National Poetry Month: Elizabeth Barrett Browning

I know it's probably her most famous, but I've always loved this sonnet, number 43.  I think it's a lovely testament of love.

Sonnet 43 - How Do I Love Thee? Let Me Count the Ways

By Elizabeth Barrett Browning


How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,—I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

National Poetry Month: John Muir

I studied about John Muir back in college. He was a naturalist, advocate for the wilderness, and co-founder of the Sierra Club. He spent some time in the Pacific Northwest and wrote about nature. Today is such a beautiful day here at home, I wanted to use one of his poems, which to me, are all beautiful and inspiring.

His legacy remains in the wild, having numerous locations in nature named after him. Among them, here in Washington, if you climb Mount Rainier, you may find refuge at Camp Muir.

If you've never heard of or read about the man, you should. He is a very interesting character, wild at heart.


Song
by John Muir

Here is calm so deep, grasses cease waving.
Everything in wild nature fits into us,
as if truly part and parent of us.
The sun shines not on us but in us.
The rivers flow not past, but through us,
thrilling, tingling, vibrating every fiber and cell
of the substance of our bodies,
Making them glide and sing.
The trees wave and the flowers bloom
in our bodies as well as our souls,
and every bird song, wind song,
and; tremendous storm song of the rocks
in the heart of the mountains is our song,
our very own, and sings our love.

National Poetry Month: Maya Angelou

Photo © Alyssa L. Miller

Today I've chosen a poem that speaks to me. It's short but meaningful. I've not slept well for months. This is how I feel, as if sleep taunts me while I struggle to catch it. I can't remember the last day I felt truly rested.

Insomniac 

by Maya Angelou

 There are some nights when
sleep plays coy,
aloof and disdainful.
And all the wiles
that I employ to win
its service to my side
are useless as wounded pride,
and much more painful.

National Poetry Month: William Carlos Williams

I have a very good reason for posting this poem by William Carlos Williams. A couple of friends of mine posted a blog that is in response to this poem. It is hilarious. So I will follow the lovely This is Just to Say, with the blog by The Bloggess...Also, that fucker ate all the hot pockets.

This is Just to Say
by William Carlos Williams

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

And here is  Also, that fucker ate all the hot pockets.

National Poetry Month: Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Photo by Christopher Michel

I had to include at least one beat poet.  Ferlinghetti was one of the San Francisco beat poets. He was the co-founder of City Lights Bookstore, which published poetry books called  the Pocket Poet series. The first in the series consisted of his own poems, then he followed up with the poems of Kenneth Rexroth, Kenneth Patchen, Marie Ponsot, Allen Ginsberg, Bob Kaufman, Denise Levertov, Robert Duncan, William Carlos Williams, and Gregory Corso.

When he published Ginsberg's poem Howl,  Ferlinghetti was arrested for obscenity and had to stand trial. He was acquitted.

This poem is about poets. I really like it. He forms an analogy between a poet and an acrobat.

Constantly Risking Absurdity
by  Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Constantly risking absurdity
and death
whenever he performs
above the heads
of his audience
the poet like an acrobat
climbs on rime
to a high wire of his own making
and balancing on eyebeams
above a sea of faces
paces his way
to the other side of the day
performing entrachats
and sleight-of-foot tricks
and other high theatrics
and all without mistaking
any thing
for what it may not be
For he's the super realist
who must perforce perceive
taut truth
before the taking of each stance or step
in his supposed advance
toward that still higher perch
where Beauty stands and waits
with gravity
to start her death-defying leap
And he
a little charleychaplin man
who may or may not catch
her fair eternal form
spreadeagled in the empty air
of existence

National Poetry Month: T.S. Eliot

Oh, I love me some T.S. Eliot. I especially like this piece I've chosen for today.  I love
the imagery in it. Love the character. I know we have all felt like him before, inadequate, small, second rate...

It seems he is to lead a lonely life as he worries so much about his shortcomings he is never able too act on his emotions.

Without further ado...

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
by T.S. Eliot

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question. . .                               10
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.

  In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

  The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,                               20
And seeing that it was a soft October night
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

  And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;                                30
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions
And for a hundred visions and revisions
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

  In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

  And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—                               40
[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

  For I have known them all already, known them all;
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,                       50
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
  So how should I presume?

  And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?                    60
  And how should I presume?

  And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
  And should I then presume?
  And how should I begin?
        .     .     .     .     .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets              70
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
        .     .     .     .     .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?                  80
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet–and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

  And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,                                             90
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
  Should say, "That is not what I meant at all.
  That is not it, at all."

  And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,                                           100
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
  "That is not it at all,
  That is not what I meant, at all."                                          110
        .     .     .     .     .

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

  I grow old . . . I grow old . . .                                              120
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

  Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

  I do not think they will sing to me.

  I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

  We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown               130
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

National Poetry Month: Edward Estlin Cummings

 Of course we know him better as e.e. cummings. I was going to use a different one of his poems, because this is probably his best known. As I read through them though, I realized it may be his best known, but it's also my favorite by him.

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

i carry your heart with me i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)i am never without it(anywhere i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing,my darling) i fear no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true) and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

Read more at: http://www.poetrysoup.com/famous/poems/best/edward_estlin_(e_e)_cummings

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)i am never without it(anywhere i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing,my darling) i fear no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true) and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

Read more at: http://www.poetrysoup.com/famous/poems/best/edward_estlin_(e_e)_cummings

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)i am never without it(anywhere i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing,my darling) i fear no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true) and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

Read more at: http://www.poetrysoup.com/famous/poems/best/edward_estlin_(e_e)_cummings

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)i am never without it(anywhere i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing,my darling) i fear no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true) and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

Read more at: http://www.poetrysoup.com/famous/poems/best/edward_estlin_(e_e)_cummings

National Poetry Month: Sylvia Plath

Yes, it's national poetry month, so I've decided to share a poem a day (hopefully I can keep up). Today is one of my favorite poets, Sylvia Plath.

Mad Girl's Love Song

"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"

Northwest Bookfest

If you're a writer in the Pacific Northwest, you may want to consider attending Northwest Bookfest this weekend. I was on a panel last year, as I will be again this year, and there are a plethora of resources for aspiring and professional writers.

The theme this year is Navigating in the Digital Age, um, totally could have used this a few months ago when trying to figure out how to publish my book.

The focus of this year's bookfest  is on the benefits and challenges of digital publishing. For $99, participants can attend two days of workshops, taught by established writers and trade professionals, on topics ranging from e-books and digital distribution to social networking and online marketing.  There are also a number of free panel discussions, like the one I will be on, for those who don't want to, or can't pay the $99.

Aside from workshops and panels, there are also a number of vendors at NWBF.  You'll find independent bookstores, networking groups for indie publishers, writers, distributors, crafts, editors and more.

On Saturday evening, November 2nd,  Kirkland restaurants and wine shops will team with writers for a special evening of author presentations called “Wine and Words.”

Mixing poetry with jazz is the focus of the Wine and Words evening at Parkplace Books (348 Parkplace Center) at 7 pm, which welcomes the Killer Poet Jazz Band This event is for adults only and admission is FREE!


The Writing Life will take place at Milagro Restaurant, 148 Lake Street South, Kirkland, 7pm, where the downtown restaurant welcomes authors from Seattle7Writers, a nonprofit collective of Pacific Northwest authors. Participating at the Milagro Wine and Words are Deb Caletti, Garth Stein, Erica Bauermeister, Jennie Shortridge and Kevin O'Brien. Moderator, William Kenower

 So, whether you simply need the motivation to  get your ideas down on paper or are a professional  wanting to improve your craft, Northwest Bookfest is the place to be this weekend.

Find me and you may get a signed bookmark of my upcoming novel, Dissected.

Hours:

Saturday: 8am to 6pm
Sunday: 8am to 6pm

Click the following links for more info:

Workshops
Panels 
Exhibitors 
Contact NWBF

Monkey Madness Monday: Beautiful Women Month

So, I've heard it's Beautiful Women Month. I'm not sure if this is accurate or not. I did a search and I've seen pretty much every month have a Beautiful Women Month post. But ya know, maybe every month should be Beautiful Women Month.

Many of them share the same Audrey Hepburn quote though. I will as well, because I do think it's brilliant.

"For attractive lips, speak words of kindness. For lovely eyes, seek out the good in people. For a slim figure, share your food with the hungry. For beautiful hair, let a child run his/her fingers through it once a day. For poise, walk with the knowledge that you never walk alone. People even more than things, have to be restored, renewed, revived, reclaimed, and redeemed; never throw out anyone. Remember, if you ever need a helping hand, you will find one at the end of each of your arms. As you grow older, you will discover that you have two hands; one for helping yourself, the other for helping others."

Yes, beautiful brilliant quote by the truly lovely Audrey Hepburn.

This comes at a most apropos time for me, as last night I wrote my first poem in forever. I was inspired by a new friend that told me I'm a diamond, I am a rare beauty, and I need to realize it and own it (not the exact words, but close enough). So I thought I would share my poem with all you beautiful women out there.

It's a first draft, keep that in mind. It still needs work.

I am a diamond,
not transparent as plate glass nor spring water
not flawless, but exceptional in my imperfections
profoundly rare, I’m singular in every way.
not perfectly symmetrical,
my facets may not always sparkle,
no matter my clarity, color, carat, or cut
I'm blemished, but beautiful, radiant, resilient.
I am a diamond.

Wending Wednesday

Okay, these "W" words are killing me.  I'm going to keep changing them until I get some comments on my Wednesday posts.  The word "wend" means to travel or journey.  So I thought I would talk about  my writing journey.

I've always like to write, from the time I could, really.  Poems for my mom when I was little, to broody angsty songs and poetry in my teen years, to articles for the school paper and yearbook in my college days.

My novel writing began with death, which may or may not have an impact on why I write about death so often.  Many of you have probably already heard this story, but I'll repeat it for my new followers.  My mother-in-law was diagnosed with late stage cancer late 2001.  Rather than have her spend her last days in a nursing home, I quit my job and my husband and I took her in and cared for her with the help of hospice and family.

Her doctor said she had six months to a year to live.  She has also suffered a stroke a few years before, so she couldn't speak, and had to be fed through a tube in her stomach.  I sang to her, fed her, sat with her.  It was a rewarding experience.  Unfortunately, she only lasted three weeks.

Before quitting my job, my husband and I decided I would not go back to work after her death.  So I had time, and I was grieving, and I needed something to do, so I started my first novel.  It was titled Dena Powers: Superhero?

I'll continue the story next Wednesday.

Thanks for reading.

Megan

Thought Provoking Thursday: Empty Head

I'm not sure I have anything thought provoking to write about today as I sit here watching squirrels mate in my backyard, debating gardening and divorce and Swag, all random thoughts that have seemed to run together in my head for some reason.

Seriously, my train of thought has been crazy this morning.  It went from me working late and having a margarita meeting after work, to the squirrels in my backyard, hoping they don't have their babies nearby, to theh catpoop I have to rake nearby where the squirrels were "doing it" to my garden, hoping the cats don't poop in it, to the soil I have to buy to finish my planting, to poetry and how I have to be full of angst to write it and wondering where other poets get their inspiration, to my ARCs which haven't been sent to all my bloggers yet, to my swag, much of which I still have to create/order to this crazy idea I have for publicity.

Is that a normal train of thought?  All this in a matter of about fifteen minutes?

What's on your mind this morning?

Writing Wednesday: Poetry

This one is called Needs.

White hot heat
Shimmering brilliance
Humid and inviting.
Filling vacuous voids,
The sinister chasms that
cause eternal downpours
and bone chilling rime.
Perpetual motion
Not to think or cast shadows
No moss collected
merely flow like the current.
Vivid hues, downy clouds,
fluid and weightless
blissful and tranquil

I wait for the dark to subside.

Writing Wednesday: Poetry

I thought I would do something a little different and post one of my poems.  I call this one Abandoned.

Pen to paper

 Left unread

Only  ink,

Words,

the alabaster page.

Spoken words

Heard only

By the moon

and stars

and the blanket of night.

Arms reach out

Left unfilled

Grasp air

and wind

and empty spaces

Solitude

There’s only me

My breath

My beating heart

Nothing more.

Writing Wednesday: Guest Writer!

Yes, I have a guest writer today.  It's my cousin and fellow poet, Nathan Jordan.  Here is his poem:

Nathan Jordan

Gigantic Imagination-Itty Bitty Reality

We are born into this world

Kicking and screaming

Looking only for milk and warmth

Not caring about morality

Only our own whims to satisfy

We grow up and rebel against the world

It won’t give us what we want

Now we want metaphoric milk and warmth

And if reality won’t provide it

We’ll cry and cry until we get what we want

Or we’ll turn to drugs and alcohol to soothe ourselves

And that’s where most of us stop growing

We continue throughout life demanding

Shaking our fist at the world

Reading our list of requirements

Cutting those off who don’t agree

Not stopping to realize that everyone else

Is doing the same thing.

And then a fortunate few stumble on the truth

Begin to understand their true size in reality

A grain of salt

A piece of sand

That’s right size

This big huge colossal universe

Doesn’t care about what we demand

It only gives us what we need

And it’s up to us to realize

That that’s all we should ever want.

Nathan Jordan is accountant by day and lives in T-Town with his lovely wife Rachel, and son Rylan. A bit of a joker, Nathan also has a serious side.  He enjoys film, singing, playing guitar, and is proud of his Italian heritage.