Our Names

Naming My Daughter by Patricia Fargnoli             In the Uruba tribe of Africa, children are             named not only at birth but throughout their             lives by their characteristics and the events             that befall them. The one who took hold in the cold night The one who kicked loudly The one who slid down quickly in the ice storm She who came while the doctor was eating dessert New one held up by heels in the glare The river between two brothers Second pot on the stove Princess of a hundred dolls Hair like water falling beneath moonlight Strides into the day She who runs away with motorcycle club president Daughter kicked with a boot Daughter blizzard in the sky Daughter night-pocket She who sells sports club memberships One who loves over and over She who wants child but lost one. She who wants marriage but has none She who never gives up Diana (Goddess of the Chase) Doris (for the carrot-top grandmother she never knew) Fargnoli (for the father who drank and left and died) Peter Pan, Iron Pumper Tumbleweed who goes mouths without calling Daughter who is a pillar of light Daughter mirror, Daughter stands alone Daughter boomerang who always comes back Daughter who flies forward into the day where I will be nameless. "Naming My Daughter" by Patricia Fargnoli, from Necessary Light. © Utah State University Press, 1999. Reprinted with permissio   This is another poem again from the "Writer's Almanac" this morning. What an exquisite idea to pause with attention and give name honor to those we love and to ourselves each day every day for our human foibles,successes ,musings,funniness and amazing complexity of who we are and give thanks...Thank you poet Patricia Fargnoli for sharing these thoughtful words.

Today is poet A.E. Houseman's Birthday

When I Was One-and-Twenty

BY A. E. HOUSMAN

When I was one-and-twenty

       I heard a wise man say,

“Give crowns and pounds and guineas

       But not your heart away;

Give pearls away and rubies

       But keep your fancy free.”

But I was one-and-twenty,

       No use to talk to me.

When I was one-and-twenty

       I heard him say again,

“The heart out of the bosom

       Was never given in vain;

’Tis paid with sighs a plenty

       And sold for endless rue.”

And I am two-and-twenty,

       And oh, ’tis true, ’tis true  

A. E. Housman (1859 - 1936)

BIOGRAPHY

At first glance nothing seems more unlikely than that the poet of the enormously popular A Shropshire Lad should be the classical scholar A. E. Housman. This Cambridge University professor of Latin left no doubt as to his priorities: the emendation of classical texts was both an intellectual search for the truth and his life's work; poetry was an emotional and physiological experience that began with a sensation in the pit of the stomach. The apparent discrepancies in this man who became both a first-rate scholar and a celebrated poet should be a reminder that, whatever else poetry does, it also records the interior life, a life that has its roots well beneath the academic gown or the business suit. Furthermore, in Housman's case, though he did aspire to be a great scholar first, scrutiny of his life and work reveals that he valued poetry more highly than he often admitted and that many of the presumed conflicts between the classical scholar and the romantic poet dissolve in the personality of the man.He said: "Good literature continually read for pleasure must, let us hope, do some good to the reader: must quicken his perception though dull, and sharpen his discrimination though blunt, and mellow the rawness of his personal opinions."

AE  Houseman apparently felt that as a writer he did have some purpose or even responsibility in the" generation of hope and doing some good to the reader"

Where does goodness come from

GeoTagged, [N42.01196, E88.15699]



Breaking Silence - For My Son

by Patricia Fargnoli

The night you were conceived
your father drove up Avon Mountain
and into the roadside rest
that looked over the little city,
its handful of scattered sparks.
I was eighteen and thin then
but the front seat of the 1956 Dodge
seemed cramped and dark,
the new diamond, I hadn't known
how to refuse, trapping flecks of light.
Even then the blackness was thick
as a muck you could swim through.
Your father pushed me down
on the scratchy seat, not roughly
but as if staking a claim,
and his face rose like
a thing-shadowed moon above me.
My legs ached in those peculiar angles,
my head bumped against the door.
I know you want me to say I loved him
but I wanted only to belong—to anyone.
So I let it happen,
the way I let all of it happen—
the marriage, his drinking, the rage.
This is not to say I loved you any less—
only I was young and didn't know yet
we can choose our lives.
It was dark in the car.
Such weight and pressure,
the wet earthy smell of night,
a slickness like glue.
And in a distant inviolate place,
as though it had nothing at all
to do with him, you were a spark
in silence catching.

"Breaking Silence—For My Son" by Patricia Fargnoli, from Necessary Light. © Utah State University Press, 1999
Posted in: Uncategorized
This poem was posted on one of my favorite sites ,"the Writer's Almanac" this morning.I think the poet captured a moment of raw honesty with one self.Although,I have not concretely had the same experience as the poet,there are moments in my life daily that astound me.I often wonder in my personal odysseys and those that I witness,hear,see how from sometimes the bleakest ,most forlorn and unredeeming parts of relationships the most stunning ,mystifying parts of ourselves are revealed.Sometimes the best of oneself or what we see in another rises from a heap of rubble or even ashes.Abraham Joshua Heschel has said that we are no longer living if we cease to be surprised..We must avail ourselves to notice and cherish all of the"sparks in the silence cathching"
We do not have a choice on that one....

The Laughter of Children through kite flying

SoundSeen: Flying Kites for the First Time from Speaking of Faith on Vimeo. There is no greater way of human connection that through the laughter of children. These  children of Nepal are flying kites for the very first time. The kites were made by a group of children from the other side of the world in British Columbia. This is the embodiment  of global mindfulness

Photography Class and Creativity

Sculpture of a young girl's  face in wonder

One of the things I have been pondering on lately and often these days is  the elusive  nature of the "creative process". In my photography class today the teacher read us a quote by  Ansel Adams,"The true artist sees the world in the strongest possible way, let us say,in the most penetrating  and revealing way.The art of photography is the art of "seeing" and the effectiveness of photography depends upon the strength and integrity of this " seeing".....The difference between the creative and the factual approach is one of purpose,sensitivity,and the ability to visualize an emotionally and aesthetically exciting image..."
  One can say such about a life well lived as well.

Spring can of beauty even in the snow

snow drops in the snow

winter aconite in snow

crocuses in snow

Endymion (extract) 

by John Keats

Book I

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases, it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits.
"From Endymion" by John Keats. Public domain ,from the Writer's Almanac today,yes beauty does "move away the pall from our dark spirits",May  this spring and all springs be a bounty of resplendent beauty for us all....

Happy Birthday to JS Bach On this First Day of Spring

Lake Michigan on a Snowy Vernal Equinox today,"And forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet
and the winds long to play with your hair" Khalil Gibran