Atlantis - A Lost Sonnet

Here is where I admit that I have not read any good books as of late.  I am in a one-sided feud with our local library system, and have refused to give them any more of my business (for now), so my book supply has been woefully low.  I do, however, have a fantastic stash of books of poetry, including A Fine Statement: An Irish Poet's Anthology, which was sent to my by my dear friend WHILE she was living in Ireland.  I hope you enjoy this one; it's one of my all-time favorites.  

Atlantis - A Lost Sonnet

How on earth did it happen, I used to wonder
that a whole city - arches, pillars, colonnades,
not to mention vehicles and animals - had all
one fine day gone under?

I mean, I said to myself, the world was small then.
Surely a great city must have been missed?
I miss our old city -

white pepper, white pudding, you and I meeting
under fanlights and low skies to go home in it.  Maybe
what really happened is

this: the old fable-makers searched hard for a word
to convey that what is gone is gone forever and
never found it.  And so, in the best traditions of

where we come from, they gave their sorrow a name
and drowned it.

by Eavan Boland

(love, haley)

Too Much Happiness

Here's a little Valentine's Day poem from Elizabeth Bishop.  Enjoy this lovely February 14!

Close, close all night the lovers keep.
They turn together in their sleep,
Close as two pages in a book
That read each other in the dark.
Each knows all the other knows,
Learned by heart, from head to toe.

A poem for Wednesday

"The Love Cook"

Let me cook you some dinner.
Sit down and take off your shoes and socks and in fact the rest of your clothes,
have a daiquiri,
turn on some music and dance around the house,
inside and out.
It's night and the neighbors are sleeping,
those dolts,
and the stars are shining brignt,
and I've got the burners lit for you,
you hungry thing.
-Ron Padgett

A Poem

I'll be 100% honest: I'm still struggling a bit to get back into the swing of things.  We moved two and a half weeks ago, but packed for a week before that, and are continually in the process of getting all of the unnecessary moving stuff out of our condo.  It's been a lot, and I apologize for the irregularity of some of the posting that's been going on.  Please accept this Pablo Neruda poem as an olive branch; I'll get better.

"Your Feet"
When I cannot look at your face
I look at your feet.
Your feet of arched bone, your hard little feet.
I know that they support you,
and that your sweet weight rise above them.
Your waist and your breasts,
the doubled purple of your nipples,
the sockets of your eyes that have just flown away,
Your wide fruit mouth,
Your red tresses, my little tower.
But I love your feet
only because
they walked upon the wind and upon the waters
until they found me.

Good Poems for Hard Times

There is no more timely or apropos book title than this one, edited by Garrison Keillor. The poems included have been featured on his NPR segment, The Writer's Almanac, and are divided into sections such as "Kindness to Snails" and "The Lust of Tenderness." Poems are wondrous things; they convey an entire event, an emotion, even a solitary item in a few pages, and the good ones always leave us wanting more. Poets with whom we click take us out of ordinary life, and allow us to see the beauty surrounding us that we so frequently miss. I love this book, and am guaranteed to find something to turn my day around each time I crack open the binding, even it's just the introduction. Some of my favorites include "No Longer a Teenager" by Gerald Locklin, "The Discovery of Sex" by Debra Spencer, "The Love Cook" by Ron Padgett, and "In Praise of My Bed" by Meredith Holmes, which I'll leave you with for today.

At last I can be with you!
The grinding hours
since I left your side!
The labor of being fully human,
working my opposable thumb,
talking, and walking upright.
Now I have unclasped
unzipped, stepped out of.
Husked, soft, a be-er only,
I do nothing, but point
my bare feet into your
clean smoothness
feel your quiet strength
the whole length of my body.
I close my eyes, hear myself
moan, so grateful to be held this way.

P.S. Mommi sent in this picture of me getting my copy of the collection signed by Mr. Keillor himself in June 2007. Notice that his tie is about as tall as one of my legs. He has quite the compelling voice; please see him in person if you get a chance!