Poetry Month: Day Eight

We are planning a road trip to the Georgia Sea Turtle Center with our visitors today. With a nod towards  "Over the river and through the woods..." here is a poem from my Poetry Foundation app list.

WHAT YOU HAVE TO GET OVER

Dick Allen 

Stumps. Railroad tracks. Early sicknesses,

the blue one, especially.

Your first love rounding a corner,

that snowy minefield.

Whether you step lightly or heavily,

you have to get over to that tree line a hundred yards in the distance

before evening falls,

letting no one see you wend your way,

that wonderful, old-fashioned word, wend,

meaning “to proceed, to journey,

to travel from one place to another,”

as from bed to breakfast, breakfast to imbecile work.

You have to get over your resentments,

the sun in the morning and the moon at night,

all those shadows of yourself you left behind

on odd little tables.

Tote that barge! Lift that bale! You have to

cross that river, jump that hedge, surmount that slogan,

crawl over this ego or that eros,

then hoist yourself up onto that yonder mountain.

Another old-fashioned word, yonder, meaning

“that indicated place, somewhere generally seen

or just beyond sight.” If you would recover,

you have to get over the shattered autos in the backwoods lot

to that bridge in the darkness

where the sentinels stand

guarding the border with their half-slung rifles,

warned of the likes of you.

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Dick Allen, "What You Have to Get Over" from Best American Poetry 2010. Copyright © 2010 by Dick Allen.  Reprinted by permission of Dick Allen.

Poetry Month: Day Seven

Today I have family coming to town. My aunt DuhDuh (her real name is Karen but we haven't called her that in years) a cousin who doubles as a childhood friend and her two daughters who also double as childhood friends for Riley Wren. While today's poem is entitled Granny, my own Granny cannot visit me this side of eternity.  DuhDuh is her daughter though and most worthy to carry her spirit with her ere she goes.  It should be noted that Granny was known as a storyteller... the very best kind who make stories come alive, endure, and get passed down along with all the other family heirlooms.

GRANNY 

James Whitcomb Riley  

Granny’s come to our house,

    And ho! my lawzy-daisy!

All the childern round the place

    Is ist a-runnin’ crazy!

Fetched a cake fer little Jake,

    And fetched a pie fer Nanny,

And fetched a pear fer all the pack

    That runs to kiss their Granny!

Lucy Ellen’s in her lap,

    And Wade and Silas Walker

Both’s a-ridin’ on her foot,

    And ’Pollos on the rocker;

And Marthy’s twins, from Aunt Marinn’s,

    And little Orphant Annie,

All’s a-eatin’ gingerbread

    And giggle-un at Granny!

Tells us all the fairy tales

    Ever thought er wundered—

And ’bundance o’ other stories—

    Bet she knows a hunderd!—

Bob’s the one fer “Whittington,”

    And "Golden Locks" fer Fanny!

Hear ’em laugh and clap their hands,

    Listenin’ at Granny!

“Jack the Giant-Killer” ’s good;

    And “Bean-Stalk” ’s another!—

So’s the one of “Cinderell’”

    And her old godmother;—

That-un’s best of all the rest—

    Bestest one of any,—

Where the mices scampers home

    Like we runs to Granny!

Granny’s come to our house,

    Ho! my lawzy-daisy!

All the childern round the place

    Is ist a-runnin’ crazy!

Fetched a cake fer little Jake,

    And fetched a pie fer Nanny,

And fetched a pear fer all the pack

    That runs to kiss their Granny!

Poetry Month: Day Six

This week Savannah Music Festival continues. This evening the boys and I go to see The Time Jumpers @ The Lucas.



 I love to go downtown. I don't love driving or trying to find parking downtown, but once I'm there, I'm always glad I came. And sometimes, once I'm safely parked, I can hear Eva Gabor in my mind, exclaiming "Darlin' I love you but give me Park Avenue!"

WOOLWORTH'S

 Mark Irwin



for Gerald Stern



Everything stands wondrously multicolored

and at attention in the always Christmas air.

What scent lingers unrecognizably

between that popcorn, grilled cheese sandwiches,



malted milkballs, and parakeets? Maybe you came here

in winter to buy your daughter a hamster

and were detained by the bin



of Multicolored Thongs, four pair

for a dollar. Maybe you came here to buy

some envelopes, the light blue par avion ones



with airplanes, but caught yourself, lost,

daydreaming, saying it’s too late over the glassy

diorama of cakes and pies. Maybe you came here



to buy a lampshade, the fake crimped

kind, and suddenly you remember

your grandmother, dead



twenty years, floating through the old

house like a curtain. Maybe you’re retired,

on Social Security, and came here for the Roast



Turkey Dinner or the Liver and Onions,

or just to stare into a black circle

of coffee and to get warm. Or maybe



the big church down the street is closed

now during the day, and you’re homeless and poor,

or you’re rich, or it doesn’t matter what you are



with a little loose change jangling in your pocket,

begging to be spent, because you wandered in

and somewhere between the bin of animal crackers



and the little zoo in the back of the store

you lost something, and because you came here

not to forget, but to remember to live.