Poem: A Spike of Green - Barbara Baker

I've lways loved this. It's neat - something so simple as seed in a pot of soil, yet so profound at the same time. It's all perspective!

A Spike of Green
by Barbara Baker

When I went out
The sun was hot
It shone upon
My flower pot

And there I saw
A spike of green
That no one else
Had ever seen!

On other days
The things I see
Are mostly old
Except for me.

But this green spike
So new and small
Had never yet
Been seen at all!

Poem: Filling Station - Elizabeth Bishop

I've always loved this poem, because it reminds me of what I call the certain "quality" of looking that my parents tried to instill in me. There's a story - a history - in everything.

Filling Station by Elizabeth Bishop

Oh, but it is dirty!

—this little filling station,

oil-soaked, oil-permeated

to a disturbing, over-all

black translucency.

Be careful with that match!

Father wears a dirty,

oil-soaked monkey suit

that cuts him under the arms,

and several quick and saucy

and greasy sons assist him

(it’s a family filling station),

all quite thoroughly dirty.

Do they live in the station?

It has a cement porch

behind the pumps, and on it

a set of crushed and grease-

impregnated wickerwork;

on the wicker sofa

a dirty dog, quite comfy.

Some comic books provide

the only note of color—

of certain color. They lie

upon a big dim doily

draping a taboret

(part of the set), beside

a big hirsute begonia.

Why the extraneous plant?

Why the taboret?

Why, oh why, the doily?

(Embroidered in daisy stitch

with marguerites, I think,

and heavy with gray crochet.)

Somebody embroidered the doily.

Somebody waters the plant,

or oils it, maybe. Somebody

arranges the rows of cans

so that they softly say:

esso—so—so—so

to high-strung automobiles.

Somebody loves us all. 

Every battle makes us stronger.

Recently, a friend asked me out for a drink, telling me she needed to talk.  She wanted an ear, and perhaps my perspective regarding someone close to her. I won't get into the discussion, but I what I'd like to say is below. I don't know if it's right or wrong, but it's what I've come to learn, and live by.

Life is full of ups and downs, and I believe that fluctuation in experience and emotion is what builds us. Without the downs, how would we truly appreciate the ups? Without having fallen, how would we know how to climb? It's having been there ourselves, that allows us to truly recognize that strength of character in others.

And we've all been there. We've fallen, we've hung on, we've climbed back up...and we're stronger for it. We can't steer clear of the pitfalls that line our path in life, but we can learn from them, and recognize what we've taken away: most importantly compassion, a lack of judgement, and strength of character.

I like to think that there is good in everything, and that sometimes it's just not so easy to see. I like to believe that's true. I hold on to that thought, and I look for the good. I look hard. It may be naive, but it gets me through.

And I do believe that though I couldn't see it at the time, I have gained something positive from each bump in the road, whether a small pothole, or a long, steep incline.

I can't avoid the negative. I know that. But I can, at least, try to see the positive - however small it may be.

"Remember Life"

Andy Cohen's tribute to Tasha, originally written in March 2009. It's lovely.

Remember Life - A Tribute to Natasha Richardson

Poem: The Albatross - Beaudalaire

There are many translations of this poem, but this is the one I prefer.

Often to pass the time on board, the crew
will catch an albatross, one of those big birds
which nonchalently chaperone a ship
across the bitter fathoms of the sea.

Tied to the deck, this sovereign of space,
as if embarrassed by its clumsiness,
pitiably lets its great white wings
drag at its sides like a pair of unshipped oars.

How weak and awkward, even comical
this traveller but lately so adroit -
one deckhand sticks a pipestem in its beak,
another mocks the cripple that once flew!

The Poet is like this monarch of the clouds
riding the storm above the marksman's range;
exiled on the ground, hooted and jeered,
he cannot walk because of his great wings.