Category Archives: songs/poetry

a bit of poetry

I encountered “The Raised Fist: A Cyborgian Tale” while attending the virtual HASTAC conference this morning.  Embedded in the video were the words of Allison J. Harrington, speaking at the 1999 Berkeley Ethnic Studies Strike:

This poem written on my body will not stop.
You cannot arrest this poem without it growing bolder.
I wanted to give you a poem, but I offer my body instead.
Her words made me think about the poems written on my own body.  I have no actual words on my body, but the scars of my life experience, the laughlines around my eyes, the dirt from my garden embedded under my fingernails, and the tanlines from my paddling jersey…these all are poems.  Poems that speak themselves to everyone around me.
(photo by Jessica)

orange


orange art, outside of AdHoc gallery, originally uploaded by pilgrimgirl.

In the last few days I’ve been smelling blossoms on breezes–magnolia blossoms, mostly, but also just a hint of citrus. It’s a little early yet for orange blossoms, but my anticipation is building, nonetheless.

So this morning I read a thin book of poetry called The Orangery by Gilbert Sorrentino. Each poem in the volume is about orange or oranges. Just what I needed today. It’s full of delicious ironies about the impossibilities of orange (and it doesn’t rhyme, of course).

An excerpt from “Variations 1”

Poetry must not be poured into molds
the man said, fighting an old battle
filled with wild alarums.

No one eats oranges
in anybody’s poems

The image above is from a jaunt to Brooklyn in winter where outside an art gallery there was a bare tree hung with oranges. It delighted me–I am a fan of the ridiculous and unexpected.

Mary Monday: “Hum”

faded roses in December

This seemed an appropriate poem for the 80-degree days that we’ve been having here in Southern California. My rosebushes are putting on so much new growth!

From “Hum” by Mary Oliver

it’s love almost too fierce to endure, the bee
nuzzling like that into the blouse
of the rose. and the fragrance, and the honey, and of course
the sun, the purely pure sun, shining, all the while, over
all of us

a quiet clapper

a park, in winter
This morning I am creating space with the poetry of Margaret Hasse.

Being Still

She’s a quiet clapper in the bell of the prairie,
a girl who likes to be alone.
Today, she’s hiked four miles down
ravines’ low cool blueness.
Bending under a barbed wire, she’s in grass fields.
She’s at the edge of the great plains.
Wise to the openness, she finds it a familiar place.
Her clothes swell like wheat bread.

When she returns to her parents house,
the foxtails and burrs have come home, too.
The plants seem intent on living in new ground.
[…]
The stiller she is, the more everything moves
in the immense vocabulary of being.

Mary Monday: Whom they souse

[Shhhh…don’t tell anyone that I’m actually posting this one on Tuesday]
Cape Cod
My high school days were full of yearnings. Many of these were the typical yearnings of a teen: I wanted to achieve greatness and find my way in this big world. But some of these yearning were different, they were due to feeling trapped inside a body that yearned to move freely. Many of my dreams were about swimming…because water was the only place where I my body wasn’t hampered by gravity and a world made for bipedals.

I joined my high school swim team so I had a good excuse to be in the water for two hours per day. I also got certified as a lifeguard so I could work as a canoe instructor at summer camps. I swam in our backyard pool often, loving to float on my back and feel the sun on my body.

So when I fell in love with Whitman’s poetry I particularly loved his “Twenty-eight young men” poem. Of course I knew that it was highly sexually-charged (which also resonated with me on some levels*), but more than that, I knew the feelings of the woman at the window who was watching everyone else frolic and play as she stood by and watched. I knew what it was to spend my time imagining that I was joining in the fun, but was instead merely watching from behind the blinds.

This poem came to mind earlier this week as I was paddling alone in the Back Bay. I started reciting it in my mind (having committed it to memory long ago). I smiled at the fact that I’m no longer standing by and longing to leap in the water. Having an amphibious prosthetic limb has made me able to move in and out of the water with ease.

Twenty-eight young men bathe by the shore,
Twenty-eight young men and all so friendly;
Twenty-eight years of womanly life and all so lonesome.
She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank,
She hides handsome and richly drest aft the blinds of the window.
Which of the young men does she like the best?
Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her.
Where are you off to, lady? for I see you,
You splash in the water there, yet stay stock still in your room.
Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth bather,
The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them.
The beards of the young men glisten’d with wet, it ran from their long hair,
Little streams pass’d all over their bodies.
An unseen hand also pass’d over their bodies,
It descended tremblingly from their temples and ribs.
The young men float on their backs, their white bellies bulge to the sun,
they do not ask who seizes fast to them,
They do not know who puffs and declines with pendant and bending arch,
They do not think whom they souse with spray.

–Walt Whitman, Song of Myself, sec 11 in Leaves of Grass bk ii (1855)


*While I was looking for an electronic version of this poem, I happened upon this site, which pairs the poem with Eakins’ painting “The Swimming Hole.” John just happened to look over my shoulder at that very moment and got a good giggle out of my surreptitious viewing of nekkid men.

Previous Mary Monday postings

Mary Monday: venting & poetry

Yesterday I posted a crowdsourced parody of the “12 Days of Christmas” song entitled “The 12 Woes of the Quarter” to the History Compass blog. It addresses some specific grievances from those of us grad students who’re struggling through the UC financial crisis. You might want to take a look. 🙂

Last night I attended an event that showcased various forms of e-literature, including much e-poetry. I was particularly taken by the work of David Jhave Johnston, and encourage you to spend some time perusing the work on his site and watching the piece below…(yes, I know it’s all wonky in the sizing, but hopefully it’ll all work anyways).

And then, as I walked home all full of poetry (and mango sticky rice–yum!) late last night, I became enchanted by the shadows cast by my own legs as I passed under streetlights. I was wearing a shortish a-line skirt that seemed to complement the asymmetrical shapes of my left and right legs. As the legs stretched out in the shadows, they looked rather like doll-legs. It was so strange to see them and feel as though they were a piece of art that was not connected to me. With my cameraphone I snapped one blurry picture, to share when I was feeling in that moment…

This entry was posted in mary monday, songs/poetry on by .

last night


Full Moon over the Back Bay, originally uploaded by mind on fire.

John captured this picture of the full moon over the Back Bay last night. I went out paddling by the light of this moon, which worked well until my rudder got stuck (the tide being so very low that I couldn’t navigate through a familiar route). I had to hop out of my boat and walk it back to deeper waters (brrr…it was a bit chilly to be soaked up to my waist!).

I feel so fortunate to have such beauty around me…and so many opportunities to enjoy it.

From Mary Oliver, “How Would You Live Then?”

…What if you saw
that the silver of water was brighter than the silver
of money? What if you finally saw
that the sunflowers, turning toward the sun all day
and every day–who knows how?, but they do it–were
more precious, more meaningful than gold?

flash poetry: flower haiku


farmers market flower seller, originally uploaded by pilgrimgirl.

It’s been awhile since I attempted some flash poetry. Because I need to get my creative juices flowing today, I decided to try my hand at a 10 minute haiku. (For those new to flash poetry, the point isn’t to be good, it’s just to have some fun by setting a timer for 5 or 10minutes and seeing what flows…):

Indecisive, I
take pictures, without buying
from the flower stand.

Mary Monday: Daisies


mellow yellow, originally uploaded by pilgrimgirl.

I’ll bet that you’re not at all surprised to know that I brought some poetry along on my weekend excursion with Friends. Fortunately, the weekend offered plenty of time for silent contemplation and poetry reading!

Mid-morning on Sunday I came across the words below. After digesting them for awhile I found some yellow daisies growing on a nearby bush and I picked one to wear behind my ear. I probably should have left it on the plant for others to enjoy, but I do have such a weakness for wearing flowers in my hair.

An excerpt from “Daisies” by Mary Oliver:

…What do I know.
But this: it is heaven itself to take what is given,
to see what is plain; what the sun
lights up willingly; for example–I think this
as I reach down, not to pick but merely to touch–
the suitability of the field for the daisies, and the
daisies for the field.

Previous Mary Monday entries