Water is Taught by Thirst (a Poem in My Pocket)

Water, is taught by thirst.

Land -- by the Oceans passed.

Transport -- by throe --

Peace -- by its battles told --

Love, by Memorial Mold --

Birds, by the Snow.

    --Emily Dickinson

don't forget to carry a poem with you on Thursday, April 30th! And if you feel like it, stop back again and tell me which poem you carried, I'd love to know.

Vernal Equinox: I Will Show You Fear in a Handful of Dust

Spring today.  Although I love spring, all I can think about is this poem, "The Waste Land," and the first section. I think I'll just revel a little in my cloud of black gloom and existential angst.

You can read and if you like, go listen to Eliot himself reading in his evil little voice--but trust me, it grows on you:

T.S. Eliot reading "The Burial of the Dead"


I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD


April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the archduke's,
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
Frisch weht der Wind
Der Heimat zu.
Mein Irisch Kind,
Wo weilest du?
'You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
'They called me the hyacinth girl.'
—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Od' und leer das Meer.






photo from Flickr Creative Commons, by Two Stout Monks

Daddy: October 1943- January 2005

Empty-handed I entered the world
Barefoot I leave it.
My coming, my going—
Two simple happenings
That got entangled.

(Ichikyo, written on the morning of his death, 1360)

My Secret Book

I'm so thankful for my book. I've been working on her for awhile now, off and on, and she gives me only the greatest joy. Even when I'm not writing at the moment, the characters are living inside me, and sometimes I feel giddy when I think of them. I really, really like this book. She's the very embodiment of hope, a tingling feeling of excitement that makes life worth living. Seriously, I'm not kidding. Actually, Book, I must confess...I think that I've fallen a little in love with you:

"How can I explain how I feel?
I'm like a little kid running at her heel
She's giving me looks like she thinks I'm a snappy dresser
How can I tell what I should plan?
I've never kissed a girl or held her hand
She's waiting for me to move, I've got to impress her"

I hope I can impress you, Book.

Dad: October 7 1943-January 17 2005

Full fathom five thy father lies;

Of his bones are coral made;

Those are pearls that were his eyes,  

Nothing of him that doth fade

But doth suffer a sea change

Into something rich and strange.

Sea nymphs hourly ring his knell:

Hark! I hear them--ding-dong bell.