Starting Over

I'm very thankful that the tests I've had this spring turned out negative. On the other hand, having my mind messed up with worrying about them beforehand, has caused me to miss the deadlines for submitting poems to the Alabama Conclave of Writers and the National Federation of State Poetry Societies. These are two major competitions, and the Conclave meeting will be held in Fairhope in July, where I would have loved to go back.

Another large group of writing contests, still open, is given by the Arkansas State Poetry Society. However, they don't list many poetry awards, and most of the ones listed are for special kinds of verse, which I hardly ever attempt. For example, poems with specified numbers of lines, with made-up rhyme schemes, "minute" poems, and so forth. I've done some of those, but they don't amount to anything. When I try to write to someone else's formula, it falls very flat. Maybe it shows skill, but no heart.

When I go online to find the Alabama State Poetry Society fall contests, the latest information on the site is for 2010.

What Scots, Hey?

Three cheers for Macbeth! This I say,

Aware of the villainous way

He slew Duncan and Banquo;

But this much I do know:

It sure made a doggone good play!

Today

I'm cleaning the cook-top, and if that ever gets done, I've got to mail a book.

I was thinking about words that I hate. "Words" would be more like it. I can only think of two that are not obscene, just made up. "Woot" and "meme." People that use them tend to use them at every opportunity. And in the case of "meme," to misuse it, if a question of appropriate use can even be applied. Gad. As if there were not enough words in the languages.

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I started cleaning the cook-top yesterday, and thought it would be a two-day job. About a dozen pieces have gone through the dishwasher, but it looks like the rest of the matter, studded with nails and screws, will take another day at least.

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"Away by the river so clear,

the ladies were wending their way;

when Pharaoh's little daughter

stepped down in the water

to bathe in the cool of the day. . . "

***

"There has fallen a splendid tear

From the passionflower at the gate--

She is coming, my dove, my dear!

She is coming, my life, my fate!"

From "Maud" by Lord Tennyson

The passionflower is commonly called maypop. It grows wild, has edible fruit, as well as some medicinal properties.

***

9:00 p.m.: I finished the cooktop. Tomorrow I'll start on the stove hood.

Zero At the Bone

Zero At the Bone

No ties was all that Ruby ever asked,
and all of substance that she ever got.
Money, of course: at random intervals,
she would phone us for money to come home.
She knew, but never said, we owed her that;
she didn't have to say—we knew it, too.
She always kept a nickel for the phone.

She only came home when she was too ill
or too addicted to recuperate
alone in some hole in a foreign wall,
Chicago or Detroit or Yazoo City.
The rent she paid was that she told us tales
of her adventures; a natural story-teller,
she made us laugh till everybody cried.

And then one day the wind would change and whisper,
“Ruby! Ruby!” and soon she would be gone,
leaving long-distance numbers on odd scraps
of paper, where we might or might not reach her.
Marriage she tried, on more than one occasion,
and once a step-child that she feigned to worship--
all, all abandoned in her frantic flight.

And all that she abandoned grieved for her,
and called and wrote the bogus addresses;
for everybody loved and envied her--
the love was open but the envy secret:
If we could be unchained and free like Ruby,
we'd manage better and enjoy it more,
not hurting those who loved us. So we thought.

And it was guilt that kept us sending money
or going to her rescue now and then.
Sometimes we wouldn't hear from her for years
and feared she might be dead; but then the phone
would ring, and we would send her twice the fare
that she required, hoping she wouldn't waste it,
and fixed the best room in the house for Ruby.

We buried her far from her violator,
and wept because we had let the villain live
and die in prison, instead of loading the shotgun
and blowing the son-of-a-bitch to kingdom come.

By JRC, August 13, 2012

Feast Or Fast

It's a good thing I don't care too much for food. Today I have chicken salad and apple-raisin pie that I made yesterday. Tomorrow I can only have clear liquids, then in the evening a delightful cocktail that is not so clear.

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I tell you, folks, when this is over, if they let me come home, I'm going to change my way of living. I'm going to cancel my telephone and mail, then lock my doors and crawl under the bed and stay there.

Jacob's Ladder

Don't know why my photos turn out dark. Anyway, the quilt blocks are coming along, and I think the quilt will be nice.

Happy Saturday

Last night Jed and I watched "Lincoln," the Spielberg film with Daniel Day Lewis, after a delicious dinner at Logan's. Earlier in the day, we attended the joint Georgia-Alabama Poetry Societies' meeting in Carrollton. Heard readings of lots of poems, including winners of the student contests. I was happy to see so many poet friends--Jerri, Emily and her daughter, Joe, Virginia, Beth, and others. I won three volumes of poems by the Pulitzer Prize winning poet, Natasha Trethewey, for which I'm so grateful. It was a very full and joyous day.

The Georgia Poetry Society hosted this meeting. The prizes were books instead of money, which I think is a good idea. The prizes I won were for two third places and one first.

The Lincoln film was very good. Daniel Day Lewis is such a fine actor. At first I didn't recognize good old Tommy Lee Jones as Thaddeus Stevens in a curly black wig. Sally Field was a great choice to play Mary Lincoln. I didn't know the actor who played Seward, but I liked his portrayal.

Pardon My Grouse

This bird looks the way I feel. Frazzled. Another month like this, and I'll be just about ready to punch my ticket. Or kick my bucket. Or kick something else.

I know that the exam next Friday will just be the start of all the tests/procedures they'll want to run. That's what I know. What I fear is that I'll wind up in University Hospital, and I'D RATHER DIE HYAH! among the pollen, sick cats, thousands of books, reams of scrap paper, and other paraphernalia of the good life.

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I have a poem in this anthology, published by the Birmingham Public Library. The book was sent to me by Haruyo Miyagawa, Head of the Arts/Literature/Sports Department.

What's Going On?

I don't know if I really couldn't get to sleep, or if I was just dreaming I wanted a cup of coffee, and I was cold, or I was too warm, or I was hearing noises, or what was going on. But I finally got up at 4:30, fed Mo, and made a big mug of coffee.

One thing on my mind is the start of a poem, or wanting to start one.

Really, the tragic bombing in Boston has shaken me up pretty badly--as it has done to everybody, I know. So what if I lose a night's sleep. We're not guaranteed sleep, or safety. Never were.

If I get through this month with all my faculties intact, maybe I can spend a week or so sleeping or writing the poem, or whatever.

Dinner

Chicken and veggie stew over pasta. Not great, but pretty good.

Look At Oneself

Looking for myself on the internet, I saw me mentioned as a prize-winning poet. How gratifying! I've got to get my poems published, all under one or two covers. That's going to be my goal for this year, at least to get the process started. It'll probably take a year or two, but it's got to be done.

I stumbled across a YouTube feature of Emmy Lou Harris and Robert Duvall singing "I Love To Tell the Story," and put it in my left-column music collection on this blog.

I once day-dreamed of having little replicas of the Beatles, Elvis and others, that one could hear sing anything at any time. I would add Emmy Lou and Robert to this collection. Also, as in my poem, Cat Stevens, Freddie Fender and Otis Redding.

*

Corned beef pasties for my supper.

If I Had a (Yellow) Hammer

A big old flicker (yellowhammer) tried to join the towhee on the window sill, but both of them flew away before I could get a picture. The woodpecker hammered awhile somewhere and then stopped. I've seen a flicker around here before; someday I may be able to photograph it.

Weird Dream

I drifted off to sleep thinking about flowers and wishing my rock-hard lot would grow them. Thinking I might sell this house and buy Jared's flower-surrounded yellow house. It has a storage house out back, that looks like a little cabin, where I could put all the junk that clutters my house.

Anyway, I had drifted off to sleep, when I heard what sounded like a gunshot. A cannon-shot, or something. Dreamed I got up and went into the kitchen. There was a hole in the ceiling, from which rainwater was dripping neatly into a hole in the floor. I thought, Oh no, whatever it is probably made a hole in my car--forgetting that my car was parked under the dining room, not the kitchen.

I went down to the basement, and saw that the water was dripping into a plastic bin, in which was the culprit--a round  quartz or silica rock about half the size of my fist. It was scaly-looking, like a lump of English Cheddar cheese, only prettier.

*

Today I aim to cut out the rest of the pieces for my Jacob's Ladder quilt. What's left of today.

Apis

Yesterday I saw several honey bees. I don't know if they're blooming weeds, or if the grass puts out blossoms, but the whole front yard was covered with tiny blue and yellow flowers, with a few dark pinks that looked like little sweet-peas.

I guess those precious little flowers, plus the leafing-out of the trees, account for the layers of yellow pollen on everything.

I've got all the colored pieces cut out for my Jacob's Ladder quilt. Just need to cut out the white, and start sewing it all together. I think this is the first time I've ever gone about making a quilt by cutting out all the pieces beforehand. But I'm working with mainly scraps, and wanted to make sure I had enough of everything before I start sewing. It'll be a mini- or lap-quilt, about 42x54 inches. Unless I decide to put borders around it. Nah.

Anyway, I was happy to see the honey bees. At least they're not yet extinct around here.

Tenants?

Now both towhees are on the window sill. I think they're probably nesting in the hedge bush outside these office windows. Or maybe he's just showing her this strange glass wall that whistles when he pecks on it.

Old Red-Eye Returns

I proclaim the rufous-sided towhee (Jo-Ree) as my official house bird. He's back on my window sill, pecking at the glass when I whistle to him. Jed was here Thursday night and yesterday morning, and the bird frequented the guest-room window.

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I missed Joe W.'s book signing in Leeds today, because I didn't wake up until one o'clock, and by the time I'd brewed and drunk three cups of coffee, it was too late. He'll have another one soon in Odenville, and I'll try to make that one.

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The first picture is from Wikipedia. The second photo is the one I took last year through the dirty window.

Wishful Thinking

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"Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art. . ."

The poet John Keats, whose parents died when he was a child, was heir to two small fortunes. However, his adult life was spent in grinding poverty. He borrowed money from friends, just to be able to live. He died of tuberculosis at age 25, probably contracted while caring for his brother who died of the disease.

After his mother died, Keats lived with his grandmother, who appointed two men to be his guardians and mentors. At least one of these men knew that two of Keats's deceased relatives had left him substantial amounts of money, to be available when he reached the age of 21. However, the guardian(s) never told him, or anyone close to him, of the bequests, and no inquiries were made about the money.

He was the greatest of the late Romantic poets, achieving that stature in writing poetry for approximately five years, and dying at the youngest age of them all. Shelley lived to age 30 and Byron to 36.

Keats wrote, "Oh, for ten years!" to write down all that was in his mind, but he only got five.

It's amazing to contemplate how prolific these poets were, in spite of various hardships, troubles, and short lives. Byron wrote book-length poems, and several plays in verse. Shelley is regarded by many as the greatest poet, but in my opinion his works are marred by archaic language and a certain distance between the poet and the emotions that the works should evoke.

Many of Byron's poems are marred, of course, by facileness, flippancy and haste.