Does this make me a nerd?

I know some of you may answer “yes” before even knowing exactly what I’m talking about, but hear me out.

When we did our Christmas shopping, much of it was in a bookstore (shocking, I know). While in the bookstore, I was pleased that I only picked out one book for myself. I basically hid the book from myself once we got home since I knew I would spend too much time with the book when I needed to be doing holiday prep and such. Apparently I hid the book a little too well, as I just recently “found” it again.

So what is this book? It’s called The Best Poems of the English Language: From Chaucer Through Robert Frost and it’s selected (and has commentary by) Harold Bloom. It’s a hefty book that’s over 950 pages long, and I’m excited about it. I will share poems along the way, so you can all enjoy it with me!

To answer my own question, I’m pretty sure the excitement I have for a 900+ page book of poetry probably does make me a nerd. And I’m okay with that.

As promised!

I said I was going to write a little story or something based on what I rolled from my new Writing Dice. Well, here is what I came up with. It’s rather strange, but I thought it was rather funny and a good exercise as well.

Listen, I don’t have time for this. I mean, I guess I literally do, but patience isn’t in my nature. You think I would have learned it by now, but some things just don’t change. It doesn’t help when people find out my secret—that I can shift into owl form. They assume I must be wise as an owl. As if owls are particularly wise. Who came up with that idea anyway? It must be the round staring eyes and the judgmental looks—people assume they know more than they do. Owls are still birds, after all. Me, on the other hand, when I’m in owl form I have my mind still. Sometimes I do get distracted by scurrying mice and rabbits, but I am myself, just in a different form.

I would also like to point out that being an owl in a big city is not as easy as it might seem. I mean, there are parks, but there is also so much concrete and steel and concrete and heartbreak. Why live in the city? Well, it’s where the people are. Especially the one I like to keep my eyes on, whether in human or owl form. Let’s be real—it’s easier to follow someone as an owl, even in the middle of a city, than as a man, even a good-looking one like me.

I follow her every day. Sometimes I sit outside her office building and watch her work. I know, it sounds like I’m a stalker, like that creepy vampire guy in that book so many people loved. Gross. I’m not a vampire, although I wish I were when I see her meet up with that guy she’s been seeing. She gets all flushed and extra cute, and he holds the door open for her and such. Yeah, okay, bro. I’m still going to be victorious in the end. I always win!

Why do I follow one specific woman, eh? Well, she helped me one time and I fell for the kindness in her eyes. She doesn’t know I can turn into an owl yet. In fact, she hasn’t seen me again since that one time. I don’t know why I hide from her, actually. I’ve never followed anyone for this length of time without making myself known. I’m going to do things differently this time. I don’t want to scare her off. It’s no fun being alone all the time, so I have to play my cards right.

Right now I want to shift into owl form and fly down and peck out the eyes of that other man who thinks he can touch my woman. Idiot! If only he knew what he was up against, he would find someone else.

But like I said, I don’t have time for this. I think I’ve found the way in—the way to make her really, really notice me this time. I won’t be alone for much longer. I just have to go get that rat in the alley across the street and then I’ll be ready to set my plans in motion.

Here is what I rolled with my dice:

Character Dimensions: Man, optimistic, impatient, shape-shifter

POV: Antagonist

Time: Present Day

Place: Urban

Theme: Loneliness

I hope you enjoyed my little story. What would you have written based on those options?

Stay tuned…

First off, how is it already January 15th? That escalated quickly.

In the second place, while I don’t have much to say this evening, I have a lot of ideas percolating. I may try an experiment on here one of these days. I got a fascinating set of “Writing Dice” from my husband for Christmas, and I plan on writing out a scene based on what I roll off them. Well, I may write out a number of scenarios, but I am planning on posting one on here. So stay tuned!

The third thing for the evening: how many books have you read this year? Yes, I said this year. I’ve only finished a couple, but I've been working through more than that.

Keep reading and expanding your brain, and check back soon!

Jólabókaflóð

No, I did not do a “key smash” blog title or let one of my dogs type it for me. Jolabokaflod is an Icelandic word that roughly translates to “Christmas Book Flood.” Apparently there is a tradition in Iceland where people buy books for each other as Christmas gifts, and everyone opens them on Christmas Eve and reads books and drinks hot chocolate. I’m sure this has been idealized or romanticized since this is probably what many of us would like to be doing on Christmas Eve. However, a quick search will show that there are origins in history—the tradition started during rationing during WWII since paper wasn’t rationed—and that the likelihood of at least some Icelandic people participating in this tradition is high since Iceland has a higher percentage of writers per capita than a lot of other countries.

Regardless of how many Icelanders follow this tradition, it’s one that can be celebrated by people in other countries. I like to give books as gifts and I often receive books as gifts as well. This year was a mini Jolabokaflod for me, and I now have a larger TBR stack than I did before Christmas. This is a problem I’m always okay having.

Anyway, Merry Christmas to everyone! I hope your Christmas involved books in some manner.

Do you have a poet in your pocket?

Apparently John Adams wrote this in a letter to his son John Quincy Adams: “You will never be alone with a poet in your pocket.”

While I wouldn’t advocate literally trying to put a poet in your pocket, I do like the sentiment. Which poet would you be most likely to have in your pocket? The answer varies for me depending on the day, but if I had to only choose ONE poet, it would probably have to be Robert Frost. He’s got quite a range, and there are some I still haven’t read. Here is one of his delightful gems.

Dust of Snow

By Robert Frost

The way a crow

Shook down on me

From a hemlock tree

Has given my heart

A change of mood

And saved some part

Of a day I had rued.

In contrast to that, here is a link to one of a rather different sort.

https://poets.org/poem/browns-descent-or-willy-nilly-slide

If you’ve never read it, you should definitely check it out!

It’s the little things

Earlier this year a friend of mine sent me a book that was written by one of her teachers. The book was The Postmaster’s Daughter by Sharon Mabry. I had set it aside when I first received it because I always have a long To Be Read list/stack and it was a ways down. I recently picked the book up again, as it was its turn to be read!

The back cover of the book describes it as a murder mystery set in 1930s Appalachia. I do like mysteries, but I’d never read one set in Appalachia in the 30s. I didn’t know what to expect, but I started reading. I was soon caught up in the story and intrigued how it was all going to play out. There were some terms I had to look up because they were either Southern names or terms I hadn’t heard of. I appreciate it when a book makes me look something up. I feel like I’m learning and adding to my vocabulary.

There were definitely aspects of the story that I had figured out before they were revealed, but I still enjoyed the story. One thing I especially enjoyed was the description of a few characters that obviously had some sort of social anxiety or other such issues, but no one called it that in the 1930s. The way it was handled was interesting and seemed authentic. I especially liked Ethel Taggert, the local sheriff’s aunt. When she got overwhelmed by visitors she would sometimes leave them and shut herself in her room. I think we have all had moments in our lives when we wish we could do that!

If you are looking for an entertaining mystery full of unique characters, you should check out The Postmaster’s Daugher by Sharon Mabry. If you like mysteries, I think you will like this book!

It was also a clean read and relatively free from gore.

What’s a Panhead?

A year or so ago, I checked out a music CD from the library because I liked the album art and the title. I had done this earlier with a different album and it turned out well for me—it was American Prodigal by Crowder, who has since become one of my favorite Christian artists. But this album looked different. It was Victorious by Skillet. I’m now aware that I’m over twenty years late on the scene (Skillet was originally formed in 1996), but better late than never, right? The band has gone through several different versions with John Cooper remaining the only “original” member, but the same four have been in the group since 2011. And yes, I can now tell you who all of them are.

But really, that’s not my point here. I started listening to Victorious in my car and quickly became a fan. I particularly enjoyed the song “Victorious.” I’d be driving to work singing, “I hear 'em talk to me/ But they're not listening/ The words are kerosene/ They don't know who I am/ They'd never understand/ What it's like to be me” and it would hype me up to have a good day. It was refreshing to find a group that are still very open about their faith in God and how it informs their lives and their music.

One thing that I’ve come to appreciate about Skillet’s music is that it’s real—a lot of it is gritty and even dark (it is rock, after all), but some of their songs verbalize hope in spite of brokenness and that really speaks to me. “Anchor” is one of those songs. This is probably my favorite part of the song:

“When I get tired of finding
All of the fears I've been hiding
You gave me a breath, and tell me to rest
You never left
I can, I can, I can hear You, calling me by name
Pulling me up from under my shame
I'll never be the same
I can face anything, so let it rain

You are my anchor
So steady me, steady me now
You are my anchor
You're keeping my feet on the ground
In angry oceans, You've never broken through
Every wave of the storm
You are my anchor
So steady me, steady me now
Come steady me, steady me now”

Ryan and I even got the chance to go to a Skillet concert this summer and it was great. It’s quite a testament to the group that a rock concert was a family event—there were families with kids of all ages there and the crowd was hyped and rocking and yet still appropriate for children.

I’ve listened to a lot more of Skillet’s music after that first album, and I am now glad to admit that I’m a panhead—yes, that’s what they call Skillet fans—and proud of it!

So whether feel like you are a “Hero,” a “Monster,” or “Unpopular," you, too, can become a panhead. Check out some Skillet today!

Edna St. Vincent Millay

"Travel" by Edna St. Vincent Millay

The railroad track is miles away, 
    And the day is loud with voices speaking, 
Yet there isn't a train goes by all day 
    But I hear its whistle shrieking.

All night there isn't a train goes by, 
    Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming, 
But I see its cinders red on the sky, 
    And hear its engine steaming.

My heart is warm with the friends I make, 
    And better friends I'll not be knowing; 
Yet there isn't a train I wouldn't take, 
    No matter where it's going.

There is something about the poetry of Millay that strikes a chord with me. Her imagery can be simple and subtle, or loud and obvious, but it is usually striking in some manner. I hope you enjoy this poem and seek out more of her work.

All Saints Day

I know I’m a few days late here, but I saw this poem by Malcolm Guite who has a book called Sounding the Seasons that contains sonnets for the church year. He wrote the sonnet below for All Saints Day, which is the day after Halloween. Guite explains that Halloween means “the eve before All Hallows” or All Saints Day. Anyway, I thought the sonnet used powerful imagery, and thought I would share it.

All Saints

By Malcom Guite

Though Satan breaks our dark glass into shards

Each shard still shines with Christ’s reflected light,

It glances from the eyes, kindles the words

Of all his unknown saints. The dark is bright

With quiet lives and steady lights undimmed,

The witness of the ones we shunned and shamed.

Plain in our sight and far beyond our seeing

He weaves them with us in the web of being

They stand beside us even as we grieve,

The lone and left behind whom no one claimed,

Unnumbered multitudes, he lifts above

The shadow of the gibbet and the grave,

To triumph where all saints are known and named;

The gathered glories of His wounded love.

You can visit his blog at https://malcolmguite.wordpress.com/blog/ for more poems. What is especially nice about his blog is that he has recordings of himself reading his poems. I hope you enjoy!

And life is too much like a pathless wood

Today would have been my Dad’s birthday, so I am sharing what I believe was one of his favorite poems. He often used it in classes, and I believe he had it memorized. Frost was one of the greatest American poets.

Birches

By Robert Frost

When I see birches bend to left and right

Across the lines of straighter darker trees,

I like to think some boy’s been swinging them.

But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay

As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them

Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning

After a rain. They click upon themselves

As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored

As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.

Soon the sun’s warmth makes them shed crystal shells

Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust—

Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away

You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.

They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,

And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed

So low for long, they never right themselves:

You may see their trunks arching in the woods

Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground

Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair

Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.

But I was going to say when Truth broke in

With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm

I should prefer to have some boy bend them

As he went out and in to fetch the cows—

Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,

Whose only play was what he found himself,

Summer or winter, and could play alone.

One by one he subdued his father's trees

By riding them down over and over again

Until he took the stiffness out of them,

And not one but hung limp, not one was left

For him to conquer. He learned all there was

To learn about not launching out too soon

And so not carrying the tree away

Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise

To the top branches, climbing carefully

With the same pains you use to fill a cup

Up to the brim, and even above the brim.

Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,

Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.

So was I once myself a swinger of birches.

And so I dream of going back to be.

It’s when I’m weary of considerations,

And life is too much like a pathless wood

Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs

Broken across it, and one eye is weeping

From a twig’s having lashed across it open.

I'd like to get away from earth awhile

And then come back to it and begin over.

May no fate willfully misunderstand me

And half grant what I wish and snatch me away

Not to return. Earth’s the right place for love:

I don’t know where it's likely to go better.

I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,

And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk

Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,

But dipped its top and set me down again.

That would be good both going and coming back.

One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

Drabble

Have you ever heard of a drabble? I learned about them from a couple of ladies in the writers group I go to. A drabble is a hundred-word story. It has to be like a normal story—containing a beginning, middle, and end—but told in one hundred words. Most people don’t count the title as one of the hundred words.

It’s an interesting exercise, and not as easy as it may sound. I tried writing some after learning about them. I decided to share one that I wrote a while back. Here it is!

Brothers

They were having a stare-down again, standing close to each other, eye to eye. One shifted weight and the other tensed up, waiting for something to happen. The younger one was bigger than the older one now, but they could still look each other in the eye. The older lifted one foot and crouched down a bit and the younger one leaned forward. Finally the tension broke and they both bolted for the other side of the yard, jumping, leaping, barking, and wrestling with each other. They slowed, stood panting, stared at each other, and began all over again.

I hope this might inspire you to try something different! Maybe you will even want to try your hand at a drabble or two.

Quotes

I have been reading some books of quotations, and have found some striking ones. Here are two from Elie Wiesel that really struck me:

“The opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference. The opposite of art is not ugliness, it’s indifference. The opposite of faith is not heresy, it’s indifference. And the opposite of life is not death, it’s indifference.” Elie Wiesel, from U.S. News and World Report.

“Take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.” Elie Wiesel, when accepting the Nobel Peace Prize.

To offset the somber tone of those quotes, here are a couple of others from two of my favorite English writers.

“Do not meddle in the affairs of Wizards, for they are subtle and quick to anger.” J.R.R. Tolkien, from The Fellowship of the Ring.

“Most modern fantasy just rearranges the furniture in Tolkien’s attic.” Terry Pratchett, from Wordsmiths of Wonder.

Everyone should find some good quotes to inspire, motivate, or just entertain them!

What is your favorite fall poem?

One of my favorite fall poems is “Especially When the October Wind” by Dylan Thomas.

Here is the poem:

Especially When The October Wind

by Dylan Thomas

Especially when the October wind
With frosty fingers punishes my hair,
Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire
And cast a shadow crab upon the land,
By the sea's side, hearing the noise of birds,
Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks,
My busy heart who shudders as she talks
Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words.

Shut, too, in a tower of words, I mark
On the horizon walking like the trees
The wordy shapes of women, and the rows
Of the star-gestured children in the park.
Some let me make you of the vowelled beeches,
Some of the oaken voices, from the roots
Of many a thorny shire tell you notes,
Some let me make you of the water's speeches.

Behind a pot of ferns the wagging clock
Tells me the hour's word, the neural meaning
Flies on the shafted disk, declaims the morning
And tells the windy weather in the cock.
Some let me make you of the meadow's signs;
The signal grass that tells me all I know
Breaks with the wormy winter through the eye.
Some let me tell you of the raven's sins.

Especially when the October wind
(Some let me make you of autumnal spells,
The spider-tongued, and the loud hill of Wales)
With fists of turnips punishes the land,
Some let me make you of the heartless words.
The heart is drained that, spelling in the scurry
Of chemic blood, warned of the coming fury.
By the sea's side hear the dark-vowelled birds.

Thomas has some of the best poetic imagery—maybe ever. I don’t always understand all of it because he is often using specific imagery to Wales or to the ocean, but the words that he uses makes it come alive, no matter how much of it I comprehend.

I hope you read this poem and enjoy it as much as I do!