A Poem For A Friday

It is always thrilling to come across a new Merwin poem and this one did not disappoint. Elegy for a Walnut Tree appears in Merwin's new collection, The Moon Before Morning. I have a blog with the man's name in its title and yet I barely knew he had a new book. Bad fan! Anyway, I'll be heading to the bookstore on my lunch break to pick it up. In the meantime, enjoy his words. I love his words!

Elegy for a Walnut Tree

W.S. Merwin

Old friend now there is no one alive

who remembers when you were young

it was high summer when I first saw you

in the blaze of day most of my life ago

with the dry grass whispering in your shade

and already you had lived through wars

and echoes of wars around your silence

through days of parting and seasons of absence

with the house emptying as the years went their way

until it was home to bats and swallows

and still when spring climbed toward summer

you opened once more the curled sleeping fingers

of newborn leaves as though nothing had happened

you and the seasons spoke the same language

and all these years I have looked through your limbs

to the river below and the roofs and the night

and you were the way I saw the world

It's Here! Stitchfix #3

This one was a let down. I expected this to happen before now, but it turned out that I kept nothing from this shipment, which included some white skinny jeans, a racerback tank, short sleeved blouse, striped jacket, and a dress.

I have a few complaints. Stitchfix is big on promoting detailed feedback, which I have provided. For example, when they sent me a belted dress in Fix #1, I explained that items that hit at the waist never, ever work. This fix's dress had a distinct waist. I had also mentioned that while I love flowy, blousy tops, they always require a smaller size than typical straight fitting shirts. I got another flowy shirt that I loved but was too large. So I have no idea how it works and whether it's formulaic or whatnot, but the whole point is, it's not supposed to seem formulaic. They market it as a personal stylist who selects things just for you and those previous bits of feedback sort of felt ignored.

All whining aside, I do think I will try again. A few of the items were near misses, certainly more so than my above tirade would make it seem. When I took it out of the box, I hated the Myla Tribal Detailed Racerbank Tank by Collective Concepts, but when I put it on, I actually really liked it. The coral color was fun and those black and white V details were really great. But the racerback style is tricky and actually, the armholes were too snug and after a few minutes, it became uncomfortable. Not sure it flattered my hip area either...

You'll see the Kensie Ankle Biter Skinny Jeans. In white. Tight white. The photo does not reveal the bumps and lumps but they are there. The end. I liked this assymetrical Mojo Striped Ponte Moto jacket by Sanctuary but it arrived with some dirt on the sleeve. Not sure I wanted to pay for it and risk not being able to get it clean. Plus, me and mostly white clothing tends to not end well.

I shall not bother to terrorize you with a photo of me in the Mathilde Cap Sleeve Abstract Print Dress by Angie. It wasn't as terrible as one might think but the top was way too big, even if you account for the intended blousy style on this type of thing. I liked the pattern but the polyester/rayon blend felt icky. And finally, the near-miss of this Lace Detailed Short Sleeve Blouse. Again with the polyester and again with the too-largeness. It really doesn't look awful in the pic but it wasn't worth it. Plus, it was incredibly sheer (like, hello, belly button sheer). In my feedback, I described my disappointment both specifically and generically. Hopefully that will improve the next one due to arrive mid-May!

Reflections on Place

At work, we're in the process of writing an appeal about renovations to our facility. The letter opens by mentioning that the spaces in which we spend our time can be as integral to our memories as the experiences we have in them. After spending the weekend on Martha's Vineyard, I can't help thinking about the importance of place.

Growing up, if anyone asked if I had a special place, my rapid response was always "the dance studio."  It could've been any dance studio. They all had enormous meaning for me then. I felt so invested in being there, spending hours dancing, sweating, perfecting, and getting lost in a passion for doing something I have yet to rediscover.

Special places have shifted for me over time, but the constant remains the feeling when you enter them. There's a cultivated thoughtfulness in the way meaningful places are created and kept, how memories are curated and how tangible items can capture the essence of a place and all that has happened there.

Even though it is new, I feel that way about Round Pond. Daily trivials wash away when you set foot in the house, see the lake, and feel the peacefulness of the woods. Even after not living there for years, I get that same sense of relaxed comfort when I travel to my parents' house. Whether or not it was intentional, they made a place that not only reflects them in every flower bed, tree and bird feeder but also exudes a spirit of natural ease, a place where you can just be you and nothing else matters.

More than any of the really difficult things I felt over the weekend, the hardest part was unassembling a place that had for so many years been thoughtfully crafted. Every item had purpose; it was clear every thing represented a story or a moment or a feeling or a memory. And not just within the stuff. I am capable of rationalizing that stuff is just stuff, but the walls have that feeling and the woods have that feeling and every view out of every window has that feeling. I really believe that it takes a long, long time to build that feeling in a place and it is sad, so incredibly sad, to pack that feeling into boxes and turn it over to someone else.

Scenes From The Weekend

Just one scene really. One humiliating scene. My dad has been trying to get me to drive his Kubota tractor for a few years now. Now this is a silly mission because, as we know, I barely drive. Trikes, bikes, boats, cars, jetskis, you name it, I don't drive it. So we should've known from the get go that this would turn out badly. Luckily, no one got run over, although I can safely say that if they did get run over, they would've been fine. As you can see towards the end of the film, my dad is slowly strolling, like SLOWLY STROLLING and is going at least twenty-five miles an hour faster than I am.

Make sure your volume is up for this little web gem. What is that expression? If you can't make fun of yourself...?

Game Changer

This. Is. Delicious. It's a chocolate bar filled with goodness. Organic peanut butter, pink Himalayan sea salt (what the what?!), Maldon sea salt (Is that a place? Should I know it?!), and deep milk chocolate. Ignore the pretentious tone of the ingredients list...it's a scrumptious combination, whatever those fancy salts may be.

It is also $6.75 at our favorite neighborhood shop, Dave's Fresh Pasta, but it is worth every hard-earned cent.

The back of the box tells you "how to enjoy an exotic candy bar" in the following steps: Breathe, See, Smell, Snap, Taste and Feel. Here's a sample: "Notice the milky brown hue of the chocolate bar and the dark, glossy shine on the bar's surface, indicating a good temper." HA! Temper? Chocolate has a temper?! "Rub your thumb on the bar to help warm the chocolate and release the aromas. Can you sense the peanut butter parfum beneath the surface?"

Gibberish. Eat it like a herd of zombies is banging on your front door and a t-rex just woke up from his 100 million-year cryogenic slumber at your back door. It's chocolate for crying out loud. It deserves to be devoured. Done. (You can find it here.)

Spring, Rain, and Poems

I've never craved spring quite the way I did this winter. I love snow, fireplaces, Chirstmastime and all those wintry tidbits. This time around I wasn't feeling it. I'm not sure if it was the prospect of summer days at the lake or my bones that were permanently frozen since November, but I was pumped to see the calendar page finally flip to April. Even if that meant rain, rain, rain. Buckets of it earlier this week, but it's also nearing 60 degrees. Luckily (thank goodness!!!) there are ample spring rain poems to jive with the nature of the month. This one includes a dog. Shocking.

         Two Rains
         Jane Hirshfield

         The dog came in
         and shook off
         water in every direction.

         A chaotic rainstorm,
         walking on four big paws.

         The outside rain
         fell straight,
         in parallel lines
         from a child's drawing.

         Windless, blunt, and cold,
         that orderly rain,
         like a fate
         uninterrupted by late love.

Happy National Poetry Month!

National Poetry Month was introduced in 1996 as a way to raise awareness of poetry and celebrate its importance in American culture. As part of poetry month in grade school, I vaguely remember participating in "Poem In Your Pocket Day" then years later less vaguely recall folding a Merwin poem into a tiny square for work at the Library.

Sometimes I lump poetry in with modern dance and abstract art -- slightly under appreciated, perhaps because of their perceived inaccessibility. I remember first seeing a Paul Taylor dance and thinking "I don't get it." It didn't have a narrative, no clear storyline or program notes to shed light on what I saw on stage. It was hard not having an explanation and no tangible definition of what was happening. I'm not the only one who ever felt that way. In terms of gaining new audiences, the dance scene struggles with this stigma all the time and while I know less about visual art, I'm betting it can be an issue in that field too.

The form of poetry itself is a limitation when it comes to audiences. People are naturally more comfortable reading prose. So right off the bat, it looks like a challenge. And in a lot of ways it is. Poems can be full of unknowns and that is exactly what I love about them. They give you the space to explore what you feel from them and contemplate what the poet meant as he tinkered with specific words.

Anyway, my babble is just trying to explain that we shouldn't be scared of poems. Their ambiguities are their beauty. That said, I can't begin to count how many poems received a huge question mark in their margins while at Hamilton. It's frustrating when you are studying them, but when you can just savor them, it's a nice escape from wherever you are.