National Poetry Month: About today's weather

Snow-Bound [The sun that brief December day]
by John Greenleaf Whittier

The sun that brief December day
Rose cheerless over hills of gray,
And, darkly circled, gave at noon
A sadder light than waning moon.
Slow tracing down the thickening sky
Its mute and ominous prophecy,
A portent seeming less than threat,
It sank from sight before it set.
A chill no coat, however stout,
Of homespun stuff could quite shut out,
A hard, dull bitterness of cold,
That checked, mid-vein, the circling race
Of life-blood in the sharpened face,
The coming of the snow-storm told.
The wind blew east: we heard the roar
Of Ocean on his wintry shore,
And felt the strong pulse throbbing there
Beat with low rhythm our inland air.
Meanwhile we did your nightly chores,--
Brought in the wood from out of doors,
Littered the stalls, and from the mows
Raked down the herd's-grass for the cows;
Heard the horse whinnying for his corn;
And, sharply clashing horn on horn,
Impatient down the stanchion rows
The cattle shake their walnut bows;
While, peering from his early perch
Upon the scaffold's pole of birch,
The cock his crested helmet bent
And down his querulous challenge sent.

Unwarmed by any sunset light
The gray day darkened into night,
A night made hoary with the swarm
And whirl-dance of the blinding storm,
As zigzag, wavering to and fro
Crossed and recrossed the wingèd snow:
And ere the early bed-time came
The white drift piled the window-frame,
And through the glass the clothes-line posts
Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts.

*

As night drew on, and, from the crest
Of wooded knolls that ridged the west,
The sun, a snow-blown traveller, sank
From sight beneath the smothering bank,
We piled, with care, our nightly stack
Of wood against the chimney-back,--
The oaken log, green, huge, and thick,
And on its top the stout back-stick;
The knotty forestick laid apart,
And filled between with curious art
The ragged brush; then, hovering near,
We watched the first red blaze appear,
Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleam
On whitewashed wall and sagging beam,
Until the old, rude-furnished room
Burst, flower-like, into rosy bloom;
While radiant with a mimic flame
Outside the sparkling drift became,
And through the bare-boughed lilac-tree
Our own warm hearth seemed blazing free.
The crane and pendent trammels showed,
The Turks' heads on the andirons glowed;
While childish fancy, prompt to tell
The meaning of the miracle,
Whispered the old rhyme: "Under the tree,
When fire outdoors burns merrily,
There the witches are making tea."
The moon above the eastern wood
Shone at its full; the hill-range stood
Transfigured in the silver flood,
Its blown snows flashing cold and keen,
Dead white, save where some sharp ravine
Took shadow, or the somber green
Of hemlocks turned to pitchy black
Against the whiteness at their back.
For such a world and such a night
Most fitting that unwarming light,
Which only seemed where'er it fell
To make the coldness visible.

Happy National Poetry Month

anyone lived in a pretty how town by E. E. Cummingsanyone 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

song lyrics

Something about hearing the opening riff of "Round Here" by Counting Crows floors me. Each and everytime.

wow!

http://blog.wired.com/wiredscience/2009/03/tenlapse.html?npu=1&mbid=yhp

Thoughts over Cantaloupe

Using my lunch break to do some blogging, and realizing that my blog is a crazy hodge-podge of this and that. Usually half-articulate and meaningful to no one but myself. Oh, and there is the occasional posting of urban legends that were reported to me as fact. But I think I made a new friend in Pet Snakes--that is, as long as he/she is not offended that I was only slightly miffed at his/her comment. I don't like to be corrected, even when it is totally warranted. Enough of this.

The last three weeks have been very tumultous weeks for me, mentally. I'm starting to feel like...well. Not me, anyway. I do believe my malfunctioning (but inconclusive) thyroid is contributing to this problem. I am looking forward to having it back on track again. New experiences, new problems, old problems, yada yada yada.

I am grateful for two things today, specifically. Room temperature fruit salad. Humans were not meant to eat cold strawberries that don't taste like themselves and make my teeth hurt. And Pandora Radio. The bff could probably clue me into several other internet-based entertainment sources for the indie-hipster crowd, which would be awesome. But there's nothing quite like making up my own station. Right now, White Stripes Radio is playing "Saint John" by the Cold War Kids. I find it interesting but not enough to want to hunt down their other works. I'll just take it as it comes and be thankful when it's done.

True Story

This story comes third hand, but I have a great deal of confidence in its veracity. Sitting on a diner stool, sharing fried pickles with ranch dressing, friend Leah shared the following gem. The friend who shared this with me knows a couple that I also know from college. This couple has a couple-friend to whom the following event really happened. This second couple also went to the same college we did, and therefore are inherently believable. If this can be believed:

So this couple lives in (small Middle Tennessee town). They keep a boa constrictor as a pet. Yes, as a pet! Sleeps in the bed with them--pet! They decided something was not right with the boa constrictor, so they take him to the vet. The vet asks what's going on with the snake, and they answer that he is "acting weird." Meaning? He's stopped eating for the last two days. And at night, he normally sleeps curled up at the foot of the bed, but lately he has been stretching out at full length between the woman and her husband. The vet responds by telling them the time has come to get rid of the pet. Get rid of the pet! Why? BECAUSE HE'S ABOUT TO EAT YOU! The vet responds. WHEN BOA CONSTRICTORS STOP EATING, IT MEANS THEY'RE PREPARING TO DIGEST A REALLY LARGE KILL. AND BY STRETCHING OUT FULL LENGTH, HE'S MEASURING YOU TO SEE IF HE CAN REALLY INGEST ALL OF YOU.

Editorial comment: At least they haven't allowed their affection for the pet to cloud their better judgment (?) and they got rid of him.

I believe the word you are looking for here is wha?

Ryan Adams in Nashville

Ryan Adams and the Cardinals would always be a soul-shaking, credit-card-charging worthy experience. Listening to him wail out "Beautiful Sorta," or anthemize "Rescue Blues" is always worth it. Dare I say? It would be just about worth having my guts kicked out and my soul shredded by love just to respond to "Peaceful Valley" sung like that, resonating down into my very soul and releasing streams of emotion so powerful that every fiber of the universe must quiver speechlessly until the wonder of it subsides.

Ryan Adams and the Cardinals in Nashville, at the War Memorial Building must be the quintessential Nashville music-scene experience. There are plenty of you Bloggy McBloggertons (to quote the bff) who are immeasurably more qualified to talk about the NMS than I, but I know that concert wouldn't have sounded the same in Alexandria or Silver Spring. Maybe in Brooklyn, though...

For a pretty adequate story of the concert the way it actually happened I recommend:
http://www.interference.com/9519-9519/