Will this month never end? Here's another from the archives, my post-college trip to Europe.
Having to speak French gave me great pain
Thank goodness tomorrow
We'll all be in Spain.
A favorite, from one of my favorite people to get e-mail from!
Thesis, Antithesis, and Nostalgia
by Alan dugan
Not even dried-up leaves,
skidding like iceboats on
their points down winter streets,
can scratch the surface of
a child's summer and its wealth:
a stagnant calm that seemed
as if it must go on and on
outside of cyclical variety
the way, at child-height on a wall,
a brick named "Ann"
by someone's piece of chalk
still loves the one named "Al"
although the street is vacant and
the writer and the named are gone.
Tuesday
Monday
April 28
Three Twos Again
Too cold
To play
Outside
Today
My Shadow
Robert Louis Stevenson
I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.
The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow--
Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;
For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,
And he sometimes goes so little that there's none of him at all.
He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,
And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.
He stays so close behind me, he's a coward you can see;
I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!
One morning, very early, before the sun was up,
I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;
But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,
Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.
Too cold
To play
Outside
Today
My Shadow
Robert Louis Stevenson
I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.
The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow--
Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;
For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,
And he sometimes goes so little that there's none of him at all.
He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,
And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.
He stays so close behind me, he's a coward you can see;
I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!
One morning, very early, before the sun was up,
I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;
But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,
Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.
Sunday
Saturday
April 26
if it's not sand it's leaves
a haiku
I rake last fall's leaves
from the corners of my yard
where they were hiding
Here's one from the Lizard King though I can't quite picture Jim Morrison out raking leaves in his snake skin pants.
A man rakes leaves into
a heap in his yard, a pile,
and leans on his rake and
burns them utterly.
The fragrance fills the forest
children pause and heed the
smell, which will become
nostalgia in several years.
a haiku
I rake last fall's leaves
from the corners of my yard
where they were hiding
Here's one from the Lizard King though I can't quite picture Jim Morrison out raking leaves in his snake skin pants.
A man rakes leaves into
a heap in his yard, a pile,
and leans on his rake and
burns them utterly.
The fragrance fills the forest
children pause and heed the
smell, which will become
nostalgia in several years.
Friday
April 25
arbor day (a couplet)
Who celerates Arbor Day
Any way?
The Internet can be such a source of disappointment. All these years I thought Joyce Kilmer was a woman - then I google the poem and it's Alfred Joyce Kilmer.
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
-- Joyce Kilmer
Who celerates Arbor Day
Any way?
The Internet can be such a source of disappointment. All these years I thought Joyce Kilmer was a woman - then I google the poem and it's Alfred Joyce Kilmer.
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
-- Joyce Kilmer
Thursday
April 24
if Robert Frost Lived on Cape Cod
Whose beach this is I think I know
Their year-round house is in the city though
They will not see me walking here
Or else they'd tell me where to go
The neighbors, they might see me here
But in spring, they too are not near
None have time to bother being here
On the Cape this time of year
So year rounders have a chance
Upon private beaches to advance
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy drake
The ocean's lovely, dark and deep
But I have no beach rights so off I creep
And travel miles to the public beach
And travel miles to the public beach
This one is for the twin's first trip to Old Silver Beach, though they weren't the ones who came home sandy.
Season at the Shore
by Phyllis McGinley
On, not by sun and not by cloud
And not by whippoorwill, crying loud,
And not by the pricking of my thumbs,
Do I know the way that the summer comes.
Yet here on this seagull-haunted strand,
Hers is an omen I understand -
Sand:
Sand on the beaches,
Sand at the door,
Sand that screeches
On the new-swept floor;
In the shower, sand for the foot to crunch on;
Sand in the sandwiches spread for luncheon;
Sand adhesive to son and sibling,
From wallet sifting, from pockets dribbling;
Sand by the beaker
Nightly shed
From odious sneaker;
Sand in bed;
Sahara always in my seaside shanty
Like the sand in the voice
of J. Durante.
Winter is mittens, winter is gaiters
Steaming on various radiators.
Autumn is leaves that bog the broom.
Spring is mud in the living room
Or skates in places one scarcely planned.
But what is summer, her seal in hand?
Sand:
Sand in closets,
Sand on the stair,
Desert deposits
In the parlor chair;
Sand n the halls like the halls of the ocean;
Sand in he soap and the sun-tan lotion;
Stirred in the porridge, tossed on the greens,
Poured from the bottoms of rolled-up jeans;
In the elmy street
On the lawny acre;
Glued to the seat
Of the Studebaker.
Whose beach this is I think I know
Their year-round house is in the city though
They will not see me walking here
Or else they'd tell me where to go
The neighbors, they might see me here
But in spring, they too are not near
None have time to bother being here
On the Cape this time of year
So year rounders have a chance
Upon private beaches to advance
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy drake
The ocean's lovely, dark and deep
But I have no beach rights so off I creep
And travel miles to the public beach
And travel miles to the public beach
This one is for the twin's first trip to Old Silver Beach, though they weren't the ones who came home sandy.
Season at the Shore
by Phyllis McGinley
On, not by sun and not by cloud
And not by whippoorwill, crying loud,
And not by the pricking of my thumbs,
Do I know the way that the summer comes.
Yet here on this seagull-haunted strand,
Hers is an omen I understand -
Sand:
Sand on the beaches,
Sand at the door,
Sand that screeches
On the new-swept floor;
In the shower, sand for the foot to crunch on;
Sand in the sandwiches spread for luncheon;
Sand adhesive to son and sibling,
From wallet sifting, from pockets dribbling;
Sand by the beaker
Nightly shed
From odious sneaker;
Sand in bed;
Sahara always in my seaside shanty
Like the sand in the voice
of J. Durante.
Winter is mittens, winter is gaiters
Steaming on various radiators.
Autumn is leaves that bog the broom.
Spring is mud in the living room
Or skates in places one scarcely planned.
But what is summer, her seal in hand?
Sand:
Sand in closets,
Sand on the stair,
Desert deposits
In the parlor chair;
Sand n the halls like the halls of the ocean;
Sand in he soap and the sun-tan lotion;
Stirred in the porridge, tossed on the greens,
Poured from the bottoms of rolled-up jeans;
In the elmy street
On the lawny acre;
Glued to the seat
Of the Studebaker.
Wednesday
April 23
Animal themes tonight. I just love picturing that roach shaking a shimmy on the butter.
indoor cat (a quatrain)
She sits looking out in disbelief
At the little birds singing cheep cheep cheep
With no means to reach the doorknob she has a hunch
That today, again, she'll miss the free lunch
NURSERY RHYMES FOR THE TENDER-HEARTED
by Christopher Morley
SCUTTLE, scuttle, little roach—
How you run when I approach.
Up above the pantry shelf,
Hastening to secrete yourself.
Most adventurous of vermin,
How I wish I could determine
How you spend your hours of ease,
Perhaps reclining on the cheese.
Cook has gone, and all is dark—
Then the kitchen is your park:
In the garbage heap that she leaves
Do you browse among the tea leaves?
How delightful to suspect
All the places you have trekked:
Does your long antenna whisk its
Gentle tip across the biscuits?
Do you linger, little soul,
Drowsing in our sugar bowl?
Or, abandonment most utter,
Shake a shimmy on the butter?
Do you chant your simple tunes
Swimming in the baby's prunes?
Then, when dawn comes, do you slink
Homeward to the kitchen sink?
Timid roach, why be so shy?
We are brothers, thou and I.
In the midnight, like yourself,
I explore the pantry shelf!
indoor cat (a quatrain)
She sits looking out in disbelief
At the little birds singing cheep cheep cheep
With no means to reach the doorknob she has a hunch
That today, again, she'll miss the free lunch
NURSERY RHYMES FOR THE TENDER-HEARTED
by Christopher Morley
SCUTTLE, scuttle, little roach—
How you run when I approach.
Up above the pantry shelf,
Hastening to secrete yourself.
Most adventurous of vermin,
How I wish I could determine
How you spend your hours of ease,
Perhaps reclining on the cheese.
Cook has gone, and all is dark—
Then the kitchen is your park:
In the garbage heap that she leaves
Do you browse among the tea leaves?
How delightful to suspect
All the places you have trekked:
Does your long antenna whisk its
Gentle tip across the biscuits?
Do you linger, little soul,
Drowsing in our sugar bowl?
Or, abandonment most utter,
Shake a shimmy on the butter?
Do you chant your simple tunes
Swimming in the baby's prunes?
Then, when dawn comes, do you slink
Homeward to the kitchen sink?
Timid roach, why be so shy?
We are brothers, thou and I.
In the midnight, like yourself,
I explore the pantry shelf!
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