Outward Appearances

DSC_0443Do you ever consider what your clothing says about you? How much time do we spend fussing over how we look? I know I’m pretty laid back because I’m a blue jeans girl. My husband teases me that you can take the girl out of the country but you can’t take the country out of the girl.

I was reading poetry. Guilty, I know I do it all the time. I came across a poem by David Ignatow called Coupling. In the poem, he remarks on the importance we place on clothing. I chuckled thinking life would be a lot easier if we did all wear the same thing. In my childhood, we wore uniforms. At the time I hated it but thinking back it removed all stigmas about incomes because we all looked the same. There weren’t the obvious signs that you see in today’s world between the endowed and less endowed.

Life would be a heck of a lot easier without the stress of the perfect outward appearance, don’t you agree?

Coupling – Poem by David Ignatow ~
Against The Evidence, Selected Poems 1934-94

Wherever he looks, standing still in the city,
are people born of coupling, walking in gray suits
and ties, in long dresses and coiffed hair,
speaking elegantly, of themselves and of each other,
forgetting for the moment their origin,
perhaps wishing not to know or to remember.
They dress as if having been born in a clothing store.

They were born of men and women naked
and gyrating from the hips
and with movements up and down
and with climactic yells,
as if losing their lives
in the pleasure and so glad,
so wildly glad.

From this rises the child
from between the wet crotch, blood and mucus,
He stands upright and pronounces himself
humankind and steps from bed and clothes himself
in a gray suit and from the next room of birth
steps a woman in a long dress. They meet
in the corridor and arm in arm walk its length
in search of one room, empty of inhabitants
but prepared for them.

 

World Poetry Day

“World Poetry Day is on 21 March, and was declared by UNESCO (the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization) in 1999. The purpose of the day is to promote the reading, writing, publishing and teaching of poetry throughout the world ‘to give fresh recognition and impetus to national, regional and international poetry movements’.”

Acrostic poetry is where the first letter of each line spells a word, usually using the same words as in the title.  A twist on the acrostic is using the alphabet as the first letter of word in the line.

In this poem I’ve chosen to use the alphabet acrostic to tell you about me.

A-Z of Lyn Poem

Author of  In My Shoes, My Poetic Journey from Abuse to Victory
Brilliant at times, usually in the kitchen
Crocheter, chef, I love wearing different caps
Deliberate who me, I’m an angel of sorts
Energetic daily, life is to short not to be
Fiber oh please, I am not that old
Grains a bowl of cheerios, how can you go wrong
Habitual why yes I am, guilty of loving routines
Involved in too many things at one time
Jovial usually, negativity does not suit me
Kinky I have my moments ask my spouse
Liberal indeed I am, I am very open minded.
Mom, to four wonderful children and nine awesome grandchildren
Nice that’s been said a time or two
Optimistic more often than not that would be the Irish in me
Pessimistic seldom, and If I am a good Irish whiskey will cure it
Quilter with a serious fabric stash
Reads avidly particularly history and biographies
Silent type not hardly, I am definitely opinionated
Typical never, I’m an Irish lass
Unique very so I am told
Vindictive no, in the long run it is not worth it
Wicked yes I am a Mainer
Xi fourteenth letter in Greek alphabet
Yes I play scrabble, actually very lucky at it
Zealous, I am indeed devoted to my family and friends.

 

 

Proverbial Hell

I remember talking my grandmother ‘s poor ear off.  Her typical responses to my endless questions were proverbs. I didn’t understand the complexity of a proverb until I was much older. They appear, on the surface, to be gems of wisdom which have been passed down through the ages.  I don’t know how many times I have nodded my head and accepted without further discussion. I still remember the day someone pointed out to the that most proverbs have an exact opposite. I felt foolish because it seemed so obvious to me. Why didn’t I note the contradictions?  Do you catch yourself responding to a younger person with a proverb?

Look before you leap.
He who hesitates is lost.

Opposites attract.
Birds of a feather flock together.

Hitch your wagon to a star.
Don’t bite off more that you can chew.

Many hands make light work.
Too many cooks spoil the broth.

Don’t judge a book by its cover.
Clothes make the man.

The squeaking wheel gets the grease.
Silence is golden.

Clothes make the man.
You cannot judge a book by its cover.

If at first, you don’t succeed, try, try again.
Don’t beat your head against a stone wall.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder.
Out of sight, out of mind.

Never put off till tomorrow what you can do today.
Don’t cross the bridge until you come to it.

Two heads are better than one.
Paddle your own canoe.

Haste makes waste.
Time waits for no man.

You’re never too old to learn.
You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.

A word to the wise is sufficient.
Talk is cheap.

It’s better to be safe than sorry.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.
Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.

Do unto others as you would have others do unto you.
Nice guys finish last.

All Good things come to those who wait.

Strike while the iron is hot.

Cold hands

Warm Heart

Confession is good for the heart

Let sleeping dogs lie

Many hands make light work.

Too many cooks spoil the broth.

What I wouldn’t give to hear your voice again Gramma…. Irene Tenney Poupart.

If you know some other proverbs, please feel free to share.

Quote

“For every poet, it is always morning in the world. History a forgotten, insomniac night; History and elemental awe are always our early beginning because the fate of poetry is to fall in love with the world, in spite of History.” ~Derek Walcott

Walcott passed on March 7th, 2017 at his home in St. Lucia. His metaphorical poetry captured the physical beauty of the Caribbean while never forgetting the complexities of his existence in a two culture world. Walcott was a mixed race poet living on a British-ruled island.

“Where shall I turn, divided to the vein? I who have cursed …

I who have cursed …

The drunken officer of British rule, how choose

Between this Africa and the English tongue I love?

Betray them both, or give back what they give?”

The Season of Phantasmal Peace
Then all the nations of birds lifted together
the huge net of the shadows of this earth
in multitudinous dialects, twittering tongues,
stitching and crossing it. They lifted up
the shadows of long pines down trackless slopes,
the shadows of glass-faced towers down evening streets,
the shadow of a frail plant on a city sill—
the net rising soundless as night, the birds’ cries soundless, until
there was no longer dusk, or season, decline, or weather,
only this passage of phantasmal light
that not the narrowest shadow dared to sever.
And men could not see, looking up, what the wild geese drew,
what the ospreys trailed behind them in silvery ropes
that flashed in the icy sunlight; they could not hear
battalions of starlings waging peaceful cries,
bearing the net higher, covering this world
like the vines of an orchard, or a mother drawing
the trembling gauze over the trembling eyes
of a child fluttering to sleep;
                                                     it was the light
that you will see at evening on the side of a hill
in yellow October, and no one hearing knew
what change had brought into the raven’s cawing,
the killdeer’s screech, the ember-circling chough
such an immense, soundless, and high concern
for the fields and cities where the birds belong,
except it was their seasonal passing, Love,
made seasonless, or, from the high privilege of their birth,
something brighter than pity for the wingless ones
below them who shared dark holes in windows and in houses,
and higher they lifted the net with soundless voices
above all change, betrayals of falling suns,
and this season lasted one moment, like the pause
between dusk and darkness, between fury and peace,
but, for such as our earth is now, it lasted long.
Derek Walcott, “The Season of Phantasmal Peace” from Collected Poems: 1948-1984. Copyright © 1987 by Derek Walcott.  Reprinted by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux.

Tribute to Uncle Howard

I wish I had known you better, there always seemed to be something going on and now it’s too late. As I sit here thinking about what I should have said to you all my muse wants is poetry.

For The Anniversary Of My Death –  by William Stanley Merwin

Every year without knowing it I have passed the day
When the last fires will wave to me
And the silence will set out
Tireless traveller
Like the beam of a lightless star

Then I will no longer
Find myself in life as in a strange garment
Surprised at the earth
And the love of one woman
And the shamelessness of men
As today writing after three days of rain
Hearing the wren sing and the falling cease
And bowing not knowing to what

******************************************
Looking East at Night

Death
White hand
The moths fly at in the darkness

I took you for the moon rising

Whose light then
do you reflect

As though it came out of the roots of things
This harvest pallor in which

I have no shadow but myself

— W.S. Merwin, from The Lice, 1967

******************************************
Utterance

Sitting over words
very late I have heard a kind of whispered sighing
not far
like a night wind in pines or like the sea in the dark
the echo of everything that has ever
been spoken
still spinning its one syllable
between the earth and silence

— W.S. Merwin

Godspeed Uncle Howard
He was born on January 30, 1936, in East Calais, VT, the son of Jonas and Doris (Dalton)Parsons. He died on Sunday, March 5, 2017, at his home, with his wife by his side at the age of 81.

 

Photograph

I saw a picture on Marilyn Armstong’s WordPress that I really liked in black and white. Typically, people do not favor landscapes in black and white but I am one of the oddities. I genuinely love black and white photography. I decided to blog today on another passion of mine that gives me creative license to be different.

  • “In photography, there is a reality so subtle that it becomes more real than reality.”
    Alfred Stieglitz

DSC_0195

This is a picture I took of a seagull when we were visiting  Cape May, New Jersey. It has only been cropped and watermarked in the above picture. I love watching them swoop in the breeze over the ocean.

DSC_0195 (2)

This is the same picture with it sharpened and brightened.

DSC_0195 (3)

This is the same picture in black and white without any sharpening or added filtering.

DSC_0195 (4)

This is the final image with denim filtering over the black and white picture. This is my favorite take on the picture because of the way the filter allows the black and white to maintain intensity while adding just a minute coloring to the sky in the backdrop.Photo

Photography to me is like creating a poem. One poet may choose one word and another a different word leaving everything else the same but the poem will have a different feel to the reader.

  • “There are always two people in every picture: the photographer and the viewer.”
    Ansel Adams
  • “When words become unclear, I shall focus with photographs. When images become inadequate, I shall be content with silence.”— Ansel Adams
  • “You don’t take a photograph. You ask quietly to borrow it.”
    Unknown
  • “To me, photography is an art of observation. It’s about finding something interesting an ordinary place… I’ve found it has little to do with the things you see and everything to do with the way you see them.”
    Elliott Erwitt
  • “When I photograph, what I’m really doing is seeking answers to things.”
    Wynn Bullock

I know for me when my muse is being resistant I grab my camera and open my mind to different surroundings and when I look at them through the focus of a lens my muse engages.

Thank you Marilyn for the inspiration. I hope you check out her landscapes and let me know which you love best.

A PHOTO A WEEK CHALLENGE – COMPARING THREE

Author Connection 7

There is strength in numbers. Individually we are one drop but together we are an oceanI’m fascinated with creating poetry whether it be from a quote or an excerpt from another poet that inspired me or simply a blank page compelling me to write. If you think about it are our pages blank. We have ghosts of other poems, songs, catchphrases, even those silly tv jingles cast shadows on our blank page.

Do you remember that famous T.S. Eliot quote “Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal; bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better, or at least something different.”

I love making something from something else. Think of it as recycling creativity into a different creativity. Poetry, crafts, cooking, photography and other hobbies or passions it’s something as artists we share in common by deriving pleasure from old things to new things or vice versa.

A boiled corn beef dinner with potatoes, carrots, cabbage and onions for St. Patrick’s Day dinner. Hash on Saturday with diced beets added. Healthy eating. 🙂

Yards of fabric cut up and pieced back together a quilt. That same quilt invites the best cuddles ever on a cold evening.  I’ve got two different ones in progress, I love learning new patterns.

Where does inspiration take you?

 

Quote About the Purpose of Poetry

Arc by Mike Green is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.W.S.Merwin says it the best,  “I think there’s a kind of desperate hope built into poetry now that one really wants, hopelessly, to save the world. One is trying to say everything that can be said for the things that one loves while there’s still time. I think that’s a social role, don’t you? …We keep expressing our anger and our love, and we hope, hopelessly perhaps, that it will have some effect.”

As a poet,

I read a lot of different styles of poetry every day. I believe the key to writing good poetry is to immerse one’s self. This particular one by Collins I find stimulating because I love how Collins uses descriptive phrases like sunflash of trumpets, rows of roadside trees, the huge blue sheet of the sky, into a pasture of high grass than drops the reader at the dizzying cliffs of morality. Life is definitely too short to miss all the sun-flash and dazzle of life.

The Parade by Billy Collins
How exhilarating it was to march
along the great boulevards
in the sunflash of trumpets
and under all the waving flags–
the flag of desire, the flag of ambition.
So many of us streaming along–
all of humanity, really–
moving in perfect sync,
yet each lost in the room of a private dream.
How stimulating the scenery of the world,
the rows of roadside trees,
the huge blue sheet of the sky.
How endless it seemed until we veered
off the broad turnpike
into a pasture of high grass,
heading toward the dizzying cliffs of mortality.
Generation after generation,
we shoulder forward
under the play of clouds
until we high-step off the sharp lip into space.
So I should not have to remind you
that little time is given here
to rest on a wayside bench,
to stop and bend to the wildflowers,
or to study a bird on a branch–
not when the young
keep shoving from behind,
not when the old are tugging us forward,
pulling on our arms with all their feeble strength.
My own attempts are feeble in comparison to Collins, but wth practice I will become better.
sunrise_over_water
At The Lake’s Edge by Lyn Crain
The long rocky shoreline had rough water tonight
this breezy spring twilight in April.
I came to watch the evening sun set on the water.
I heard the loons crooning to their mates.
My tranquility was disrupted by a child’s screech and
two young people paddling hard in a canoe.
An elderly man fished on the opposite shore while
a woman read a book in her chair on the dock.
I shivered as the waves swished against the beach
and the cold spray hit my leg as I sat on the rock.
I struggled to regroup my thoughts, to close this day
The peace in my world was jeopardized so
I sought the calm of my beautiful beach haven.
I ached to find my composure once more
As I immersed myself in the beauty at the lake’s edge.
My mind rambled to the times when I brought my children
to swim and play in the chilling water in the summer’s heat.
Those moonlit nights on my way home from work when I swam
successfully working out stress in my own way.
I committed to memory the reasons why I must pick me up once more,
I need another sunrise, to gaze at another sunset on the lake’s edge.
The troubled emotions, I felt when I arrived have dissipated because
the lake’s rippled water refreshed my essence.
I heard the soft call of a loon, the woeful song was
a gentle reminder of my lover who waits for me
Good night, my lakeside haven!
Thank you for giving me sanctuary,
I am okay now because of you.
As you go about your day, I hope you find time to appreciate your surroundings and those in your life. Maybe read a poem while you’re there. ❤

A Poet, I enjoy

Late Fragment by Raymond Carver
And did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
I did.

And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth.

Happiness by Raymond Carver
So early it’s still almost dark out.
I’m near the window with coffee,
and the usual early morning stuff
that passes for thought.
When I see the boy and his friend
walking up the road
to deliver the newspaper.
They wear caps and sweaters,
and one boy has a bag over his shoulder.
They are so happy
they aren’t saying anything, these boys.
I think if they could, they would take
each other’s arm.
It’s early in the morning,
and they are doing this thing together.
They come on, slowly.
The sky is taking on light,
though the moon still hangs pale over the water.
Such beauty that for a minute
death and ambition, even love,
doesn’t enter into this.
Happiness. It comes on
unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really,
any early morning talk about it.

Carver wrote powerful poetry that reminds us to live in the moment.