Busy as usual, but it will fade

Work at the office is still pretty crazy, but I am hopeful that the overtime will drop-off this week. With that, and working on my sister's invitations, I haven't been reading any poems lately. However, just last week Justin decided he wanted to watch the Lord of the Rings movies again. I believe I've rated them all a 10, because they are all so awesome, yet after about the 10th viewing I can now see the sections where the story drags a bit. Anyway, one of my favorite parts is in the third movie, Return of the King, where the Steward of Gondor asks Pippin the hobbit to sing him a song. I know it's pretty sad, but the music and the way it is sung is so artful, I figure it passes for a poem this week:

Home is behind.
The world ahead.
And there are many paths to tread
Through shadow to the edge of night
Until the stars are all alight
Mist and shadow, cloud and shade.
All shall fade.
All shall fade.

Keep on dreaming

Okay, it's been awhile since I've posted a poem. You can imagine the usual set of excuses. In the end, it doesn't really matter since no one has been asking for one and it's really for my benefit anyway. Regardless, here is a link to a simple yet sweet poem by Langston Hughes: Dreams.

Uplifting, inspiring, but not too long. Just what I need on a Friday. :)

Not exactly a poem

I've finished my first poem book already, American's Favorite Poems, and am now starting on the second book, Poems to Read. I haven't read anything yet worth posting about, so instead I'm going to comment on an old saying that came up at dinner with Justin's father the other night:

I felt sorry for myself 
because I had no shoes
until I met a man 
who had no feet.

We were discussing ways of viewing the world from a more positive perspective and this phrase seemed to hit the concept spot-on. I am really going to try and stop letting work get me so frustrated, since I know there are lots of people out there who don't even have a job.

A gift

This week's poem is by Walt Whitman. Surprisingly, I've never really been that interested in much of his work. Most of the time I feel like he is rambling on and on without any catchy rhythm or imagery that connects with me. This one, however, jumped right out and to the point. To A Certain Cantatrice mirrors my own feelings that every person is valuable.

Another sappy one

This week's poem is another emotional one for me, entitle Love Song: I and Thou by Alan Dugan. Although I cannot directly relate to being a carpenter, I think the theme is that as hard as we try to accomplish everything in life on our own, it helps to have a partner. I am so happy I have mine.

The simple things

This week's poem is about the simple things in life that are sometimes overlooked. Most of you know that I have a serious affinity for food, so I can really relate to the following poem by Mark Strand entitled "Pot Roast". As the author describes, it is often that as I enjoy a particular meal I am reminded of other times eating with family or struggling on my own in college or a dozen other key points in my life.

I couldn't find a good site with just the poem posted, so here is a copy from Selected Poems (Alfred A. Knopf):

Pot Roast

    I gaze upon the roast,
    that is sliced and laid out
    on my plate
    and over it
    I spoon the juices
    of carrot and onion.
    And for once I do not regret
    The passage of time.

    I sit by a window
    that looks
    on the soot-stained brick of buildings
    and do not care that I see
    no living thing—not a bird,
    not a branch in bloom,
    not a soul moving
    in the rooms
    behind the dark panes.
    These days when there is little
    to love or to praise
    one could do worse
    than yield
    to the power of food.
    So I bend

    to inhale
    the steam that rises
    from my plate, and I think
    of the first time
    I tasted a roast
    like this.
    It was years ago
    in Seabright,
    Nova Scotia;
    my mother leaned
    over my dish and filled it
    and when I finished
    filled it again.
    I remember the gravy,
    its odor of garlic and celery,
    and sopping it up
    with pieces of bread.

    And now
    I taste it again.
    The meat of memory.
    The meat of no change.
    I raise my fork in praise,
    and I eat.

Living Room Fort

A poem to revive childhood memories this week: Block City by Robert Louis Stevenson. I still recall many joyful afternoons and evenings in the basement of our Virgina home making the sofa into a spaceship or the cushions into safe rocks surrounded by lava. I hope I never completely lose that creative innocence inside me. Hopefully, rolling dice to fight against dragons every other week is helpful. :)

No Poem this week

I know so many of you are disappointed.... well, actually I doubt that the few who actually read this site could really care about the poem posts. But I've just been too busy lately; too stressed; too tired; too sick of work; too ready for a long vacation; too full of so many reasons to skip reading at night and just flop into bed. I know that may sound like a cop-out, but seriously, I've been struggling more at work in the last couple months than I have since Sprint. And most of you know how bad that can be. Anyway, I'm trying to just hang in there until after a big work deployment this weekend and then things are supposed to settle back down to a somewhat normal routine. So we'll see.... wish me luck.

Just made it

Almost forgot to post again this week. I picked this poem on Monday, and am just now writing about the sweet words of Margaret Atword in Variation On The Word Sleep. To me this reads like a beautiful love song, evoking strong emotions. I'll post more when I get back home -- visiting with my brother this weekend.

My precious

This week's poem is by Mary Oliver, entitled The Summer Day. I really like the detailed imagery in this short narrative, and of course, the last two lines just brings the point to home.

'Nough said.

Here we go

Yes, the week is truly almost over and there has been no poem post so far. This is for two reasons. One, I've had a lousy week at work and been really busy/tired, and two, because what few poems I have had a chance to read have not inspired me. I'm determined not to let this situation make me feel discouraged. I started the poem-a-week project not only to keep me up to date on this blog, but also to help nourish my creativity. So in that vein, I decided that this week I would write my own poem.

Now, I haven't written anything creative like this is a very long time. And it was mostly done in flash very late in the evening, so the quality isn't that great. Blah, blah, blah... enough excuses -- Here we go:

Pebbles scatter as toes scramble
   trying to find purchase
Fingers reaching
   hanging on by one hand
Frigid air rushing by
   does not stop to help
Empty blue overhead
   whispers no words of encouragement
Faceless stone under hand
   will not bend for support
Yet hanging still
   and hanging
Not letting go despite
   the fleeing pebbles
   the busy wind
   the hollow sky
   the unyielding cliff
Hanging
   waiting
For the ounce within 
   that will push us over the top

-akar 4/11/07

Just keep right on

This week's poem is a nice refreshing change of pace for most poetry. A True Account Of Talking To The Sun At Fire Island by Frank O'Hara reads like a short narrative -- just a guy telling a story. It starts slow, and you think it might not go anywhere interesting and then before you know it, you've been refreshed and the story is over. Just like a poem should do. So please read, enjoy, and embrace things.

Short and Sweet

This week's poem comes from Marianne Moore (1887-1972), entitled "I may, I might, I must". I could not an official link to it anywhere, so here are the 4 powerful lines in their entirety:

If you will tell me why the fen
appears impassable, I then
will tell you why I think that I
can get across it if I try.

It may not seem like much, but for me this week, it will do nicely.

Not too late to be a hero

Those of you paying attention might notice I'm running out of time this week to post a poem. The really sad thing is that I had picked out a poem to write about on Monday night, but since then I kept forgetting to actually *write* the post. Ah, the follies of a busy, stressful, life.

Anyway, this week we have some uplifting verses from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, A Psalm of Life. My first reading was a quick skim and I thought, "Oh, old and boooorrrring". Luckily, the book I've been reading includes comments from fans and what one person said made me go back and view this one more seriously. So if you're thought the same thing when you linked over to look at it, then take a deep breath ...pause..., and read this one ALOUD. The words carry more impact when carried by the voice.

So I'm going to be up and doing.... ciao!

Back to School

This week's poem is more famous, yet for some reason I never knew there was more to it than the two lines about the tired and poor. It's The New Colossus, written by Emma Lazarus and emblazoned on the plaque of the Statue of Liberty. I mean, how could I have missed, "Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" That is such an American thing to say... even if we do seem to not want the tired and poor anymore. And with Google, I got to learn even more about this sonnet that I must have skipped in school.

I need a vacation

And to second that thought, this week's poem is John Keats : Sonnet VII, where we are taken away from the hustle and bustle of city life to the great outdoors and are reminded that the human spirit is renewed and reconnected best when out in nature.

Update: Lern 2 spellll... doh

Post-a-week Project

I have decided what I will start "journaling" about, to mimic my sister's photo-a-day efforts. As I mentioned I already knew that doing something every day would almost certainly ensure failure, so I planned to post once a week. At first I thought I would just do a full movie review per week, but I'll be watching movies anyway so that doesn't really stretch myself. Then I thought about something more along the "creative" side of myself, like doing a sketch, drawing, or painting a week. This was putting the pendulum back on the "too hard" side again. I haven't been drawing much lately, and although I think this might be a worthy goal for next year, I'm just not there yet. Finally, I figured out something that not only allows me to post on the blog once a week, but also gives me a good excuse to keep up with my reading of Americans' Favorite Poems, which I received as a gift two years ago.

So the plan is to pick my favorite poem of the week and add some of my thoughts, reactions, what-not. And I'll go ahead and kick-off the project with one of my favorite poems of all time, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.

This is a long one, and there are so many different sections that really resonate with me. Even though most of the obvious theme about social life I can't directly relate to since I'm not a "party" person, there is an under-current of self-doubt and fear that I still struggle with from time to time. As you may guess, this poem was first discovered by me in high school, in the middle of adolescent angst, where questions of "Do I dare?" seemed to haunt me all the time. And now looking back as I am older, I am satisfied that I did bite the matter off with a smile, and it was worth it after all. So let us go then, you and I, and listen to the mermaids sing.