Browning's Complete Poetical Works

My fabulous coworker Terri returned from an out-of-office excursion the other day, and dropped this book on my desk. She had been to one of our thrift stores, and as an avid reader, she always checks the books to see if there is anything she must have.

On this occasion, she did not so much want the book herself, as she wanted someone to want it. Maybe someone who likes poetry, and can appreciate a 120-year-old book, and the handwritten notes therein.

I know nothing about Browning, except that Elizabeth Barrett fell in love with him and wrote the heck out of sonnets because of it. My first comment after thumbing through the pages was, "There are a LOT of words." In order to pack all of the words into one volume, they used tiny print and two columns, so each page is crammed full of Victorian verse. What little I've read, I've found to be slow going, and not particularly engaging, although there were occasional moments of what appeared to be poetical smart mouth.

So, I consulted with the oracle, Wikipedia, which assured me, "His poems are known for their irony, characterization, dark humor, social commentary, historical settings, and challenging vocabulary and syntax." I should be able to get behind that. It also noted that even Browning's fans were sometimes vexed when his poems were too long or too dense.

Still, it's lovely having a bit of the 19th century sitting on my desk in a 21st century office.

Not NaNoWriMo, Not NaBloPoMo

Ah, November. Chris Baty has ruined you for me. After one NaNoWriMo, then another, and another, and another, I've come to believe that November is THE time for slightly crazy personal challenges.

I'm not alone. Go do a Goggle Image search for "November challenge" or "30 day challenge". You'll find plenty of ideas. Blog posting every day in November has been around for awhile, as has the thankfulness challenge. You can post a photo every day, or increase the number of squats you can do.

This year, for reasons I can't pin down, I felt the urge to do NaNoWriMo. Fortunately, I only took me 123 words to remember why I quit doing it a few years. ago.

Then, a Facebook conversation about "what I'm doing instead of NaNo" pointed me to the 2014 November PAD (Poem-A-Day) Chapbook Challenge. Oh, yes, I thought, this is something I can do.

There is no registration to speak of, so I e-mailed a few on-the-fence friends and announced my intentions.And after two days of poetry writing, I'm announcing it here.

I thought about adding the blog posting and/or thankfulness challenges, but let's not get carried away. I also thought about learning how to use another well-known blogging platform (rhymes with Nerd Chess), about which, ditto.

As you can see, though, I did post to my blog. I'll even throw in something I am thankful for, today and every day:

I have everything I need, and a few of the things I want.

Life is good.

Poem In Your Pocket Day

Let's see if this works.

listen to ‘Poem In Your (audio) Pocket’ on Audioboo

A poem for the season

Recent conversations with a couple of football-loving girlfriends reminded me of this little ditty. I composed it when I was in junior high, back when the frozen north ruled the NFL - sort of like this year. What could have been more old school than seeing the Packers, Bears, Steelers, and Jets vying for the Super Bowl this year? I always got a vicious little thrill, seeing southern teams play up north, in falling snow, or in single-digit temps. Namby pambies. You should try living up north ALL THE TIME.

Ahem. Anyway, this is the only thing I ever wrote that I can recite in its entirety. If you would like to enjoy it for yourself, sing it to the tune of Jingle Bells.

Football games! Football games!

Frolics in the snow, 

Sitting on a frozen bench

It's just thirteen belo-ow! 

Pass received? Pass received?

We will never know, 

For the guy who made the catch

Is buried in the snow!

Dashing through snow, 

A wishbone T in play--  

There's faith though we're behind 

Nineteen to three today. 

Our team just can' t fit in

The place where we now play. 

You see, we are from Florida

And playing in Green Bay!

(repeat chorus with gusto)

(Disclaimers: Yes, I know nineteen is an uncommon score, and I know Miami didn't run the wishbone, and they certainly didn't run it across divisions against the Packers. But it's a poem, dammit, and these words scanned, and that's the important thing.)

(P.S. Go Steelers!)

The spring collection

We've had a couple of weeks of delightful spring weather - a little warm during the day, a little cool in the evening, rain every now and then. With the windows open, we go to sleep to the sound of crickets, and wake up to bird songs at dawn.

Last night, I saw fireflies. Just a few, a tease of fireflies, if you will.

With the demise of SK, other critters are more active in the backyard. A rabbit wandered in today. The cardinals and robins are there, of course, and occasionally I hear catbirds, although I haven't seen them. I assume the finches are still around, too, although I hung a finch sock for them today and haven't seen anyone come near it. Three starlings showed up the other day, talking loud and strutting around like they've had that last drink you can have before you get incoherently stupid. Fortunately, they also had a drunk's attention span, and after posturing for a couple of minutes, they wandered off. They look like badasses, though, so I'm going to keep an eye out for them.

T and I have been hacking away at the stuff growing in the backyard that we don't want growing there. Ideally, at some point, we will replace it with stuff we DO want to grow there, but one step at a time.

Meanwhile, indoors, I have been taking leisurely tour through "The Discovery Of Poetry" by Frances Mayes (of "Under the Tuscan Sun" fame). While it is described as "A Field Guide to Reading and Writing Poems", it is much more about reading and understanding poetry, with just a smattering of how to put that knowledge into action. It is also a simply wonderful collection of poems. Every time I take a half hour to read from it, I feel like I am a little better than I was before.

I don't know if this book had anything to do with it, but I went on a poetry writing frenzy today. I picked up a literary journal at the bookstore this afternoon, and the poems in it were awful. Really, really, awful. "Is that all it takes to get published in a literary journal?" I asked my friends. "I can do that in no time."

I picked a few random words out of the magazines on the table and started writing. (T gets special muse credit for daring me to use the word churlish. With pleasure, my dear - what a nice, juicy word!) Within an hour, I had written four poems, two of which were actually not too bad. It turns out that even when I try to write self-indulgent crap, my brain still tries to find a theme and put layers of meaning into it. That's me, always trying to make sense of it all.

Poem In My Other Pocket

Yesterday, I shared a poem that was brief and charming (and hott, as Sand noted in the comments.)

However, the poem I shared in my Piker Press article, linked yesterday, is one I have known longer and felt more deeply. I first read it when I was in college, on a greeting card, of all things. My life to that point had been mostly tragedy-free, but I understood that all of the trials mentioned in the poem would probably happen to me, and happen over and over, and that I could get through them with the help of friends.

Sadly, these words came to mind today when I heard of the sudden, unexplained death of a friend, and when I talked to other people who remembered her.

Sonnet XXX
William Shakespeare

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear times' waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unus'd to flow,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restor'd and sorrows end.

Poem In My Pocket

In the US, April is National Poetry Month. This year's program to bring poetry to the masses is Poem In Your Pocket Day on April 17 (today!). I challenged folks at The Piker Press to share a poem with someone today, so I'd better come through with one myself. This one is small enough to write on the back of a business card, short enough to memorize in one sitting, and irresistibly romantic.

A Drinking Song
William Butler Yeats

Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That's all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.