Poetry of the Week: Music as heartbeat

I've been blessed lately with a number of good friends who care passionately about music, and share that love and passion with the people around them. Many of them make music, some of them have studied it, but all feel in some way that music is life and magic, and listening to them talk about it and talk to each other about it has been a source of delight and comfort for me this year.

Music has always been important to my family and the people I love, but it's less intrinsic to me. I can't talk about it in quite the same way, but I'd like to give back some of my passion in return. So I set out looking for poems that felt similar to me. All different. Not all happy, not all hopeful, but all capturing moments of transcendence in that way that both poetry and music can. I'm fairly certain I could fill the month with poetry that meets that requirement, and I very well may, but for this week, at least, these are my offerings:


Latin & Soul - Victor Hernández Cruz

I Am In Need Of Music - Elizabeth Bishop

Trickster III - Kwame Dawes

Record - Katrina Vandenberg

Poetry of the Week: Philip Levine

Restarting our Wednesday tradition, I looked for a a poem suitable for either how difficult work has been lately, or how much I'm looking forward to this short vacation home to be with my family. What I found was Philip Levine, yet another poet I wish that I'd encountered years ago.

What Work Is
We stand in the rain in a long line
waiting at Ford Highland Park. For work.
You know what work is—if you’re
old enough to read this you know what
work is, although you may not do it.
Forget you. This is about waiting,
shifting from one foot to another.
Feeling the light rain falling like mist
into your hair, blurring your vision
until you think you see your own brother
ahead of you, maybe ten places.
You rub your glasses with your fingers,
and of course it’s someone else’s brother,
narrower across the shoulders than
yours but with the same sad slouch, the grin
that does not hide the stubbornness,
the sad refusal to give in to
rain, to the hours of wasted waiting,
to the knowledge that somewhere ahead
a man is waiting who will say, “No,
we’re not hiring today,” for any
reason he wants. You love your brother,
now suddenly you can hardly stand
the love flooding you for your brother,
who’s not beside you or behind or
ahead because he’s home trying to 
sleep off a miserable night shift
at Cadillac so he can get up
before noon to study his German.
Works eight hours a night so he can sing
Wagner, the opera you hate most,
the worst music ever invented.
How long has it been since you told him
you loved him, held his wide shoulders,
opened your eyes wide and said those words,
and maybe kissed his cheek? You’ve never
done something so simple, so obvious,
not because you’re too young or too dumb,
not because you’re jealous or even mean
or incapable of crying in
the presence of another man, no, 
just because you don’t know what work is.


Alone 
Sunset, and the olive grove flames
on the far hill. We descend
into the lunging shadows
of goat grass, and the air

deepens like smoke.
You were behind me, but when I turned
there was the wrangling of crows
and the long grass rising in the wind

and the swelling tips of grain
turning to water under a black sky.
All around me the thousand
small denials of the day

rose like insects to the flaming
of an old truth, someone alone
following a broken trail of stones
toward the deep and starless river.


Smoke
Can you imagine the air filled with smoke?
It was. The city was vanishing before noon
or was it earlier than that? I can't say because
the light came from nowhere and went nowhere.

This was years ago, before you were born, before
your parents met in a bus station downtown.
She'd come on Friday after work all the way
from Toledo, and he'd dressed in his only suit.

Back then we called this a date, some times
a blind date, though they'd written back and forth
for weeks. What actually took place is now lost.
It's become part of the mythology of a family,

the stories told by children around the dinner table.
No, they aren't dead, they're just treated that way,
as objects turned one way and then another
to catch the light, the light overflowing with smoke.

Go back to the beginning, you insist. Why
is the air filled with smoke? Simple. We had work.
Work was something that thrived on fire, that without
fire couldn't catch its breath or hang on for life.

We came out into the morning air, Bernie, Stash,
Williams, and I, it was late March, a new war
was starting up in Asia or closer to home,
one that meant to kill us, but for a moment

the air held still in the gray poplars and elms
undoing their branches. I understood the moon
for the very first time, why it came and went, why
it wasn't there that day to greet the four of us.

Before the bus came a small black bird settled
on the curb, fearless or hurt, and turned its beak up
as though questioning the day. "A baby crow,"
someone said. Your father knelt down on the wet cement,

his lunchbox balanced on one knee and stared quietly
for a long time. "A grackle far from home," he said.
One of the four of us mentioned tenderness,
a word I wasn't used to, so it wasn't me.

The bus must have arrived. I'm not there today.
The windows were soiled. We swayed this way and that
over the railroad tracks, across Woodward Avenue,
heading west, just like the sun, hidden in smoke.


Burial Rites 
Everyone comes back here to die
as I will soon. The place feels right
since it’s half dead to begin with.
Even on a rare morning of rain,
like this morning, with the low sky
hoarding its riches except for
a few mock tears, the hard ground
accepts nothing. Six years ago
I buried my mother’s ashes
beside a young lilac that’s now
taller than I, and stuck the stub
of a rosebush into her dirt,
where like everything else not
human it thrives. The small blossoms
never unfurl; whatever they know
they keep to themselves until
a morning rain or a night wind
pares the petals down to nothing.
Even the neighbor cat who shits
daily on the paths and then hides
deep in the jungle of the weeds
refuses to purr. Whatever’s here
is just here, and nowhere else,
so it’s right to end up beside
the woman who bore me, to shovel
into the dirt whatever’s left
and leave only a name for some-
one who wants it. Think of it,
my name, no longer a portion
of me, no longer inflated
or bruised, no longer stewing
in a rich compost of memory
or the simpler one of bone shards,
dirt, kitty litter, wood ashes,
the roots of the eucalyptus
I planted in ’73,
a tiny me taking nothing,
giving nothing, and free at last.

World Poetry Day 2018

Hello again.

I fell out of the world there, for a little while.

I'm not sure that I'm back, yet, but poetry always helps, and World Poetry Day feels like a good excuse to wake this blog up again.

So without further ado, some quiet spring poems, on this dreary, snowy day:

Things in a Spring Garden - Wang Wei
Trans. Chou Ping and Tony Barnstone

Last night's rain makes me sail in my wooden shoes.
I put on my shabby robe against the spring cold.
As I spade each open plot, white water spreads.
Red peach flowers protrude from the willow trees.
On the lawn I play chess, and by a small wood
dip out water with my pole and pail.
I could take a small deerskin table
and hide in the high grass of sunset.


In Perpetual Spring - Amy Gerstler
Gardens are also good places
to sulk. You pass beds of
spiky voodoo lilies   
and trip over the roots   
of a sweet gum tree,   
in search of medieval   
plants whose leaves,   
when they drop off   
turn into birds
if they fall on land,
and colored carp if they   
plop into water.

Suddenly the archetypal   
human desire for peace   
with every other species   
wells up in you. The lion   
and the lamb cuddling up. 
The snake and the snail, kissing.
Even the prick of the thistle,   
queen of the weeds, revives   
your secret belief
in perpetual spring,
your faith that for every hurt   
there is a leaf to cure it.


Spring Quiet - Christina Rossetti
Gone were but the Winter,
Come were but the Spring,
I would go to a covert
Where the birds sing;

Where in the whitethorn
Singeth a thrush,
And a robin sings
In the holly-bush.

Full of fresh scents
Are the budding boughs
Arching high over
A cool green house:

Full of sweet scents,
And whispering air
Which sayeth softly:
"We spread no snare;

"Here dwell in safety,
Here dwell alone,
With a clear stream
And a mossy stone.

"Here the sun shineth
Most shadily;
Here is heard an echo
Of the far sea,
Though far off it be." 

Do you have any poems that you would like to share?

Death and Life and Living

My father died a month ago.

I feel like this is all I've talked or written about since the sobbing, panicked phone call I received that night in August, and yet I haven't even scratched the surface of words and loss roiling inside my chest.

I'm not the first person to lose a parent. I'm not even the first of my friends to lose a parent suddenly and without warning. What could I say that would have any value, thrown out into the void of the internet?

I can't talk about what kind of person he was. I can't talk about what he meant to me. I'm not there yet. One day, maybe, I'll be able to look back and smile and talk about his influence, but for now the pain is too sharp, and I'm not brave enough.

But this much, at least, this much I can say: I never thought I was immortal, but I was never so paralyzed by human mortality as I am now. Sitting in the theater with dear friends, I hold my partner's hand and think about his funeral. I find myself cataloging the joys and habits my mother passed to me, wondering what will hurt me once she's gone. And in this era of hate crimes and irrational wars, I think about how few "one days" I have left. I'm mourning my father, and I'm trying and failing not to mourn everyone else I love and care about, myself included. My world hasn't ended, but it feels very much as though it has.

I can't live every day as though it's my last. If I thought this was my last night alive, I wouldn't be typing this. I wouldn't be logging on to work later tonight to finish up some tasks. I wouldn't bother exercising muscles that would go slack tomorrow. I would write, yes, but I wouldn't write stories. I would write about who I am and what I've lived through, I would write love letters to everyone who's ever cared about me. I would talk about my father, and how he told me to leave a legacy, and how there was no way I could ever leave one worthwhile enough. How I always knew I would die unfinished and unsatisfied, but that I thought I might have gotten a bit farther than I had. I would spill words onto the screen in a scarcely translated litany of "Remember me, remember me, KNOW me. Please." and it wouldn't be enough. I can't live every day as though it were my last because I'd spend every day writing my epitaph.

At this point, I see three paths forward, and every day I choose a different one. The wounded animal in me wants to mourn and cry and drink and sleep and reach out to touch my loved ones to convince myself that they're still there. And some days that's all I have energy for. To live with a minimum of pain. But I have responsibilities, and they have me dragging myself up and out to take care of my job, my house, my people. I package my pain and feelings up for as long as I can and take care of the mundanities of life. I could follow this second path forever, but then on the day death surprises me I wouldn't feel any more ready for it than I do now. The third path is to forget the possibility of death, but still celebrate life, and to rearrange my life in a way that builds the legacy I desire. My panicked mortality tells me that I need to do the last. It scrabbles and scratches and insists that every day spent at work and every evening spent mourning is my final wasted chance to live a worthwhile life. Yesterday I might have survived. Today I am doomed. And then my wounded animal heart shies away from these admonishments and begs another few hours to forget.

Everyone says it will get better. And I believe them. But I don't know how long I'll have for the grief to soften and the panic to fade. I don't know if I'll be allowed to forget how fragile we all are. And so on some days, I give myself the space to rest and heal and mourn, and on some days I put one foot in front of the other and take care of the boring but necessary tasks that keep my world turning. I've yet to find the strength to spend a day on the third path, but I've been spending moments and plans, carving out time from my future while hoping I make it long enough to reach those hours.

I wanted to publish something by the time I was 35, because I wanted to make sure my father was around to see the success of that goal. I wanted him to tell me that he was proud of me, and that I'd accomplished something worthwhile. I'm turning 30 in the spring. It wasn't soon enough.

It will never be enough, but I need to make sure it's something.

Long time no see, and thoughts on monsters

First off, hello! I hadn't forgotten this blog existed, but I'm going to have to rethink how I want to use it. I'm still likely to talk about tea and poetry most of the time, but for the moment don't expect anything regular or quite so structured. I'm at a point in life where I should start thinking about longer term plans and patterns. That doesn't mean that I'm actually going to, but in as much as I can use this blog for rough drafts and direction, I'll do so.

To that end, I'd like to pin some words down on the subject of horror and monsters, a subject near and dear to me that I always struggle to explain my full connection to. Fair warning, this is likely to wander about a great deal.

As early as I can remember, I've had a paired fascination with ghost stories and nightmares. My own dreams were and have ever been filled with monsters and the end of the world, but always in fantastical scenarios. Floods and zombies and serial killers, undead personally coming to the door of five year old me to murder me. And for all that these sound horrifying, they didn't scare me in the same way that more mundane dream scenarios have. They were still frightening, and I'd wake up with that heightened paranoia that makes me watch shadows at 3 a.m. to this day, but it's a different plane of fear, and thus, in a way, comforting.

As for ghost stories, they were my introduction both to formulaic story-telling and fear as entertainment. My close friends got into the habit of asking me to tell them ghost stories on long rides or sleep-overs, and I'd string together the necessary beats and imagery as I went, fascinated that the words I was making up off the top of my head could possibly be frightening. Obviously the blood and the mirrors and the ghosts weren't real,* so how could this be affecting them? And given how much they were enjoying it, how could I make it affect me? Could I convince myself to feel afraid, or did I need darker material to start with?**

It's probably also worth mentioning that I'm not entirely neurotypical. I've never had a formal diagnosis, but I went through most of my life a half-beat off from everyone else. I am very likely on the autistic spectrum. I don't process emotions the same way as most people, I certainly don't react to them in the same way, and as I grew up, most of my efforts were spent on understanding why I seemed to living in a parallel dimension from the people around me. Mostly I figured out how to fake the expected reactions and social scripts, but they never came naturally and never made sense. This will come up again later.

And so life went on and I grew up. The usual tragedies of childhood followed, as well as tragedies that shouldn't be normal. I graduated from books of ghost stories scavenged from the library to my older sister's Fear Street books, hungry for blood and phantasms, and grew a collection that eclipsed hers. I was never deeply into movies, but bored and alone over the summer I'd catch any bizarre horror movie that crossed my path. In middle school, I fell in love with the Count of Monte Cristo for an execution scene as much for the beautifully executed revenge plot. In high school I took a summer class on vampires in myth and literature and fully codified my love for Gothic fiction.

Throughout this all, I was a clearly labeled Weird Kid. "Gifted" teacher's pet, shy, but also widely referred to (affectionately) as evil by my family and friends. Teenagers always feel like outsiders, but the struggle of understanding basic social interactions combined with the knowledge that the stories and images that most pleased me were horrifying to the general public led to my feeling a great deal like a monster in a human suit. And some days that was (is, really) something I'm proud of, and some days (less of these now) there was this vast grief that I couldn't understand or become human. I was at points afraid that enjoying tales of fear and suffering meant that I was myself a bad or dangerous person. It sounds silly now, but I avoided certain martial arts and research options because I didn't want to risk it. (Knives are pretty, but maybe I shouldn't be allowed access to them because I think that. Fire is beautiful, but perhaps I would be unsafe?)

I'm not a teenager anymore, and I know all of that last is bullshit (and when said by others, was said in jest), but it stuck with me for years, and in the same way that I spent time building an artificial system for socializing once I realized mine was unexpectedly different from those around me, I devoted time to codifying my own internal morality, so that I could be certain that even if I was weird or different, I was at least comfortable that I was a good person.  Which I was, and am, but it will always be something I watch and try to improve.

So is it any wonder that I developed sympathy for monsters? I still love a good ghost story or slasher flick, but tales of monster protagonists choosing to do the right thing out of love or wonder, or reverting back to their base natures, or trying to find a balance...these are all near and dear to my heart. What is humanity and what is human? What do you do with the knowledge that the terrifying Other in the narrative is, in fact, you?

The undergraduate thesis that I devoted woefully little time to was specifically about the exploration of the relationship between Other and Self in Gothic literature, and the texts I looked into were all about blurring that line. Possession, doppelgangers, revealing the monster within.... It's a topic I'd like to revisit now that I have some distance, because I had no idea what to focus on or what I was looking for at the time. If I were to look at it again, I'd spend more time on Othered identities in society, which is clearly the key I was looking for and never quite managed.

What I didn't fully understand growing up was that I'm not just "weird," and I'm not alone. I'm neurodivergent, which is true of many people and means there are people out there who speak and understand the world the way I do, and I'm very queer. Both mean that there are vast sections of the country that think that I'm broken or damned or better off dead. (And if you don't think that's true, you haven't been paying much attention to the news this last year.) A significant chunk of the world has already decided that I'm Other and the monster of their story, and if that's the case, the idea of being scary instead of helpless becomes a power fantasy, and monsterhood becomes wish fulfillment.

I'm also fond of flipping the script, and rightfully calling out horror behind prevailing social norms. Because horror touches on who is and has a right to be human, and the inherent monstrousness of man. But if I go too much further down that path this will become a love letter to Get Out, and that deserves to be more than a post-script in a Sunday ramble.

So there. Some thoughts about monsters and what they mean to me. That's not everything I love about horror, or even everything that appeals to me about the topics mentioned here. And I haven't even gone into my love of ghost stories as healing narratives. But...let's leave it at that for now.


* The one and only ghost story that managed to get to me is Bloody Mary. It frustrated me to no end, because I knew better and none of the other bloody and horrific stories I was consuming even in elementary school ever stuck with me. But to this day I can't sleep if my image is being reflected in a mirror.
** I eventually discovered roller coasters and violent hobbies, and yes, adrenaline is indeed great.

Poetry of the Week: Edna St. Vincent Millay

Sunday night events conspired to set me researching a gap in my knowledge: for all my focus on Romanticism and the Gothic, I know very little about how these literary movements spread and changed in America. Honestly, I know very little about the American literary tradition to begin with. But I was specifically searching for my love, Gothic Romanticism, and so I skipped over the known quantity of Poe, disregarded the evolution of modern horror genres in America, and kept searching for a poet who evoked the qualities of mortality and transcendence I associate with my favorite poets and poems.

And I mostly drew a blank. I wasn't doing in depth research, to be fair, but the moment you search around for Gothic in America, you get less about Poe's poetry and more about Poe's prose. If you search for New England, you get history lessons in Weird Fiction (which I do enjoy, but was not my focus). And as is usually true, if you're doing an initial shallow pass, all the names graciously offered up to you are male, usually white.

Eventually I found Edna St. Vincent Millay. A name that sounded vaguely familiar, but ultimately not one I knew. She's a 20th century poet, and it might not be entirely fair or accurate to tie her to a literary tradition decades and an ocean away, but if you read "Renascence" below, you'll see why she echoes that to me. More importantly, however, she was an activist and from what little I've been able to dig into, a fascinating person. She won multiple awards for her poetry, including being the third woman to win the Pulitzer for same. She spoke out against injustices in her time, including some ways and instances that remind me of issues we're facing today.

I'd love to tell you more about her, but I haven't had the time to do more research. I fell asleep Sunday night wishing I could devote myself fully to researching philosophy and poetry and all the ways the writings of the past decades and centuries are still alarmingly relevant to our current struggles. This morning I woke up and looked at the ice slick sidewalks and grey-white sky and wanted nothing more than to sit down at my desk with a mug of tea and write New England horror stories. But Sunday night I prepared for Monday work and went to sleep, and today I sat down at a different desk and did the work that pays me.

I like my job. I enjoy my coworkers. I'm paid well. I have flexibility and interesting challenges. But at the end of the day I know that I'm choosing between the best version of myself and the version who can donate to help cover my friends' medical expenses. I will continue fighting for health care, food, and shelter for all. And to all of the people who say that with government assistance no one would work, I counter with a question: How many poets have we lost because they couldn't feed themselves? Or if art doesn't matter to you, how many brilliant, cancer-curing scientists had to sacrifice their chances at education to take care of their loved ones? How far could we have progressed as a culture and a species if so many weren't scrabbling simply to survive in a world of increasingly artificial scarcity? Why is it a bad thing that robots are taking over jobs and freeing up humans to focus on other concerns? In an ideal world, the one that we should be constantly striving toward, we should all be free to choose our own paths. But we're not there yet, and too many have been convinced that's not even worthwhile to work toward. I hope that changes.

I'll keep thinking about what that means for me, and giving you some of the fruits of my free time here. This year, that will mostly mean female American poets, because I'm upset to know so few.

But you came here for poetry, and so please enjoy:

Renascence
All I could see from where I stood
Was three long mountains and a wood;
I turned and looked another way,
And saw three islands in a bay.
So with my eyes I traced the line 
Of the horizon, thin and fine,
Straight around till I was come
Back to where I’d started from; 
And all I saw from where I stood
Was three long mountains and a wood.

Over these things I could not see;
These were the things that bounded me;
And I could touch them with my hand,
Almost, I thought, from where I stand.
And all at once things seemed so small
My breath came short, and scarce at all.

But, sure, the sky is big, I said;
Miles and miles above my head;
So here upon my back I’ll lie
And look my fill into the sky.
And so I looked, and, after all,
The sky was not so very tall.
The sky, I said, must somewhere stop,
And -- sure enough! -- I see the top! 
The sky, I thought, is not so grand;
I ‘most could touch it with my hand!
And reaching up my hand to try,
I screamed to feel it touch the sky.

I screamed, and -- lo! -- Infinity
Came down and settled over me;
Forced back my scream into my chest,
Bent back my arm upon my breast,
And, pressing of the Undefined
The definition on my mind,
Held up before my eyes a glass
Through which my shrinking sight did pass
Until it seemed I must behold
Immensity made manifold;
Whispered to me a word whose sound
Deafened the air for worlds around,
And brought unmuffled to my ears
The gossiping of friendly spheres,
The creaking of the tented sky,
The ticking of Eternity.

I saw and heard, and knew at last
The How and Why of all things, past,
And present, and forevermore.
The Universe, cleft to the core,
Lay open to my probing sense
That, sick’ning, I would fain pluck thence
But could not, -- nay! But needs must suck
At the great wound, and could not pluck
My lips away till I had drawn
All venom out. -- Ah, fearful pawn!
For my omniscience paid I toll
In infinite remorse of soul.

All sin was of my sinning, all
Atoning mine, and mine the gall
Of all regret. Mine was the weight 
Of every brooded wrong, the hate
That stood behind each envious thrust,
Mine every greed, mine every lust.

And all the while for every grief,
Each suffering, I craved relief
With individual desire, --
Craved all in vain! And felt fierce fire
About a thousand people crawl;
Perished with each, -- then mourned for all!

A man was starving in Capri;
He moved his eyes and looked at me;
I felt his gaze, I heard his moan,
And knew his hunger as my own.
I saw at sea a great fog bank
Between two ships that struck and sank;
A thousand screams the heavens smote;
And every scream tore through my throat.

No hurt I did not feel, no death
That was not mine; mine each last breath
That, crying, met an answering cry
From the compassion that was I.
All suffering mine, and mine its rod;
Mine, pity like the pity of God.

Ah, awful weight! Infinity
Pressed down upon the finite Me!
My anguished spirit, like a bird,
Beating against my lips I heard;
Yet lay the weight so close about
There was no room for it without.
And so beneath the weight lay I
And suffered death, but could not die.

Long had I lain thus, craving death,
When quietly the earth beneath
Gave way, and inch by inch, so great
At last had grown the crushing weight,
Into the earth I sank till I
Full six feet under ground did lie,
And sank no more, -- there is no weight
Can follow here, however great.
From off my breast I felt it roll,
And as it went my tortured soul
Burst forth and fled in such a gust
That all about me swirled the dust.

Deep in the earth I rested now;
Cool is its hand upon the brow
And soft its breast beneath the head
Of one who is so gladly dead.
And all at once, and over all
The pitying rain began to fall;
I lay and heard each pattering hoof
Upon my lowly, thatched roof,
And seemed to love the sound far more
Than ever I had done before.
For rain it hath a friendly sound
To one who’s six feet underground;
And scarce the friendly voice or face:
A grave is such a quiet place.

The rain, I said, is kind to come
And speak to me in my new home.
I would I were alive again
To kiss the fingers of the rain,
To drink into my eyes the shine
Of every slanting silver line,
To catch the freshened, fragrant breeze
From drenched and dripping apple-trees.
For soon the shower will be done,
And then the broad face of the sun
Will laugh above the rain-soaked earth
Until the world with answering mirth
Shakes joyously, and each round drop
Rolls, twinkling, from its grass-blade top.

How can I bear it; buried here,
While overhead the sky grows clear
And blue again after the storm?
O, multi-colored, multiform,
Beloved beauty over me,
That I shall never, never see
Again! Spring-silver, autumn-gold,
That I shall never more behold!
Sleeping your myriad magics through,
Close-sepulchred away from you!
O God, I cried, give me new birth,
And put me back upon the earth!
Upset each cloud’s gigantic gourd
And let the heavy rain, down-poured
In one big torrent, set me free,
Washing my grave away from me!

I ceased; and through the breathless hush
That answered me, the far-off rush
Of herald wings came whispering
Like music down the vibrant string
Of my ascending prayer, and -- crash!
Before the wild wind’s whistling lash
The startled storm-clouds reared on high
And plunged in terror down the sky,
And the big rain in one black wave
Fell from the sky and struck my grave.

I know not how such things can be;
I only know there came to me
A fragrance such as never clings
To aught save happy living things;
A sound as of some joyous elf
Singing sweet songs to please himself,
And, through and over everything,
A sense of glad awakening.
The grass, a-tiptoe at my ear,
Whispering to me I could hear;
I felt the rain’s cool finger-tips
Brushed tenderly across my lips,
Laid gently on my sealed sight,
And all at once the heavy night
Fell from my eyes and I could see, --
A drenched and dripping apple-tree,
A last long line of silver rain,
A sky grown clear and blue again.
And as I looked a quickening gust
Of wind blew up to me and thrust
Into my face a miracle
Of orchard-breath, and with the smell, --
I know not how such things can be! --
I breathed my soul back into me.

Ah! Up then from the ground sprang I
And hailed the earth with such a cry
As is not heard save from a man
Who has been dead, and lives again.
About the trees my arms I wound;

Like one gone mad I hugged the ground;
I raised my quivering arms on high;
I laughed and laughed into the sky,
Till at my throat a strangling sob
Caught fiercely, and a great heart-throb
Sent instant tears into my eyes;
O God, I cried, no dark disguise
Can e’er hereafter hide from me
Thy radiant identity!

Thou canst not move across the grass
But my quick eyes will see Thee pass,
Nor speak, however silently,
But my hushed voice will answer Thee.
I know the path that tells Thy way
Through the cool eve of every day;
God, I can push the grass apart
And lay my finger on Thy heart!

The world stands out on either side
No wider than the heart is wide;
Above the world is stretched the sky, --
No higher than the soul is high.
The heart can push the sea and land
Farther away on either hand;
The soul can split the sky in two,
And let the face of God shine through.
But East and West will pinch the heart
That can not keep them pushed apart;
And he whose soul is flat -- the sky
Will cave in on him by and by.

Tea Blends: Wizard and Moon Updates!

Scrolling through Adagio's catalog a couple of weeks ago, I found that they carry dried ginger! So I immediately purchased some, (along with a few other mix-ins), and went to revisit some of my ginger-based blends. The dried ginger is everything that I wanted it to be, and unsurprisingly superior to chopping up bits of candied ginger that you happen to have at home.

That said, the recipes require a little tweaking to handle the new ingredient:

Faithful of the Moon (Revised)
For every teaspoon of white tea,
 - 1/4 teaspoon lapsang souchong
 - 1/8 teaspoon of sage
 - 1/8 teaspoon ginger
 - a pinch of lavender (or better yet, jasmine)
Steep at ~180°F for four or five minutes.

The changes: The sharpness of the ginger means that it can be halved from the original recipe, and finally reaching something closer to the flavor profile I'd been aiming at means that the sage can take more of a center stage. The lavender, on the other hand, needs to be dialed back. I didn't have any jasmine on hand, unfortunately, but from the get go I wanted this to be a jasmine blend, since the dried flowers look like little moons, and with the new ginger/sage flavor I think the jasmine would finally work.

Wizards Tea (Revised)
For every teaspoon of breakfast blend (in this case, an Irish Breakfast tea),
 - 1/4 teaspoon lapsang souchong
 - 1/4 teaspoon whole peppercorns
 - 1/8 teaspoon candied ginger
 - 1/8 teaspoon of orange rind
 - a pinch of red pepper flakes
 - 1/4 stick of cinnamon
Steep at boiling for ~5 minutes.

The changes: Again, the dried ginger has a much stronger and sharper flavor than the candied, and should be halved in this recipe. Additionally, the change enhances the spiciness, so I recommend dialing back on the red pepper flakes.

I'm much happier with both of these blends now, and once I track down some jasmine I might mix up a larger batch of the Gibbous Moon blend to drink more regularly.

I make no promises regarding regularity of tea updates here in the future, but there are a few posts lingering on my queue of old, and I'm still making new blends off and on. I'm trying one out currently that's nothing to write home about and has no particular theme, but I'll see about sharing such thoughts here more often.

Poetry of the Week: Ending 2016 in Fire

Few of us have been fond of 2016. Mentioning the year itself has taken on a cursed quality in the media, in private conversations. Even foes on vehement sides of political divides can share sympathy about the past twelve months.

For myself, it's been a personally difficult year. I've attended two funerals, lost the last of my grandparents, said goodbye to a beloved pet of 14 years, dealt with various more complicated and personal issues, and I'm still not fully equipped to talk about how this last election has shaken me. Suffice to say that I came out under an administration that progressed human rights and made it feel like we were moving forward as a world and a community, and now people I know are getting targeted and harassed, and my existence is once again a matter of debate and public opinion.

But for the lowest of lows, there were also highs. I attended two funerals, but also two weddings. I spent time with friends I haven't seen in years, and strengthened friendships both new and old. There are people who rely on me, and people who will be there to support me when I need it. I don't mean to hide how terrible this year has been overall, but despite all of it, if I look back to December 29th, 2015, I felt lost and alone in ways that I don't any more. The world may not be in a better place now than it was then, but tired and bruised though I am, I'm better off.

So I'll accept the pains and trials and lessons of this year, and consign the rest to the fire. Fires of cleansing, of anger, of passion. Fires of trial. Fires of death and rebirth. Maybe 2017 won't be any better than 2016, but life and growth continue regardless, sometimes the stronger for having survived.


Fire and Ice - Robert Frost
Some say the world will end in fire, 
Some say in ice. 
From what I’ve tasted of desire 
I hold with those who favor fire. 
But if it had to perish twice, 
I think I know enough of hate 
To say that for destruction ice 
Is also great 
And would suffice.


Fire - Dorothea Mackellar
This life that we call our own
Is neither strong nor free;
A flame in the wind of death,
It trembles ceaselessly.

And this all we can do
To use our little light
Before, in the piercing wind,
It flickers into night:

To yield the heat of the flame,
To grudge not, but to give
Whatever we have of strength,
That one more flame may live.


You cannot put a fire out - Emily Dickinson
You cannot put a fire out;
  A thing that can ignite
Can go, itself, without a fan
  Upon the slowest night.

You cannot fold a flood       
  And put it in a drawer,—
Because the winds would find it out,
  And tell your cedar floor.


To Some I Have Talked With By The Fire - William Butler Yeats
While I wrought out these fitful Danaan rhymes,
My heart would brim with dreams about the times
When we bent down above the fading coals
And talked of the dark folk who live in souls
Of passionate men, like bats in the dead trees;
And of the wayward twilight companies
Who sigh with mingled sorrow and content,
Because their blossoming dreams have never bent
Under the fruit of evil and of good:
And of the embattled flaming multitude
Who rise, wing above wing, flame above flame,
And, like a storm, cry the Ineffable Name,
And with the clashing of their sword-blades make
A rapturous music, till the morning break
And the white hush end all but the loud beat
Of their long wings, the flash of their white feet.


Keep your lanterns burning and your hearths warm. I hope your winter is filled with folks who love you, and that you have a happy new year.

Poetry of the Week: Alone

As is becoming usual, this week's poem is not what I was looking for, but still feels sufficiently relevant to share.


Alone - Maya Angelou
Lying, thinking
Last night
How to find my soul a home
Where water is not thirsty
And bread loaf is not stone
I came up with one thing
And I don't believe I'm wrong
That nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

There are some millionaires
With money they can't use
Their wives run round like banshees
Their children sing the blues
They've got expensive doctors
To cure their hearts of stone.
But nobody
No, nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Now if you listen closely
I'll tell you what I know
Storm clouds are gathering
The wind is gonna blow
The race of man is suffering
And I can hear the moan,
'Cause nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Poetry of the Week: A Curse For A Nation

I'm pinning this poem here to remind me of its existence, and in the hope that it reminds me of goals I've had in the past and ways I'd like to help in the future.

Slightly unrelated, looking up poetry from and about early America has been fascinating. Much of the poetry I know and find is what was lauded and now survives. At some point next year I'll make a concerted effort to gather modern poetry.

A Curse For A Nation - Elizabeth Browning

I heard an angel speak last night,

And he said 'Write!

Write a Nation's curse for me,

And send it over the Western Sea.'

I faltered, taking up the word:

'Not so, my lord!

If curses must be, choose another

To send thy curse against my brother.

'For I am bound by gratitude,

By love and blood,

To brothers of mine across the sea,

Who stretch out kindly hands to me.'

'Therefore,' the voice said, 'shalt thou write

My curse to-night.

From the summits of love a curse is driven,

As lightning is from the tops of heaven.'

'Not so,' I answered. 'Evermore

My heart is sore

For my own land's sins: for little feet

Of children bleeding along the street:

'For parked-up honors that gainsay

The right of way:

For almsgiving through a door that is

Not open enough for two friends to kiss:

'For love of freedom which abates

Beyond the Straits:

For patriot virtue starved to vice on

Self-praise, self-interest, and suspicion:

'For an oligarchic parliament,

And bribes well-meant.

What curse to another land assign,

When heavy-souled for the sins of mine?'

'Therefore,' the voice said, 'shalt thou write

My curse to-night.

Because thou hast strength to see and hate

A foul thing done within thy gate.'

'Not so,' I answered once again.

'To curse, choose men.

For I, a woman, have only known

How the heart melts and the tears run down.'

'Therefore,' the voice said, 'shalt thou write

My curse to-night.

Some women weep and curse, I say

(And no one marvels), night and day.

'And thou shalt take their part to-night,

Weep and write.

A curse from the depths of womanhood

Is very salt, and bitter, and good.'

So thus I wrote, and mourned indeed,

What all may read.

And thus, as was enjoined on me,

I send it over the Western Sea.

The Curse

Because ye have broken your own chain

With the strain

Of brave men climbing a Nation's height,

Yet thence bear down with brand and thong

On souls of others, -- for this wrong

This is the curse. Write.

Because yourselves are standing straight

In the state

Of Freedom's foremost acolyte,

Yet keep calm footing all the time

On writhing bond-slaves, -- for this crime

This is the curse. Write.

Because ye prosper in God's name,

With a claim

To honor in the old world's sight,

Yet do the fiend's work perfectly

In strangling martyrs, -- for this lie

This is the curse. Write.

Ye shall watch while kings conspire

Round the people's smouldering fire,

And, warm for your part,

Shall never dare -- O shame!

To utter the thought into flame

Which burns at your heart.

This is the curse. Write.

Ye shall watch while nations strive

With the bloodhounds, die or survive,

Drop faint from their jaws,

Or throttle them backward to death;

And only under your breath

Shall favor the cause.

This is the curse. Write.

Ye shall watch while strong men draw

The nets of feudal law

To strangle the weak;

And, counting the sin for a sin,

Your soul shall be sadder within

Than the word ye shall speak.

This is the curse. Write.

When good men are praying erect

That Christ may avenge His elect

And deliver the earth,

The prayer in your ears, said low,

Shall sound like the tramp of a foe

That's driving you forth.

This is the curse. Write.

When wise men give you their praise,

They shall praise in the heat of the phrase,

As if carried too far.

When ye boast your own charters kept true,

Ye shall blush; for the thing which ye do

Derides what ye are.

This is the curse. Write.

When fools cast taunts at your gate,

Your scorn ye shall somewhat abate

As ye look o'er the wall;

For your conscience, tradition, and name

Explode with a deadlier blame

Than the worst of them all.

This is the curse. Write.

Go, wherever ill deeds shall be done,

Go, plant your flag in the sun

Beside the ill-doers!

And recoil from clenching the curse

Of God's witnessing Universe

With a curse of yours.

This is the curse. Write.  

Poetry of the Week: To My Enemy

This isn't exactly what I went looking for when I wanted poetry for this week, and isn't a sentiment I currently feel, but I think it has value and may speak to some of my friends and followers. Perhaps when I am through feeling small and fearful, I'll borrow some of Lucy Montgomery's defiance.



To My Enemy - Lucy Maud Montgomery
Let those who will of friendship sing,
And to its guerdon* grateful be,
But I a lyric garland bring
To crown thee, O, mine enemy! 

Thanks, endless thanks, to thee I owe
For that my lifelong journey through
Thine honest hate has done for me
What love perchance had failed to do. 

I had not scaled such weary heights
But that I held thy scorn in fear,
And never keenest lure might match
The subtle goading of thy sneer. 

Thine anger struck from me a fire
That purged all dull content away,
Our mortal strife to me has been
Unflagging spur from day to day. 

And thus, while all the world may laud
The gifts of love and loyalty,
I lay my meed of gratitude
Before thy feet, mine enemy!


* A reward or recompense.

Poetry of the Week: Let America Be America Again

I'm not doing well this week, between personal and familial tragedies and the tenor of the dialogue that's surrounded our recent election, but life has to continue, and at such times art becomes even more important. I've seen this classic poem shared in a few places this week, and I can't think of anything more fitting for the hopes and fears and raw emotions of the country right now.


Let America be America again - Langston Hughes
Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed--
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There's never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark? 
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek--
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one's own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean--
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home--
For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
To build a "homeland of the free."

The free?

Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we've dreamed
And all the songs we've sung
And all the hopes we've held
And all the flags we've hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay--
Except the dream that's almost dead today.

O, let America be America again--
The land that never has been yet--
And yet must be--the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME--
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose--
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!

O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath--
America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain--
All, all the stretch of these great green states--
And make America again! 

Poetry of the Week: Halloween

On the week of my favorite holiday, I asked around a few places to see what poems people associated with ghosts, ghouls, and goblins, that I hadn't already recommended here. A few old favorites popped up in the list, but also two I'd never read before! So I'm sharing those here, albeit a bit belatedly.

Her Kind - Anne Sexton

I have gone out, a possessed witch,

haunting the black air, braver at night;

dreaming evil, I have done my hitch

over the plain houses, light by light:

lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.

A woman like that is not a woman, quite.

I have been her kind.

I have found the warm caves in the woods,

filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,

closets, silks, innumerable goods;

fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves:

whining, rearranging the disaligned.

A woman like that is misunderstood.

I have been her kind.

I have ridden in your cart, driver,

waved my nude arms at villages going by,

learning the last bright routes, survivor

where your flames still bite my thigh

and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.

A woman like that is not ashamed to die.

I have been her kind.

Her Strong Enchantments Failing - A.E. Houseman

Her strong enchantments failing,

Her towers of fear in wreck,

Her limbecks dried of poisons

And the knife at her neck,

The Queen of air and darkness

Begins to shrill and cry,

“O young man, O my slayer,

To-morrow you shall die.”

O Queen of air and darkness,

I think ’tis truth you say,

And I shall die tomorrow;

But you will die to-day.

Poetry of the Week: e. e. cummings

It's been a while. I owe you a month of medieval poetry and a variety of posts about tea and books. I owe myself some time with a sword in hand, and I owe other folks a variety of thanks and obligations. But until then, some e. e. cummings:


[suppose]
suppose
Life is an old man carrying flowers on his head.

young death sits in a café
smiling,a piece of money held between
his thumb and first finger

(i say “will he buy flowers” to you
and “Death is young
life wears velour trousers
life totters,life has a beard” i

say to you who are silent.—”Do you see
Life?he is there and here,
or that, or this
or nothing or an old man 3 thirds
asleep,on his head
flowers,always crying
to nobody something about les
roses les bluets
                    yes,
                              will He buy?
Les belles bottes—oh hear
,pas chères”)

and my love slowly answered I think so.  But
I think I see someone else

there is a lady,whose name is Afterwards
she is sitting beside young death,is slender;
likes flowers.



[my mind is]
my mind is
a big hunk of irrevocable nothing which touch and
taste and smell and hearing and sight keep hitting and
chipping with sharp fatal tools
in an agony of sensual chisels i perform squirms of
chrome and execute strides of cobalt
nevertheless i
feel that i cleverly am being altered that i slightly am
becoming something a little different, in fact
myself
Hereupon helpless i utter lilac shrieks and scarlet
bellowings.



[a connotation of infinity]
a connotation of infinity
sharpens the temporal splendor of this night

when souls which have forgot frivolity
in lowliness,noting the fatal flight
of worlds whereto this earth’s a hurled dream

down eager avenues of lifelessness

consider for how much themselves shall gleam,
in the poised radiance of perpetualness.
When what’s in velvet beyond doomed thought

is like a woman amorous to be known;
and man,whose here is alway worse than naught,
feels the tremendous yonder for his own—

on such a night the sea through her blind miles

of crumbling silence seriously smiles



[the hours rise up putting off stars and it is]
the hours rise up putting off stars and it is
dawn
into the street of the sky light walks scattering poems

on earth a candle is
extinguished   the city
wakes
with a song upon her
mouth having death in her eyes

and it is dawn
the world
goes forth to murder dreams….

i see in the street where strong
men are digging bread
and i see the brutal faces of
people contented hideous hopeless cruel happy

and it is day,

in the mirror
i see a frail
man
dreaming
dreams
dreams in the mirror

and it
is dusk   on earth

a candle is lighted
and it is dark.
the people are in their houses
the frail man is in his bed
the city

sleeps with death upon her mouth having a song in her eyes
the hours descend,
putting on stars….

in the street of the sky night walks scattering poems

Poetry of the Week: Nothing is Lost

My Gothic spree and writing period has ended, to be replaced with a few weeks of medieval poetry, since I've been out camping with SCAdians. But first a poem more immediately relevant to my life.

Be well and safe, and tell your people you love them.

Nothing is Lost - Noël Coward
Deep in our sub-conscious, we are told
Lie all our memories, lie all the notes
Of all the music we have ever heard
And all the phrases those we loved have spoken,
Sorrows and losses time has since consoled,
Family jokes, out-moded anecdotes
Each sentimental souvenir and token
Everything seen, experienced, each word
Addressed to us in infancy, before
Before we could even know or understand
The implications of our wonderland.
There they all are, the legendary lies
The birthday treats, the sights, the sounds, the tears
Forgotten debris of forgotten years
Waiting to be recalled, waiting to rise
Before our world dissolves before our eyes
Waiting for some small, intimate reminder,
A word, a tune, a known familiar scent
An echo from the past when, innocent
We looked upon the present with delight
And doubted not the future would be kinder
And never knew the loneliness of night.

Poetry of the Week: Edgar Allen Poe

Swinging back to spooky this week with some classic Poe. "The Tell-Tale Heart" was my favorite short story in elementary school, and of course "The Raven" is one of the better known poems in the shivers-to-spines genre. I'll include it here for completeness, as well as a few lesser known hauntings.

The Haunted Palace

In the greenest of our valleys 

   By good angels tenanted, 

Once a fair and stately palace- 

   Radiant palace- reared its head. 

In the monarch Thought's dominion- 

   It stood there! 

Never seraph spread a pinion 

   Over fabric half so fair! 

Banners yellow, glorious, golden, 

   On its roof did float and flow, 

(This- all this- was in the olden 

   Time long ago,) 

And every gentle air that dallied, 

   In that sweet day, 

Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, 

   A winged odor went away. 

Wanderers in that happy valley, 

   Through two luminous windows, saw 

Spirits moving musically, 

   To a lute's well-tuned law, 

Round about a throne where, sitting 

   (Porphyrogene!) 

In state his glory well-befitting, 

   The ruler of the realm was seen. 

And all with pearl and ruby glowing 

   Was the fair palace door, 

Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing, 

   And sparkling evermore, 

A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty 

   Was but to sing, 

In voices of surpassing beauty, 

   The wit and wisdom of their king. 

But evil things, in robes of sorrow, 

   Assailed the monarch's high estate. 

(Ah, let us mourn!- for never morrow 

   Shall dawn upon him desolate!) 

And round about his home the glory 

   That blushed and bloomed, 

Is but a dim-remembered story 

   Of the old time entombed. 

And travellers, now, within that valley, 

   Through the red-litten windows see 

Vast forms, that move fantastically 

   To a discordant melody, 

While, like a ghastly rapid river, 

   Through the pale door 

A hideous throng rush out forever 

   And laugh- but smile no more. 

Spirits of the Dead

Thy soul shall find itself alone

'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone --

Not one, of all the crowd, to pry

Into thine hour of secrecy:

Be silent in that solitude

    Which is not loneliness -- for then

The spirits of the dead who stood

    In life before thee are again

In death around thee -- and their will

Shall then overshadow thee: be still.

For the night -- tho' clear -- shall frown --

And the stars shall look not down,

From their high thrones in the Heaven,

With light like Hope to mortals given --

But their red orbs, without beam,

To thy weariness shall seem

As a burning and a fever

Which would cling to thee for ever :

Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish --

Now are visions ne'er to vanish --

From thy spirit shall they pass

No more -- like dew-drop from the grass:

The breeze -- the breath of God -- is still --

And the mist upon the hill

Shadowy -- shadowy -- yet unbroken,

Is a symbol and a token --

How it hangs upon the trees,

A mystery of mysteries! --

The Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, 

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, 

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, 

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. 

"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door- 

                Only this, and nothing more." 

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, 

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. 

Eagerly I wished the morrow;- vainly I had sought to borrow 

From my books surcease of sorrow- sorrow for the lost Lenore- 

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore- 

                Nameless here for evermore. 

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain 

Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; 

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, 

"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door- 

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;- 

                This it is, and nothing more." 

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, 

"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; 

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, 

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, 

That I scarce was sure I heard you"- here I opened wide the door;- 

                Darkness there, and nothing more. 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, 

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; 

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, 

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?" 

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"- 

                Merely this, and nothing more. 

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, 

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. 

"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice: 

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore- 

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;- 

                'Tis the wind and nothing more!" 

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, 

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore; 

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; 

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door- 

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door- 

                Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, 

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore. 

"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven, 

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore- 

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" 

                Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, 

Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore; 

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being 

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door- 

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, 

                With such name as "Nevermore." 

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only 

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. 

Nothing further then he uttered- not a feather then he fluttered- 

Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before- 

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." 

                Then the bird said, "Nevermore." 

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, 

"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store, 

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster 

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore- 

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore 

                Of 'Never- nevermore'." 

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling, 

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door; 

Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking 

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore- 

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore 

                Meant in croaking "Nevermore." 

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing 

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; 

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining 

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, 

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er, 

                She shall press, ah, nevermore! 

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer 

Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. 

"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee- by these angels he hath sent thee 

Respite- respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore! 

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!" 

                Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! - 

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, 

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted- 

On this home by Horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore- 

Is there- is there balm in Gilead?- tell me- tell me, I implore!" 

                Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! 

By that Heaven that bends above us- by that God we both adore- 

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, 

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore- 

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." 

                Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting- 

"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! 

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! 

Leave my loneliness unbroken!- quit the bust above my door! 

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" 

                Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting 

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; 

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, 

And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; 

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor 

                Shall be lifted- nevermore! 

Poetry of (Last) Week: Wild Geese

I owe you a spooky and/or Gothic poem from last week, but work and life swamped me, so have an uplifting poem that crossed my path a few days ago, instead. We'll get back to ghosts and gloom on Wednesday.

Wild Geese by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting --

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

Tea Update: Hiatus Ending

My tea updates fell off the map, and I still owe you a Wonder blend for my Crossover LARP collection. The reason for that is that I ran out of both the bases for my Joy and Sorrow teas, and was putting off doing a full tea order until I did a full audit of my tea cabinet, which was a mess.

But a week ago I went through it, pulled out every last tin, jar, and bag, cataloged what was empty or mislabeled, and organized everything by type for future ease of reference. I now know that I am in fact out of lapsang, as I'd assumed, but I have significant quantities of mango and Earl Grey, and more plain white and yerba mate than I'd expected. I'll be putting together a tea order in the next few days, and then we should return to our regularly scheduled mucking about with mixes.

In the mean time, gaze upon my works, ye mighty, and despair (of my shaky photography skills)!

The top shelf is for blends of various complication, particularly if I can't name all the ingredients. Second shelf is blacks, including flavored blacks. Third shelf is mostly greens, but with whites, oolongs, and mates all huddled together on the left. Fourth shelf is herbals, and the last shelf is mix in ingredients and empty tins.  

Our previous organization system had more to do with container than tea type, which didn't work for me at all. This I expect to be far more maintainable, and way easier to experiment with when I don't have to dig through dozens of mystery canisters to find a good tisane for my caffeine free guests, or the particular type of green I think would taste good with whatever I'm trying that day.

Poetry of the Week: Blake, Hope, and Cynicism

William Blake is one of the strangest of the Romantics. He's most known for his Songs of Innocence and Experience, but within that set is more known for "Tyger, Tyger! Burning bright..." than the collection as a whole. (I don't know how often people read The Tyger's companion piece The Lamb in conjunction?) The theme of the collection is, as you'd expect, a series of poems and songs that are soft and loving and speak of faith and angels, paired with a series of songs and poems that portray violence, cruelty, poverty, and the harsher sides of human nature. I recommend reading it, and giving some thought to his pairings and the changes between the two, though I don't personally know how I feel about them.

If you keep digging into his poetry, though, it helps to spend time learning about the vast and elaborate mythology he set up, describing a series of god-like beings based around aspects of Man and the struggles and wars between them. That's a woefully inadequate description, and again I don't know how I feel about his choices here, but they're fascinating. And illustrated with his own etchings and engravings. Perhaps one day I'll cover them here.

But this is all wildly off topic, and Blake isn't a Gothic poet anyway, so why are we here? We're here because when I think of dark poetry contrasting despair of human nature with the sweetness of love, faith, or innocence, I do still tend to think of Blake.  So have some darkness, and unlike his organization, we'll end on some light.


The Clod and The Pebble
"Love seeketh not itself to please, 
Nor for itself hath any care, 
But for another gives its ease, 
And builds a Heaven in Hell's despair." 

So sung a little Clod of Clay 
Trodden with the cattle's feet, 
But a Pebble of the brook 
Warbled out these metres meet: 

"Love seeketh only self to please, 
To bind another to its delight, 
Joys in another's loss of ease, 
And builds a Hell in Heaven's despite." 


The Human Abstract
Pity would be no more,
If we did not make somebody Poor:
And Mercy no more could be,
If all were as happy as we;

And mutual fear brings peace;
Till the selfish loves increase.
Then Cruelty knits a snare,
And spreads his baits with care.

He sits down with holy fears,
And waters the ground with tears:
Then Humility takes its root
Underneath his foot.

Soon spreads the dismal shade
Of Mystery over his head;
And the Catterpillar and Fly,
Feed on the Mystery.

And it bears the fruit of Deceit,
Ruddy and sweet to eat;
And the Raven his nest has made
In its thickest shade.

The Gods of the earth and sea
Sought thro' Nature to find this Tree
But their search was all in vain:
There grows one in the Human Brain


On Another's Sorrow
Can I see another’s woe,
And not be in sorrow too?
Can I see another’s grief,
And not seek for kind relief?

Can I see a falling tear,        
And not feel my sorrow’s share?
Can a father see his child
Weep, nor be with sorrow fill’d?

Can a mother sit and hear
An infant groan, an infant fear?        
No, no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!

And can He who smiles on all
Hear the wren with sorrows small,
Hear the small bird’s grief and care,        
Hear the woes that infants bear,

And not sit beside the nest,
Pouring pity in their breast;
And not sit the cradle near,
Weeping tear on infant’s tear;        

And not sit both night and day,
Wiping all our tears away?
O, no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!

He doth give His joy to all;        
He becomes an infant small;
He becomes a man of woe;
He doth feel the sorrow too.

Think not thou canst sigh a sigh,
And thy Maker is not by;        
Think not thou canst weep a tear,
And thy Maker is not near.

O! He gives to us His joy
That our grief He may destroy;
Till our grief is fled and gone        
He doth sit by us and moan.



The Night
The sun descending in the west,  
  The evening star does shine;  
The birds are silent in their nest.  
  And I must seek for mine.  
    The moon, like a flower        
    In heaven's high bower,  
    With silent delight  
    Sits and smiles on the night.  

Farewell, green fields and happy grove,  
  Where flocks have took delight:  
Where lambs have nibbled, silent move  
  The feet of angels bright;  
    Unseen they pour blessing  
    And joy without ceasing  
    On each bud and blossom,  
    And each sleeping bosom.  

They look in every thoughtless nest  
  Where birds are cover'd warm;  
They visit caves of every beast,  
  To keep them all from harm:  
    If they see any weeping  
    That should have been sleeping,  
    They pour sleep on their head,  
    And sit down by their bed.  

When wolves and tigers howl for prey,  
  They pitying stand and weep,  
Seeking to drive their thirst away  
  And keep them from the sheep.  
    But, if they rush dreadful,
    The angels, most heedful,  
    Receive each mild spirit,  
    New worlds to inherit.  

And there the lion's ruddy eyes  
  Shall flow with tears of gold:  
And pitying the tender cries,  
  And walking round the fold:  
    Saying, 'Wrath, by His meekness,  
    And, by His health, sickness,  
    Are driven away  
    From our immortal day.  

'And now beside thee, bleating lamb,  
  I can lie down and sleep,  
Or think on Him who bore thy name,  
  Graze after thee, and weep.  
    For, wash'd in life's river,  
    My bright mane for ever  
    Shall shine like the gold  
    As I guard o'er the fold.'