joined on 09/17/09
last updated 03/08/13
*Beauty Secrets for Divas*
Cheesecake & Bombshells
Ms. Smart's Art
The Jazz Age (1920s-1940s)
Tribe.net Bug Reports
Vintage Postcards & Jazz Babies
The Boswell Sisters
Rosalia de Souza
Buena Vista Social Club
A Fine Frenzy
My Bloody Valentine
Au Revoir Simone
Porno For Pyros
Death Cab for Cutie
Kings of Convenience
The Whitest Boy Alive
Let’s Go Sailing
Goddamn Electric Bill
Meat Beat Manifesto
Boards of Canada
The Six Parts Seven
The Sea And Cake
Yo La Tengo
Matt Pond PA
Iron & Wine
The Album Leaf
October 11, 2009
I could write a thousand pages and not come close to describing the wonderful woman you are..
You are beautiful, you are caring, you are talented, you are lovely...
I love seeing the world through your eyes, it is to see the beauty in everything.
I want forever to make poetry with you.... and watch you blossom.
"And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom."
- Anaïs Nin
Mon, December 6, 2010 - 11:33 AM
I know I still have a few days to go (5, 4, 3, 2, 1...!) before I go, but I started a new WordPress blog already, about living in Adelaide, South Australia with Glen.
Check it out:
I think doing this blog will be a great way to get back into writing, and to remember interesting and fun moments about living in a foreign country. I'm pretty excited about it. :)
Sun, September 26, 2010 - 6:11 PM
An Autumn Evening
Dark hills against a hollow crocus sky
Scarfed with its crimson pennons, and below
The dome of sunset long, hushed valleys lie
Cradling the twilight, where the lone winds blow
And wake among the harps of leafless trees
Fantastic runes and mournful melodies.
The chilly purple air is threaded through
With silver from the rising moon afar,
And from a gulf of clear, unfathomed blue
In the southwest glimmers a great gold star
Above the darkening druid glens of fir
Where beckoning boughs and elfin voices stir.
And so I wander through the shadows still,
And look and listen with a rapt delight,
Pausing again and yet again at will
To drink the elusive beauty of the night,
Until my soul is filled, as some deep cup,
That with divine enchantment is brimmed up.
Lucy Maud Montgomery
Sat, July 10, 2010 - 10:34 AM
The Summer Day
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean--
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
from New and Selected Poems, 1992
Beacon Press, Boston, MA
Tue, April 27, 2010 - 11:54 AM
a fabulous collage by ms.smart! :)
Thu, April 15, 2010 - 8:07 AM
Three Spring Notations on Bipeds
The down drop of the blackbird,
The wing catch of arrested flight,
The stop midway and then off: off for triangles, circles, loops of new hieroglyphs—
This is April’s way: a woman:
“O yes, I’m here again and your heart
knows I was coming.”
White pigeons rush at the sun,
A marathon of wing feats is on:
“Who most loves danger? Who most loves wings? Who somersaults for God’s sake in the name of wing power in the sun and blue on an April Thursday.”
So ten winged heads, ten winged feet, race their white forms over Elmhurst.
They go fast: once the ten together were a feather of foam bubble, a chrysanthemum whirl speaking to silver and azure.
The child is on my shoulders.
In the prairie moonlight the child’s legs hang over my shoulders.
She sits on my neck and I hear her calling me a good horse.
She slides down—and into the moon silver of a prairie stream
She throws a stone and laughs at the clug-clug.
Art: Spring Breeze by William-Adolphe Bouguereau (1895)
Sat, April 10, 2010 - 8:47 AM
The Enkindled Spring
This spring as it comes bursts up in bonfires green,
Wild puffing of emerald trees, and flame-filled bushes,
Thorn-blossom lifting in wreaths of smoke between
Where the wood fumes up and the watery, flickering rushes.
I am amazed at this spring, this conflagration
Of green fires lit on the soil of the earth, this blaze
Of growing, and sparks that puff in wild gyration,
Faces of people streaming across my gaze.
And I, what fountain of fire am I among
This leaping combustion of spring? My spirit is tossed
About like a shadow buffeted in the throng
Of flames, a shadow that’s gone astray, and is lost.
Sun, April 4, 2010 - 9:03 AM
Gone were but the Winter,
Come were but the Spring,
I would go to a covert
Where the birds sing.
Where in the whitethom
Singeth a thrush,
And a robin sings
In the holly-bush.
Full of fresh scents
Are the budding boughs
Arching high over
A cool green house:
Full of sweet scents,
And whispering air
Which sayeth softly:
“We spread no snare;
Here dwell in safety,
Here dwell alone,
With a clear stream
And a mossy stone.
Here the sun shineth
Here is heard an echo
Of the far sea,
Though far off it be."