Better! Thanks to Tuba Boy and Coleridge

I am feeling a bit better today, even after a trip to the dentist. I must have just had a case of the "nerves" or something. Tuba Boy was very sweet to me yesterday and said his girlfriend reminded him of me--I guess we both go whacky every so often. I told him how fascinating it was to me when I saw him starting to read books I read at his age, to get interested in topics that interested me, and well, reminding me a lot of myself at his age. He looked at me like I was SO silly, and said, "Well, what do you expect, Mom? You RAISED me, didn't you? Of course I'm like you!" I held my tongue as I thought of all the parents I know who wonder who the heck that kid they raised is, and how the heck they got that way.

Here's just an example. Last week, I think it was Thursday, we decided to all go out to dinner. We went to Chili's and had a most excellent time. Both boys were rather "up," probably from all those Love Hormones rushing through them, and chattered so long and hard during the meal that it's a wonder they ate. Afterward, they asked to go to Barnes and Noble. Well, who can turn down a child who wants a book? So, off we went. I got a knitting magazine, Lee got a Frank Zappa CD, Beccano got a guitar magazine, but Tuba Boy wanted a book of poetry. We'd had a long and deep discussion on poetry on the way to dinner--he was disgusted at a poem he'd read on a test, because all it's references were so superficial and not the fun, deep metaphors he prefers. We'd had quite the discussion on the merits of various poets you read in 12th grade. So, anyway, Tuba Boy had decided he liked Coleridge, and wanted to read more of his work. When we asked the lady at the kiosk where the poetry section was, she got that "OMG, a smart kid" look on her face, and took us WAY over to where they hide that stuff. There was not much of a selection, and only one giant illustrated Rime of the Ancient Mariner filed under "Coleridge." Tuba Boy was not pleased, but I pointed out some anthologies to him. Then I noticed that both of them were $56. Wow, those Norton Anthologies have gotten expensive in the last 30 years. At last, I saw it. A reasonably priced collection of Romantic poems, with a good selection of the stuff he wanted. Everyone left the store very pleased.

I have to tell you this. My very own offspring buying a poetry anthology because, "Mom, I think I really like poetry," makes me feel like the most successful parent in the world. I feel like I need to write High School Boyfriend a note and let him know that even though he never actually fathered a child, he sort of has a son. His legacy lives.

And really, between his love of Facebook Scrabble and this, all that financial aid form stress may well be worth it.

Beauty of Beauties

I got permission to share this poem, from an upcoming collection by John Berry, one of the wonderful poets at ye Olde Spiritual Community. My guess is it is both a tribute to his wife, who is fading from a debilitating disease, but whose spirit still shines, and to the dark goddess in us all. I thought it would balance yesterday's post:

---

Beauty of Beauties

She is the beauty of the breaking wave.
No longer slow, smooth swell of open sea,
nor first breaking at seamost sandbar,
She is the translucent shell, arching over,
white topped, on its final run to the beach.
It will collapse into a chaos of foam,
stirring the sand, and return to the sea.

She is the beauty of the falling leaves.
No longer single leaves shining red,
not a single tree gleaming gold,
She is myriad bright colors, hill upon hill,
trees of yellow and red, rich gold and piney green.
Singly and in masses, the leaves will fall,
mulching trees against cold, to return in Spring buds.

She is the beauty of the on-coming storm.
No longer is the sky blue, with white cloud-puffs,
nor adorned by veils of grey rain from dark, distant clouds.
She is the norther's fresh, spreading bruise,
rich purple-black to the horizon, dressed with lightning.
The storm will make floods fall, and night.
And, when it passes, sun, sky and clouds will be purified again.

She is the beauty of the ripening grain.
No longer simply stalks stretching for sun,
nor long-haired, empty ears swaying in the breeze.
She is the swelling kernels, golden ripe for harvest.
Threshed and winnowed, guarded in the grainery,
they, in the mill, become flour, added water and yeast make dough,
and, when well leavened, the oven bakes it to bread.

She is the beauty of beauties of every kind.
No longer the maiden standing on the silver crescent,
nor the love-and-battle muse of the golden-ripe moon, bulking the horizon.
She is the dark, comely dancer of the black sickle.
Day-birds will roost in eerie dusk and owls fly
in midday night when her absence steals the sun.
Yet all she swallows, she gives birth to, even herself.

Poem for Imbolc

Tina posted the link to this poem for St. Brighid on your blog celebration. What a sweet idea. thanks, Tina!

I am valiantly resisting posting a bad haiku "love poem fer Lee" I wrote to bug Work Boy #2 a couple of days ago.

So, because I have to go to a meeting ("mandatory") I will repeat my favorite love/linguistics poem, because it always gives me a little shiver:


since feeling is first
e.e. cummings

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
—the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

Solstice Greeting (a day early)

Cold as the northern winds
In December mornings,
Cold is the cry that rings
From this far distant shore.

Winter has come too late
Too close beside me.
How can I chase away
All these fears deep inside?

enya