Tuesday, January 27, 2009
by Lewis Carroll
How doth the little crocodile
Improve his shining tail,
And pour the waters of the Nile
On every golden scale!
How cheerfully he seems to grin,
How neatly spreads his claws,
And welcomes little fishes in,
With gently smiling jaws!
Saturday, January 24, 2009
by Robert Bly
The grass is half-covered with snow.
It was the sort of snowfall that starts in late afternoon,
And now the little houses of the grass are growing
If I could reach down, near the earth,
I could take handfuls of darkness!
A darkness that was always there, which we never
As the snow grows heavier, the cornstalks fade farther
And the barn moves nearer to the house.
The barn moves all alone in the growing storm.
The barn is full of corn, and moving toward us now,
Like a hulk blown toward us in a storm at sea;
All the sailors on deck have been blind for many
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Driving home through a January squall,
I squint through the windshield at the highway.
In the passenger seat you snore lightly
as the car whooshes through
this thick, pallid curtain.
Then a tractor trailer’s beams
through the white
and I see
we could slip
the center line.
If we do,
please scatter our ashes
beneath a late spring–budding dogwood,
so we can look up
through the blooms
at every phase of the summer moon.
Or, if it is winter,
just go out
into a midmorning snowfall
and walk through the hush,
into the very bones of winter.
By the time we creep
trailer long behind us,
I get out of the car,
walk through the new snow,
catching dogwood petals.
(Note, photo actually of a star magnolia, but the image fits.)
Friday, January 16, 2009
(Thank you, Laura, for bringing this poem to my attention!)
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Friday, January 9, 2009
Retreat begins @ 4pm on Sunday and concludes after lunch Tuesday.
CHI RHO LODGE
FOWLER CAMP & RETREAT CENTER
Fowler has a unique stillness during the wintertime, which is known to refresh and revive the soul. We’ve found no better time for inspiration than to pack up in the dead of winter and head to the Adirondacks. Few artists like to force creativity, but we have found how essential it is to allow for creativity. Such times seldom come during the heat and hustle of our busy lives. This is a time to allow time for inspiration and creativity.
WHAT TO DO . . .
During these few days, you are welcome to stay where it’s warm and cozy or venture out into the cold. If you go out, you can take a walk in the woods or on a frozen lake, or light a fire in the fireplace at Lakeside Lodge or the Chapel. You’ll be encouraged to spend your free time absorbing and/or creating. Use the time to create by yourself, work with others, or just wander in search of inspiration. It’s all time well spent.
Taking the time for pause and/or silence is a key theme of these two days. The structure will be minimal, but we will begin each day with a short reflection from the scriptures to guide our time. The opening session after Sunday evening dinner will include a little music and story as well as an outline of the retreat and some suggestions for ways to use your time. We will leave Monday evening open for a time of coming together as a group to share our creations.
COST: $100 includes lodging & all meals (double occupancy)
Open to anyone who enjoys expressing themselves through art. Musicians, storytellers, dancers, writers, painters, sculptors, as well as art appreciators in any capacity are welcome.
Camp Fowler is located on Pelcher Rd., 2 miles West of Speculator, NY.
To register online... http://www.campfowler.org/
Crossing the Bar
~Alfred Lord TennysonSunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;
For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crossed the bar.
(Thanks to Laurie for reminding me of this poem.)
Asking for Directions
by Linda Gregg
riding on the train from Manhattan to Chicago
that last time we were together. I remember
looking out the window and praising the beauty
of the ordinary: the in-between places, the world
with its back turned to us, the small neglected
stations of our history. I slept across your
chest and stomach without asking permission
because they were the last hours. There was
a smell to the sheepskin lining of your new
Chinese vest that I didn't recognize. I felt
it deliberately. I woke early and asked you
to come with me for coffee. You said, sleep more,
and I said we only had one hour and you came.
We didn't say much after that. In the station,
you took your things and handed me the vest,
then left as we had planned. So you would have
ten minutes to meet your family and leave.
I stood by the seat dazed by exhaustion
and the absoluteness of the end, so still I was
aware of myself breathing. I put on the vest
and my coat, got my bag and, turning, saw you
through the dirty window standing outside looking
up at me. We looked at each other without any
expression at all. Invisible, unnoticed, still.
That moment is what I will tell of as proof
that you loved me permanently. After that I was
a woman alone carrying her bag, asking a worker
which direction to walk to find a taxi.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
than anything in the neighborhood except the stones.
Magnificent trees that toss their heads in the wind
like the spirited black horses of a troika. It's hard to
know what to do, tall dark trees on the south side of
the house, an unfortunate location, blocking the
winter sun. Dark and damp. Moss grows on the roof,
the porch timbers rot and surely the roots have
reached the old bluestone foundation. At night, in
the wind, a tree could stumble and fall killing us in
our beds. The needles fall year after year making an
acid soil where no grass grows. We rake the fallen
debris, nothing to be done, we stand around with
sticks in our hands. Wonderful trees.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Thursday, January 1, 2009
In the Produce Aisle
of the fresh berries,
in the pebbled skin
of an emerald lime,
in the bright colors
of things made
to be transitory,
you see the same
you find in your own
the lines fanned
around your eyes
your life like
all the other
your soft hand
the succulent apple,
you reach for it,