i go back to the house for a book

I Go Back to the House for a Book

I turn around on the gravel
and go back to the house for a book,
something to read at the doctor's office,
and while I am inside, running the finger
of inquisition along a shelf,
another me that did not bother
to go back to the house for a book
heads out on his own,
rolls down the driveway,
and swings left toward town,
a ghost in his ghost car,
another knot in the string of time,
a good three minutes ahead of me —
a spacing that will now continue
for the rest of my life.

Sometimes I think I see him
a few people in front of me on a line
or getting up from a table
to leave the restaurant just before I do,
slipping into his coat on the way out the door.
But there is no catching him,
no way to slow him down
and put us back in synch,
unless one day he decides to go back
to the house for something,
but I cannot imagine
for the life of me what that might be.

He is out there always before me,
blazing my trail, invisible scout,
hound that pulls me along,
shade I am doomed to follow,
my perfect double,
only bumped an inch into the future,
and not nearly as well-versed as I
in the love poems of Ovid —
I who went back to the house
that fateful winter morning and got the book.

--Billy Collins

let go of your worries..

Let go of your worries
and be completely clear-hearted,
like the face of a mirror
that contains no images.
If you want a clear mirror,
behold yourself
and see the shameless truth,
which the mirror reflects.
If metal can be polished
to a mirror-like finish,
what polishing might the mirror
of the heart require?
Between the mirror and the heart
is this single difference:
the heart conceals secrets,
while the mirror does not.

--Rumi

xxx
happy birthday marguerite.

winter's end

Winter's End

Once in a wood at winter's end,
The withered sun, becoming young,
Turned the white silence into sound:
Bird after bird rose up in song.
The skeletons of snow-blocked trees
Linked thinning shadows here and there,
And those made mummy by the freeze
Spangled their mirrors on cold air.
Whether they moved — perhaps they spun,
Caught in a new but known delight —
Was hard to tell, since shade and sun
Mingled to hear the birds recite.
No body of this sound I saw,
So glassed and shining was the world
That swung on a sun-and-ice seesaw
And fought to have its leaves unfurled.
Hanging its harvest in between
Two worlds, one lost, one yet to come,
The wood's remoteness, like a drum,
Beat the oncoming season in.
Then every snow bird on white wings
Became its tropic counterpart,
And, in a renaissance of rings,
I saw the heart of summer start.

--Howard Moss

xxx
i know that winter's not over. but in february, i'm allowed to be optimistic.

the love song of j. alfred prufrock

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun,
s’i’odo il vero, Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

				LET us go then, you and I,
				When the evening is spread out against the sky
				Like a patient etherised upon a table;
				Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
				The muttering retreats
				Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
				And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
				Streets that follow like a tedious argument
				Of insidious intent
				To lead you to an overwhelming question …
				Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
				Let us go and make our visit.
				In the room the women come and go
				Talking of Michelangelo.
				The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
				The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
				Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
				Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
				Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
				Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
				And seeing that it was a soft October night,
				Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
				And indeed there will be time
				For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
				Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
				There will be time, there will be time
				To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
				There will be time to murder and create,
				And time for all the works and days of hands
				That lift and drop a question on your plate;
				Time for you and time for me,
				And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
				And for a hundred visions and revisions,
				Before the taking of a toast and tea.
				In the room the women come and go
				Talking of Michelangelo.
				And indeed there will be time
				To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
				Time to turn back and descend the stair,
				With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
				[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
				My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
				My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
				[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
				Do I dare
				Disturb the universe?
				In a minute there is time
				For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
				For I have known them all already, known them all:—
				Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
				I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
				I know the voices dying with a dying fall
				Beneath the music from a farther room.
				So how should I presume?
				And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
				The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
				And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
				When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
				Then how should I begin
				To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
				And how should I presume?
				And I have known the arms already, known them all—
				Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
				[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
				It is perfume from a dress
				That makes me so digress?
				Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
				And should I then presume?
				And how should I begin? . . . . .
				Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
				And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
				Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…
				I should have been a pair of ragged claws
				Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. . . . . .
				And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
				Smoothed by long fingers,
				Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
				Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
				Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
				Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
				But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
				Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
				I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
				I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
				And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
				And in short, I was afraid.
				And would it have been worth it, after all,
				After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
				Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
				Would it have been worth while,
				To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
				To have squeezed the universe into a ball
				To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
				To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
				Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
				If one, settling a pillow by her head,
				Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
				That is not it, at all.”
				And would it have been worth it, after all,
				Would it have been worth while,
				After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
				After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
				And this, and so much more?—
				It is impossible to say just what I mean!
				But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
				Would it have been worth while
				If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
				And turning toward the window, should say:
				“That is not it at all,
				That is not what I meant, at all.” . . . . .
				No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
				Am an attendant lord, one that will do
				To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
				Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
				Deferential, glad to be of use,
				Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
				Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
				At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
				Almost, at times, the Fool.
				I grow old … I grow old …
				I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
				Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
				I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
				I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
				I do not think that they will sing to me.
				I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
				Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
				When the wind blows the water white and black.
				We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
				By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
				Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

--T.S. Eliot

xxx
this is in defense of all things beautiful.

it may not always be so...

it may not always be so; and i say
that if your lips, which i have loved, should touch
another's, and your dear strong fingers clutch
his heart, as mine in time not far away;
if on another's face your sweet hair lay
in such a silence as i know, as such
great writhing words as, uttering overmuch,
stand helplessly before the spirit at bay;

if this should be, i say if this should be -
you of my heart, send me a little word;
that i may go unto him, and take his hands,
saying, Accept all happiness from me.
Then shall i turn my face, and hear one bird
sing terribly afar in the lost lands.

--e.e. cummings

xxx
this is not the perfect picture, but i don't have much else to fit with probably the most beautiful way in the world to deal with a parting of ways.

litany

Litany

You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine...
-Jacques Crickillon

You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine.

--Billy Collins

xxx
reagan's photo. thanks to 'prairie home companion,' this was my introduction to billy collins and to living poets when i was 11 years old.

i carry your heart with me

i carry your heart with me

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

--e.e. cummings

xxx
love yourself.

because she would ask me why i loved her

Because She Would Ask Me Why I Loved Her

If questioning would make us wise
No eyes would ever gaze in eyes;
If all our tale were told in speech
No mouths would wander each to each.

Were spirits free from mortal mesh
And love not bound in hearts of flesh
No aching breasts would yearn to meet
And find their ecstasy complete.

For who is there that lives and knows
The secret powers by which he grows?
Were knowledge all, what were our need
To thrill and faint and sweetly bleed?

Then seek not, sweet, the "If" and "Why"
I love you now until I die.
For I must love because I live
And life in me is what you give.

--Christopher Brennan

oniomania

Oniomania

Not so much the desire
for owning things
as the inability to choose
between hunter or emerald
green, to buy
just roses, when there are birds
of paradise, dahlias,
delphinium, and baby's breath.
At center an emptiness
large as a half-off sale table.
What could be so wrong
with a little indulgence?
To wander the aisles of fresh
new good things knowing
any of them could be hers?
With a closet full of shoes
unworn back home,
she's looking for love
but it's not for sale —
so she grabs three of
the next best thing.

--Peter Pereira

advice from casals

Every second we live is a new and unique moment for the universe,
a moment that never was before and never will be again.
And what do we teach children in school?
We teach them that two and two make four
and that Paris is the capital of France.
When will we also teach them: Do you know what you are?
You are a marvel. You are unique.
On of the world there is no other child exactly like you.
On the millions of years that have passed there has never
been another child like you.
And look at your body what a wonder it is!
Your legs, your arms, your cunning fingers, the way you move!
You may become a Shakespeare, a Michelangelo, a Beethoven.
You have the capacity for anything.
Yes you are a marvel.
And when you grow up, can you then harm another who is,
like you, a marvel.
You must cherish one another.
You must work.
We all must work to make this world worthy of children.

--Pablo Casals.

xxx
one of my parents took this photo of us on our first family trip to ireland. we spent most of the trip traveling in the gypsy caravan you see in the background.