BookLust

When I'm An Old Lady

My mom emailed me this cute poem tonight, and I just had to share it. I think she's still recovering from helping me out with the twins, and is plotting her revenge on my brother.

UPDATE:
I recenlty received an email from David Baxter, who tells me that his mother, Joanne Baxter, of Lorain, Ohio, is the author of this poem. He also sent me the correct version of this lovely poem, which I have now updated.

When I'm an old lady, I'll live with my kids,
and make them so happy, just as they did.
I want to pay back all the joy they've provided,
returning each deed. Oh, they'll be so excited.

When I'm an old lady and live with my kids.

I'll write on the wall with reds, whites and blues,
and bounce on the furniture wearing my shoes.
I'll drink from the carton and then leave it out.
I'll stuff all the toilets, and oh, how they'll shout.

When I'm an old lady and live with my kids.

When they're on the phone and just out of reach,
I'll get into things like sugar and bleach.
Oh, they'll snap their fingers and then shake their head,
and when that is done I'll hide under the bed.
When I'm an old lady and live with my kids.

When they cook dinner and call me to meals,
I'll not eat my green beans or salads congealed.
I'll gag on my okra, spill milk on the table,
and when they get angry, run fast as I'm able.

When I'm an old lady and live with my kids.

I'll sit close to the TV, through the channels I'll click,
I'll cross both my eyes to see if they stick.
I'll take off my socks and throw one away,
And play in the mud until the end of the day.

When I'm an old lady and live with my kids.

And later in bed, I'll lay back and sigh,
and thank God in prayer and then close my eyes,
and my kids will look down with a smile slowly creeping,
and say with a groan. "She's so sweet when she's sleeping!"

When I'm an old lady and live with my kids.

Word

Word
by Pablo Neruda

I'm going to crumple this word,
to twist it,
yes,
it's too slick
like a big dog or a river
had been lapping it down with its tongue, or water
had worn it away with the years.

I want gravel
to show in the word,
the ferruginous salt,
the gap-toothed power
of the soil.
There must be a blood-letting
for talker and non-talker alike.

I want to see thirst
in the syllables,
touch fire
in the sound;
feel through the dark
for the scream. Let
my words be acrid
as virginal stone.

From Where Books Fall Open: A Reader's Anthology of Wit and Passion
(can you tell I'm really groovin' on this book?)
And yes, painting by Bascove.

Maple Valley Branch Library, 1967

A portion of the poem
Maple Valley Branch Library, 1967
by Rita Dove

As for the improbable librarian
with her salt and paprika upsweep,
her British accent and sweater clip
(mom of a kid I knew from school) –
I'd go up to her desk and ask for help
on bareback rodeo or binary codes,
phonics, Gestalt theory,
lead poisoning in the Late Roman Empire,
the play of light in Dutch Renaissance painting;
I would claim to be researching
pre-Colombian pottery or Chinese foot-binding,
but all I wanted to know was:
Tell me what you've read that keeps
that half smile afloat
above the collar of your impeccable blouse.

From Where Books Fall Open: A Reader's Anthology of Wit and Passion
Painting by Bascove.

Gentle Reader

Gentle Reader
by Josephine Jacobson

Late in the night when I should be asleep
under the city stars in a small room
I read a poet. A poet: not
a versifier. Not a hot-shot
ethic-monger, laying about
him; not a diary of lying
about in cruel cruel beds, crying.
A poet, dangerous and steep.

O God, it peels me, juices like a press;
this poetry drinks me, eats me, gut and marrow
until I exist in its jester's sorrow,
until my juices feed a savage sight
that runs along the lines, bright
as beasts' eyes. The rubble splays to dust:
city, book, bed, leaving my ear's lust
saying like Molly, yes, yes, yes O yes.

From Where Books Fall Open: A Reader's Anthology of Wit and Passion
Painting by Bascove.

Poetry, Schmoetry

Ahhh... young love. Do we ever really get over it? For over 20 years I have tried to convince myself that I have, but all it takes is a certain smell (it's almost always a smell for some reason; spring or fall mornings, old Adidas shoes, or else the music of Gilbert and Sullivan), and I am right back there, at the age of seventeen, ecstatic and miserable, and basically, a complete mess. Don't get me wrong; I would not want to go back to that time for anything in the world; the here and now is wonderful. But every now and then, going back there doesn't bother me that much any more. I can see the good in between all the very, very bad.

One good thing that came out of that experience: He got me writing. Sure, I wrote short stories and cartoons before I met him, but he challenged me to write clever, witty, out-of-the-ordinary poetry. He got me thinking in a different way. We weren't gushy and mushy about our affections; that would have been beneath us. We strived to show our affection through the guise of humour and play. Not unlike  Shakespeare, which was where I got to know him, really, in my grade 13 Elizabethan Drama and Poetry class. We learned all about the sonnet, and ended up practicing what we learned in class on each other. I'm not saying that our iambic pentameter was perfect, but we did make an effort to try to stay within the rules as our poetic skills and our romance blossomed. Sound cheezy? Maybe.

Not too long ago, Scott over at Blankbaby wrote a wonderful love poem about a ham sandwich, which got me thinking about the first poem that he ever wrote for me. It was actually the first love poem ever written for me. Back then, I loved bran muffins. Ate them all the time. So he, in his great wisdom, wrote a love sonnet for me, about my love of bran muffins. I'm not saying it's amazing, but I still can't forget it. I'm sure he wouldn't mind if I posted this; no doubt he doesn't think about this stuff at all anymore. Or me, for that matter.

Oh, and I don't eat bran muffins anymore. Way too fattening.

Poetry to Go

Thanks to BookGlutton, I now know that March 21st was World Poetry Day. Ok, so I'm a little late. Whatever.

BookGlutton gave some great suggestions on how to celebrate the day, one of them being creating your own Virtual Poem. So go ahead! Create a poem and email it to all your friends! Or if you feel really courageous, post a link to your poem here!

Who cares if I'm late for Poetry Day! Just as I cannot be confined by the constraints of metre and rhyme, nor can I be confined by the contraints of Poetry Day!

Hardy Weather

No doubt some folks are sick of the snow. It's March, the official first day of Spring is fast approaching, and yet there seems to be no end in sight to this white fluffy stuff.

You know what? I love it. I love winter. I love the cold, the white, the wind, the mix of harsh and soft, the slush, the ice, the days when the wind blows so hard that the windows shake in fear. I can't ski or skate or snowboard and I have no interest in hockey whatsoever. I just love the weather. You couldn't pay me to live in a tropical climate. I'm half-Jamaican – I've even lived in Jamaica for a time – and yet, the cold just beckons me. I don't think I could be as creative in a milder climate; my senses would get dulled and complacent.

Many years ago, while studying at McMaster University, my Modern British Literature prof (a delightful gentleman), introduced me to the poems of Thomas Hardy. I had read quite a few of Hardy's novels, but was not aware that he wrote poetry. I don't think his poems were his best work. But a few were quite lovely, one in particular, which I always think of when a heavenly winter day such as this descends upon the city:

Snow in The Suburbs

Every branch big with it,
Bent every twig with it;
Every fork like a white web-foot;
Every street and pavement mute;
Some flakes have lost their way, and grope back upward, when
Meeting those meandering down they turn and descend again.
The palings are glued together like a wall,
And there is no waft of wind with the fleecy fall.

A sparrow enters the tree,
Whereupon immediately
A snow-lump thrice his own slight size
Descends on him and showers his head and eyes,
And overturns him,
And near inurns him,
And lights on a nether twig, when its brush
Starts off a volley of other lodging lumps with a rush.

The steps are a blanched slope,
Up which, with feeble hope,
A black cat comes, wide-eyed and thin;
And we take him in.

Poetic Names in Motion

Another reason why I will never be a poet. My professional poet's name is Lucille Picklesouse. How can I create inspiring poetry will a moniker like that? And how did I come up with that name? Why at Wordchowder, of course. Once you're there, just scroll down the page, and you can find out what your poet name is, male or female.

Just to see how effective it really was, I decided to type in some bonafide poet names in there, and these were the results:

William Shakespeare: Nathaniel Prissywig (love that one!)
William Blake: Nathaniel De la Smarme
T.S. Eliot: Oberon Fogbottom (why does that make so much sense to me?)
Sylvia Plath: Amanda Albatross (sad, because it's so fitting)
e.e. cummings: Cyrano Buxton
Leonard Cohen: e.e. Buxton (huh?)
Margaret Atwood: Forsythia Titwillow (Ha!)

It begs the question, would the literary world take a writer seriously if her name was Forsythia Titwillow, even if she did write something as wonderful as Alias Grace?

I'm no Poet; and trust me, I know it.

Lately I seem to be running into poets. I met another one over the weekend. Is someone trying to tell me something? I have been thinking about and reading a lot more poetry lately. And yes, I confess, I used to write poetry, too – sonnets, of all things, for my first true love (that miserable son-of-a–), but later on I went into a phase of trying to be like Dennis Lee. No, not his clever adult works like UN; think of a Garbage Delight wanna be:

BREAKFAST, LUNCH AND DINNER IS NOW BEING SERVED
On the menu I see:

Squished bananas
and I think I can find
peanut butter
(the crunchy kind)
strained pears
and blueberry jam
and little peices
of chew-up ham
spaghette sauce
and meatballs, too
and is that cheese I smell?
Peeeeuuuu!!!
All this food
It's such a waste
'cause it's all over
my brother's face!

PANCAKES
Patricia ate fourteen pancakes
One-Two-Splickity-Lick!
Patricia ate fourteen pancakes
(I think she's feeling sick)
Patricia ate fourteen pancakes
While sailing on the Humber
I do not think that fourteen is
Patricia's favourite number.

IF
If I sneezed
But held it in
Would I blow off
The tip of my chin?

Larkin on a Lark

Over at Beatrice the British poet Philip Larkin has been discussed in a couple of recent posts. Apparently some folk think Larkin was brilliant, and some ....beg to differ. I must confess that I didn't know very much about Larkin until a few weeks ago when I saw a movie based on his life on TVO. Larkin was a misanthropic librarian who had a penchant for pornography and a rapacious sexual appetite, inspite of his rather nerdy appearance and his insistance that he was a pathetic loner. His poems are pretty melancholic (not unlike Hardy, whom I also enjoy) but also witty and caustic.

So based on that show (hey, any male librarian who has a dark kinky side gets my attention), I purchased a collection of his poems, published by The Marvel Press and faber and faber, and edited by Anthony Thwaite. One poem in particular caught my eye, entitled "This Be the Verse":

They fuck you up, your mum and dad,
They may not mean to but they do
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old style hats and coats
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can
And don't have any kids yourself.

Heh. Librarians are so smart.