Monday, August 24, 2015

A Mess, Spilled

Image of the Day:  some bird in the deep woods, calling, calling.


Dreams:  We had forgotten to have someone come into our house while we're away and take care of our pet monkey.  So I leave early--a campground?--and go home and the fridge is a mess, spilled pasta all over the place.  I can't find the monkey and am super trepidatious.... (We do not own a pet monkey, fyi.)


From an interview with Rachel Eliza Griffiths in the recent American Poetry Review:
"Creatively, I had to let go of trying to control myself on the page.  And to give up any attempts to control other people's experience of me" (18).


From Women of Will:  Following the Feminine in Shakespeare's Plays by Tina Packer:
"[Shakespeare] was an artist, and as with all artists, the conflicts they hold beg for attention, so they can be examined, perceived, made whole, made use of"(43). 


I had deja vu when I read this poem and I don't know why...


In the Home for Elderly Vehicular Manslaughterers by the Sea
       
The guilt, like the sand, is in everything,
being so near, as they are, to the ocean,
being so close, as they were, to the end
of their lives, before they took the lives
they took. Someone should have taken
the keys away. In many cases, they tried—
but the old, mottled, gnarled knuckles
clenched, closing reflexively around
that silver promise, its heft, its glinting
mountainous teeth. And they held on to it.
Now the guilt, like the sand, is on their hands
and on their lips. It's the grit in the food
they can't eat. Lucky the demented ones,
with no idea, no memory, blithely chewing.


Paul Hostovsky







Tuesday, August 18, 2015

Quest

Image of the Day:  Teeny tiny toad leaping across the road.


Hej Hej!  That's Swedish for hello! Hello!  My family and I took a trip to Sweden a couple of weeks ago and it was so gorgeous.  We stayed on the Island of Vaxholm and took ferry rides out to different islands and to Stockholm.  (I discovered that Sweden has an archipelago several years ago when my boss visited there.)  The shoreline and coast of Vaxholm was so similar to the coast line of Maine it was like I was visiting home.  I definitely could live there.  The Swedish people know their boats--we took a rented boat ride around the island by Beorn who built his own steam boat from mahogany wood and Siberian larch.  It had the feel of a train.  We ate lots of silky salmon and herring, pickled and fresh.  The fresh was so good--I'm on a quest to find local herring and make my own sauces for it.  I also purchased a rolling pin to make knickebrod--the crispy rye bread that went with everything. 


The flight home was fine but eight hours--lots of movie watching.  I got a strange sort of domestic surge when I got home--cleaning out pantry cupboards and canning blueberry conserve, peach jam and chutney.  The chutney didn't work out though and I had to ultimately toss it--after making three attempts to adjust the recipe and get it taste of something other than mustard seed and vinegar.  Maybe next year I'll try chutney again. I did manage to make some yummy gravlax:  cured salmon in my own fridge.  Here's an open face sandwich on my regular homemade bread.  It was yummy!




My son and I tried to memorize this Swedish poem before we went over.  You can listen to it here.  I translated it when I was doing my translation seminar.  Here is my translation: 


Philomela


The little pink buds
contract in my head


marvelous
I see out, it is hushed


dark whispering sounds come
my tongue buried under stone


my head finds no rest
even when the tongue was sliced from its cords


the voice was left inside
how could my head find rest


lilac-blue was the weft woven round me
hear, how sound
varies        it is a voice that lifts you

my tongue is buried, my ear shouts
my robe has gone, my head sings





Math Woes

You can read all about my math woes in this new poem here at Whale Road Review .  And read all the other fabulous poems!