Emily. Emily. How amazing is the ability to capture a moment for all of us to wonder and appreciate centuries later. And to think your poems lay hidden, languishing until a sister realized they needed freedom not a burial.
A lane of Yellow led the eye (1650)
Emily Dickinson
This is oh so Thoreau. The way he observes nature, breaking the whole into bits without dissembling the phenomena.
Mist by Henry David Thoreau
Low-anchored cloud,
Newfoundland air,
Fountain-head and source of rivers,
Dew-cloth, dream-drapery,
And napkin spread by fays;
Drifting meadow of the air,
Where bloom the daisied banks and violets,
And in whose fenny labyrinth
The bittern booms and heron wades;
Spirit of lakes and seas and rivers,—
Bear only perfumes and the scent
Of healing herbs to just men’s fields.
Eli over at Coach Daddy asked me to write a comparison of two well-known heroes: James Bond and Han Solo.
Hmm, is what I said at first and thought it would make for a good post. He said he would match my post. Okay, challenge on.
First of all, I have grown up watching James Bond. As a kid I remember waiting for the clean version on television because there wasn’t any way my parents would have taken me to the theatre to see Sean Connery in all his bomb and bombshell glory. For me, Sean Connery remains the definitive Bond: suave, swagger, skilled, gentleman, although a bit chauvinistic, but hey, it was the 60s. Two years ago I had more to say on the Bond Birthday post, when Bond turned 50. Check it out.
Switch over to my college years and we have Star Wars on the screen. That I did get to see on my own. And I did so several times. Stars Wars was amazing! My dad loved westerns, especially John Wayne, and I immediately recognized that Han Solo was a bit of John Wayne in space. He played the rogue hero, the one who knew everyone, had a bit of reputation, knew how to get in trouble and get out of it. And he gets the girl. It was no surprise that Harrison Ford became the BIG star after his gig as Han Solo.
But to compare them, Eli? Seriously? Bond to Solo? That’s apples and oranges. I think they are best left to stand on their own merits. Spy Wars and Star Wars are two different categories. Although it is interesting that Daniel Craig and Harrison Ford became allies in that mash-up genre movie Cowboys and Aliens. Bond and Han made a pretty good team, come to think of it. I couldn’t see Connery slugging aliens, but he did play the Green Knight early in his career, and that’s pretty close to being an alien.
The real problem with this comparison is that there have been so many Bonds, and only one Han Solo. Each Bond played the role differently (again note past post). Han is Han: braggart, lovable rogue, a bit of a McGyver (Harrison even rocked a mullet in the 80s trilogy), a mercenary with a golden heart. Even with his mullet gone gray in the latest Star Wars movie, Harrison is still Han.
So–I’m not seeing much to compare. An apple is an apple next to an orange. I like both, but when it came to choosing which movie to watch in the theatre, I instinctively plunked my ticket down for Bond. Why? Craig has honed his Bond down to perfection, at least Skyfall impressed me. I’m not all that eager to see an aged Han Solo. Dude, who wants to see a hero age?
update: I did see the new Star Wars and was not impressed. I remain a purist. And it’s funny that Daniel Craig managed to get a cameo role.
Okay, Eli. Your turn. Are Bond and Hans comparable, or are they stand alones?
Bond in space? image: 8bitnerds.com
I am a professed Word Nerd. I collect words (lexophile) study them (etymologist), mispronounce them (cacoepy), and read about them (Book Booster). Maybe my mom propped up my crib with an old dictionary, because no one else in my family shows this proclivity.
My love for words overflows into all facets of my life. As a kid, other kids would roll their eyes at my vocabulary, and teachers would be either amused or irritated at me knowing what the vocabulary word meant without any prompting. “Show off” was sometimes bantered about when I was around. Not really. Misunderstood for my zeal of learning vocabulary, yes, that would be better.
Zoom up to my young mothering years (an empty nester now–still mothering, but from a defined distance). I guess I nearly ruined my children’s lives by trying to instill the love of words into their little bodies. “No one talks like us, Mom!” And that was a bad thing? The payoff came much later, when recently the youngest progeny phoned to say the boss folk liked how well he could express himself in company meetings. Ah–delayed gratification.
As a teacher, I legitimately get to introduce vocabulary to students and interject my enthusiasm for increasing word strength and even test them on what the words they need to know for life and for state required assessments and get paid for it (I just committed a polysyndeton with all those conjunctions–great word).
Lately, as a blogger, I get more attuned to posts about words dropping my way. For instance, I found this gem in my box not too long ago, even though it’s a 2012 post, it’s still relevant to me. It’s all about Word Hacking, that delicious art of creating new words. There is all sorts of action and exercise in Word Hacking. There’s combining, mash ups, and verbalizing, and nouning. One could seriously lose calories by inventing new words. Shakespeare must have been in stellar shape with all his inventiveness. Doesn’t this look ever so fun? Check out the full blog post
Due to the roasty, toasty temps we experienced this year, I’m becoming more of an autumn fan than a summer lover, my allegiance to fall begins to wane when the leaves start swirling down. While I don’t actually loathe raking and burning the farewell of summer, I do detest how the days are darker–both in the morning and in the evening. I do adore my Happy Lights. One in the bedroom and one in the kitchen. I’m about to trot to Costco to purchase another for my office.
Being the type of person who prefers solutions to problems, I appreciated this poem find. Instead of fretting about the impending gloom, I shall whistle instead.
Whistling in the dark, with a poem in my heart image: morguefile.com/morethanordinary
Sometimes the mist overhangs my path,
And blackening clouds about me cling;
But, oh, I have a magic way
To turn the gloom to cheerful day—
I softly sing.
And if the way grows darker still,
Shadowed by Sorrow’s somber wing,
With glad defiance in my throat,
I pierce the darkness with a note,
And sing, and sing.
I brood not over the broken past,
Nor dread whatever time may bring;
No nights are dark, no days are long,
While in my heart there swells a song,
And I can sing.
Amy Lowell doesn’t quite get the press like Emily Dickinson does, although Amy did receive a Pultizer for her work. Very much influenced by the Imagist Movement, Lowell, like Ezra Pound, captures the essence of a scene in only a few words. So much is left unsaid, which is what makes this poem so complete.
image: morguefile/rezdora70
Over the shop where silk is sold Still the dragon kites are flying.
December 19th is a happy day for several reasons:
1. Christmas Break begins as soon as I turn the key on my classroom door.
2. I’m invited to the library staff Christmas party (being a trustee has it’s perks)
3. The next time I enter my classroom it’ll be a new year, meaning we’ve turned the corner and we’ll be heading towards June graduation.
4. Because the 20th is when our very own kinder plus the wunderkind begin arriving for Christmas.
5. I will not be grading papers and don’t have to create lesson plans, although I might fuss and dabble with the ones I have ready to go for January.
6. My room is prepped ready to be painted over break, transforming it from bowl-of-oatmeal-blah-grayish taint to contemporary calming tan and teal.
7. I anticipate two weeks of napping, reading, exercising, visiting, snacking, writing, celebrating a joyous season, and overall relaxing.
I’m contemplating some serious Shakespeare reading–I have a mungo long TBR list of background bio books on the Bard. I’ve a hankering to write a middle grade novel about Wm. Shakespeare, something that will fetch up some interest in him prior to forced readings of his plays in middle school and high school–something that will pique their interest. To go where no author has gone before with the Bard. I know, that’s a tall order for two weeks.
I’m also considering revisiting former reads such The Hobbit and then watch the film adaptation.
I might also start a series I’ve never encountered before. Mystery? Adventure? Sci-fi? Historical? So many options. Any suggestions?
Of course, I could do a thorough scrubbing of my writing and edit and revise and market and well, that sounds an awful like work and aren’t I supposed to be relaxing?
Whatever I decide to do, I want you all to know I appreciate your comments, views, likes, and follows. I hope to end out the year with 25,000 views and a 1000 followers.
Happy joyful season of friends, family, feasting, and most of all, thanks for the Star of Bethlehem.
NOT on the road again…sorry, Willy N. image: http://www.3.bp.blogspot.com
The open road tends to beckon when twenty something. That yearning to travel starts young and bubbles up in the teens, often erupting into a boil up upon achieving graduation.
Where to go? Europe, Australia, explore the continental USA–all possibilities.
I was fortunate to travel to Europe when a mere 21, spending the entire summer in Bavaria visiting family, experiencing Deutschland like a native.
No, I did not go total native when visiting Bavaria
Even though I had family around, comforts, experiences, even fabulous doses of chocolate, I was incredibly homesick. Good thing I discovered early my penchant towards being a homebody. I have yet to renew my passport.
From time to time I do wonder what it would be like to see more sights than I have.
For instance, I recently attended a conference and inevitably we shared a bit about our lives. When I hear how some people have been all over the globe and they are barely dipping into their thirties, I reflect as to whether I’ve missed something. Part of me wonders what it would have been like to live in Paris, go to school in England, backpack in Europe, live in Melbourne. And then I drift away from the postcard daydreams and realize some are born to travel and some are born to stay home. Dorothy and I got that RubyRed Slipper thang down–we know there is no place like home *click click*
Because being ever so cool–I want those transporter powers of the Ruby Reds image: http://www.ladymirror.com
I derive great enjoyment and satisfaction from cozying up in my little house. Got my wood-stove for winter, hammock for summer, my recliner couch and remote control, my pillow top bed, choice of clothing, eats, whatever I need. Truly there is no place like home.
Sure it’s nice to get a change of scenery now and then. For instance, that conference I attended? What a tonic to meet new people, exchange new ideas, and explore new places. However, after the second day, I couldn’t wait to get back home. I will not be joining the corp of retired teachers of RVing around, skipping from one sunny spot to another. Okay, maybe taking off January and February is a possibility. Living in the land of snow and ice can’t always be remedied by the wood-stove and a stack of good books.
So, me, Dorothy, and Toto all agree that there are some mighty cool sights somewhere over the rainbow, but after it’s all said and done, there really is no place like home.
Aah–that cozy home feeling–nothing like it image: http://www.allthingschic.net
Mother’s Day has taken on new meaning having become an Empty Nester. The kiddos have flown the coop, starting their own lives, and while I’m still, and will always be their Mum, I don’t expect or need a big flautin’ tootin’ acknowledgement of being their mother. Thanks, but not needed, Hallmark. Another calendar guilt day. Whoa–wait–stop–I didn’t mean to go in this quasi-negative direction. Of course, getting a card or phone call or even flowers is sweet and appreciated, but everyday I’m reminded that it is so cool I’m a mom of three very lovely children who have become adult just that fast. The youngest turned 21 in March and the oldest will be turning the *yikes* 29 in June. How’d that happen? Wasn’t it moments ago I was telling them:
Now that they are adults, I find the following conversationals happening:
Yes, I notice they tend to be questions rather than statements? Why is that? Maybe it’s because I can’t really tell my kids to get a haircut, or that they should tidy up their apartment anymore. But I guess I do. *Sigh* I really can’t stop being a mother so easily. There is not switch off once the kinder become A-dults. That Mom drive just keeps going.
So, this post is dedicated to my children. You make Mother’s Day happen everyday–not only some designated May Sunday.
And this is why I wrote that essay that got in Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Multitasking Mom’s Survival Guide.
Now that you have all moved out and have your own lives I finally do have “A Little Piece of Quiet.”
Loves and Hugs, Mum
Image: Amazon Inspiration: My Very Own Progeny (psst…story #10)
Cover of November 6, 2006. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
A bit behind in getting out the best of the year posties, but my procrastination has a purpose: now it’s a reminder instead of a glut of wrap up info. Good old fashioned method-in-my-madness stuff going on here.
I am always curious as to what is popular in book reads. The New York Times is one popular measuring tool, and another one is Publisher’s Weekly. These are excerpts from their yearly best 20 books of the year. I found some head-scratching “Really, that was popular?” selections to “Well, that’s no surprise” entries. Here are some pull outs with their summaries. One thing I noticed is that I haven’t heard any of these titles. I’ve not even seen them on the new book offerings shelves at the library. Is this something I should be concerned about? Also, most of these titles are not very cheery, interesting, yes–cheery no. Somehow, I am not as concerned about that issue. After all, people tend to flock towards the sad and mad instead of the glad. Or is that just my view?
Add Norton Perina to the pantheon of literature’s best unreliable narrators. Perina is a scientist who, after graduating Harvard medical school in the 1940s, travels to a remote Pacific island chain where he may or may not have stumbled upon the key to immortality. The book is composed of his memoirs, which he is writing from prison in the U.S. after being convicted of a heinous crime. The truth behind Perina’s story is both riveting and chilling.
In this beautifully written, empathetic, and valuable addition to the history of the Harlem Renaissance, scholar Kaplan (Zora Neale Hurston: A Life in Letters) presents the untold story of six notable white women (including Fannie Hurst and Nancy Cunard, members of a larger group known collectively as “Miss Anne”) who embraced black culture—and life—in Harlem in the 1920s and ’30s, serving as hostesses, patrons, activists, comrades, lovers, writers, and editors.
On a small scale, Hill, a onetime banker and now a poet with six published books, has written a fragmented portrait of a man’s troubled childhood and lost adulthood—a spiritual biography that’s both tragic and comic, and provides moments of pure reading pleasure on every single page, not to mention a wallop of pathos. On a larger scale, it’s a moving and unforgettable novel.
DISCLAIMER: covers and summaries are from the Publisher Weekly site. For the entire tamale go to: 2013 Publisher’s Weekly List
A writer's journey as a reader
Pam Webb 