Mixed Moss

Textbook of a Tortured Mind

Today I found an old workbook of mine, which I hadn't looked at in a while. The insane scribblings contained therein had something of a The Fall of the House of Usher vibe, so needless to say I was pouring over it in grim fascination when Mom found me.

Mom: (peering over my shoulder) Is that poetry I see in your geometry book, Allie?

Me: No, it's an opening sentence for a story. Looks like I was going through an Edgar Allan Poe phase. (reading aloud) "I know nothing except the near-heaven of the past, the probable hell of the future, and the stifling purgatory of the present, from which I write this narrative."

Mom: Wow, that does sound like you during geometry.

Me: Oh, and look, (pointing down the page) it's a drawing of a bunny. Clearly I was shifting wildly on the emotional scale.

A few words about Ophelia and Cathy

Bleh, here I haven't posted in months and now I'm back just to write another pointless literary observation that's too long for FaceBook and GoodReads. But there's another purpose to this post: it's for my fellow tragic Shakespeare heroine, my friend Hannah. (Pay her blog a visit now, it's awesome and it updates way more frequently than mine.) Hannah is playing Ophelia in Hamlet, and of course, the best speech in the whole play is the one where Ophelia walks in with flowers in her hands, insane and beautiful:

OPHELIA: There's rosemary, that's for remembrance, pray, love, remember: and there is pansies, that's for thoughts...There's fennel for you, and columbines: there's rue for you; and here's some for me: we may call it herb-grace o' Sundays: O you must wear your rue with a difference. There's a daisy; I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died: they say he made a good end...

The other day I was reading Wuthering Heights, and after Cathy, who grew up on the moor, goes similarly mad (for similar reasons), she starts pulling the feathers out of a pillow:

"That's a turkey's," she murmured to herself; "and this is a wild duck's, and this is a pigeon's. Ah, they put pigeons' feathers in the pillows--no wonder I couldn't die! Let me take care to throw it on the floor when I lie down. And here is a moor-cock's; and this--I should know it among a thousand--it's a lapwing's. Bonny bird; wheeling over our heads in the middle of the moor. It wanted to get to its nest, for the clouds had touched the swells, and it felt rain coming. This feather was picked up from the heath, the bird was not shot; we saw its nest in the winter, full of little skeletons. Heathcliff set a trap over it, and the old ones dare not come. I made him promise he'd never shoot a lapwing after that, and he didn't..."

Insane minds think alike, methinks. Either that or Cathy is a total Ophelia wannabe. ^_^ (Seriously, there's no way that the feather speech wasn't inspired by the flower speech. Back when Wuthering Heights was written, everybody read Shakespeare.)

Ah, Sisterly Love...

This is not to be missed.
(Thanks for the reference, Theresa/Peggy!)

Cat Club Poetry

In Jenny and the Cat Club, there is a little "song" that the cats sing when looking for Jenny:

Meow and a purr! We want her!
Jenny! Jenny! Jenny!

I expanded on this poem just for the fun of it. (By the way, in the book a man gets sick of the purring cats and dumps water on them from an upstairs window, which explains the little joke at the end.):

Meow and a purr! We want her!
Jenny! Jenny! Jenny!
We'e looked in the larder, we've searched on the shelf
Jenny is hiding in spite of herself.
She wishes to join us but she is too shy
She sits at the window and sees us go by.

Meow and a purr! We want her!
Jenny! Jenny! Jenny!
Mr. President leads us, The Duke's at the back--
Have you seen a cat who is tiny and black
With yellowish eyes and a little red shawl?
We've called her by name, but she won't come at all.

Meow and a purr! We want her!
Jenny! Jenny! Jenny!
If we had the power we'd tear down her house--
But let's not give up hope, we will find her here yet--
We'll search and we'll call and we'll--Outoftheway!
That man's got a bucket, he'll get us all--
(You can probably guess the last word, but they never said it because they were to busy scurrying home to dry their dripping fur.) ;-)

Update: I'm on page 157 of Moonrise by Erin Hunter. The cat fever continues!

Poetry Friday--Hail Mary: Gentle Woman

Many of you may have heard this beautiful poem sung as a hymn:

Hail Mary, full of grace
The Lord is with you
Blessed are you among woman
And blessed is the fruit of your womb
Jesus

You were chosen by the Father
You were chosen for the Son
You were chosen from all women
For all woman, shining one

Blessed are you among woman
Blessed in turn all women too
Blessed they with peaceful spirits
Blessed they with gentle hearts

Gentle woman, quiet light
Morning star so strong and bright
Gentle mother, peaceful dove
Teach us wisdom, teach us love.
--Carey Laundry

First Fib

A fib is a poetry format that has been going around the blogs lately. Fib is short for Fibonacci, and it is made with fibonacci numbers:

First line: 1 syllable
Second line: 1 syllable
Third line: 2 syllables
Fourth line: 3 syllables
Fifth line: 5 syllables
Sixth line: 8 syllables

There are, altogether, 20 syllables in a fib. Today I tried my pen at a fib for the first time:

Cur-
ling
Spiral-
ing circling
Seashell that goes on
And on, forever and a day

Hmm, that was fun! I think I'm already hooked...

Poetry Friday--Where I'm From

Just thought I'd take the oppurtunity to share these great "Where I'm From" poems. If you like, click here to read mine.

MaryBeth's Poem
I am from reams of paper, Little House books, Hanna Andersson to match Katie, and ballet slippers.

I am from the big, brick house that smells like lavender and ginger. I am from warm colors on the walls, a flowered canopy hanging above my bed, and balls in the house even though they’re “not allowed.”

I am from the tulips, the basil, the parsley, the flat backyard with soccer goals.

I am from singing Christmas carols to awaken Mommy and Daddy on Christmas morning and cooking Italian meals. I am from Lisettes and Elizabeths and Michaels and Patricks.

I am from kids who play soccer before they can walk and who love to draw. I’m from tickle jail and butterfly kisses. I’m from sister handshakes and “matching-so cool!”

I’m from “Be ladylike” and from “Have fun.”

I am from being Catholic, bedtime prayers, Tomie de Paola, everybody’s icons, front door crucifixes, holy water fonts, feast days and family rosaries. I’m from a devotion to the Little Flower and John Paul the Great.

I'm from Fairfax, Virginia and Italy and Norway and Scotland and Poland, from basil and garlic and bringing Daddy breakfast-in-bed.

I am from crying when Nicky was a boy and getting roses when Katie was a girl and dancing with Michael in that itchy dress at Jimmy's and Michele’s wedding.

I am from Mommy’s camera and blogging. I’m from the hope chest filled with baptism candles, a ribbon bouquet from Mommy’s wedding rehearsal, broken boards from Tae Kwon Do, old pictures of Mommy wearing a wig to cover her baldness, pictures of babies that all look so much alike it’s hard to know who is who.

I am from playing dolls with my sister, listening to pots and pans being cleaned while I fall asleep, reading chapter books until I can’t keep my eyes open, school baskets, nature study, the Montessori shelves, and watching Katie and Gracie grow.

I am from home.

Jane's Poem
I am from paper, from Prismacolor, and clay.

I am from the bonny glen.
Rolling, friendly, it sounds like mockingbirds.

I am from the chicory, the lavender smell.
I am from planning birthday menus
and blond hair and blue eyes,
from Rose and Beanie and Rilla, my sisters.

I am from after-dinner-sing-alongs
and mealtime-read-alouds.
From "Practice your piano"
and "For every problem there is a solution."

I am from Catholicism,
my reflection in the mirror in my dress for church.
I'm from Manhattan, the Bronx and the deep South,
Daddy's waffles and circle pizzas.

From the bunny bowling set,
Rose's "Bunny won't catch cabbage,"
from when Wonderboy signed "I love you"
through the glass at The Little Gym,
and the swimming lessons Daddy gives us.

I am from my bookshelf, the loom room,
Mom-and-Dad's dresser,
on Mom-and-Dad's bed, where I knocked Rose's loose tooth out,
and all the wonderful nooks-and-crannies here.

If anyone else has a poem they would like to share, please let me know! MaryBeth has the template at her blog, Here in the Beehive.

Where I'm From

Well, at long last my "Where I'm From" poem is complete. I went through several drafts, and here is my final result:

I am from the Linden House, from Hershey bars and Egg-Land's Best.
I am from the sprawling fields and the cottage I call home...
The steadfast lamp-post and the sound of whistling wind within the pines,
The smell of night that sets the stars in an endless sapphire dome.

I am from the Rhododendron and the rough-edged dandelion,
I am from the barbecues and babies every year
From Neil and Alice (all of them) and Gunthers with O'Briens,
I am from the "Living Books" and Little Flowers here.

From: "Someday, pick a man like Dad" and parents who would never fight
I am from the Catholic church, the Easter Vigil masses.
(The "Exsulset" and "Lauda Sion" stun me with their glory,
I've heard them many times, and yet their beauty never passes.)

I'm from the Empire State, from Ireland and Germany's Black Forest,
Dad's eggs and tacos that it isn't Saturday without;
The murderous maneater lurking in the depths of Matawan Creek
(My grand-uncle nearly became his prey, but my great-grandfather heard his cry
and rescued him--his shirt became a compress for his wound.)

My grandfather whose marble grave is weighted down with stones
And photographs in Ziplock bags--the warm smile of my mother.
I am from the photo albums and from all our online "Blogs"
And all the places where we've been together with each other.

The pond where the blackbird's crimson wings flash in the evening light
And the goblin-like catfish come to eat from our hands
The candlelit procession through the streets on Mary's night
The turf near the 'Thunderpath' and the docks by the Crystal Beach

The bungalow in Barryville, the pageants at St. Paul's,
But mostly there's the Linden House, the place that I call home,
For I feel we've been there always, just my family and me,
And I'll return there when I have a family of my own.

It was a lot of work, but a lot of fun to write...I think that next time I will do a 'fib': one of those Fibbonacci poems that the moms have been talking about.

Eagons and Warriors

on When We Were very Young.

Illyssa of the Bluebirds

This poem was inspired by the huge field belonging to the neighbors behind us. When I look there, it feels like looking into another world. Illyssa is a form of the name "Alice" that I found on a baby names website. The Linden House is a nickname for my house, as you probably know. The Bluebird title was inspired by the neighbor's bluebird boxes. Like "Illyssa of the Bluebirds" I sometimes long to go adventuring. Someday I'll write a book about her. Anyway, I'm straying off the point. Here goes:

I know I've almost split my chains
And sowed the earth with their remains
So, dreaming of the things that might befall me

I feel like I'm already free
And steeped in song and mystery
"Illyssa of the Bluebirds" they would call me.

But as I turn my head to find
I've left the stretch of trees behind
The winding road a mantle of the same,

The other forest in my sight
Its brilliance like a siren song
A voice inside me calls, or shrieks, my name.

My home's got boundaries, it's true,
But there is beauty in it, too
My family tree has roots as thick as boulders

The Linden House seems almost wise
The grounds are ancient as the skies
But there is something there that never moulders.

I love it with my life--and yet
I'm bound to get the wanderlust.
But just when I imagine I am loose

It makes no difference how I race
The hounds of home are giving chase
I try to call them off, but it's no use.

I might be freer than the wind
But to my native ground I'm pinned
It is the only place for which I care--

But someday, when you pass the place
Where purple clover showes its face
You'll find "Illyssa of the Bluebirds" there.