" in sign language. What of all that I don't even recall having forgotten? I love Billy Collin's poem on the topic of forgetting, particularly this unique portrayal of it.

This Little World To-night

Dear reader,

I apologize for my lack of recent posts. It isn't as though I have been busy. I've had scads of time on my hands. Doesn't it always seem to be the case that the more free time you have the less that gets done?

Last night I took off on a whim to a favorite spot of mine. I had with me the essentials: a camera, a book of poetry, and a notebook and pen. I spent a delicious stretch of time with William R. Bowlin's 1939 anthology, A Book of Treasured Poems. Generally, such anthologies dole out poems rife with predictable rhyme endings, heavy with trite morals. I am not a particular fan of such poems. Fortunately, A Book of Treasured Poems held some beautiful gems in the mix. Today, I'll share with you Oliver Herford's "Earth," a curious little poem that doesn't seem to want to shake itself from my thoughts. But first, let me share with you a small excerpt I loved of the anthology's "Foreword," as written by William R. Bowlin:

The absence of formal notes in this little volume is not the result of inertia or of oversight, but of an attempt by the editor to remove poetry from the realm of pure intellect and restore it to the field of emotion. Intensive study of poetry leads, all too often, to dislike of poetic expression rather than to its enjoyment. Poetry is an end in itself, and the awakening of love for a fine poem is the sole aim in teaching the poem. 

And now, Herford's "Earth."

Earth 

Oliver Herford

(As printed in A Book of Treasured Poems)

If this little world to-night
     Suddenly should fall through space
In a hissing, headlong flight,
     Shrivelling from off its face,
As it falls into the sun,
     In an instant every trace
Of the little crawling things--
     Ants, philosophers, and lice,
Cattle, cockroaches, and kings,
     Beggars, millionaires, and mice,
Men and maggots all as one
As it falls into the sun...
Who can say but at the same
     Instant from some planet far
A child may watch us and exclaim:
     "See the pretty shooting star!"

To be posted soon: Reviews of recently read books, quotes on poetry, and more beautiful poetry of the world.

The Crying is Lonely

I've had this poem and its characters on my mind a while now...

A Couple
Carl Sandberg

He was in Cincinnati, she in Burlington.
He was in a gang of Postal Telegraph lineman.
She was a pot rassler in a boarding house.
“The crying is lonely,” she wrote him.
“The same here,” he answered.
The winter went by and he came back and they married
And he went away again where rainstorms knocked down
telegraph poles and wires dropped with frozen sleet.
And again she wrote him, “The crying is lonely.”
And again he answered, “The same here.”
Their five children are in public schools.
He votes the Republican ticket and is a taxpayer.
They are known among those who know them
As honest American citizens living honest lives.
Many things that bother other people never bother them,
They have their five children and they are a couple,
A pair of birds that call to each other and satisfy.
As sure as he goes away she writes him, “The crying is lonely”
And he flashes back the old answer, “The same here.”
It is a long time since he was a gang lineman at Cincinnati
And she was a pot rassler in a Burlington boarding house;
Yet they never get tired of each other; they are a couple.