Fat Tuesday

My freshman year of college we were trying to decide what to do for spring break.  My friend pointed out that it just happened to fall on the week of Mardi Gras.  We were at school in Memphis:  what if- and she was just throwing this out there- what if we drove down to New Orleans to see what it's all about?  It's about an eight hour drive.  So we did it, the two of us and another friend.

To this day I have no idea how we got a room at the last minute in the center of town.  We could walk to Bourbon Street and see all the festivities.  This was pre-Katrina.  There were random parades happening all the time.  It's all kind of a blur to me, not because I was wasted the whole time but because there was so much going on.  I wish I could go back now and do it over because for some reason we were eating at places like the Hard Rock Cafe and not really taking advantage of the culture down there.  Everywhere there was music.  The whole city was one big party.

There was this one store we went into that had a song playing that I loved immediately.  It was what could only be described as zydecajun music.  This was around the time of the dawn of Napster.  As soon as we got back to school, I tried to find this song and download it.  Unfortunately, it was nowhere to be found.  It has haunted me for years, and sometimes I wonder if the internet had been too young or if I just didn't have enough information to find it.  Guess the only thing to do is to take another trip to New Orleans and retrace my steps, hoping that that same store is there, still playing that same old CD.

Slim Greer in Hell 

by Sterling A. Brown

I
 
Slim Greer went to heaven;
St. Peter said, "Slim,
You been a right good boy."
An' he winked at him.

"You been travelin' rascal
In yo'day.
You kin roam once mo';
Den you come to stay.

"Put dese wings on yo' shoulders,
An' save yo' feet."
Slim grin, and he speak up,
"Thankye, Pete."

Den Peter say, "Go
To Hell an' see,
All dat is doing, and
Report to me.

"Be sure to remember
How everything go."
Slim say, "I be seein' yuh
On de late watch, bo."

Slim got to cavortin'
Swell as you choose,
Like Lindy in de Spirit
Of St. Louis Blues.

He flew an' he flew,
Till at last he hit
A hangar wid de sign readin'
DIS IS IT.

Den he parked his wings,
An' strolled aroun',
Gittin' used to his feet
On de solid ground.

II

Big bloodhound came aroarin'
Like Niagry Falls,
Sicked on by white devils
In overhalls.

Now Slim warn't scared
Cross my heart, it's a fac',
An de dog went on a bayin'
Some po' devil's track.

Den Slim saw a mansion
An' walked right in;
De Devil looked up
Wid a sickly grin.

"Suttingly didn't look
Fo' you, Mr. Greer,
How it happens you comes
To visit here?"

Slim say---"Oh, jes' thought
I'd drop by a spell."
"Feel at home, seh, an' here's
De keys to hell."

Den he took Slim around
An' showed him people
Rasin' hell as high as
De first Church Steeple.

Lots of folks fightin'
At de roulette wheel,
Like old Rampart Street,
Or leastwise Beale.

Showed him bawdy houses
An' cabarets,
Slim thought of New Orleans
An' Memphis days.

Each devil was busy
Wid a devlish broad,
An' Slim cried, "Lawdy,
Lawd, Lawd, Lawd."

Took him in a room
Where Slim see
De preacher wid a brownskin
On each knee.

Showed him giant stills,
Going everywhere,
Wid a passel of devils
Stretched dead drunk there.

Den he took him to de furnace
Dat some devils was firing,
Hot as Hell, an' Slim start
A mean presspirin'.

White devils with pitchforks
Threw black devils on,
Slim thought he'd better
Be gittin' along.

An' he says---"Dis makes
Me think of home---
Vicksburg, Little Rock, Jackson,
Waco and Rome."

Den de devil gave Slim
De big Ha-Ha;
An' turned into a cracker,
Wid a sheriff's star.

Slim ran fo' his wings,
Lit out from de groun'
Hauled it back to St. Peter,
Safety boun'.

III

St. Peter said, "Well,
You got back quick.
How's de devil? An' what's
His latest trick?"

An' Slim Say, "Peter,
I really cain't tell,
The place was Dixie
That I took for hell."

Then Peter say, "you must
Be crazy, I vow,
Where'n hell dja think Hell was,
Anyhow?

"Git on back to de yearth,
Cause I got de fear,
You'se a leetle too dumb,
Fo' to stay up here. . ."

Valentine's Day: brought to you by angst

The Look

Strephon kissed me in the spring,
Robin in the fall,
But Colin only looked at me
And never kissed at all.

Strephon's kiss was lost in jest,
Robin's lost in play,
But the kiss in Colin's eyes
Haunts me night and day.

-Sara Teasdale
(yet another poet who killed herself)

I'm a little worried that I mentioned babies so much, but then again I also mentioned cheese.

What a jam-packed weekend that was!  I'm still in the process of recovering, as is my roommate's car after I accidentally hit it Friday night.  No damage done, although for a second I thought I hit it hard enough to make the trunk pop open (I didn't).  Sorry, Omi.  That's what happens after a wild and crazy game of Wits 'n Wagers.  Have you ever heard of this game?  It's Trivial Pursuit meets gambling.  Everyone writes down their answers to a question and then we put the answers on a board with the odds laid out on them (3-1, 2-1, etc.) and then you place chips on the answer you think is correct, even if it's not your own.  I'm pretty terrible at it.  The questions are all something like, "What's the average amount of pizza slices American children eat in a year?" One of my friends actually wrote down the exact number, but failed to bet on her answer.  It's 46, in case you were wondering.

Saturday I went to help out at my church's ladies' Valentine's tea.  I'll admit I was kind of more excited about all the food we were preparing than the tea itself, but the actual event turned out to be so fun.  There were all these older ladies recounting the travels of their youth.  Many of them had been flight attendants for TWA and had some great stories.  The woman who was hosting the party is 90 years old!  She was sharp as a tack.  She told us about the history of her beautiful home, which she has lived in since 1958.  She and her husband made plans to build the house, but he was called up to fight in Korea (after already serving in WWII!).  So she built the house while he was gone and also gave birth to his son in the meantime.  Her husband returned 13 months later to a new house and a new baby.  What an awesome lady. 

And yesterday of course was the Superbowl.  I was a lone Steelers fan in a room full of Cheeseheads, which made things pretty exciting.  I mean, we're talking people who actually import cheddar from Wisconsin for events such as this.  I'm not really a diehard Steelers fan at all, but since my grandma the avid sports watcher had me following their run-up to the Superbowl, I figured I should go with them.  Ah well, it was a great game. What wasn't great?  Those stupid talking babies commercials.  When will they end that campaign?  I am seriously creeped out by them, but I guess I'm in the minority.  It's just me and Lindsay Lohan hating on the E-Trade babies.

Fifteen, Maybe Sixteen Things to Worry About

My pants could maybe fall down when I dive off the diving board.
My nose could maybe keep growing and never quit.
Miss Brearly could ask me to spell words like stomach and special.
(Stumick and speshul?)
I could play tag all day and always be "it."
Jay Spievack, who's fourteen feet tall, could want to fight me.
My mom and my dad--like Ted's--could want a divorce.
Miss Brearly could ask me a question about Afghanistan.
(Who's Afghanistan?)
Somebody maybe could make me ride a horse.
My mother could maybe decide that I needed more liver.
My dad could decide that I needed less TV.
Miss Brearly could say that I have to write script and stop printing.
(I'm better at printing.)
Chris could decide to stop being friends with me.

The world could maybe come to an end on next Tuesday.
The ceiling could maybe come crashing on my head.
I maybe could run out of things for me to worry about.
And then I'd have to do my homework instead.

-Judith Viorst

Finally, the internets!

I almost hugged the Time Warner man as he came through the gate this morning.  Not only was he well within the four-hour window, but he hooked us up with the strongest signal in the whole building.  And on top of that, he left his cell phone number in case someone else moves in and steals away our prime cable spot when they hook up their internet/cable.  Bless you, Manuel.

In other news, my friend Todd gave me a shout-out on his brand spankin' new blog, so I thought I'd return the favor.  He does something similar to what I do with poetry, except with music lyrics.  Let's give him a little traffic: go here.

So, happy new year, everyone.  It's a time for new resolutions, but I seem to spend more time trying to keep things the same as they've always been rather than to embrace something new.  Maybe that should be my resolution, to be more open to change. Because damned if change doesn't find me no matter how cleverly I think I elude it.

Dialect of a Skirt

The young girl wanted a new voice. After all, people got
new things every day. A new hip, a new nose, a new set
of suspenders. She adored the consonants that landed
like wooden shoes. She loved the type of L-sounds
that made a mouth drool from the back of the tongue
to the front. She practiced her new voice into seashells,
tin cans, caves. She gave her first performance quietly,
into the ear of her sleeping dog. She could tell by his snorting
that his dreams were of fat tree trunks and black, truffle-filled
soil. Later, she drove to the local gas station and used her new
voice to ask for a pack of cigarettes. She wasn't wearing a bra,
but the attendant didn't notice. He was too busy listening
to the way sound seemed to drip out of her mouth
as she said the word, Camel.

- Erika Miriam Fabri

Tradition or laziness?

Ever notice how advertisers get a little lax around the holidays and rerun the same ads year after year?  I can think of three commercials off the top of my head that have been repeated for maybe five to ten years.  Penny pinching?  Do they think if they play them enough it's tradition?  Are these really classics and I'm just a Scrooge?  You decide.

Exhibit A, the fainting M&M:



Exhibit B, the carol of the kisses:



And finally, this kid must be in college by now:



Winter-Time

Late lies the wintry sun a-bed,
A frosty, fiery sleepy-head;
Blinks but an hour or two; and then,
A blood-red orange, sets again.

Before the stars have left the skies,
At morning in the dark I rise;
And shivering in my nakedness,
By the cold candle, bathe and dress.

Close by the jolly fire I sit
To warm my frozen bones a bit;
Or with a reindeer-sled, explore
The colder countries round the door.

When to go out, my nurse doth wrap
Me in my comforter and cap;
The cold wind burns my face, and blows
Its frosty pepper up my nose.

Black are my steps on silver sod;
Thick blows my frosty breath abroad;
And tree and house, and hill and lake,
Are frosted like a wedding-cake.

- Robert Louis Stevenson

Transplant gangs are sooo 2004.

I was going to introduce this next installment a la Masterpiece Theater, but then I got sidetracked reading an article about former M.T. host Alistair Cooke.  The poor guy died back in 2004, and before he was cremated his body parts were chopped up and sold for profit by "rogue morticians."  Geez.  Sounds like the plot to a CSI episode.  So I guess this is more in the vein of Halloween than Christmas, but The Brute continues nonetheless:

The Brute bolted up, blinking. The sun had gone black. No one knew the reason. There was no great crack, no explosions, no fizzle, no fireworks shot. Simply what once was there happened now to be not. The world grew quite cold. People huddled together. The Brute stood alone while they debated the weather. As the children’s teeth chattered, their breaths froze in the air. But what The Brute saw was strange. All the words remained there.

Good words and bad words and gossip and jokes. The words tumbled out of their mouths as they spoke. They floated up to the trees, took a perch, looked around. Their movements were graceful. They made not a sound. Rude words cracked open, flashed their innards and leered. Some jokes came out moldy. One or two had on beards. A “thank you” dropped lightly. It curtsied and bowed.  Gossip tended to slither and leap bough to bough.

The Brute wondered if this was something he should mention, for none of his classmates was paying attention. They were all playing tag with the flashlights they’d found. A boy in his haste knocked The Brute to the ground.

“Idiot,” The Brute snarled, “I’m standing right here.”

The sentence took off like a shot at his peer. The words chugged along like a train on a track from The Brute’s mouth to boy’s head in two seconds flat.

There was howling. It seemed like the boy had been stung. The Brute watched it all happen. He knew what he’d done. He had not raised a hand, but the fact remained true: his words were what bruised the poor boy black and blue.

Questions popped up, hopping this way and that. Through the crowd they scurried. They darted like rats. One circled The Brute, sniffed his ear hole and hair. He swatted it off with a series of swears. The swears formed in a cyclone of prickles tiny as peas. They swirled and they roiled. They exploded like bees.

Only one target was set in their sights. The Brute’s eyes grew wide. He prepared to take flight. But from every direction the prickles advanced. They flew up his nostrils. They prickled his pants.

The Brute sneezed and swatted at what no one could see. The children all stared, some were grinning with glee. Their bully was making a fool of himself. The children all whispered, “Look at the elf!”

Their giggles erupted while The Brute tore at his clothes. They mocked as he picked prickles out of his nose. The words soared above them. They pointed and dived. They crystalled like ice and sharpened like knives.

The Brute raised his head up, eyes tearing in pain.   But then his eyes narrowed:

“So you want to play games.”

The Brute

Last year for Christmas I was flat broke and couldn't even begin to imagine how to afford presents for everyone.  I racked my brain and finally decided that since I had been working on a children's story, it might be fun to turn it into a book.  I asked a friend of mine to do the illustrations so that I could put it together and give it as a gift to my family.

The story is about a pint-sized bully who watches the mean words he says come to life and physically hurt people.  When I wrote it, it first came out as a poem.  Later I restructured it into more of a manuscript format, but I kept the rhyme.  I think it makes it less scary for little kids.

Sometimes it's good to change things up a bit, so this week in honor of the holiday season I decided to post an excerpt of The Brute here each day.  Illustrations by the fabulous Angela Springer.

The Brute

The Brute was a bully who stood up to his name. He stood only three feet but there was something untamed in the way that he spoke and how he made people feel. He chewed them up, spit them out, everyone was a meal.

He tormented his classmates with bellows and booms. He snuck up behind them, crouching in rooms. And the boys and girls trembled for they knew what came next. Each word The Brute spoke took the shape of a hex.

Susan ran crying when he said her thighs thundered. He called Walter four-eyes and laughed at his blunders.

Poor Josie’s arm hairs were thick like a sweater. The Brute even told Evan that Clare liked Jake better. The Brute had no friends so the words lifted his spirits. The meaner he was the less he had to hear it from anyone who had the gumption to tease or turn up their noses or tickle his knees. So he went alone to recess each day, scanning the yard for the weak and the strays.

Now one afternoon played out a fine scene. The Brute’s lunch had settled. He was full of baked beans. The sun was half-hidden, clouds lined up for miles. A chill thinned the air, his lips curled to a smile.

“Play time,” called The Brute. “Who wants to play?”

But nobody answered. They all ran away, except for one girl who sat alone on a swing. She had headphones on. She had started to sing. In no time at all The Brute closed on his prey. He crept up behind her. Too late she yelped, “Hey!”

He took her music. She took it right back. They squared off with each other. He prepared his attack:

“You sound like a sick cow. You’re hurting my ears.”

Bull’s-eye for The Brute. The words brought her to tears. But the girl was not finished. She knew what to do.

“Miss Wilson!” she cried, and between each boo hoo she told the teacher The Brute’s terrible words.

“That’s it!” said Miss Wilson. “I can’t believe what I’ve heard. You won’t have any friends if you keep up this way,”

The teacher warned The Brute, “You’ll regret this one day.”

Instead The Brute sneered and made public a vow:  “I’d rather be alone. I don’t care anyhow.”

She marched The Brute to a bench. On the sidelines he sat. He curled his hands into fists. On the bench he lay flat. He glared up at the sky and swore things dark as night until it suddenly seemed someone turned out the light.

That little horse is so darn cute.

Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening

-Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

This poem always evokes images of the holiday season for me.  It brings to mind the frantic planning, the travel, the shopping and just general noise of the outside world.  Of course none of that is in the actual words Frost wrote, but we sense it because the woods are so quiet in the snow, the horse's harness bells ring out.  There's a special kind of quiet when the world is covered in snow, isn't there?  It's almost like everything is padded in a sound-proof room.

This traveler is expected someplace, yet he wants to linger.  Maybe he has to visit his in-laws and he wishes he could stay in the woods forever.  When I read this poem it feels like taking a deep, calming breath.  Next time I am standing in the security line at LAX, I'll think of it and try to forget the "miles to go before I sleep."

Happy Thanksgiving and safe travels.

Does anyone ever say "no" when asked if they like music?

I am a sucker for strangers suddenly becoming united through a shared experience, especially when it involves music.  Stopping to witness a busker outside a subway station playing classical pieces on a set of crystal water glasses or getting a karaoke serenade by an undercover Jewel, these equally thrill me.  In this case (yes, it is a T-Mobile commercial), it's the welcoming of new arrivals at Heathrow airport with spontaneous singing.  



It's just something that makes people pause in their everyday lives and connect with each other.  It often results in the quick draw of a camera phone, but it also makes you glad to be alive.

In honor of the upcoming holiday season, here is a "Random Act of Culture" brought to you by the Opera Company of Philadelphia.  (Did you know that their Macy's has the largest pipe organ in the world? )





The Guitar

The weeping of the guitar
begins.
The goblets of dawn
are smashed.
The weeping of the guitar
begins.
Useless
to silence it.
Impossible
to silence it.
It weeps monotonously
as water weeps
as the wind weeps
over snowfields.
Impossible
to silence it.
It weeps for distant
things.
Hot southern sands
yearning for white camellias.
Weeps arrow without target
evening without morning
and the first dead bird
on the branch.
Oh, guitar!
Heart mortally wounded
by five swords.

-Federico García Lorca

NaNoWriMo

Do you know what November is?  Well, it is the threshold of Fall and Winter.  It is a month that houses Thanksgiving and Black Friday.  It is a time for politics and last-minute mudslinging.  It is also National Novel Writing Month! 

I first heard about it maybe five years ago from a coworker who had signed up on the official NaNoWriMo website and undertook the project of writing a 50,000 word novel (175 pages) by the end of the month.  Maybe you have a great fiction idea that you jotted down years ago but never found the time to pursue.  Or maybe you didn't know how to pursue it.  Does the idea intimidate you?  Do you feel someone else would do better writing it?  Well, stop thinking that way!  The point of this undertaking is not to write the Great American Novel.  The point is to start writing something and finish it.  Quantity, not quality.  It's a kamikaze approach to writing, and it forces you to plow through because you don't have time to stop and edit yourself.  You have to finish by November 30th.  And don't worry if you don't have an idea already in storage.  Just start writing and see where it takes you.  Wouldn't it be great to be able to call yourself a novelist by the time December rolls around?

Technically this project began at midnight this morning, but it's not too late.  Last year 30,000 people around the world started and completed their novels in the month of November.  Check out the official website for more info.

As for me, I think I've finally got the perfect murder on lock-down.  Back to it I go.

my answer

-Charles Bukowski

"why does he have to use words like that
in his writing?"

"words like what, mother?"

"well, like 'motherfucker.'"

"some people talk like that, mother."

"people he knows?"

"yes."

"but why does he associate with
people like that?"

because, mother-in-law, if I only associated with
people like you
there'd be nothing to write about that
the motherfuckers would care to
read.

A procrastinator's guide to Halloween costumes

Halloween is in two days, but most celebrations will be taking place Saturday night.  That doesn't leave much time for costume planning.  If you're like me and wait until the last minute every year, here are some tricks I've learned that I pass on to you.

1.  Take inventory of what you have in the house.  Even the most basic household items could be repurposed as props.  One year at the West Hollywood Halloween parade, I saw a woman dressed as a dinner table.  It was a 3D costume, complete with food and dishes, and even a romantic candle.

2.  Read up on the news.  What stories are getting the most coverage?  Are there any colorful characters that you could impersonate?  Last year my roommate went as Balloon Boy, and her ingenious costume really came down to poster board, an umbrella, and some silver fabric.

3.  Don't discount the advantages of make up.  Even a hefty application of bronzer could get you halfway to being a Jersey Shore cast member.

4.  When all else fails, go to Rite Aid.  This is what I did last year when I was supposed to go to a party and had no idea what to be.  I wandered the aisles hoping a blue wig or something would pop out at me and give me an idea.  Luckily, a light bulb went off over the board game section, and I went home feeling confident in my new purchase of Twister.  Any board game could work, really.  All you have to do is turn the board into a hat by duct taping it to a head band (the soft, sporty kind).  And for the rest of the costume, you could either dress as a character from the game or use the playing pieces as accessories.  With Twister, I wore the mat as a dress and the spinner as a hat.  I cut a hand out of a piece of orange construction paper and taped it to one of the dots on the mat.  Bingo.  Interactive outfit.  You could do the same with Clue or Monopoly and simply dress as Miss Scarlet, Professor Plum, or that guy in the top hat who gives away money.  I promise you will make lots of new friends this way.

Happy Halloween!


Macbeth, Act IV, Scene I 
(Round about the cauldron go)  
by William Shakespeare 

The three witches, casting a spell

Round about the cauldron go;
In the poison’d entrails throw.
Toad, that under cold stone
Days and nights hast thirty one
Swelter’d venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first i’ the charmed pot.

Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the cauldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt, and toe of frog,
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,
Adder’s fork, and blind-worm’s sting,
Lizard’s leg, and howlet’s wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf,
Witches’ mummy, maw and gulf
Of the ravin’d salt-sea shark,
Root of hemlock digg’d i’ the dark,
Liver of blaspheming Jew,
Gall of goat, and slips of yew
Sliver’d in the moon’s eclipse,
Nose of Turk, and Tartar’s lips,
Finger of birth-strangled babe
Ditch-deliver’d by a drab,
Make the gruel thick and slab:
Add thereto a tiger’s chaudron,
For the ingredients of our cauldron.

Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

AMC's programming is neither classic nor movies. Discuss.

Well, I've been a bit under the weather lately, which is good for catching up on movies and rest but bad for productivity.  When I stayed home sick from high school, I would watch the classic movie channels and count it a lucky day if they were playing a Bob Hope, Doris Day, or Danny Kaye marathon.  More often than not, they were showing 1954's There's No Business Like Show Business with Ethel Merman and Marilyn Monroe. The music was all Irving Berlin and watching it, it was easy to forget I was sick.

Another stalwart in my sick day anthology was Anne of Green Gables.  What little girl has not seen this movie and identified with Anne (with an "e") Shirley?  Who didn't swoon when Gilbert Blythe got scarlet fever? Watching this classic was the first time I ever heard the poem, "The Highwayman."  Anne recites it at a luncheon and it's captivating.  Later in college, I was studying the Romantic poets and came across "The Highwayman" again.  The author, Alfred Noyes, was heavily influenced by the Romantics, like Tennyson and Wordsworth.  I printed out the poem and put it on my dorm room wall.  It is a masterful piece of writing and one of my favorites.  The rhythm is like a song, and the imagery is perfect for this Halloween season.  Enjoy.

The Highwayman

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding--
Riding--riding--
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh.
And he rode with a jeweled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like moldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say--

"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize tonight,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching--
Marching--marching--
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side.
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest.
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast.
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say--
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good.
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood.
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest.
Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love's refrain.
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him--with her death.

He turned; he spurred to the west; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood.
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew gray to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shouting a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding--
Riding--riding--
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

-Alfred Noyes

The case for Autumn

Autumn is the best season and I'll tell you why.  There is a mystery about it.  Something in the air, the same ingredient that makes it all fresh and crisp, makes it heavy with anticipation.  It's like the feeling before the gun goes off in a race.  You've done all this preparation and now is the time for action and you're not certain of the outcome.  All you know is you want something good to come out of it. 

I feel like October should be more of a new year than January.  January is smack in the middle of winter. It's boring.  And I know Spring is all about new beginnings and a bright new world, so you might think that Springtime would be the better candidate for the new year celebration, but you'd be wrong.  The problem with Spring is that it's like a baby.  Babies come out all pink and puffy but then what do they do?  Cry and poop.  It takes them a while to get going.  That's why Autumn is the best.  Summer is lazy.  It's relaxing.  But with Autumn you're just getting revved up.  You're buying school supplies.  Bouquets of freshly sharpened pencils!  The holidays are coming!  Halloween!  Thanksgiving!  Hanukkah!  Christmas! 

To me, the best parts of this season are squashes and pies, getting the jackets and scarves out of storage, waiting for the tree across the street from my parents' house to burst into red and orange leaf flames.  People start building fires in their fireplaces and the smell permeates the entire neighborhood.  Unless you live in LA and then the most you can hope for is that crisp air to come around.  I feel it today.  I love Autumn!

Autumn Movement

I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.

The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper
sunburned woman, the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.

The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes,
new beautiful things come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind,
and the old things go, not one lasts.

-Carl Sandburg

Bad poetry, or What I will do for money

I saw an ad on Craigslist for a card company that was looking for fresh poems for greeting and holiday cards.  There was a whole submission process involved.  It did seem to pay pretty well, so I went to their website to check out what kinds of poems made it onto their cards.  You can probably imagine the sappy verses about love feeling like the sun on your face, cream-colored ponies and crisp apple strudel.  But they said they wanted something new and different from what they had.  I wasn't sure how to proceed. 

Do I give them my best work?  Really put forth an effort?  I know you're supposed to try your best at everything you do, but I wasn't sure I wanted to give up ownership of something I was proud of.  As a friend of mine who did some ghost writing put it, "I wrote the scene and then I thought, wow, that's pretty good.  That may be the best scene I've ever written.  I don't want this guy to put his name on my best scene.  So I scaled it down a bit.  And then I scaled it down again."  Or something like that.  I didn't write it down when he was talking to me.

So that's what I decided to do.  I took some ideas that could turn into pretty decent poems, and I turned the volume waaaaaaay down.

Example (on love):
If you were a season,
you'd be the first day of summer.
If you were a city,
you'd be Paris in the spring.
If you were a holiday,
you'd be Christmas morning.
If you were a dream,
You'd be the one that came true.

I was pretty embarrassed by that, so I tempered it with this one (for encouragement):

Hero's Low

This is the part of the movie
when the hero can't see a way out.
His back is against the wall,
surrounded on all sides.
This is the point where he thinks
maybe I won't win the fight.
What if I give up, surrender?
Will it really be so bad?
But maybe the hero doesn't realize
all the people back home still believe in him.
They know he has a purpose.
All he has to do is steel himself,
and come out, guns blazing.
The cavalry is just over the ridge.

I didn't mind that one so much.  Then I tried a Christmas poem:


I imagine coming home this Christmas,
turning down the block
and passing houses, brightly lit.
It is night.  The street is silent,
the shopping over, the presents nestled
beneath the pine.
A wind stirs, prompting my excitement.
It swirls between the chimneys,
knocking snow to the white, pillowed ground.
I hum a carol as I walk up the pathway.
The smell of Christmas dinner in the air.
I move to ring the bell--
a delighted cry rings out.
Peering through the window,
there you all are,
gathered round the table,
piled high with the day's festivities.
I see your expressions of joy
and I long to hug you.
Though I cannot be there this year,
you are here with me,
in my mind and in my heart.

Yeah.  Can we just pretend that we never talked about this?