a little ditty for a little friday
I gave him years of only “no,”
’til he gave up on chasing me;
I loved him madly last night, when
I saw him dancing with “WHO’S SHE?”(c) nicole 2003
i will give you a dollar if you can put it to a tune. a tune i like.
i’m not sure what it is – maybe something in the water :) – but it seems that heartbreaks are going around right now. a good number of my good friends are suffering, and whether it be matters of love, family, job, education, or the “bludgeoning of chance,” my heart goes out to each of these dear people. (“bludgeoning of chance” is a phrase from the poem “invictus,” and though i don’t identify with that poem as much as with others, two particular lines are inspiring: “under the bludgeoning of chance / my head is bloody, but unbowed.”)
this morning, considering some of my own recent disappointments, i was reminded of a line from a poem by naomi shihab nye: “My stomach was a melon split wide inside my skin.” and i thought that perhaps this, of all the lines of poetry i could recall, best captures the feeling of heartache.
nye’s poem never ceases to comfort me, and i hope it might touch some of you as well.
“Making A Fist” – Naomi Shihab Nye
For the first time, on the road north of Tampico,
I felt the life sliding out of me,
a drum in the desert, harder and harder to hear.
I was seven, I lay in the car
watching palm trees swirl a sickening pattern past the glass.
My stomach was a melon split wide inside my skin.“How do you know if you are going to die?”
I begged my mother.
We had been traveling for days.
With strange confidence she answered,
“When you can no longer make a fist.”Years later I smile to think of that journey,
the borders we must cross separately,
stamped with our unanswerable woes.
I who did not die, who am still living,
still lying in the backseat behind all my questions,
clenching and opening one small hand.
e. e. cummings has a poem
(i carry your heart with me)
and i thought i did, too.
i thought i did, too,
until you left, and i found
myself whole.
i carry your heart,
cummings said. (i carry it in my heart)
and i thought i did, too.
i thought i did, too,
but there were no holes,
no breaks, no
bruising. no shadow(of anotherheart)
instead, i was floating
again, weightless, buoyant,
the earth below aglow, and
fresh stars tangled in my hair.
and i knew:
i carried your heart with me(i carried it until now)
but only in a pocket.
if i were a photographer,
i would take pictures of every possible thing i could and name them after my favorite poets. flowers growing in teapots, brilliant and wild and everywhere, called “e.e. cummings.” a child tying her red sneakers on her own, fingers stained with ink: “naomi shihab nye.” a periwinkle sky with yawning stars to call “yeats,” candles and cigarettes smoldering in a cracked ashtray (“william shakespeare”), and, of course, a red wheelbarrow for you-know-who.
(i know this kind of looks like my “something like a fairy tale,” but it isn’t part of that — just more fun with sharpies and MS word :)
On the second ship on the second day,
Back from the forest of ocean spray,
With tattered, torn sails from a trip now past
Is a wind-beaten captain and a broken-down mast.
He’ll tell you the stories your soul longs to hear
Of sea battles won against Spain, France and fear;
He’ll tell you of glory, of drum-rolls and bells,
And tempt you to follow to corpse-laden hells.
But his is a fight that is already won,
So, be careful, be wary, of old sailors, son.
If you have to fight, if you need to sail,
Navigate first through the quagmire of tales.
Aye, your soul seeks the honor, your heart races high,
Destiny calls and victory cries –
Yet –
‘Tis the second ship and the second day;
Beware,
Lest the first ship sail, without you, away.
in going through some old blogs/journals recently, i came across this classic. i remember it well – it stemmed from an email i sent to my family, inquiring of them what their favorite words were. and then, on a whim, i crafted a poem using all of those words.
(i think many of you have read this before – forgive me, then; in cleaning out old blogs, i wanted to make sure i didn’t lose this.)
we took a poll, and did a test:
we found our fav’rite words to say.
meanings are moot; some words sound best,
according to our wee survey.
a plethora of words were found,
auditioning exquisitely–
voices dangled each luscious sound,
wooing our ears perpetually.
“unlucky” some we could not call
(and carnacopia was one)
with others we in love did fall
(waddling and chicken — so much fun!)
and then at last, two words breezed by–
a murmur and a lullaby.(c) anothernicole.
(like someone else is going to want credit for this.)
the next morning, i got a reply-all from smr, the first of my 3 brothers:
A Haiku:
Beauty of this poem
Marred only by misspelling:
Cornucopia-smr
appreciative, i changed the spelling; but, not to be outdone, replied with this:
A Limerick:
There once was a boy named [his name, rhymes with dawn]
Whose knowledge stretched forth like the dawn
He knew all his spelling
And i thank him for telling
And saving my poem thereupon.-anothernicole
and then there was no stopping us: (click below to read the rest of our rhythmic prattle)
here’s a snippet from my facebook profile yesterday (i’ve added the hyperlinks and mouseovers for clarity).
anothernicole (status update): i think in iambic pentameter.
my friend ed: that’s strange, because you write in hypercatalectic amphibrachic trimeter.
anothernicole: what can i say – some things just get lost in translation. also, google thanks you for helping keep them in business :p
my friend ed: …and now you’ve gone all “free verse” on me.
anothernicole: @ed
i offer then this emendation (here): / “some things get lost when in translation (dear).”
my friend ed: heheh!
my friend john: whoe’er in meter thinks (and so she writes) / is grace to nerds, a cheer, and them delights.
this is one of the dangers of going to school with people far, far smarter than you.
