kcobweb: (Mommy & the EK)
I heard this poem on Writer's Almanac (NPR) today, and I had to sit in the car in the parking lot to hear the end, and it made me tear up a lot. Even though I have a non-hypothetical daughter. I dunno why. But I share it here:

by Meg Kearney

I have a ticket in my pocket that will take me from Lynchburg
to New York in nine hours, from the Blue Ridge to Stuy Town,

from blue jays wrangling over sunflower seeds to my alarm
clock and startled pigeons. If I had a daughter I'd take her

with me. She'd sit by the window wearing the blue dress
with the stars and sickle moons, counting houses and cemeteries,

watching the knotted rope of fence posts slip by while I sat
beside her pretending to read, but unable to stop studying

her in disbelief. Her name would tell her that she's beautiful.
Belle. Or something strong, biblical. Sarah. She would tolerate

the blue jay and weep for the pigeon; she would have all the music
she wanted and always the seat by the window. If I had a daughter

she would know who her father is and he would be home writing letters
or playing the banjo, waiting for us, and I would be her mother.

We'd have a dog, a mutt, a stray we took in from the rain one night
in November, the only stray we ever had to take in, one night in our

cabin in the Catskills. It would be impossibly simple: two train tickets;
a man, a dog, waiting; and a girl with her nose pressed to the window.
kcobweb: (reader)
Cleaning out underneath my desk, I found the following written on a piece of paper:

Given this strip of earth - given mere love
should we not be happy?
but happiness comes and goes as it comes and goes

--Contradictions: Tracking Poems
Adrienne Rich
kcobweb: (Default)
So, I realize that most of you are not being inundated with Lewis and Clark stuff, as we are in the states that were most affected. Our paper prints an excerpt every day of what was written 200 years ago. And today's entry really caught my eye, for the way it talks about something you never hear about otherwise:

journal text )

I'm just amazed - that someone wrote about these things in 1804 in journals destined for public consumption, and that they so openly used the Indian women as commodities for trade (though granted, in the whites' eyes, they weren't quite human, so that makes it okay).
kcobweb: (Default)
O Star (the fairest one in sight),
We grant your loftiness the right
To some obscurity of cloud-
It will not do to say of night,
Since dark is what brings out your light.
Some mystery becomes the proud.
But to the wholly taciturn
In your reserve is not allowed.
Say something to us we can learn
By heart and when alone repeat.
Say something! And it says, 'I burn.'
But say with what degree of heat.
Talk Fahrenheit, talk Centigrade.
Use Language we can comprehend.
Tell us what elements you blend.
It gives us strangely little aid,
But does tell something in the end
And steadfast as Keats' Eremite,
Not even stooping from its sphere,
It asks a little of us here.
It asks of us a certain height,
So when at times the mob is swayed
To carry praise or blame too far,
We may choose something like a star
To stay our minds on and be staid.

--Robert Frost


kcobweb: (Default)

April 2017



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