FORTY DAYS —

horse2My composition students today began a forty-day experiment. We’re reading a book called Real Questions, and thanks to editor Kathryn Evans and Bedford-St. Martins we have a bunch of great essays and book excerpts to read about media, food, violence, and relationships. I had a brainstorm that while we were writing about real changes people can make in the world, we should try to make one real change. The students signed on, and today is the first day.

Forty days sounds a bit Lentish, I know. It’s also a number of days deemed optimum for a fast in Franz Kafka’s “The Hunger Artist,” which is a weird and wonderful tribute to passion.

The photograph is of me on my cousins’ horse. I was three, and this picture reminds me that our passions and our practices always have a beginning somewhere.

I’m late getting away from my desk today (lots of meetings this afternoon), but here’s an inspiring quote to hold you until I can get back here tomorrow and explain more:

“If we did all the things we are capable of, we would astound ourselves.” -Thomas A. Edison

The Poem in My Pocket

Yesterday was “Poem in Your Pocket” Day, and I was fortunate to be invited by David Horowitz to read poems with four other poets at the Edmonds Bookshop, where I sold four books, and bought two.

Here’s a poem for your pocket from Jane Kenyon:

The Thimble

I found a silver thimble
on the humusy floor of the woodshed,
neither large nor small, the open end
bent oval by the wood’s weight,
or because the woman who wore it
shaped it to fit her finger.

Its decorative border of leaves, graceful
and regular, like the edge of acanthus
on the tin ceiling at church…
repeating itself over our heads while we speak in unison
words the wearer must have spoken.


thimble2(I found the image at http://www.etsy.com/listing/56781815/simons-sterling-silver-victorian-thimble)

It’s been a week of wounds, great and small, which somehow makes the idea of retrieving this artifact from under a woodpile additionally comforting.  My uncle died on Saturday after a long illness, a friend wrote to me about her grandbaby’s unexpected death. Boston. Waco. Everything in between.

Over at Wait! I have a Blog?! Kathleen Kirk put up a poem yesterday for Boston. I hope you will have a chance to drop by.

Ellen and Eclipse

Someone emailed to tell me “that foal looks like a goat,” so here’s a picture of Ellen with Eclipse, who is all grown up now. I’m not sure what’s going on with the costume. Whenever I see Ellen, she’s wearing blue jeans. These pictures happen to be from a blog called Photography with Soul. And there are many more.

ellen26

While I’m sharing blog addresses, I also want to direct people to my favorite, The Pen and the Bell, whose letter this week features a quote about writing — for ten minutes — from Rumer Godden. How could you not?

Unbridled

ellens goatWell, it is poetry month. Here’s a poem I wrote several springs ago after visiting my friend Ellen Felsenthal. (She is a photographer, and the photo is from her website.) I’ve always thought this poem could become slightly “bigger” if I worked on it, but it resists me. It wants to be what it is. Premarin is a pharmeceutical made from the urine of pregnant mares. The foals are often destroyed. In my mind, then, this is a poem about redemption.

Unbridled

I visit my friend Ellen’s farm
to meet her rescued Premarin filly
gorgeous paint girl

one of Ellen’s three horses
along with her mare Harmony
and a foster horse that needs training

Ellen has rescued numerous beasts
a pony named Elvis too old to be adopted
several goats including one who bleats like a baby

causing Ellen to say oh Waylon we hear you
also three sheep three dogs
a cat with a litter of kittens

Ellen says we can borrow
the neighbor’s horse we can saddle Harmony
and go riding but we stand talking

until it is too late to ride until
the horses tire of nudging our pockets for peppermints
finish the carrots we carried to them

and walk slowly away
their swaying free bodies unbridled
ungroomed.