This is another poem from Oswalt West. I feel kind of bad posting two poems with "birdsong" in a single week, but that's the kind of camping trip it was. If I'd written about our trip to Beverley Beach, I would have had a lot of "frogsong" imagery. You build with the tools you've got, right?
All Women are Beautiful
All women are beautiful
while camping:
hair styled by
birdsong and breeze,
perfumed with
campsmoke and dust,
makeup lovingly applied
all night long by
shooting stars.
Friday, July 14, 2006
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Guess Where This One was Written
Poem Behind Ponytail Falls
I wonder how fast the water
must flow to make it thunder so.
Perhaps I will bring a high school
science class here to conduct experiments,
clanking their way to the top, laden
with beakers and balances. I wonder if they will care,
or if they will notice the way the leaves
change color as they flicker in the breeze.
I wonder how deep the pool is.
Or rather, was, before the eager
water pounded away at the stone.
If I donned scuba gear and flippers,
I could measure the generations:
here is the time before cell phones,
the time before television, and even
deeper, the time before poems.
I wonder if we will swim here, you and I,
naked in the nighttime, our legs twined together
against the icy water. We will spin in lazy circles
beneath the stars, kissing once for each star
and once again for each drop of water.
And I will wonder which tastes sweeter:
snow fresh from the waterfall
or the honeyed milk of your kisses.
I wonder how fast the water
must flow to make it thunder so.
Perhaps I will bring a high school
science class here to conduct experiments,
clanking their way to the top, laden
with beakers and balances. I wonder if they will care,
or if they will notice the way the leaves
change color as they flicker in the breeze.
I wonder how deep the pool is.
Or rather, was, before the eager
water pounded away at the stone.
If I donned scuba gear and flippers,
I could measure the generations:
here is the time before cell phones,
the time before television, and even
deeper, the time before poems.
I wonder if we will swim here, you and I,
naked in the nighttime, our legs twined together
against the icy water. We will spin in lazy circles
beneath the stars, kissing once for each star
and once again for each drop of water.
And I will wonder which tastes sweeter:
snow fresh from the waterfall
or the honeyed milk of your kisses.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
We Interrupt Ed's serious series with....
find your inner PIE @ stvlive.com
I usually do get sidetracked and take these quizzes (as long as they are short - ugh to those who write long ones), I never post my "results" because I just don't think I post frequently enough for you to have come all this way just to read some cheesy thing that made me smile. But Pie? Pie is serious stuff.
For the record, apple pie is the apple of my eye, but I am okay with being blueberry pie.
This is Turning Into a Travelogue
This poem followed me home from our trip to Austin over Spring Break.
High Above the Blanco in Hill Country
Vulture is an ugly word,
bitter on the tongue,
hunched in the back of your mouth
when you dare to say it.
And it is a foul business, after all,
the cleaning of meat from bone,
funeral rites for the animal kingdom.
But the vulture in flight,
high above the Blanco
in Hill Country,
hovers as elegantly as any eagle,
its arcs mathematical, methodical,
its patience that of the saint,
not the gravedigger.
And to see a vulture
perched on your rooftop,
high above the Blanco
in Hill Country,
is not an omen
of impending doom,
but rather a symbol
of flight, of light,
of unexpected grace.
High Above the Blanco in Hill Country
Vulture is an ugly word,
bitter on the tongue,
hunched in the back of your mouth
when you dare to say it.
And it is a foul business, after all,
the cleaning of meat from bone,
funeral rites for the animal kingdom.
But the vulture in flight,
high above the Blanco
in Hill Country,
hovers as elegantly as any eagle,
its arcs mathematical, methodical,
its patience that of the saint,
not the gravedigger.
And to see a vulture
perched on your rooftop,
high above the Blanco
in Hill Country,
is not an omen
of impending doom,
but rather a symbol
of flight, of light,
of unexpected grace.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
We Interrupt Our Regularly Scheduled Blogcast For This (Heart)Breaking News ...
I got bad news this morning from, Kathy, a friend of mine at work. OCHS has lost its third student in a year. By lost, of course, I don’t mean misplaced, though that seems likely to happen in a school with over 2,200 kids. By lost, I mean died. Danielle died in a rafting accident this weekend.
The headline in the Oregonian read “Teen did everything right on rafting trip,” which pretty much sums up Danielle’s life. She was a sweet kid, but somehow a little bit jinxed. A lot jinxed, I guess.
As Kathy was telling me about the accident, I was sad, but not shaken. I’m worried for the survivors. They will have a lot of shame and guilt and anger to deal with. Danielle knew a lot of kids, so a lot of kids will have a hole in their lives. I can’t imagine how awful the adult supervisors must feel. There is the weight of gravity and then there is the weight of responsibility.
But that’s just pain, after all, and pain I understand and accept. Pain, I expect.
Then Kathy told me about what she called the “little miracles” afterwards. A boy ran up a mountainside to try to get cell phone reception. One of the parents on the trip flagged down a train. She made a train stop. What kind of courage, what kind of sheer will power does it take for an ordinary person to make a train stop? I’m reminded of Superman. Maybe Everyman is Superman.
Other things, too. Little things. A couple of doctors on a fishing trip happened upon the accident and helped the other girls set up camp, helped them not think about their missing friend. After the parents of the survivors were notified, they rushed to the woods and managed to find the kids in the middle of nowhere by sheer … luck? Divine intervention? A miracle?
The pain I understand. The tragedy I can deal with. It is the kindness in the aftermath of disaster, the confluence of the decency of human nature and the capriciousness of Mother Nature, the meeting of good luck after bad fortune, that kills me.
Christie and Wrigley went to Jamison Park today for a birthday party. A total stranger brought two garbage bags filled with miniature beach balls and dumped them into the fountain for anybody and everybody to play with.
Danielle’s death doesn’t make me want to cry; that stranger’s kindness does.
The headline in the Oregonian read “Teen did everything right on rafting trip,” which pretty much sums up Danielle’s life. She was a sweet kid, but somehow a little bit jinxed. A lot jinxed, I guess.
As Kathy was telling me about the accident, I was sad, but not shaken. I’m worried for the survivors. They will have a lot of shame and guilt and anger to deal with. Danielle knew a lot of kids, so a lot of kids will have a hole in their lives. I can’t imagine how awful the adult supervisors must feel. There is the weight of gravity and then there is the weight of responsibility.
But that’s just pain, after all, and pain I understand and accept. Pain, I expect.
Then Kathy told me about what she called the “little miracles” afterwards. A boy ran up a mountainside to try to get cell phone reception. One of the parents on the trip flagged down a train. She made a train stop. What kind of courage, what kind of sheer will power does it take for an ordinary person to make a train stop? I’m reminded of Superman. Maybe Everyman is Superman.
Other things, too. Little things. A couple of doctors on a fishing trip happened upon the accident and helped the other girls set up camp, helped them not think about their missing friend. After the parents of the survivors were notified, they rushed to the woods and managed to find the kids in the middle of nowhere by sheer … luck? Divine intervention? A miracle?
The pain I understand. The tragedy I can deal with. It is the kindness in the aftermath of disaster, the confluence of the decency of human nature and the capriciousness of Mother Nature, the meeting of good luck after bad fortune, that kills me.
Christie and Wrigley went to Jamison Park today for a birthday party. A total stranger brought two garbage bags filled with miniature beach balls and dumped them into the fountain for anybody and everybody to play with.
Danielle’s death doesn’t make me want to cry; that stranger’s kindness does.
In Case Your Subscription Ran Out ...
I wrote this a long time ago (not sure when exactly, but definitely pre-Wrigley), while driving home from a trip to Seattle. It was just published by Kent State University, in the Spring 2006 issue of Icon Magazine.
standing still
on an overpass
in a small town
looking down
the highway strives
for the horizon
like a sunbleached
yellow brick road.
I do not think
it leads to Oz.
carsandtrucks
rush towards me,
flee from me
passing through
for home or holiday.
growing and shrinking –
a trick of the eye.
carsandtrucks
rush towards me
flee from me
until the sun
buries itself
for the day
and the sheer
tangibility of
carsandtrucks
is reduced to
streaks of
redlight/yellowlight.
this moment,
this spot
on an overpass
in a small town
looking down
is not a destination
for these streaks of light -
not even mine -
as we strive towards Oz.
standing still
on an overpass
in a small town
looking down
the highway strives
for the horizon
like a sunbleached
yellow brick road.
I do not think
it leads to Oz.
carsandtrucks
rush towards me,
flee from me
passing through
for home or holiday.
growing and shrinking –
a trick of the eye.
carsandtrucks
rush towards me
flee from me
until the sun
buries itself
for the day
and the sheer
tangibility of
carsandtrucks
is reduced to
streaks of
redlight/yellowlight.
this moment,
this spot
on an overpass
in a small town
looking down
is not a destination
for these streaks of light -
not even mine -
as we strive towards Oz.
Monday, July 10, 2006
My Solemn Pledge to You ...
Five days. A poem a day. Here's that camping poem I mentioned.
Morning at Oswald West State Park, or
The Atheist’s Dilemma
Fed by birdsong,
The warming sun
stretched seven fingers
from behind a
Sitka Spruce who had watched
two centuries of sunrises,
And I did not know who
to thank.
Morning at Oswald West State Park, or
The Atheist’s Dilemma
Fed by birdsong,
The warming sun
stretched seven fingers
from behind a
Sitka Spruce who had watched
two centuries of sunrises,
And I did not know who
to thank.
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Apparently, we're that sort of family now ...
People always used to ask us, "Do you camp?" And we'd always say, "No. We're the sort of people that should like camping, we just don't."
That, my friends, is no longer true. Let me tell you about the genesis of the Kline family as camping "experts." (Translation: expert=survivor).
Last August, we borrowed a bunch of equipment and went camping with about 14 million preschoolers from HFP. This wasn't exactly roughing it - the trip involved a camping blender and a lot of margaritas - but we watched people use camp stoves and saw how they packed their gear and picked up a whole bunch of neat ideas. We also learned that you will NOT freeze to death if you sleep in a tent. Valuable info.
Back on Mother's Day, we scaled down in size and went to Beverly Beach with our friends Jack, Stephanie, Mia, and Miles. We bought a bunch of our own equipment instead of borrowing it, but we still weren't roughing it. We stayed in yurts (highly recommend the yurt, btw, jsut for the sheer joy of saying "yurt" over and over). The cmping blender made another appearance, but we didn't have nearly so many maragaritas. We did, of course, pick up more tips and tricks. Stephanie showed Christie how to make a little fire starter out of wax, woodchips, and egg cartons. Christie confirmed that she does, in fact, know how to start a fire. Ed watched. Ed fears fire.
Last weekend, we went solo. We went to Oswald West State Park. We slept in our own sleeping bags in our own tent. Christie started our own fire with her own firestarters. We ate camp food. We cooked on a cookstove and Wrigley ate about 14 million marshmallows. Now this, this was roughing it: no camping blender. We didn't even bring beer. The beach was amazing - it had good surf to watch (surfers, too), rocks to climb on, rocks to skip on a little river, tide pools to explore, a waterfall, and plenty of driftwood. A blast was had by all.
Christie has some pictures posted at flickr (I hear her site it "to die for"), if you're interested.
And I know you're only supposed to take out what you bring with you, but I found some nice poems out in the woods. They wanted to come home with me, so I let them. Maybe I'll type 'em up tomorrow.
That, my friends, is no longer true. Let me tell you about the genesis of the Kline family as camping "experts." (Translation: expert=survivor).
Last August, we borrowed a bunch of equipment and went camping with about 14 million preschoolers from HFP. This wasn't exactly roughing it - the trip involved a camping blender and a lot of margaritas - but we watched people use camp stoves and saw how they packed their gear and picked up a whole bunch of neat ideas. We also learned that you will NOT freeze to death if you sleep in a tent. Valuable info.
Back on Mother's Day, we scaled down in size and went to Beverly Beach with our friends Jack, Stephanie, Mia, and Miles. We bought a bunch of our own equipment instead of borrowing it, but we still weren't roughing it. We stayed in yurts (highly recommend the yurt, btw, jsut for the sheer joy of saying "yurt" over and over). The cmping blender made another appearance, but we didn't have nearly so many maragaritas. We did, of course, pick up more tips and tricks. Stephanie showed Christie how to make a little fire starter out of wax, woodchips, and egg cartons. Christie confirmed that she does, in fact, know how to start a fire. Ed watched. Ed fears fire.
Last weekend, we went solo. We went to Oswald West State Park. We slept in our own sleeping bags in our own tent. Christie started our own fire with her own firestarters. We ate camp food. We cooked on a cookstove and Wrigley ate about 14 million marshmallows. Now this, this was roughing it: no camping blender. We didn't even bring beer. The beach was amazing - it had good surf to watch (surfers, too), rocks to climb on, rocks to skip on a little river, tide pools to explore, a waterfall, and plenty of driftwood. A blast was had by all.
Christie has some pictures posted at flickr (I hear her site it "to die for"), if you're interested.
And I know you're only supposed to take out what you bring with you, but I found some nice poems out in the woods. They wanted to come home with me, so I let them. Maybe I'll type 'em up tomorrow.
Monday, July 03, 2006
Kudos to me
Wow! My folks always tell me they like my photos of W, but that is to be expected. Apparently other folks do as well! Picture This. The contest was on movement (blur) in photos and how it doesn't necessarily ruin a shot. Here is the competition along with Tracey's insightful comments on technique.
Yeah me!
Yeah me!
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