charts, facts, figures

I'm teaching middle school science today, so I was Googling around and found this neat quasi-scientific poem. Excellent!

A Song of the Future by Sidney Lanier

Sail fast, sail fast,
Ark of my hopes, Ark of my dreams;
Sweep lordly o'er the drowned Past,
Fly glittering through the sun's strange beams;
Sail fast, sail fast.
Breaths of new buds from off some drying lea
With news about the Future scent the sea:
My brain is beating like the heart of Haste:
I'll loose me a bird upon this Present waste;
Go, trembling song,
And stay not long; oh, stay not long:
Thou'rt only a gray and sober dove,
But thine eye is faith and thy wing is love

The weather was horrendous earlier today, enough so that I only had one out of the four scheduled games for Chicks (with Lacrosse Sticks) so I got to spent time tidying my room and finally watching the DVD of season 1 CSI: NY. Aww, Eddie Cahill, you do puppy eyes so well. However, I wish you'd get a haircut. The episode where that happens will be so exciting.

This show depresses me a little (in the way that all the CSI: WHEREVER's do) because it could be smarter than it is, but sometimes it gives you all this neat information and fascinating characters and just doesn't tie up enough ends in a moment, or have people be all intense towards each other for no reason. For example, the episode I'm watching right now has a dead guy who was a gypsy cab driver. Danny and Aiden (who, ok, I like more as I watch her, makes me sad that Lindsey shows up) are having this whole spat about it, and I'm hoping that we'll actually get some kind of closure from it. Not holding my breath though. (Ok, Danny explained in this rushed end of episode way that felt like the writers went "oh, shit, we never explained that!")

Tangentially, I have noticed that Hulu has all of the show Life. Did anyone watch it? Is it any good? I am greatly intrigued, mostly because I enjoy Damien Lewis and crime shows.

I have now moved on to watching Sherlock Holmes again as background noise and amusement as I put together some banana bread. Yummmmmm. Though the rain is bad, ick.

Which is a nice segue to my poem of the day (er, for the month. poem of the day of the month? never mind), which is not a new one by any means, but mentions rain, which reminded me of it once again.


somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond by ee cummings

( somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond )

*

I made Alton Brown's banana bread and after taking FOREVER to bake (partially because I overfilled it, not quite sure what I added too much of... maybe my bananas were huge?) it is out and DELICIOUS. MMMMMM.

*

Had to edit to add on to this, because I'd already forgotten. I've been doing so much cooking and rambling about it that I keep thinking I should make a blog just for cooking, but I've been stumped on what to call it. Thoughts? There's always Flyakate Cooks (Flyacooks? Flyakooks? Oh dear...) All the good ones I've thought of (Starfish & Coffee, Stone Soup, The Night Kitchen) are all taken. Though "The Accidental Foodie" has promise...

Yikes, raining hard again. Clearly means it's bedtime :o)

I think this is so awesome (and such a twist on the idea of "bad") that I'm not cutting it. A poem for April by way of musesfool:

Bad Women by Janice Mirikitani
from San Francisco Women's Summit Speech, delivered on April 25, 2000

Bad women
know how to cook
create a miracle in a pot
make something out of chicken feet, pigs feet, cornmeal,
hogmaw, fisheads, fatback, ribs, roots, soy or red beans
Bad women overcome homelessness, violence, addiction and self hate.
Bad women march for equality
education, jobs, childcare, universal health care,
affirmative action and choice.
Bad women flaunt themselves
plump as mangos, skinny as tallow
tall, short
dark as plums and coffee
light as cream and butter
gold as sun on lemons, red as cinnamon
brown as kola.
Bad women don't get old, they get full
full flavored like aged wine
full as harvest's vine
seasoned.
Bad women celebrate themselves,
fingerpopping, hipshaking, big laughed, wisemouthed
hefty thighed, smart thinking women
hatwearing, soft syllabled, eyelash fluttering
tangerine lipstick queens,
small and big breasted
fat kneed, skinny ankled women
who dance without warning
wrap their men or their women around their waist
and dance to the edge of dawn.
Bad women know how to stir
their tears in pots of compassion
add some hot sauce, wasabe, five spices, jalapenos
the salt of memory
stoke the fire of history
simmer in resilience
make it taste like home.

Bad women can burn.

*

It's nicely reminiscent of the "badass women of fandom" from the One Girl Revolution vid.

Popping on to post another poem for April! I'm a huge fan of Whitman... I remember reading "Song of Myself" in both high school and college and loving it both times. Don't even get me started on With Honors, where a young Brendan Frasier learns all about life (and some poetry) with the help of Joe Pesci and a young Patrick Dempsey. Gosh, I watched the heck out of that movie when I was younger.

There Was a Child Went Forth by Walt Whitman

( There was a child went forth every day )

I thought of this yesterday and almost forgot to post it. Not the most uplifting poem ever, to be sure. Sorry? It was a rainy rainy Sunday (and I watched Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law fight and BFF their way through Guy Ritchie's London and it was glorious) which makes this appropriate.

I first heard "Funeral Blues" in the movie Four Weddings and a Funeral (which I enjoy, despite all the problematic storytelling and plot devices, but whatever) and was immediately struck by how perfectly it used mundane things to describe grief. Also, it's gorgeously heartbreaking in this scene (Matthew was always my favorite). Putting the poem behind the cut; you can skip if you want (would hate for sharing a poem become triggery for anyone) but I thought I should share it anyway.

( Funeral Blues by WH Auden )

Might have more important things to say later, but first, another poem for April! I've always loved this poem. It will be a picture book; here is Gaiman reading it himself.

Instructions by Neil Gaiman

Touch the wooden gate in the wall you never
saw before.
Say "please" before you open the latch,
go through,
walk down the path.
A red metal imp hangs from the green-painted
front door,
as a knocker,
do not touch it; it will bite your fingers.
Walk through the house. Take nothing. Eat
nothing.
However, if any creature tells you that it hungers,
feed it.
If it tells you that it is dirty,
clean it.
If it cries to you that it hurts,
if you can,
ease its pain.

From the back garden you will be able to see the
wild wood.
The deep well you walk past leads to Winter's
realm;
there is another land at the bottom of it.
If you turn around here,
you can walk back, safely;
you will lose no face. I will think no less of you.

Once through the garden you will be in the
wood.
The trees are old. Eyes peer from the under-
growth.
Beneath a twisted oak sits an old woman. She
may ask for something;
give it to her. She
will point the way to the castle.
Inside it are three princesses.
Do not trust the youngest. Walk on.
In the clearing beyond the castle the twelve
months sit about a fire,
warming their feet, exchanging tales.
They may do favors for you, if you are polite.
You may pick strawberries in December's frost.
Trust the wolves, but do not tell them where
you are going.
The river can be crossed by the ferry. The ferry-
man will take you.
(The answer to his question is this:
If he hands the oar to his passenger, he will be free to
leave the boat.
Only tell him this from a safe distance.)

If an eagle gives you a feather, keep it safe.
Remember: that giants sleep too soundly; that
witches are often betrayed by their appetites;
dragons have one soft spot, somewhere, always;
hearts can be well-hidden,
and you betray them with your tongue.

Do not be jealous of your sister.
Know that diamonds and roses
are as uncomfortable when they tumble from
one's lips as toads and frogs:
colder, too, and sharper, and they cut.

Remember your name.
Do not lose hope — what you seek will be found.
Trust ghosts. Trust those that you have helped
to help you in their turn.
Trust dreams.
Trust your heart, and trust your story.
When you come back, return the way you came.
Favors will be returned, debts will be repaid.
Do not forget your manners.
Do not look back.
Ride the wise eagle (you shall not fall).
Ride the silver fish (you will not drown).
Ride the grey wolf (hold tightly to his fur).

There is a worm at the heart of the tower; that is
why it will not stand.

When you reach the little house, the place your
journey started,
you will recognize it, although it will seem
much smaller than you remember.
Walk up the path, and through the garden gate
you never saw before but once.
And then go home. Or make a home.
And rest.

I guess the late night always prompts meditation or a need for deep thinking, because I want to share two poems with you by a woman named Oriah Mountain Dreamer (a name which even she herself admits sounds a little New Age-y and flaky, though it is her "real" name, though not by birth).

The Invitation (1999)

It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for
and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon...
I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened by life’s betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us
to be careful
to be realistic
to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
“Yes.”

It doesn’t interest me
to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like the company you keep
in the empty moments.

---

The Dance (2001)

I have sent you my invitation,
the note inscribed on the palm of my hand by the fire of living.
Don’t jump up and shout, “Yes, this is what I want! Let’s do it!”
Just stand up quietly and dance with me.

Show me how you follow your deepest desires,
spiraling down into the ache within the ache,
and I will show you how I reach inward and open outward
to feel the kiss of the Mystery, sweet lips on my own, every day.

Don’t tell me you want to hold the whole world in your heart.
Show me how you turn away from making another wrong without abandoning yourself when you are hurt and afraid of being unloved.

Tell me a story of who you are,
and see who I am in the stories I live.
And together we will remember that each of us always has a choice.

Don’t tell me how wonderful things will be . . . some day.
Show me you can risk being completely at peace,
truly okay with the way things are right now in this moment,
and again in the next and the next and the next. . .

I have heard enough warrior stories of heroic daring.
Tell me how you crumble when you hit the wall,
the place you cannot go beyond by the strength of your own will.
What carries you to the other side of that wall, to the fragile beauty of your own humanness?

And after we have shown each other how we have set and kept the clear, healthy boundaries that help us live side by side with each other, let us risk remembering that we never stop silently loving
those we once loved out loud.

Take me to the places on the earth that teach you how to dance,
the places where you can risk letting the world break your heart.
And I will take you to the places where the earth beneath my feet and the stars overhead make my heart whole again and again.

Show me how you take care of business
without letting business determine who you are.
When the children are fed but still the voices within and around us shout that soul’s desires have too high a price,
let us remind each other that it is never about the money.

Show me how you offer to your people and the world
the stories and the songs
you want our children’s children to remember.
And I will show you how I struggle not to change the world,
but to love it.

Sit beside me in long moments of shared solitude,
knowing both our absolute aloneness and our undeniable belonging.
Dance with me in the silence and in the sound of small daily words,
holding neither against me at the end of the day.

And when the sound of all the declarations of our sincerest
intentions has died away on the wind,
dance with me in the infinite pause before the next great inhale
of the breath that is breathing us all into being,
not filling the emptiness from the outside or from within.

Don’t say, “Yes!”
Just take my hand and dance with me.

---

I like this, because it shows that things are hard, and they aren't perfect and sometimes you just keep going. Which I realize makes it sound like I'm in the midst of some existential crisis, which is so not the case: I'm pretty happy on the whole (though wholly unemployed except for the part-time sporadic substitute teaching thing, which is mildly distressing) and looking forward to a trip past east soon so that I can see my friends (though not as much or as soon as I'd like, thus is the nature of living on the "other" coast from most of them).

But I was Brave and Adventurous and went for a long walk and poked my head into at least three bookstores, perused several menus of restaurants, made friends with a bookstore-cat* and saw at least three groups of amazingly decked out drag queens. So sometimes it's hard, but sometimes things are awesome :o)



*Apparently the cat's name is Owen. He was nice and soft and let me pet him, but the good news is that my cat (Pete the awesome) still loves me. Loves me so much that he curled up on me this morning and made me sleep another hour more. Tragedy, wasn't it? ;o)

A poem for Poetry Month which I saw on musesfool's journal and seems very John and Rodney-ish in my Elementary!verse AU or (especially) winkingstar's excellent idea about John the English major and Rodney the science geek share library carrel space and flirt with each other in adorable ways. For the boys, it would of course work best without all references to "she" and "her", but such is life.

The Astronomer and the Poet

( Somtimes it is impossible to know how things work. )

*

My life is kind of a stressful mess at the moment, but we'll get there. Also, just noticed that we still had the BBC, so I got to catch the end of old episode of "Torchwood" and sheesh, John Barrowman is pretty. Of course, he can be pretty silly, too. But hot like a hot thing. Especially his real accent (this is from a miniseries type thing where he explore the idea of what makes him gay and goes home to talk to his parents and this part especially is kind of adorable).

To conclude: Mmm, John Barrowman.

It wouldn't fit, but the subject line is a quote from Bill Cosby :o)

Another Silverstein because winkingstar reminded me! Also, because this reminds me of every kid when I substitute teach, who are mysteriously felled by bizarre ailments (my tongue itches! my elbow hurts!) right after recess.

Sick - Shel Silverstein

"I cannot go to school today,"
Said little Peggy Ann McKay.
"I have the measles and the mumps,
A gash, a rash and purple bumps.
My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,
I'm going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I've counted sixteen chicken pox
And there's one more--that's seventeen,
And don't you think my face looks green?
My leg is cut--my eyes are blue--
It might be instamatic flu.
I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,
I'm sure that my left leg is broke--
My hip hurts when I move my chin,
My belly button's caving in,
My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained,
My 'pendix pains each time it rains.
My nose is cold, my toes are numb.
I have a sliver in my thumb.
My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,
I hardly whisper when I speak.
My tongue is filling up my mouth,
I think my hair is falling out.
My elbow's bent, my spine ain't straight,
My temperature is one-o-eight.
My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,
There is a hole inside my ear.
I have a hangnail, and my heart is--what?
What's that? What's that you say?
You say today is. . .Saturday?
G'bye, I'm going out to play!"

*

Oh, kids. And, in equally exciting news, Younger Sister (and perhaps Roommate) and I are going to spend the night at our aunt and uncle's to greatly shorten the Monday morning commute. Woohoo! Off to find the travel case for my new (metaphorically) sparkly electric toothbrush. And, you know, pants.

Because it is April (and still barely April 1st, here), I give you an interesting poem in honor of Poetry Month.

*

I Have Endured Much to Reach This Place - Ray Bradbury

I have endured much to reach this place in time
Yet I have not been sick, nor mad,
Nor ruined in a wreck.
And yet I feel I have.
There is a thing in me, the walls of cells are thin,
My veins are glass, my heart the merest whim
Of beat and pause and beat,
Deaths in the street are mine. I would not have it so.
I know much more than I would want to know.
The breakfast headlines tell me of a war,
I know they die out there; put down my spoon.
Men land on the moon tonight, I know their joy,
The boy in me goes with them as they tread
Far overhead on dust world beyond reach
They teach my tired blood to love again.
There's rain in downtown Peru tonight,
I wash my face in it. In Indo China, one more massacre,
I run a race in it and lose.
You see?
I cannot choose to be or not to be.

*

A line of it turned into the title of my Yuletide story about Will and Jim from Something Wicked This Way Comes, appropriately: Beat, Pause, and Beat. I love the way that Bradbury makes a picture with words.

Night all!