Reading Poems I didn't write.

I used to hate reading poetry I didn't write.  Sounds pretentious.  Ok it is pretentious.  But I don't anymore.  Actually, I've found several authors I prefer to me;  Billy Collins, Ted Kooser, W.S. Merwin, Franz Wright, and Kay Ryan to name a few.  Kay Ryan's new collection came out last month and I was the first to check it out from my local library... how nerdy am I?  Turns out, it was really good.  Not just normal good, where every tenth or so poems can be both started and finished... I find myself finishing almost every page, each containing almost exactly one poem.  This one is called "Age"  and I think it's one of my favorites, although it's hard to tell, there's at least one thing great about almost all of them. 

As some people age
they kinden.
The apertures
of their eyes widen.
I do not think they weaken;
I think something weak strengthens
until they are more and more it,
like letting in heaven.
But other people are
mussels or clams, frightened.
Steam or knife blades mean open.
They hear heaven, they think boiled or broken.


I'm not sure if Ryan is a religious person, but the ideas of "something weak strengthens"  and "letting in heaven" are, I think, the gospel in two beautifully crafted lines.   

summer

I have always loved you, summer. 

Maybe it's because when I was a kid summer meant weeks at my grandma's at the beach.  Or because in high school it meant arts festivals and marching band camp.  Or because in college it meant spending more time with Sarah.  Or because it's synonymous with 2.5 months of vacation.  This year, it's meant coffee, libraries, camps for just about every possible age-group, and a revival of my blogging habit.  As of today. 

ok embarrassing admission... I almost teared up a little in the car today, the theme to "Dawson's Creek" came on the radio... I watched a few episodes of the show in high school, and I remember it dealing with some of the same issues that I was dealing with at the time.  listening to it today made me wonder 1) what shows / songs / books / etc.  are speaking to the issues that people are dealing with today and 2) why was I in such a hurry to move on then... and why do I sometimes feel like I haven't ?   

not really going anywhere with this... i guess maybe I've lost my knack for blogging.  or I never had it.  or I never really went anywhere with my posts and I am just now realizing it... who knows. 

traduccion

I've been thinking for a while about trying to do some translation of Spanish poetry, and this post is my first attempt. Gotta start somewhere. The original is available here if you want to fact check me.  Or read it in Spanish, if you want.  Even if you can't there is an element of beauty to the Spanish language that is sadly lost in English.

Quieto
José Manuel Pintado

Suddenly everything is still around the edges
and so it is time to reach down deep
take the pulse of the floor
get a vision of what is looming
what will not wait even a little in coming
in the hole that will host the next step
like an ear of corn stringing kernels across the sky
making stars to walk on nocternal paths
further out than the sun
who hides them with it's brilliance
further than the moon
who gives clarity to the quiet
of this silence.

lent, et al

I took lent off from social media; most of it anyway, twitter, blogs, and facebook... and so now I'm back. I did, however, start a new notebook, which is always fun.

Here are some prayers, breath prayers, I suppose you could call them, that I wrote down (some of them were even somewhat original, I think...) in said new notebook:

All the vein things
that charm me most
I sacrifice them
to his blood

Smash all my meedoms
Be patient with me // give me patience for others
Help me feed on you and friends // instead of on myself
Crucify me // give me life
Teach us what you meant // by moving mountains
Move the mountains // in me...

A Response

Shuffling dinner plates
I hear news of other
plates
having shuffled
in far more painful ways
in places less comfortable than here.
Sadness takes a tectonic turn
toward anger
as I hear those who are blaming you,
the maker of this crusty ball,
for shaking the ground out of wrath
like some jealous child
angry at those who won't
follow your rules.
But in our nondecimated buildings
we know who You are
and we know better
than to think it was you;
It was not your fists
pounding dirt in rage
but your hands, open,
catching many of your children as they fell.
You did not break this world
but only you can heal it.