Only Two Days Late

Friday Five

1. What is your favorite type of literature to read (magazine, newspaper, novels, nonfiction, poetry, etc.)?

Poetry, journals and letters, especially a correspondence. Fiction, long and short.

2. What is your favorite novel?

Just one? Can't do it.

3. Do you have a favorite poem? (Share it!) I can't select any fewer than these three. The first for the imagery, the second and third for the music:

(the first poem should be centered, but I can't figure out how to format it here)

Little Owl Who Lives in the Orchard

His beak could open a bottle,
and his eyes—when he lifts their soft lids—
go on reading something
just beyond your shoulder—
Blake, maybe,
or the Book of Revelation.

Never mind that he eats only
the black-smocked crickets,
and dragonflies if they happen
to be out late over the ponds, and of course
the occasional festal mouse.
Never mind that he is only a memo
from the offices of fear—

It's not size but surge that tells us
when we're in touch with something real,
and when I hear him in the orchard
fluttering
down the little aluminum
ladder of his scream—
when I see his wings open, like two black ferns,

a flurry of palpitations
as cold as sleet
rackets across the marshlands
of my heart,
like a wild spring day.

Somewhere in the universe,
in the gallery of important things,
the babyish owl, ruffled and rakish,
sits on its pedestal.
Dear, dark dapple of plush!
A message, reads the label,
from that mysterious conglomerate:
Oblivion and Co.
The hooked head stares
from its blouse of dark, feathery lace.
It could be a valentine.

Mary Oliver
House of Light


How shall I hold my soul, that it may not
be touching yours? How shall I lift it then
above you to where other things are waiting?
Ah, gladly would I lodge it, all forgot,
with some lost thing the dark is isolating
on some remote and silent spot that, when
your depths vibrate, is not itself vibrating.

You and me—all that lights upon us, though
brings us together like a fiddle-bow
drawing one voice from two strings it glides along.
Across what instrument have we been spanned?
And what violinist holds us in his hand?
O sweetest song.

Ranier Maria Rilke
Possibilty of Being


Let Evening Come

Let the light of late afternoon
shine through chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.

Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn. Let evening come.

Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.

Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
Let the wind die down. Let the shed
go black inside. Let evening come.

To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
let evening come.

Let it come, as it will, and don't
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.

Jane Kenyon
Let Evening Come


4. What is one thing you've always wanted to read, or wish you had more time to read?
War and Peace

5. What are you currently reading?
Li Young Lee, Seamus Heaney's translation of Beowulf, a reread of Kenyon and Piercy's poems, McKinley's Sunshine

Only Two Days Late

Friday Five

1. What is your favorite type of literature to read (magazine, newspaper, novels, nonfiction, poetry, etc.)?

Poetry, journals and letters, especially a correspondence. Fiction, long and short.

2. What is your favorite novel?

Just one? Can't do it.

3. Do you have a favorite poem? (Share it!) I can't select any fewer than these three. The first for the imagery, the second and third for the music:

(the first poem should be centered, but I can't figure out how to format it here)

Little Owl Who Lives in the Orchard

His beak could open a bottle,
and his eyes—when he lifts their soft lids—
go on reading something
just beyond your shoulder—
Blake, maybe,
or the Book of Revelation.

Never mind that he eats only
the black-smocked crickets,
and dragonflies if they happen
to be out late over the ponds, and of course
the occasional festal mouse.
Never mind that he is only a memo
from the offices of fear—

It's not size but surge that tells us
when we're in touch with something real,
and when I hear him in the orchard
fluttering
down the little aluminum
ladder of his scream—
when I see his wings open, like two black ferns,

a flurry of palpitations
as cold as sleet
rackets across the marshlands
of my heart,
like a wild spring day.

Somewhere in the universe,
in the gallery of important things,
the babyish owl, ruffled and rakish,
sits on its pedestal.
Dear, dark dapple of plush!
A message, reads the label,
from that mysterious conglomerate:
Oblivion and Co.
The hooked head stares
from its blouse of dark, feathery lace.
It could be a valentine.

Mary Oliver
House of Light


How shall I hold my soul, that it may not
be touching yours? How shall I lift it then
above you to where other things are waiting?
Ah, gladly would I lodge it, all forgot,
with some lost thing the dark is isolating
on some remote and silent spot that, when
your depths vibrate, is not itself vibrating.

You and me—all that lights upon us, though
brings us together like a fiddle-bow
drawing one voice from two strings it glides along.
Across what instrument have we been spanned?
And what violinist holds us in his hand?
O sweetest song.

Ranier Maria Rilke
Possibilty of Being


Let Evening Come

Let the light of late afternoon
shine through chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.

Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn. Let evening come.

Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.

Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
Let the wind die down. Let the shed
go black inside. Let evening come.

To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
let evening come.

Let it come, as it will, and don't
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.

Jane Kenyon
Let Evening Come


4. What is one thing you've always wanted to read, or wish you had more time to read?
War and Peace

5. What are you currently reading?
Li Young Lee, Seamus Heaney's translation of Beowulf, a reread of Kenyon and Piercy's poems, McKinley's Sunshine

(no subject)

H watched the Oscars with me. The whole way through. He never watches awards shows, but he's so invested in LotR. He was beaming, while I was squeeing and woohooing as the awards got progressively more important. Woo! He had to make a quick call to work, and I ran to check on Mom. Our bad luck to choose the same time--and they awarded Best Director while we were out of the room. Nooooooo! I got to hear the end of PJ's speech, though. And the both of us were riveted to the screen as it came down to best picture.

I'm SO pleased. I have no earthly idea why the LotR team sweeping the Oscars, as well as picking up other awards along the way, feels like a personal accomplishment. Maybe just a wee bit too invested, perhaps?

(no subject)

H watched the Oscars with me. The whole way through. He never watches awards shows, but he's so invested in LotR. He was beaming, while I was squeeing and woohooing as the awards got progressively more important. Woo! He had to make a quick call to work, and I ran to check on Mom. Our bad luck to choose the same time--and they awarded Best Director while we were out of the room. Nooooooo! I got to hear the end of PJ's speech, though. And the both of us were riveted to the screen as it came down to best picture.

I'm SO pleased. I have no earthly idea why the LotR team sweeping the Oscars, as well as picking up other awards along the way, feels like a personal accomplishment. Maybe just a wee bit too invested, perhaps?