Slow Language - The Essential Rumi

Friday, September 11, 2009

Yesterday I received a wonderful gift from my friend Tanya: The Essential Rumi, a book of poetry that I have been wanting to get my hands on for months. Here is one of my favorites, so far:




Jalaluddin Rumi

1207 -1272

Wean Yourself (Translation by Coleman Barks)

Little by little, wean yourself.
This is the gist of what I have to say.

From an embryo, whose nourishment comes in the blood,
move to an infant drinking milk,
to a child on solid food,
to a searcher after wisdom,
to a hunter of more invisible game.

Think how it is to have a conversation with an embryo.
You might say, "The world outside is vast and intricate.
There are wheatfields and mountain passes,
and orchards in bloom.

At night there are millions of galaxies, and in sunlight
the beauty of friends dancing at a wedding."

you ask the embryo why he, or she, stays cooped up
in the dark with eyes closed.
Llisten to the answer.
There is no "other world."
I only know what I've experienced.
You must be hallucinating.

Slow Language Friday - Ancient Chinese Poetry

Friday, August 28, 2009

I came across this poem just yesterday while I was looking for something entirely different. But, I was struck by the beauty of these four short lines and knew that I must feature them here. Ah, what loveliness can be found in simplicity.


Su Tung-Po

1036 - 1101




Remembrance

To what can our life on earth be likened?
To a flock of geese,
alighting on the snow
Sometimes leaving a trace of their passage.

Better late than never, right?

Saturday, August 22, 2009

I have been a really bad blogger lately, and I missed two Slow Language Fridays. So, to make up for it, I'm putting up two new poems today, both by Lucille Clifton.
The first poem is light-hearted and a little bit sassy. I love the image that I get from the last three lines.







Lucille Clifton
June 1926





Homage to My Hips


these hips are big hips.
they need space to
move around in.
they don't fit into little
petty places. these hips
are free hips.
they don't like to be held back.
these hips have never been enslaved,
they go where they want to go
they do what they want to do.
these hips are mighty hips.
these hips are magic hips.
i have known them
to put a spell on a man and
spin him like a top!


***

This second poem is quite a change of pace. It always hits me in a very tender place. But the strength that you can feel in the last stanza is very inspiring.

The Lost Baby Poem

the time i dropped your almost body down
down to meet the waters under the city
and run one with the sewage to the sea
what did i know about waters rushing back
what did i know about drowning
or being drowned

you would have been born into winter
in the year of the disconnected gas
and no car we would have made the thin
walk over Genesee hill into the Canada wind
to watch you slip like ice into strangers' hands
you would have fallen naked as snow into winter
if you were here i could tell you these
and some other things

if i am ever less than a mountain
for your definite brothers and sisters
let the rivers pour over my head
let the sea take me for a spiller
of seas let black men call me stranger
always for your never named sake

Catch-up mash-up

Thursday, August 6, 2009

Sorry for the lack of updates during the past week. My internet service has been spotty, and I have had little time for extracurricular activities.
So, to make up for the neglect, I will pack three updates into one.

The first item of business: Children's Book Spotlight

There are rows upon rows of children's picture books in the library, and I have heard of very few of them. When The Monkey (my four year old girl) is choosing the books for herself, she invariably picks something because the cover has a cute animal on it (or because it's her favorite color-- pink), only to be disappointed or bored with the content when we sit down to read it together. When I am choosing the books I usually have very little time (or patience) to wander the stacks, and end up grabbing two or three books randomly off of the shelves for her. It's a hit-and-miss thing. Last week I got lucky, and I picked a good one. The Monkey loved it, so I thought I would share it here. I am also going to start a weekly Children's Book Spotlight. let me know if you have any books that you would like me to share here!


The Show-and-Tell Lion - Written by Barbara Abercrombie and Illustrated by Lynne Avril
Recommended for: Kindergarten-1st grade

It's Matthew's turn for show-and-tell and he doesn't have anything to share, so he says the first thing that comes to his mind: "I have a lion." His classmates think that this is wonderful. They ask him questions about his lion, and want to take a field-trip to his house to see it. Matthew has to think up more and more lies to answer his friends' questions and explain why they can't visit his pet lion.
Eventually, Matthew learns that it best to tell the truth.

This was a very cute story, and one that I will probably buy for my daughter, because she keeps asking me to reread it. The illustrations were wonderful. Matthew and his friends were painted in acrylic, while the lion (and all of Matthews lies about it) were drawn in chalk pastel, making it seem less substantial than the reality of the children and their classroom. I recommend it.
My Rating: 8/10


Next up: Audiobook Review

I love Audiobooks. Not as much as a real-life-hold-it-in-your-hand book, naturally, but... still, they are wonderfully handy things. I constantly have one on my iPod. I listen to audiobooks while I wash the dishes and fold the laundry. I listen to them while I run errands. I have so far avoided listening to them while I shop, as I am afraid that would cause chaos and result in my forgetting to buy several of the items on my list; but I might be tempted to try it, eventually.
Anyway.

A while ago my friend Ashlie recommended that I listen to the audiobook version of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. I was hesitant. I have never read the book. I was put off by the Disney movie, which I found disturbing as a child. As an adult I watched the movie again and could only deduce that it was illustrated by someone on an acid trip. Not my kind of thing. But I eventually succumbed, because I like Ashlie and we have very similar taste in literature. And the book was not bad at all. I do wish that I could have found the version that was read by Jim Dale, as I loved listening to him read Harry Potter, but I wasn't able to do so. The version that I was able to get was read by a woman named Devina Porter. Her voice was grating to me at first, but I got used to it soon enough. She did do a wonderful job using different voices for every character... except for the Chesire Cat. His voice just irritated me.
But, all in all, I thought that the book was much nicer than the movie; more a child's nonsensical dream and less a drug-induced hallucination. If you haven't read it before I would urge you to give it a try. I plan on reading Into the Looking Glass as soon as I have the time.
My Rating: 8.5/10 (Though I wonder if it would be higher if I had heard it read by a different person, or simply read it myself.)


and lastly, as promised: Poetry Friday- The Slow Language Movement

Just a warning. This next poem is one that will not be enjoyed by everyone. The theme is very overtly (though not explicitly) sexual. But I find it a wonderful expression of desire, of yearning and of intimacy. I am captivated by the idea of being marked by your lover, of walking through markets and knowing that even the blind man knows whose wife you are, because you are marked by the scent of your husband's profession and by his desire for you. It is a beautifully written piece of poetry.

Michael Ondaatje

born September 12,1943




THE CINNAMON PEELER

If I were a cinnamon peeler
I would ride your bed
and leave the yellow bark dust
on your pillow.

Your breasts and shoulders would reek
you could never walk through markets
without the profession of my fingers
floating over you. The blind would
stumble certain of whom they approached
though you might bathe
under rain gutters, monsoon.

Here on the upper thigh
at this smooth pasture
neighbor to your hair
or the crease
that cuts your back. This ankle.
You will be known among strangers
as the cinnamon peeler's wife.

I could hardly glance at you
before marriage
never touch you
-- your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.
I buried my hands
in saffron, disguised them
over smoking tar,
helped the honey gatherers...

When we swam once
I touched you in water
and our bodies remained free,
you could hold me and be blind of smell.
You climbed the bank and said

this is how you touch other women

the grasscutter's wife, the lime burner's daughter.

And you searched your arms

for the missing perfume.

and knew

what good is it

to be the lime burner's daughter

left with no trace

as if not spoken to in an act of love

as if wounded without the pleasure of a scar.

You touched
your belly to my hands
in the dry air and said
I am the cinnamon
peeler's wife. Smell me.

The Slow Language Movement

Thursday, July 30, 2009

Yesterday I came across an article by Author/Poet Nick Laird, about how the Internet, social networks, and texting are affecting the way we process the written word. He writes about the difficulty that he has had lately in re-reading Dr. Johnson and Henry James, and suggests that in a world that is moving so fast, we forget what it is to sit and ponder the subtleties of language.
I agree. Often the constant bombardment of information, noise and technology that I absorb leaves me feeling overstimulated and dull-witted, and at the end of the day I am left with little patience for heavy language, turning instead to fluffy novels for entertainment.
So, how are we to combat this apathy of thought? Laird suggests that poets, and those who read poetry, are part of a Slow Language Movement (a nod to Italy's Slow Food Movement). Poetry is a medium that does not lend itself to speed. Poetry is not something that can be devoured, it must be savoured; each word and every sentence rolled around inside of our minds before the full meaning can take root.
So.
In honor of the Slow Language Movement, I have decided to feature a poem on this blog every Friday. I hope you will take a moment to sit and ponder the poetry with me.
Let's start with one of my very favorite poets, and one of my very favorite poems:




E.E. Cummings
October 14, 1894 – September 3, 1962

anyone lived in a pretty how town

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did

Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain