tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-71275709069228116042024-03-16T11:53:07.454-07:00The Mark on the WallA literary blog for Orange County, California
and the border regions of Los Angeles, San Diego and Riverside.
Cited as "Best Literary Blog" by Orange Coast magazine: "a one-stop shop for book-minded cyber-crawlers."Rebel Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00695051285325585662noreply@blogger.comBlogger991125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127570906922811604.post-39546957013061310472016-09-07T11:37:00.002-07:002016-09-07T11:37:43.068-07:00On Sabbatical.<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqD6yxbPgRXcN41uUcuaTmPttDl0MC7-T8TTo-N-6rJf6hVc6Igy0II6_ohThIkCUu-zayhjOaXgcDXNk7SpKIUNeWIRj_pj79Ei6scCqi1dS8MUPtsOb6rR3U_cJA0gPAxZDJRO1OBWXw/s1600/imgres.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqD6yxbPgRXcN41uUcuaTmPttDl0MC7-T8TTo-N-6rJf6hVc6Igy0II6_ohThIkCUu-zayhjOaXgcDXNk7SpKIUNeWIRj_pj79Ei6scCqi1dS8MUPtsOb6rR3U_cJA0gPAxZDJRO1OBWXw/s400/imgres.jpg" /></a></div>
Rebel Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00695051285325585662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127570906922811604.post-34785398601911606622015-09-09T07:26:00.000-07:002015-09-09T07:26:00.716-07:00The Morning Reading: "Summer seemed to bloom against the will of the sun"<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFJpqabaFGS_MRewQ-Mokf_iHTm_sfN3Rv78IRYnSVnoYH1dDw6LRgSG51lO70jB9CoKAFwDWy1Wei2qMlRymYA12voaQaZFZx35RSiKt6B5m2prAT0uXX-rGMrG4Ka6oagopsdpYbgurq/s1600/imgres.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFJpqabaFGS_MRewQ-Mokf_iHTm_sfN3Rv78IRYnSVnoYH1dDw6LRgSG51lO70jB9CoKAFwDWy1Wei2qMlRymYA12voaQaZFZx35RSiKt6B5m2prAT0uXX-rGMrG4Ka6oagopsdpYbgurq/s1600/imgres.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John Crawford.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>The Tradition</b><div>
- Jericho Brown<br /><br />Aster. Nasturtium. Delphinium. We thought<br />Fingers in dirt meant it was our dirt, learning<br />Names in heat, in elements classical<br />Philosophers said could change us. Star Gazer. <br />Foxglove. Summer seemed to bloom against the will<br />Of the sun, which news reports claimed flamed hotter<br />On this planet than when our dead fathers<br />Wiped sweat from their necks. Cosmos. Baby’s Breath. <br />Men like me and my brothers filmed what we<br />Planted for proof we existed before<br />Too late, sped the video to see blossoms<br />Brought in seconds, colors you expect in poems<br />Where the world ends, everything cut down.<br />John Crawford. Eric Garner. Mike Brown.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
*</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>(thanks to Kazim Ali for bringing this one to me.)</i></div>
Rebel Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00695051285325585662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127570906922811604.post-21910411670517179732015-08-17T07:00:00.000-07:002015-08-17T07:00:01.452-07:00The Morning Reading: "I don't mind standing a little longer"<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMX5V3mwQZ76AgfUkOLulc6vyHducCPM_Syp-9E5b_vt_D5I9b10OgBd9tKaokhrsK0qY0AhlDX2p8t4uiy-3plpUXhXxmNnG3vWZqNJd_KdWgnhl5IpzMSqbPv2gdhHP7aVhu3tB0ommZ/s1600/0158.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMX5V3mwQZ76AgfUkOLulc6vyHducCPM_Syp-9E5b_vt_D5I9b10OgBd9tKaokhrsK0qY0AhlDX2p8t4uiy-3plpUXhXxmNnG3vWZqNJd_KdWgnhl5IpzMSqbPv2gdhHP7aVhu3tB0ommZ/s320/0158.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Julian Bond, 1940-2015</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<b>I TOO, HEAR AMERICA SINGING</b><div>
- Julian Bond</div>
<div>
<br />[As published in the first issue of <i>The Student Voice</i> — SNCC's newsletter, summer, 1960.]</div>
<div>
<br />I too, hear America singing<br /> But from where I stand<br />I can only hear Little Richard<br /> And Fats Domino.<br />But sometimes<br />I hear Ray Charles<br /> Drowning in his own tears<br /> or Bird<br />Relaxing at Camarillo<br /> Or Horace Silver doodling,<br />Then I don't mind standing<br /> a little longer.<br /><br /><br />*</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
SNCC = Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee</div>
<div>
<br />In the <i>New York Times</i>:</div>
<a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2015/08/17/us/julian-bond-former-naacp-chairman-and-civil-rights-leader-dies-at-75.html?_r=0" target="_blank">Julian Bond, Former N.A.A.C.P. Chairman and Civil Rights Leader, Dies at 75</a><br /><br />*Rebel Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00695051285325585662noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127570906922811604.post-79084196167263892022015-08-16T18:44:00.000-07:002015-08-17T06:16:04.272-07:00Victoria Patterson: "The Little Brother" <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirnwR0lNBAj1-Y3GWEsUXrwR7mMy7Gg54HsNp2O0n8cSwoHICEVQZib1p3y6pxhLyaxWIUdwK-jeuPhu0qRzJkC6YKXWyQAG8vHnaOST3iGR8r5epFzyotKs6oLgiji0Ji-bRedM0fCNwr/s1600/IMG_8310mb2-e1437778696713-205x300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirnwR0lNBAj1-Y3GWEsUXrwR7mMy7Gg54HsNp2O0n8cSwoHICEVQZib1p3y6pxhLyaxWIUdwK-jeuPhu0qRzJkC6YKXWyQAG8vHnaOST3iGR8r5epFzyotKs6oLgiji0Ji-bRedM0fCNwr/s1600/IMG_8310mb2-e1437778696713-205x300.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
Summer is nearly over and among the many readings coming up in Orange County, residents should be especially interested in two by Victoria Patterson, who in her fourth novel, <i>The Little Brother, </i>returns to familiar territory. Unlike the recent Sunday <i>New York Times </i>reviewer, OC denizens will recognize the real life roots of Patterson's latest as one of the county's most notorious scandals, the Haidl gang rape case. <i>Orange Coast</i> magazine profiled Patterson in its August issue:<br />
<br />
excerpt:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
She grew up here, a daughter of privilege—with country clubs and private tennis lessons, and weekends in Catalina on a classmate’s family yacht. As a novelist and short-story writer, Patterson has spun literary gold from her insider access, but also because of her ambivalence about it.<br />
Gilded Age New York had Edith Wharton, and contemporary Orange County has Victoria Patterson. Like Wharton, she explores social hierarchies and class prerogatives with a penetrating and critical eye. And like John O’Hara, another writer to whom she has been compared, she sees herself as a truth teller, and writes with a chip on her shoulder.</blockquote>
<br />
To read the rest, click <a href="http://www.orangecoast.com/features/dark-revenge/" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
<br />
Check out details about her readings on the calendar to the right.<br />
<br />
*Rebel Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00695051285325585662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127570906922811604.post-3229204716603785772015-06-05T06:37:00.002-07:002015-06-05T06:37:37.803-07:00The Morning Reading: "this 9-times-folded red-white-striped, star-spotted-blue flag"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm1c8TtIJAXZkMYr8cUFy-uHjYJWV710DfQKs9PN60z2LWMJ75XXcEY3k6Piq86MzK_YDM2pUZArBsfyVZoMb-oPXEKsCWUG8giUMssbOQPX3Tx2VsthTMtq78hu1oW0jB8jg6VW0qiPo5/s1600/robert_kennedy_009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm1c8TtIJAXZkMYr8cUFy-uHjYJWV710DfQKs9PN60z2LWMJ75XXcEY3k6Piq86MzK_YDM2pUZArBsfyVZoMb-oPXEKsCWUG8giUMssbOQPX3Tx2VsthTMtq78hu1oW0jB8jg6VW0qiPo5/s400/robert_kennedy_009.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br /><div>
<b>The Lowering</b></div>
<div>
<div>
-May Swenson<br /><br />The flag is folded<br />lengthwise, and lengthwise again, <br />folding toward the open edge,<br />so that the union of stars on the blue <br />field remains outward in full view; <br />a triangular folding is then begun <br />at the striped end,<br />by bringing the corner of the folded edge <br />to the open edge;<br />the outer point, turned inward along the open edge,<br />forms the next triangular fold:<br />the folding continued so, until the end is reached,<br />the final corner tucked between <br />the folds of the blue union,<br />the form of the folded flag is found to resemble that<br />of a 3-cornered pouch, or thick cocked hat.<br /><br />Take this flag, John Glenn, instead of a friend;<br />instead of a brother, Edward Kennedy, take this flag; <br />instead of a father, Joe Kennedy, take this flag;<br />this flag instead of a husband, Ethel Kennedy, take this flag; <br />this 9-times-folded red-white-striped, star-spotted-blue flag, <br />tucked and pocketed neatly,<br />Nation, instead of a leader, take this folded flag.<br />Robert Kennedy, coffin without coverlet,<br />beside this hole in the grass,<br />beside your brother, John Kennedy,<br />in the grass,<br />take, instead of a country,<br />this folded flag;<br />Robert Kennedy, take this<br />hole in the grass.</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtVYRu2tN81DsEYDUWe7eQneh6kdmMHpjp-94yt9oD1OmfnZkmasMTNCkMP8GwigX0Z7cLtRIUrVa3KAmCEABH-N9fsf5nWgRuOip8YEb_IahDYVvvD_YHHzdQ4kECKRt3AZS3oTyOtMHZ/s1600/rfk+funeral+train.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtVYRu2tN81DsEYDUWe7eQneh6kdmMHpjp-94yt9oD1OmfnZkmasMTNCkMP8GwigX0Z7cLtRIUrVa3KAmCEABH-N9fsf5nWgRuOip8YEb_IahDYVvvD_YHHzdQ4kECKRt3AZS3oTyOtMHZ/s400/rfk+funeral+train.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div>
*</div>
Rebel Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00695051285325585662noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127570906922811604.post-57004119855283798332015-05-15T09:18:00.000-07:002015-05-15T09:18:02.169-07:00The Morning Reading: "You are neither here nor there"<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="300" src="http://www.clivenunn.com/cn/Swans.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">http://www.clivenunn.com</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<b>Postscript</b><div>
-Seamus Heaney<br /><br />And some time make the time to drive out west<br />Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore,<br />In September or October, when the wind<br />And the light are working off each other<br />So that the ocean on one side is wild<br />With foam and glitter, and inland among stones<br />The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit<br />By the earthed lightning of a flock of swans,<br />Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white,<br />Their fully grown headstrong-looking heads<br />Tucked or cresting or busy underwater.<br />Useless to think you'll park and capture it<br />More thoroughly. You are neither here nor there,<br />A hurry through which known and strange things pass <br />As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways<br />And catch the heart off guard and blow it open.<br /><br />*</div>
Rebel Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00695051285325585662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127570906922811604.post-10690555929525745502015-05-10T08:37:00.001-07:002015-05-10T08:40:57.011-07:00The Morning Reading: "All sons sleep next to mothers, then alone, then with others"<div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiUIPSwzSxyYm5tTWSsJaRmt1z9xI59GCxJpx-gwxHK_DvnODWbbrb-YheLOBXZLueHjI1RNQ41gwhL_5m5pmfNi5c4Gw0Qt-w0D4sUqpN7RhYQ_6-z8DoQinY7mDi3dz3bjx8JmH5VNzM/s1600/louis-FOB2010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiUIPSwzSxyYm5tTWSsJaRmt1z9xI59GCxJpx-gwxHK_DvnODWbbrb-YheLOBXZLueHjI1RNQ41gwhL_5m5pmfNi5c4Gw0Qt-w0D4sUqpN7RhYQ_6-z8DoQinY7mDi3dz3bjx8JmH5VNzM/s320/louis-FOB2010.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<b>The History of Mothers of Sons</b><br />
by Lisa Furmanski <br />
<br />
All sons sleep next to mothers, then alone, then with others <br />
Eventually, all our sons bare molars, incisors <br />
Meanwhile, mothers are wingless things in a room of stairs <br />
A gymnasium of bars and ropes, small arms hauling self over self <br />
<br />
Mothers hum nonsense, driving here <br />
and there (Here! There!) in hollow steeds, mothers reflecting <br />
how faint reflections shiver over the road <br />
All the deafening musts along the way <br />
<br />
Mothers favor the moon—hook-hung and mirroring the sun— <br />
there, in a berry bramble, calm as a stone <br />
<br />
This is enough to wrench our hand out of his <br />
and simply devour him, though he exceeds even the tallest grass <br />
<br />
Every mother recalls a lullaby, and the elegy blowing through it<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
*</div>
Rebel Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00695051285325585662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127570906922811604.post-79699804844204334642015-04-28T09:29:00.001-07:002015-04-28T09:29:56.444-07:00The Morning Reading: "somewhere on the earth, freedom is learning to walk, trying not to fall"<img height="314" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/1/102/299818498_4c74c0d2de.jpg" width="400" /><br />
<br />
<b>du bois in ghana</b><br />
<br />- Evie Shockley<br /><br /><br />at 93, you determined to pick up and go—<br />and stay gone. the job nkrumah called you to,<br />to create, at last, your <i>encyclopedia africana</i><br /> (encompassing a continent chipped<br /><br />like wood beneath an axe, a large enough<br />diaspora to girdle the globe, and a mere four<br />thousand years) was either well-deserved<br /> sinecure or well-earned trust<br /><br />that your health was as indestructible as<br />your will. my mind wrestles with possible pictures:<br />the victorian sensibility, the charcoal wool<br /> formality of your coats and vests, the trim<br /><br />of your beard as sharp as the crease of your<br />collar—how would these du boisian essentials<br />hold up to sub-saharan heat? would<br /> your critical faculties wilt in accra’s<br /><br />urban tropics as i’ve read that westerners’<br />are wont to do? dr. du bois, i presume<br />you took the climate in stride, took to it,<br /> looked out your library’s louvered windows<br /><br />onto a land you needed<br />neither to condemn nor conquer,<br />and let the sun tell you what you already knew:<br /> this was not a port to pass on.<br /><br />your 95th birthday photo found you bathed<br />in white cloth, cane still in hand, sharing a smile<br />with a head of state who knew your worth—joy<br /> that <i>this</i> nation’s birth occurred in time<br /><br />for you to step out of a cold, cold storm<br />into outstretched arms. would your pan-<br />african dream have survived a dictatorial<br /> nkrumah, an nkrumah in exile? you took<br /><br />the prerogative of age and died without telling,<br />without knowing. a half-century later, here<br />in the country where you were born, i look<br /> into a screen and watch as, near and far, a pan-<br /><br />demic of violence and abuse staggers the planet.<br />we seed the world with blood, grow<br />bleeding, harvest death and the promise<br /> of more. when i turn bitter, seeing no potential<br /><br />for escape, i think of the outrages you saw—wars,<br />lynchings, genocide, mccarthy, communism’s<br />failure to rise above corrupting power<br /> any better than capitalism had, the civil rights<br /><br />movement’s endless struggle—and how<br />you kept writing and walking, looking<br />for what you knew was out there. your memory,<br /> your tireless radiant energy, calls me<br /><br />to my work, to my feet, insisting<br />that somewhere on the earth, freedom is<br />learning to walk, trying not to fall,<br /> and, somewhere, laboring to be born.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
*</div>
<div>
Originally published via Poem-A-day by the<a href="http://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/du-bois-ghana" target="_blank"> Academy of American Poets</a>. </div>
<div>
*</div>
Rebel Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00695051285325585662noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127570906922811604.post-56357172421646234972015-03-25T10:29:00.001-07:002015-03-25T10:29:04.916-07:00The Morning Reading: "The Earth is Like a child that has learned to recite a poem"<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_aOCmIJ2Q9dw2iv2fvIgD3_K3lNs0dnqSFVilt9X3TR0Wem1h2Sg925Mzkl_1VXaeP6Zf3DmR2h2VVDwd7KM1QwxOX6u35UgF1IN-OgjaJOpNHbT8pZwmQbB0jKEYZ2z2e0h2u4iWR9qG/s1600/mustard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_aOCmIJ2Q9dw2iv2fvIgD3_K3lNs0dnqSFVilt9X3TR0Wem1h2Sg925Mzkl_1VXaeP6Zf3DmR2h2VVDwd7KM1QwxOX6u35UgF1IN-OgjaJOpNHbT8pZwmQbB0jKEYZ2z2e0h2u4iWR9qG/s1600/mustard.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<b>Sonnets to Orpheus: XXI</b><br />
- Rainer Maria Rilke<br />
<br />
Spring has come again. The Earth is<br />
Like a child that has learned to recite a poem;<br />
No, - many, many. ... And for the difficulty<br />
Of learning them now, the prize is bestowed.<br />
<br />
She had a strict teacher. We liked the white<br />
In the beards of old men.<br />
But now we can dare to ask: How do you say green?<br />
How do you say blue? - She knows! She knows!<br />
<br />
Earth, you have been made free. You fortunate! Play now<br />
With the children. - “We can catch you!”,<br />
Oh joyous Earth! To the most joyous, Godspeed!<br />
<br />
Oh, what the teacher had to teach her, the plenitude,<br />
And what stands printed for her both in roots and in ripe,<br />
Tough stalks: this she sings, she sings!<br />
<br />
*<br />
(translated by Robert Temple) Rebel Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00695051285325585662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127570906922811604.post-48957741664637196372015-02-17T07:09:00.000-08:002015-02-17T07:09:00.167-08:00The Morning Reading: "a tiny me taking nothing, giving nothing, and free at last."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<img height="393" id="irc_mi" src="http://fresnobeehive.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/02/CEK-LEVINE-1-thumb-300x420-49749.jpg" style="margin-top: 0px;" width="280" /><br /><br />
<b>Burial Rites </b><br /> - Philip Levine<br /> <br />Everyone comes back here to die <br />as I will soon. The place feels right <br />since it’s half dead to begin with. <br />Even on a rare morning of rain, <br />like this morning, with the low sky <br />hoarding its riches except for <br />a few mock tears, the hard ground <br />accepts nothing. Six years ago <br />I buried my mother’s ashes <br />beside a young lilac that’s now <br />taller than I, and stuck the stub <br />of a rosebush into her dirt, <br />where like everything else not <br />human it thrives. The small blossoms <br />never unfurl; whatever they know <br />they keep to themselves until <br />a morning rain or a night wind <br />pares the petals down to nothing. <br />Even the neighbor cat who shits <br />daily on the paths and then hides <br />deep in the jungle of the weeds <br />refuses to purr. Whatever’s here <br />is just here, and nowhere else, <br />so it’s right to end up beside <br />the woman who bore me, to shovel <br />into the dirt whatever’s left <br />and leave only a name for some- <br />one who wants it. Think of it, <br />my name, no longer a portion <br />of me, no longer inflated <br />or bruised, no longer stewing <br />in a rich compost of memory <br />or the simpler one of bone shards, <br />dirt, kitty litter, wood ashes, <br />the roots of the eucalyptus <br />I planted in ’73, <br />a tiny me taking nothing, <br />giving nothing, and free at last.<br />
<br />
* Rebel Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00695051285325585662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127570906922811604.post-2414062272473786352015-02-14T07:25:00.000-08:002015-02-14T07:25:00.594-08:00The Morning Reading: "we live because we love"<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="393" id="irc_mi" src="http://www-tc.pbs.org/prod-media/newshour/photos%2F2011%2F01%2F19%2FPortraitofKennethKoch.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px;" width="526" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Portrait of Kenneth Koch" by Jane Freilicher, c. 1966</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<b>To You</b><br /><br />by Kenneth Koch <br /><br />I love you as a sheriff searches for a walnut<br />That will solve a murder case unsolved for years<br />Because the murderer left it in the snow beside a window<br />Through which he saw her head, connecting with<br />Her shoulders by a neck, and laid a red<br />Roof in her heart. For this we lived a thousand years;<br />For this we love, and we live because we love, we are not<br />Inside a bottle, thank goodness! I love you as a<br />Kid searches for a goat; I am crazier than shirttails<br />In the wind, when you’re near, a wind that blows from<br />The big blue sea, so shiny so deep and so unlike us;<br />I think I am bicycling across an Africa of green and white fields<br />Always, to be near you, even in my heart<br />When I’m awake, which swims, and also I believe that you<br />Are trustworthy as the sidewalk which leads me to<br />The place where I again think of you, a new<br />Harmony of thoughts! I love you as the sunlight leads the prow<br />Of a ship which sails<br />From Hartford to Miami, and I love you<br />Best at dawn, when even before I am awake the sun<br />Receives me in the questions which you always pose.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />*Rebel Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00695051285325585662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127570906922811604.post-7072384262520238172015-01-20T08:00:00.000-08:002015-01-20T08:00:11.132-08:00The Morning Reading: "Stay, leaf."<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK5uZxn6FgPOVljwzfiMTNw9cdaak9tiGLEkgH54j2vqfh8CcV1_1RRn7vhFe7Q24Gn0K8eTFHjyc4SzvKaW5tLb-fhMeyXdG_UgCiks0Y_J3wl_MP2AhjhURq1t2GmWrko947tQsqSoT7/s1600/red+leaf+1.14.13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK5uZxn6FgPOVljwzfiMTNw9cdaak9tiGLEkgH54j2vqfh8CcV1_1RRn7vhFe7Q24Gn0K8eTFHjyc4SzvKaW5tLb-fhMeyXdG_UgCiks0Y_J3wl_MP2AhjhURq1t2GmWrko947tQsqSoT7/s1600/red+leaf+1.14.13.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<b>The Promise </b><br /> -Jane Hirschfield <br /> <br /> Stay, I said<br />to the cut flowers.<br />They bowed<br />their heads lower.<br /><br />Stay, I said to the spider,<br />who fled.<br /><br />Stay, leaf.<br />It reddened,<br />embarrassed for me and itself.<br /><br />Stay, I said to my body.<br />It sat as a dog does,<br />obedient for a moment,<br />soon starting to tremble.<br /><br />Stay, to the earth<br />of riverine valley meadows,<br />of fossiled escarpments,<br />of limestone and sandstone.<br />It looked back<br />with a changing expression, in silence.<br /><br />Stay, I said to my loves.<br />Each answered,<br /><i>Always.</i><br />
<br />
<i>* </i>Rebel Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00695051285325585662noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127570906922811604.post-2340780813668250572015-01-06T07:10:00.000-08:002015-01-06T07:10:00.544-08:00The Morning Reading: "& no one kills the black boy"<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="263" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/2U2Lf7fEZxA?rel=0" width="350"></iframe><br /><b> </b><br />
<b>Dinosaurs in the Hood</b><br />
- Danez Smith<a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/danez-smith"></a> <br /> <br />Let’s make a movie called <i>Dinosaurs in the Hood</i>. <br /><i>Jurassic Park</i> meets <i>Friday</i> meets <i>The Pursuit of Happyness</i>. <br />There should be a scene where a little black boy is playing <br />with a toy dinosaur on the bus, then looks out the window <br />& sees the T. Rex, because there has to be a T. Rex. <br /> <br />Don’t let Tarantino direct this. In his version, the boy plays <br />with a gun, the metaphor: black boys toy with their own lives, <br />the foreshadow to his end, the spitting image of his father. <br />Fuck that, the kid has a plastic Brontosaurus or Triceratops <br />& this is his proof of magic or God or Santa. I want a scene <br /> <br />where a cop car gets pooped on by a pterodactyl, a scene <br />where the corner store turns into a battle ground. Don’t let <br />the Wayans brothers in this movie. I don’t want any racist shit <br />about Asian people or overused Latino stereotypes. <br />This movie is about a neighborhood of royal folks — <br /> <br />children of slaves & immigrants & addicts & exiles — saving their town <br />from real-ass dinosaurs. I don’t want some cheesy yet progressive <br />Hmong sexy hot dude hero with a funny yet strong commanding <br />black girl buddy-cop film. This is not a vehicle for Will Smith <br />& Sofia Vergara. I want grandmas on the front porch taking out raptors <br /> <br />with guns they hid in walls & under mattresses. I want those little spitty, <br />screamy dinosaurs. I want Cicely Tyson to make a speech, maybe two. <br />I want Viola Davis to save the city in the last scene with a black fist afro pick <br />through the last dinosaur’s long, cold-blood neck. But this can’t be <br />a black movie. This can’t be a black movie. This movie can’t be dismissed <br /> <br />because of its cast or its audience. This movie can’t be a metaphor <br />for black people & extinction. This movie can’t be about race. <br />This movie can’t be about black pain or cause black people pain. <br />This movie can’t be about a long history of having a long history with hurt. <br />This movie can’t be about race. Nobody can say nigga in this movie <br /> <br />who can’t say it to my face in public. No chicken jokes in this movie. <br />No bullets in the heroes. & no one kills the black boy. & no one kills <br />the black boy. & no one kills the black boy. Besides, the only reason <br />I want to make this is for that first scene anyway: the little black boy <br />on the bus with a toy dinosaur, his eyes wide & endless <br /> <br /> his dreams possible, pulsing, & right there.Rebel Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00695051285325585662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127570906922811604.post-74410832153978311922014-12-31T07:36:00.000-08:002014-12-31T07:36:00.406-08:00The Morning Reading: "this floating world"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTVNc0sft7p7zjD17VEv8qOvvkWPeePfdqqm8pLDTCt6_5UcpgPiUbe5Nl_9r8w6C2rBrWtWXbq_-t2UoC2LOh0IFrme-aUoB7Xpjkbph5rTg2bYTREfPMEFlaJROrcgf2pRvmOME7nLrV/s1600/back+to+the+sand.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTVNc0sft7p7zjD17VEv8qOvvkWPeePfdqqm8pLDTCt6_5UcpgPiUbe5Nl_9r8w6C2rBrWtWXbq_-t2UoC2LOh0IFrme-aUoB7Xpjkbph5rTg2bYTREfPMEFlaJROrcgf2pRvmOME7nLrV/s1600/back+to+the+sand.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /><b>Year’s end</b><br />by Matsuo Basho<br /><br /><br />Year’s end,<br />all corners<br />of this floating world, swept.<br /><br />*<br /><i>(English version by Lucien Stryk and Takashi Ikemoto)</i>Rebel Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00695051285325585662noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127570906922811604.post-80106280650644503122014-12-27T07:43:00.000-08:002014-12-27T07:43:00.885-08:00The Morning Reading: "It is winter in California, and outside is like the interior of a florist shop"<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsC2QhxloWfEfCrSwgynp-KUAl0xPaLTSG7YyL_TuMUClUKbD7o1Qamw-vOTgbNR8lvWDQZAjfQzxG1ZPLoAIeRdxFGpgfgJIkXEY5kepYGly6IxO_Ldsmp5WhrDNE25FjVAA9Vqe7l4I/s1600/winter+in+california.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsC2QhxloWfEfCrSwgynp-KUAl0xPaLTSG7YyL_TuMUClUKbD7o1Qamw-vOTgbNR8lvWDQZAjfQzxG1ZPLoAIeRdxFGpgfgJIkXEY5kepYGly6IxO_Ldsmp5WhrDNE25FjVAA9Vqe7l4I/s400/winter+in+california.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><b>California Winter </b><br />~Karl Shapiro<br /><br />It is winter in California, and outside<br />Is like the interior of a florist shop: <br />A chilled and moisture-laden crop<br />Of pink camellias lines the path; and what<br />Rare roses for a banquet or a bride, <br />So multitudinous that they seem a glut! <br /><br />A line of snails crosses the golf-green lawn<br />From the rosebushes to the ivy bed; <br />An arsenic compound is distributed<br />For them. The gardener will rake up the shells<br />And leave in a corner of the patio<br />The little mound of empty shells, like skulls.<br /><br />By noon the fog is burnt off by the sun<br />And the world's immensest sky opens a page<br />For the exercise of a future age; <br />Now jet planes draw straight lines, parabolas, <br />And x's, which the wind, before they're done, <br />Erases leisurely or pulls to fuzz.<br /><br />It is winter in the valley of the vine.<br />The vineyards crucified on stakes suggest<br />War cemeteries, but the fruit is pressed, <br />The redwood vats are brimming in the shed, <br />And on the sidings stand tank cars of wine, <br />For which bright juice a billion grapes have bled.<br /><br />And skiers from the snow line driving home<br />Descend through almond orchards, olive farms.<br />Fig tree and palm tree - everything that warms<br />The imagination of the wintertime.<br />If the walls were older one would think of Rome: <br />If the land were stonier one would think of Spain.<br /><br />But this land grows the oldest living things, <br />Trees that were young when Pharoahs ruled the world, <br />Trees whose new leaves are only just unfurled.<br />Beautiful they are not; they oppress the heart<br />With gigantism and with immortal wings; <br />And yet one feels the sumptuousness of this dirt.<br /><br />It is raining in California, a straight rain<br />Cleaning the heavy oranges on the bough, <br />Filling the gardens till the gardens flow, <br />Shining the olives, tiling the gleaming tile, <br />Waxing the dark camellia leaves more green, <br />Flooding the daylong valleys like the Nile. <br /><br />*<br /><br /><br />*
<!-- Blogger automated replacement: "https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsC2QhxloWfEfCrSwgynp-KUAl0xPaLTSG7YyL_TuMUClUKbD7o1Qamw-vOTgbNR8lvWDQZAjfQzxG1ZPLoAIeRdxFGpgfgJIkXEY5kepYGly6IxO_Ldsmp5WhrDNE25FjVAA9Vqe7l4I/s400/winter+in+california.jpg" with "https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsC2QhxloWfEfCrSwgynp-KUAl0xPaLTSG7YyL_TuMUClUKbD7o1Qamw-vOTgbNR8lvWDQZAjfQzxG1ZPLoAIeRdxFGpgfgJIkXEY5kepYGly6IxO_Ldsmp5WhrDNE25FjVAA9Vqe7l4I/s400/winter+in+california.jpg" --><!-- Blogger automated replacement: "https://images-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com/gadgets/proxy?url=http%3A%2F%2F3.bp.blogspot.com%2F-kR-UkFdDLww%2FTrVgqkYNL1I%2FAAAAAAAAEMM%2FMcWE_hmaNFU%2Fs400%2Fwinter%252Bin%252Bcalifornia.jpg&container=blogger&gadget=a&rewriteMime=image%2F*" with "https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsC2QhxloWfEfCrSwgynp-KUAl0xPaLTSG7YyL_TuMUClUKbD7o1Qamw-vOTgbNR8lvWDQZAjfQzxG1ZPLoAIeRdxFGpgfgJIkXEY5kepYGly6IxO_Ldsmp5WhrDNE25FjVAA9Vqe7l4I/s400/winter+in+california.jpg" -->Rebel Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00695051285325585662noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127570906922811604.post-27851192936822254672014-12-23T07:29:00.003-08:002015-01-03T14:31:48.061-08:00The Morning Reading: "Let us celebrate the daily recurrent nativity of love"<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd3unu9-DDUJOtXeBXr9Z1gNI2FNwNZTtYFT1mCXSG23UOThUAfS1V4UJ0S6_nc50K_9enyAWKv1aYXF7dB5EN93AXSIDfqMvAy9tn4Wu-yzJeJ_By71kuu9v7r_bvin2wi75EzmvIDsV_/s1600/pelicans.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd3unu9-DDUJOtXeBXr9Z1gNI2FNwNZTtYFT1mCXSG23UOThUAfS1V4UJ0S6_nc50K_9enyAWKv1aYXF7dB5EN93AXSIDfqMvAy9tn4Wu-yzJeJ_By71kuu9v7r_bvin2wi75EzmvIDsV_/s1600/pelicans.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
"Lute Music" <br />
- Kenneth Rexroth <br />
<br />
The Earth will be going on a long time <br />
Before it finally freezes; <br />
Men will be on it; they will take names, <br />
Give their deeds reasons. <br />
We will be here only <br />
As chemical constituents— <br />
A small franchise indeed. <br />
Right now we have lives, <br />
Corpuscles, Ambitions, Caresses, <br />
Like everybody had once— <br />
<br />
Here at the year's end, at the feast <br />
Of birth, let us bring to each other <br />
The gifts brought once west through deserts— <br />
The precious metal of our mingled hair, <br />
The frankincense of enraptured arms and legs, <br />
The myrrh of desperate, invincible kisses— <br />
Let us celebrate the daily <br />
Recurrent nativity of love, <br />
The endless epiphany of our fluent selves, <br />
While the earth rolls away under us <br />
Into unknown snows and summers, <br />
Into untraveled spaces of the stars.<br />
<br />
* Rebel Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00695051285325585662noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127570906922811604.post-24474721021715467842014-12-21T11:46:00.001-08:002014-12-21T11:46:21.685-08:00The Morning Reading: "a circle of light for everyone"<img src="http://c4gallery.com/artist/database/vija-celmins/night-sky/vija-celmins-night-sky-woodcut-1997.jpg" height="307" id="irc_mi" style="margin-top: 0px;" width="320" /><br />
<br />
You darkness, that I come from,<br />
I love you more than all the fires<br />
that fence in the world,<br />
for the fire makes<br />
a circle of light for everyone,<br />
and then no one outside learns of you.<br />
<br />
But the darkness pulls in everything:<br />
shapes and fires, animals and myself,<br />
how easily it gathers them!—<br />
powers and people—<br />
and it is possible a great energy<br />
is moving near me.<br />
<br />
I have faith in nights.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>–Rainer Maria Rilke, translated by Robert Bly</i><br />
<br />
<i>- woodcut by Vija Celmins<br /><br />*</i>Rebel Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00695051285325585662noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127570906922811604.post-61433181192112350612014-12-08T07:57:00.001-08:002014-12-08T07:57:24.389-08:00The Morning Reading: "The good life gives no warning"<img height="393" id="irc_mi" src="http://www.exeter.edu/media/content/Library_Lamont_Poet_Mark_Strand_-_Large.jpg" style="margin-top: 0px;" width="378" /><br /><br />
<b>The Good Life</b><br />
- Mark Strand: <br /><br /><br />You stand at the window.<br /> There is a glass cloud in the shape of a heart.<br /> There are the wind’s sighs that are like caves in your speech.<br /> You are the ghost in the tree outside. <br /><br />The street is quiet.<br /> The weather, like tomorrow, like your life,<br /> is partially here, partially up in the air.<br /> There is nothing you can do. <br /><br />The good life gives no warning.<br /> It weathers the climates of despair<br /> and appears, on foot, unrecognized, offering nothing,<br /> and you are there.<br /><br />*Rebel Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00695051285325585662noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127570906922811604.post-65270883621625765422014-12-04T08:47:00.002-08:002014-12-04T08:47:23.084-08:00The Morning Reading: "please limit your carrying on"<div class="content">
<img height="306" id="irc_mi" src="http://natalieisgoode.files.wordpress.com/2014/07/ericgarner.jpg" style="margin-top: 44px;" width="306" /> </div>
<div class="content">
<b>we are not responsible</b></div>
<div class="content">
</div>
<div class="content">
</div>
<div class="content">
</div>
<div class="content">
</div>
<div class="content">
</div>
<div class="content">
</div>
<div class="content">
—harryette mullen</div>
<div class="content">
</div>
<div class="content">
We are not responsible for your lost or stolen relatives. We cannot guarantee your safety if you disobey our instructions. We do not endorse the causes or claims of people begging for handouts. We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone. Your ticket does not guarantee that we will honor your reservations. In order to facilitate our procedures, please limit your carrying on. Before taking off, please extinguish all smoldering resentments. If you cannot understand English, you will be moved out the way. In the event of a loss, you’d better look out for yourself. Your insurance was cancelled because we can no longer handle your frightful claims. Our handlers lost your luggage and we are unable to find the key to your legal case. You were detained for interrogation because you fit the profile. You are not presumed to be innocent if the police have reason to suspect you are carrying a concealed wallet. It’s not our fault you were born wearing a gang color. It is not our obligation to inform you of your rights. Step aside, please while our officer inspects your bad attitude. You have no rights that we are bound to respect. Please remain calm, or we can’t be held responsible for what happens to you. <br /><br />*</div>
Rebel Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00695051285325585662noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127570906922811604.post-42546182892014809092014-12-01T08:51:00.000-08:002014-12-01T08:51:12.667-08:00The Morning Reading: "We will be citizens."<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="263" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/uZaahjLSMrQ?rel=0" width="350"></iframe><br />
<br />
<br />
from Tony Kushner's "Angels in America," the end:<br />
<br />
"This
disease will be the end of many of us, but not nearly all. And the
dead will be commemorated, and we'll struggle on with the living and we
are not going away. We won't die secret deaths anymore. The world only
spins forward. We will be citizens. The time has come. Bye now. You are
fabulous, each and every one and I bless you. More life. The great work
begins."<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi95HI2ayRFqHwnNTolMMKo452FAZu2M5-Hh9CLi-Iu2-7w2T-j2ECuX5qAl0SMMQZ6_Xo5kWyste_QDjEc-WRYvUlikrnYmEhkXlPM386ildDm4KuvKUZoxQrCSbeCkxVZygOxn_ei0w4d/s1600/peter+whitney+and+Mary.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi95HI2ayRFqHwnNTolMMKo452FAZu2M5-Hh9CLi-Iu2-7w2T-j2ECuX5qAl0SMMQZ6_Xo5kWyste_QDjEc-WRYvUlikrnYmEhkXlPM386ildDm4KuvKUZoxQrCSbeCkxVZygOxn_ei0w4d/s320/peter+whitney+and+Mary.jpg" height="320" width="226" /></a></div>
<br />Rebel Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00695051285325585662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127570906922811604.post-52588479564799956692014-11-29T07:06:00.000-08:002014-12-01T08:31:41.335-08:00The Morning Reading: "the day’s work done as well as I was able"<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://www.poets.org/sites/default/files/images/reznikoff_reading.gif" height="317" id="irc_mi" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Charles Reznikoff reading as part of Poets in the Parks. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b> </b><br />
<br />
<b>Te Deum </b><br />
- Charles Reznikoff<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Not because of victories<br />
I sing,<br />
having none,<br />
but for the common sunshine,<br />
the breeze,<br />
the largess of spring. <br />
<br />
Not for victory<br />
but for the day’s work done<br />
as well as I was able;<br />
not for a seat upon the dais<br />
but at the common table.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />Rebel Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00695051285325585662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127570906922811604.post-90921606667021356152014-11-27T07:58:00.004-08:002014-11-27T07:58:41.223-08:00The Morning Reading: "What They Ate"<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkkD9v7ilh43MYAx2zpFRbEM1HNAG13CHi1BA_R6ZLd0J5BRDaodNoxGPfqvwsl2SeSKzu00phvXbjsj-pZYjX2SZij5INvVj9X1N81V2QXk8OuK6BFhBSs_Z1kpq1LOO-TAi8wUj5QBaW/s1600/tday+map.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkkD9v7ilh43MYAx2zpFRbEM1HNAG13CHi1BA_R6ZLd0J5BRDaodNoxGPfqvwsl2SeSKzu00phvXbjsj-pZYjX2SZij5INvVj9X1N81V2QXk8OuK6BFhBSs_Z1kpq1LOO-TAi8wUj5QBaW/s400/tday+map.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<b>"What They Ate"</b><br />
~Campbell McGrath<br />
<br />
All manner of fowl and wild game: venison, raccoon, opossum,<br />
turkey.<br />
Abundant fishes, excepting salmon, which was ws. found<br />
distasteful.<br />
Meat of all sorts, especially pig, which roamed free and was fatty.<br />
Also shellfish: quahogs and foot-long oysters; lobsters,<br />
though considered wasteful.<br />
<br />
Wild fruit: huckle and rasp, blue being known as "skycolored"<br />
berries.<br />
Parsnips, turnips, carrots, onions: these loosely sorted and rooted<br />
out;<br />
while these were cultivated in orchards: apples, peaches, apricots,<br />
cherries.<br />
Cabbage - favored by the Dutch as <i>koolslaa</i>, by the Germans as<br />
sauerkraut -<br />
<br />
was boiled with herbs brought from England: thyme, hyssop,<br />
marjoram, parsley.<br />
Pumpkin, dried, or mashed with butter, where yams grew<br />
sparsely.<br />
Corn, with beans as succotash; called <i>samp</i> when milled to grist;<br />
in the South, hulled and broken, as <i>hominy</i>; or fried with bacon<br />
as grits.<br />
Maple ws. not favored; loaves of white sugar worth considerable<br />
money<br />
were kept under lock, cut with special sugar shears. For honey,<br />
<br />
bees were imported, called "English flies" by the Narragansett.<br />
<br />
<br />
*Rebel Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00695051285325585662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127570906922811604.post-70419924104737780132014-11-24T20:15:00.000-08:002014-11-24T20:16:18.241-08:00The Morning Reading: "When the stranger asks, Why do you care?"<img src="http://www.portlandmercury.com/binary/fe70/book1-570x300.jpg" height="210" id="irc_mi" style="margin-top: 50px;" width="400" /> <br />
from <i>Citizen: An American Lyric</i><br />
- Claudia Rankine <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
When the stranger asks, Why do you care? you just stand there staring at him. He has just referred to the boisterous teenagers in Starbucks as niggers. Hey, I am standing right here, you responded, not necessarily expecting him to turn to you.<br />
<br />
<br />
He is holding the lidded paper cup in one hand and a small paper bag in the other. They are just being kids. Come on, no need to get all KKK on them, you say.<br />
<br />
<br />
Now there you go, he responds.<br />
<br />
<br />
The people around you have turned away from their screens. The teenagers are on pause. There I go? you ask, feeling irritation begin to rain down. Yes, and something about hearing yourself repeating this stranger’s accusation in a voice usually reserved for your partner makes you smile.<br />
<br />
<br />
/<br />
<br />
A man knocked over her son in the subway. You feel your own body wince. He’s okay, but the son of a bitch kept walking. She says she grabbed the stranger’s arm and told him to apologize: I told him to look at the boy and apologize. And yes, you want it to stop, you want the black child pushed to the ground to be seen, to be helped to his feet and be brushed off, not brushed off by the person that did not see him, has never seen him, has perhaps never seen anyone who is not a reflection of himself.<br />
<br />
<br />
The beautiful thing is that a group of men began to stand behind me like a fleet of bodyguards, she says, like newly found uncles and brothers.<br />
<br />
<br />
/<br />
<br />
The new therapist specializes in trauma counseling. You have only ever spoken on the phone. Her house has a side gate that leads to a back entrance she uses for patients. You walk down a path bordered on both sides with deer grass and rosemary to the gate, which turns out to be locked.<br />
<br />
<br />
At the front door the bell is a small round disc that you press firmly. When the door finally opens, the woman standing there yells, at the top of her lungs, Get away from my house. What are you doing in my yard?<br />
<br />
<br />
It’s as if a wounded Doberman pinscher or a German shepherd has gained the power of speech. And though you back up a few steps, you manage to tell her you have an appointment. You have an appointment? she spits back. Then she pauses. Everything pauses. Oh, she says, followed by, oh, yes, that’s right. I am sorry.<br />
<br />
<br />
I am so sorry, so, so sorry. <br />
<br />
/Rebel Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00695051285325585662noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127570906922811604.post-22592589762283401952014-10-30T07:49:00.001-07:002014-10-30T07:49:44.530-07:00The Morning Reading: "we wonder how it will be without them"<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="" class="spotlight" height="320" src="https://scontent-b-sjc.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-xap1/t31.0-8/s960x960/10294976_10152357919805047_8422692751897281637_o.jpg" style="height: 561px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; width: 389px;" width="221" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Galway Kinnell, 1989. (photograph by Barbara Hall.)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /><b><br />September 1961</b><br />
by Denise Levertov<br />
<br />This is the year the old ones,<br />the old great ones<br />leave us alone on the road.<br /><br />The road leads to the sea.<br />We have the words in our pockets,<br />obscure directions. The old ones<br /><br />have taken away the light of their presence,<br />we see it moving away over a hill<br />off to one side.<br /><br />...<br /><br />
<br />
The darkness<br /><br />twists itself in the wind, the stars<br />are small, the horizon<br />ringed with confused urban light-haze.<br /><br />They have told us<br />the road leads to the sea,<br />and given<br /><br />the language into our hands.<br />We hear<br />our footsteps each time a truck<br /><br />has dazzled past us and gone<br />leaving us new silence.<br />One can't reach<br /><br />the sea on this endless<br />road to the sea unless<br />one turns aside at the end, it seems,<br /><br />follows<br />the owl that silently glides above it<br />aslant, back and forth,<br /><br />and away into deep woods.<br /><br />But for us the road<br />unfurls itself, we count the<br />words in our pockets, we wonder<br /><br />how it will be without them, we don't<br />stop walking, we know<br />there is far to go, sometimes<br /><br />we think the night wind carries<br />a smell of the sea...<br /><br />*Rebel Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00695051285325585662noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7127570906922811604.post-9719216259541133292014-10-27T21:25:00.003-07:002014-10-27T21:25:24.330-07:00The Morning reading: "Only that." <br />
<br />
<img height="320" id="irc_mi" src="http://media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/a1/01/25/a10125b9097e7d40bee07f7d1987ce86.jpg" style="margin-top: 79px;" width="320" /><br />
<br />
by Galway Kinnell<br />
<br />
* Rebel Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00695051285325585662noreply@blogger.com2