We drove to a bouldering spot near Amherst, MA yesterday. The boys climbed, my husband and I spotted. The only minor mishap was when I teetered off a stone into some black mud.
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The Quarry in West Stock Bridge
I will probably get The Bad Mother ticket in the mail any day now for letting my 16-year-old son jump off this cliff into the water. His knees buckled on impact and jammed his face, breaking his nose. We took him to the ER. He’s fine now, but it shook us up. What if he had been knocked unconscious?
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Fresh's library
I’m in Western Massachusetts now with my family. This photo is of my father-in-law’s library. When he was alive he would play his violin there, read history, and nap.
Since I have limited web access I won’t be leaving too many comments on blogs while I’m away. I’ll catch up when I return. I’m still able to post using email and posterous. Cool, huh?
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so many windows, by postcards from Italy
via flickr.comSometimes this window is how I feel when communicating with my friends via the internets. I can almost see and touch them, but not quite, yet their pixels still vibrate in my heart. And I know mine vibrate in theirs too. It makes me sad if I lose a friend I’ve met online. I care about people. I know the people on the other end of the keyboard, on the other side of those distant windows, care about me too.
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Michael Jackson – Rock With You – Bad Tour Yokohama 1987
http://www.youtube.com/v/6GN6kgYMrXI&hl=en&fs=1via youtube.comWe danced to Rock With You as the last song in my dance class yesterday. It pulled at my heartstrings – such a bittersweet moment. Michael Jackson’s life was such a paradox, both a tragedy and a testament to the power of talent and creativity. We’ve made him our tragedy, our icon.
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Sunday morning
Listening to rain rushing through leaves, sipping green tea, a book of southern poetry ready to be opened, Karaoke Funeral by Tania Rochelle.
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Hindu Temple in ATL
We visited the BAPS Shri Swaminarayan Mandir. ‘Mandir’ means ‘temple.’
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ouroboros review issue 3 now live
Jo and I are pleased to release the latest issue of ouroboros review. We started ouroboros almost a year ago, and now we have produced three beautiful issues, thanks to our generous contributors. You can read the magazine on our website, as well as purchase a copy from the bookstore.Thanks, Jo, for being a great business partner. You have made the po-biz lots of fun.
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Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey
Today I read poems by Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, brother of Ann and Mary Boleyn, and member of the court of Henry VIII. He fathered a son at the age of nineteen, but the poor guy was executed at the age of thirty for treason, though it seems he was innocent of wrongdoing. Those Seymours had it in for him.
According to what I read about Henry Howard, he wrote most of his poetry while imprisoned. At least he made good use of his time. He was friends with Sir Thomas Wyatt the Elder, and both are considered to be the fathers of the English sonnet. They both translated sonnets into English from Italian, as well as longer works from Latin.
Here’s a link to one of the poems on my list, Complaint of a Lover Rebuked, with audio, in which the speaker declares he will continue to love even if he dies from it.
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Sir Thomas Wyatt the Elder and Anne Sexton
I’m still chipping away at my reading list for the MFA. Today I read poems by Sir Thomas Wyatt the Elder, born in 1503 and member of King Henry VIII’s court. It’s thought that Wyatt was the lover of Ann Boleyn. I remember him as a minor character in Philippa Gregory’s The Other Boleyn Girl, portrayed as a love-struck nobleman who wrote poems to the elusive Boleyn.
He’s known as the father of the English sonnet, a title he shares with Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey. I’m saving Henry Howard’s poems for tomorrow.
Here’s a link to an audio version of Whoso List to Hunt, with a painting of Ann Boleyn next to the poem. The word ‘list’ is a funny one to me. People in the Appalachian regions still use that word to mean a desire to do something. I remember Granny from the old TV show The Beverly Hillbillies used to say it, usually in the negative, as in I don’t list to eat them fancy vittles.
I’ve been alternating old poems with twentieth century as well as contemporary works. On Jo’s recommendation, I read Lip by Catherine Smith. What a feast of lucidity combined with mythic moments of eroticism! I just loved it.
I’m also working my way through The Complete Poems: Anne Sexton. Each of her books is combined into one volume, in chronological order. After I finish a book, I put down the Sexton volume to read a contemporary collection. I’m feeling very tenuous these days, somewhat anxious, so even though Sexton’s metaphors about emotional pain are particularly vivid and help me visualize my own pain, there’s only so much talk of misery I can take at one time, and then I need a break. Billy Collins is a good respite. His poems make me feel like God is in his universe and all’s right with the world. Om mani padme hum, the jewel is in the lotus flower.
Balanced On the Edge 