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Everyone grumbled. The sky was grey.
We had nothing to do and nothing to say.
We were nearing the end of a dismal day,
And then there seemed to be nothing beyond,
Then
Daddy fell into the pond!
And everyone's face grew merry and bright,
And Timothy danced for sheer delight.
"Give me the camera, quick, oh quick!
He's crawling out of the duckweed!" Click!
Then the gardener suddenly slapped his knee,
And doubled up, shaking silently,
And the ducks all quacked as if they were daft,
And it sounded as if the old drake laughed.
Oh, there wasn't a thing that didn't respond
When
Daddy Fell into the pond!
From you have I been absent in the spring... (Sonnet 9
by William Shakespeare
From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,
That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him,
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odor and in hue,
Could make me any summer's story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew.
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
Yet seemed it winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.
Posted: Fri May 23, 2008 8:01 am Post subject: Maya Angelou
In 1986 at Ohio University, I saw Maya Angelou read. What a powerful presence. The book she had just published was And Still I Rise. I was 4 months pregnant at the time and once the baby arrived poetry went right out the window, along with an entire academic career. Twenty-one years later the child writes her own poetry and I am finally back to it myself. Last week at a book sale I found a copy of Maya Angelou's And Still I Rise. Here is one of my favorites.
Remembrance
Your hands easy
weight, teasing the bees
hived in my hair, your smile at the
slope of my cheek, On the
occasion, you press
above me, glowing, spouting
readiness, mystery rapes
my reason.
When you have withdrawn
your self and the magic, when
only the smell of your
love lingers between
my breasts, then, only
then, can I greedily consume
your presence.
There are two observations in this poem that I really appreciate. The first is the fact that the smell of another person can stay on your own body and that you can distinguish it from your own. And I do not just mean the smell of sex. I find this amazing. Those people I have loved the best in my life, I have also had at least one experience of noticing and loving the way they smelled. My daughters always tell me they like the way I smell and they like to be in my bed because they say it smells like me.
The second is the pleasure of remembering an encounter - especially a memory enhanced by a lingering scent. I have found as much joy in going over in my mind a memory as the actual event. I'll go a step further to say that I think that falling in love is about this very thing. The stroking of memory inflames the growing feelings to the point of, well the craziness that is "falling in love". I say craziness because we all know that falling in love is not about reality. Memories are not accurate renditions of events and then focusing solely on the pleasure experienced distorts the reality of the living breathing other person. I suppose that is how we sometimes find ourselves in the situation of asking, how did I end up with this person? More incredible is to come to the other side of falling in love and find that you are still in love.
Maya Angelou has certainly lead an interesting life, hasn't she? She's reinvented herself more than once and has become one of our elder statesmen (stateswomen? I don't think so). I've always admired her, long before Oprah discovered and touted her. Remember the poem she wrote and recited at President Kennedy's inauguration? The River - something like that.
She lives not too far from you, doesn't she? And, she's a Hilary supporter; I wonder what Oprah thinks of that.
"Remembrance;" a lovely poem and immediately recognizable as from Maya Angelou.
Saffron...that is a very sexy poem.....and I am past the age when I should be affected by such stuff.....but who cares about 'should'.
Pheromones.......you cannot always detect the smell of some one...yet the smell affects us....that is not fair....nature is not fair!!!
But, it keeps us turned on....to life....well, to the life-force.
Sound does it too.......I am thinking of the BBC production of 'The Forsyte Saga'.....John Galsworthy wrote the character of Soames, as a letcherous old man....but the BBC cast Eric Porter in the role....Eric Porter had a voice like 'Port Wine' and I could never understand why Irene didn't fancy him....because I did (fancy him).....Later, when I read the novel, the BBC production ruined it for me....because Soames was always Eric Porter, with THAT voice.
So, we've covered, smell, sound, ......sight, is obvious.....I look at Johnny Depp...and I wish I was young again.....taste and touch are left......perhaps we shouldn't go there.....Saffron.....
Penelope, my spine tingles! So, what of taste? Anyone? I've got touch covered. Years ago I wrote a poem called Mango Passion for a lover I had once. I'll see if I can find it.
I love the BBC production of 'The Forsyte Saga' too! I also think Eric Porter was miscast. His acting was wonderful but, I think you are right about the voice.
