Hedgehog Lover

Letters of Note

2012-02-08T00:30:00.000-05:00

Who writes letters?

Smart people.
Happy people.
Compassionate people.
Funny people.
Famous people.
Angry people.

Like: Conan O'Brien, George Harrison, John Steinbeck, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, Alleta Sullivan, Wil Wheaton — and many more, all available on Letters of Note.

This website shows the original letter and offers a transcript. They are lovely to read, and they make me want to write more letters — or maybe even mail a dream.

Check out a few of these letters, and be inspired.

Celebrating the Dickens Out of Today

2012-02-07T18:57:00.002-05:00

I will celebrate Charles Dickens' 200th birthday tonight by reading the second chapter of Oliver Twist. (I read the first chapter a few days ago.)

I look forward to discovering the terrible nature of one of literature's vilest villains, Bill Sikes.

Interesting tidbit: the author was accused of anti-Semitism when the book was first published. At first, he defended himself. Then, according to Wikipedia, he "then halted the printing of Oliver Twist, and changed the text for the parts of the book that had not been set, which is why Fagin is called 'the Jew' 257 times in the first 38 chapters, but barely at all in the next 179 references to him."

If you want something Dickens-ish — but not by Dickens — consider Drood, a fabulous mystery novel by Dan Simmons that speculates if there wasn't more truth to Dickens' final, unfinished novel.

The Passing of Nobel Laureate Wislawa Szymborska

2012-02-06T00:30:00.000-05:00

Nobel Laureate Wislawa Szymborska died February 1, and I was thrilled and saddened when I stumbled across this poem of hers. It took my breath away when I first read it in the Washington Post years ago — and still does today.

I wish her peace.

The End and the Beginning

After every war
someone has to tidy up.
Things won't pick
themselves up, after all.

Someone has to shove
the rubble to the roadsides
so the carts loaded with corpses
can get by.

Someone has to trudge
through sludge and ashes,
through the sofa springs,
the shards of glass,
the bloody rags.

Someone has to lug the post
to prop the wall,
someone has to glaze the window,
set the door in its frame.

No sound bites, no photo opportunities,
and it takes years.
All the cameras have gone
to other wars.

The bridges need to be rebuilt,
the railroad stations, too.
Shirtsleeves will be rolled
to shreds.

Someone, broom in hand,
still remembers how it was.
Someone else listens, nodding
his unshattered head.

But others are bound to be bustling nearby
who'll find all that
a little boring.

From time to time someone still must
dig up a rusted argument
from underneath a bush
and haul it off to the dump.

Those who knew
what this was all about
must make way for those
who know little.
And less than that.
And at last nothing less than nothing.

Someone has to lie there
in the grass that covers up
the causes and effects
with a cornstalk in his teeth,
gawking at clouds.

(courtesy Web Archive)

The Commercial We Should See During the Super Bowl

2012-02-05T00:30:00.000-05:00

Dear Budweiser, think again — and let us see this quality of commercial during the Super Bowl. You usually have nice commercials, but this one... well, let's just watch.

Keep up the good work, and please share this quality of commercials with those of us south of the border. We will appreciate it, really — and I promise I'll cry again. (It's an easy promise to make.)

Thank you.

Fun Friday: Books and Yarn Bombs

2012-02-03T00:30:00.000-05:00

Put them together and what have you got?

With thanks to Book Crossing, Yarn Bombing and Twitter.

The Month of Letters: Postage

2012-02-01T00:30:00.000-05:00

Happy Month of Letters!

Before you drop that letter in the mailbox, make sure you've used the proper amount of postage. The U.S. Postal Service recently changed postal rates, so check before you mail.

How much does it cost to mail a letter? What about a postcard? Find out here.

Be sure to use proper postage so missives get to their destinations.

The Month of Letters: Addresses, Addressing

2012-01-31T00:30:00.000-05:00

Tomorrow is the first day for The Month of Letters. Make sure to gather your addresses and put them in your address book.

If you don't have an address book, this is a good time to start one.

In the olden days, we'd write them in notebooks and place them near the "main" phone outlet.

Times change, and so do phone "books." If it's easier, include addresses in your cell phone; contact lists often have fields for mailing addresses.

E-mail contact lists also may provide fields for mailing addresses.

Be sure to include the ZIP Code, if applicable.

Finally, make sure you address envelopes or postcards properly. Visit the U.S. Postal Service website for information.

The Month of Letters: Are You In?

2012-01-30T00:30:00.000-05:00

I'm always up for a challenge, especially when it comes to writing — and this challenge is near and dear to my heart.

In February, the challenge is this: write a letter a day. It doesn't have to be long. In fact, a postcard can do, too.

The Month of Letters encourages us to run at least one thing through the postal system every mailing day (excluding Sundays and postal holidays) in February.

Why?

Because we've gotten too cavalier about communication.

We used to call and chat with each other, often for hours. I remember talking all night to friends, my princess phone glued to my ear. (I provided myself my own line in my parents' house.) I'm sure the U.S. Postal Service lamented their demise when Ma Bell hit the wires.

However, nowadays, we don't even bother to call, let alone walk 10 feet to the office or desk next door to speak in person. We e-mail, ostensibly to "have a record." But truly, it's easier and faster to shoot a message rather than talk to a person.

Even in that, we're short. We don't e-mail when a text will do. We don't even spell it out anymore — we abbreviate. We think it saves us time, but that's rarely the case: think about the flurry of emails you send daily on the simplest topics or tasks. By being short, we often make life more difficult for ourselves.

So let's take the time to communicate effectively.

Try doing the following:

Begin with a salutation. ("Hello" always worked for me.)
Use entire words.
Spell every word properly.
Write the right word.
Create complete sentences.
Practice proper grammar.
When you think you're done, read the entire letters out loud. If it doesn't sound right, chances are, it's not. Fix what needs it.
When you're really done, sign your letter.

Apply these rules to postcards, birthday cards, everything. Put the effort into your correspondences. Communication counts.

Throughout February, from time to time I'll offer ideas, tips and tricks to make letter-writing interesting for the recipient and fun for the writer. If you have anything to share, drop me a line or leave a comment at the end of the blog entry.

So, who will receive your first letter?

Goodbye, Ticketmaster

2012-01-28T13:30:00.002-05:00

I'm done.

I'm done standing in line in freezing weather with the hope that technology won't fail me.

I'm done worrying if I don't pay exorbitant prices for processing fees that I won't get to see the artists I want.

I am done with thievery and usury — and difficult times.

Last week, my husband David found out Bruce Springsteen tickets were going on sale today, and we plotted our purchase strategy. I'm a huge fan, which makes me one in a million. Or so. I have seen more than a few performers through the years, but Bruce is the only one for whom the sky is the limit when it comes to tickets.

However, I do have a limit as to how much surcharge (or "processing fee") I'll pay. The last time I checked computer or phone purchases through Ticketmaster/Live Nation (which the federal government swears is not a monopoly), the fee was double-digit per ticket in many cases. The ticket price for "cheap seats" to see Nickelback in Utah last year were reasonable, but the processing fees would have nearly doubled the cost of each seat.

As a result, David and I try to purchase our tickets at the venues. Here in DC, the processing fee could be as little as $3 a ticket.

Springsteen tickets went on sale this morning. David and I were up before dawn to get to the venue and join the ticket lottery. At 8 a.m., those in line received a number at random. It could be 1, it could be 150. However, if you were there, you earned that place in line. It didn't guarantee you a ticket, but your position was better than it was for those who showed up "on time."

David got number 89.

I got 148.

The box office opened at 10 a.m., and within 20 minutes, only single tickets were available. We got probably one of the last pairs of tickets, then two singles. Minutes after that, tickets were sold out.
I can tell you why: scalpers.

One man who purchased tickets walked past the line and asked us, "So, when is the concert?" He wasn't a fan buying them for himself and a couple of friends. He was buying them for profit.

From the conversations I heard from others in line, their onslaught would begin at 9:58 a.m. with multitasking. These folks with cell phones and handheld devices were purchasing tickets however they could. I joined them myself, and after 17 minutes, I gave up.

David had a companion in line whose wife at home purchased great seats through the computer before he arrived at the ticket window. Around me, everyone had friends doing the same thing. No one at my end of the line expected to get a ticket, or at least a desirable seat. They hit send, stop, then send, over and over.

Within the hour, news reports stated that analysis of computer and telephone sales indicated that many buyers were using sophisticated equipment to purchase large volumes of tickets. I could have told them that.

I also could have told these analysts that the system has been corrupt for years. Every "protection" set up has only hindered legitimate personal purchases, and music fans find themselves resorting to jamming Ticketmaster phone and computer line until all hope is gone — while, within minutes of a sell-out, scalpers post their booty on scalping sites (which Ticketmaster is kind enough to refer you to in case you really want to go to the show at any price).

I am done getting my toes stepped on in this dance: I am going to step aside and let others, hopefully fans, make these required herculean efforts. I enjoy live music, but not enough to endure the pressure and inevitable disappointment as tickets sell out from under my fingers, no matter how many times I hit "redial" or "refresh."

I know I live in an affluent area with few good venues for the larger, more popular acts. I know there are more people on the planet jamming the phone lines and computer connections. (One would think the absurdly high ticket prices would warn them off — though, to be fair, Bruce and Nickelback had the most reasonable prices for a large venue I have noticed in a long time). I know times change, life goes on and the world keeps getting more expensive, impersonal and inconvenient. However, I also know I can choose, to quote George Jetson, to "get off this crazy thing," and that is precisely what I am going to do.

Going Black Against SOPA and PIPA

2012-01-17T21:58:00.002-05:00

On Wednesday, January 18, I will join Wikipedia, Reddit and George Takei others by "going dark," or at least refrain from posting anything on the Web on my blogs.

I'll let Wikipedia do the talking:

The blackout is a protest against proposed legislation in the United States – the Stop Online Piracy Act (SOPA) in the U.S. House of Representatives, and the PROTECT IP Act (PIPA) in the U.S. Senate – that, if passed, would seriously damage the free and open Internet, including Wikipedia.

Click here for more information. (Just don't try it Wednesday.)

I am suspicious of government control of information, whether it's telling me what I can access or trying to get more than they should about me without going through the channels set up to protect my constitutional rights.

I am not keen on the PATRIOT Act. President Obama's decision to extend it in 2011 is one of my greatest disappointments of his tenure in the White House. Our freedoms and rights are sacrosanct, and anyone who asks us to surrender them should be regarded with great suspicion.

So I'll see you on the other side.

One of Our Thursdays is Missing!

2012-01-17T00:30:00.000-05:00

Jasper Fforde could not disappoint any of his devoted readers, not even in the bleakest of circumstances.

I wasn't in the mood for One of Our Thursdays is Missing, the latest installment of the Thursday Next series. That, of course, is when it's needed most — so I soldiered on.

I am glad I did.

As the novel opens, we find ourselves in Book World with Thursday. Well, it's Thursday, but the Written Thursday. Important distinction, and one that the Written Thursday never forgets. She's in charge of her series, keeping the characters ready for the next reader.

Characters perform only when there's a reader; otherwise, they keep their own personal lives rather busy (and, in some cases, steeped in tawdry.) The Written Pickwick is played by a very snooty Dodo and Thursday has an understudy who, rumor has it, enacted the "snooze" button once, in a panic. (If you read this book for only one reason, you must read it to learn about Book World's snooze button.)

The Written Thursday is a very good Thursday, one who seems to be most like her Real World counterpart. That, of course, is what someone is hoping. You see, one of our Thursdays is missing — and it's one that everyone will miss.

Only Fforde could create a reboot of Book World so amazing, so believable, that readers suddenly wonder what happens when they pick up and thumb through a tome. Who's between the lines? What does it take for us to enjoy what we read: us or them?

This is a fabulous installment — and, if you're new to the series, one that serve as a good introduction. However, after reading this one, you will want to go back and read every other book in this series. (You could save yourself the time and just start at the beginning with The Eyre Affair. This one will be waiting for you when you get back.)

But be forewarned: Fforde is a way of life. Once you go Fforde, you'll never go back.

Frighteningly Classic: The Woman in Black

2012-01-13T00:30:00.000-05:00

Rarely have I read something as subtly frightening as The Woman in Black.

This relatively young ghost story, published in 1983 by Susan Hill, is insidious.

The book opens on Christmas Eve, as Arthur Kripps refuses to participate in the telling of scary tales with his wife and her children. He is a well-loved and good humored stepfather, but the tales push him over an edge no one, not even he, knew was there.

You see, his ghost story is true.

Arthur is a solicitor whose employer has assigned him to execute the estate of Alice Drablow, who lives in a small coastal town a day's journey from London. He leaves behind his young fiancée and expects to spend a day, maybe two, straightening out the late woman's affairs.

It begins with Mrs. Drablow's funeral, during which he sees a woman in black — someone who goes undetected by the only other person at the funeral, a fellow solicitor whose firm refuses all business from the town's wealthiest resident. In fact, everyone in town seems very friendly — until it comes to Mrs. Drablow's business or the woman in black, then they go mum or change the subject.

Then things get weird.

This classic story is masterfully told, with suspense and fear building with every page. The ending — oh, my stars, I never saw it coming. Neither will you.

Read this book — but don't do it alone, or after dark, or when you're apt to see shadows where there are none. It's that scary. Really.

Lights Out at the Bookstore in Toronto

2012-01-11T00:30:00.000-05:00

Bookstores are alive.

If you ever had any doubt, watch this lovely video from Type Books in Toronto.

(An added bonus: perhaps finding another adventure with Mr. Pusskins!)

Poem: Drinking with Friends Amongst the Blooming Peonies

2012-01-07T11:16:00.001-05:00

We had a drinking party to admire the peonies.
I drank cup after cup 'till I was drunk.
Then to my shame I heard the flowers whisper,
"What are we doing, blooming for these old alcoholics?"

— Ling Huchu (Tang Dynasty, 618-907)

Thanks to author Gregory Maguire for pointing me to this gem.

Peculiar, Indeed: Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children

2012-01-02T00:30:00.000-05:00

The cover captured my attention.

The title, Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children,intrigued me. Above the title was girl in a dress reminiscent of the 1920s,wearing a tiara, possibly hovering above the dirt and stones under herfeet. Hovering? Pecuilar, indeed.

On the back of the novel were more intriguing photos ofchildren: painted like clowns, in a bunny suit, a girl with a reflection of twogirls. Ransom Riggs had someexplaining to do.

So, apparently, did Abe, Jacob’s grandfather. Jacob adoredhis grandfather and believed the stories behind the photos Abe showed him: askinny boy lifting a boulder above his head, a girl holding a ball of fire, asuit of clothes standing upright without a child in it. Abe told his grandson all about thesechildren, who were in an orphanage with him when he was a child. Jacob believedhim — until he grew old enough to wonder, and doubt.

That all changed when Jacob received a panicked call fromhis grandfather — a call that divided Jacob’s life into Before and After.Suddenly, that which seemed unreal and fantastic no longer was totally out ofthe realm of possibility, and Jacob had to find out whether he was losing hismind, or finding his true self.

Riggs creates a taut, brilliant story fraught with peril,wonder, shock, fright and tales too real to be true. His characters are rich and complex, and they carry thestory forward effortlessly. Peppered throughout the book are snapshots thatdescribe that which sometimes defies description. The book is awash in mystery and amazement: not everythingis explained because some things defy explanation. However, some explanationsin the book make perfect sense, and readers may find themselves looking at theworld differently.

I enjoy books that successfully join images and language,and I can’t believe I waited so many months — and actually returned my librarycopy — before opening the covers of this book. Shame on me! I understand there will be a sequel, and I will be among the first at the bookstore the day it isreleased. I can’t wait.

The Reading Year in Review: Six Faves from 2011

2011-12-31T00:30:00.000-05:00

This has not been the most stellar year for reading. Much has happened in this booklover's life: two moves, two deaths, packing and unpacking — and the revelation of a grand library in a new home.

I pretty much stopped paying attention to what I was reading, and I apologize to myself and to you, my Faithful Reader. I hope to do better by you this year.

Despite my best efforts, I did encounter a few really good books this year. Here are some, in no particular order:

The Gift of Fear — Just because we can't articulate that which makes us fearful doesn't mean we should ignore those signs. Intuition is more important than all of the "common sense" in the world (though the latter should not be ignored, either). Just ask Gavin de Becker.
Dracula — This classic stands the test of time. Everyone takes away something interesting from this timeless tale. Mine was the understanding that much of modern vampire lore began with Bram Stoker's novel.
2030: The Real Story of What Happens to America — I never wrote a review because "OMG I LOVED THIS BOOK" doesn't quite articulate how this book eerily foresees a future being constructed in today's real world. Unsettling rather than hysterical, it still amused me.
The Map of Time — I am a sucker for a good time-travel book, and this is one. It went places I didn't expect, and I loved every minute. You will, too.
Cutting for Stone — Gorgeous, sweeping, touching, stunning, moving... It's a must-read if you have eyeballs.
Little Princes — I can't remember the last time I really, really liked an author the way I liked Conor Grennan. His authenticity and honesty was amazing, and I so enjoyed joining him on his "accidental" journey.

I didn't include Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children because I am not past the "I LOVELOVELOVED THIS BOOK" (note the annoying all-caps) and I want to wait until the sequel this year of A Discovery of Witches. (I know, what am I thinking?!)

So, what were some of your fave books this year?

And Then Came Ginger

2011-12-28T22:13:00.001-05:00

I have two words for you: Ginger Galore.

With a face like that, what else is there to write?

NaNoWriMo: On the Other Side

2011-12-14T00:30:00.001-05:00

November was a crazy month that included a lingering sinus infection, a major multi-day holiday, a friend's wedding, weird weather and my attempt at writing a novel.

Guess which one I liked the most? (No, you wise acres, not the sinus infection!)

National Novel Writing Month was an experience that reinforced what most productive writers understand: don't wait for "inspiration" — create it. Every day, as I sit at the computer for work, I dredge up material for the assorted projects. Not everything that comes out of my brain and fingers is award-winning. Some days are better than others. Some days I'm on fire and others I just show up and type materials that are "good enough." Some days the words are stellar and others it's just enough to get the job done.

The difference between a good day and a bad day: on a bad day, I don't even show up. And that, my friends, is the definition of failure.

I'm not saying every bit of junk we produce needs to see the light of day. In fact, I don't intend to show my "novel" to more than one or two souls. However, I followed the objectives of the project established by NaNoWriMo and managed to succeed. I created a document totaling 50, 202 words between November 1-30.

Why?

Well, why not?

On November 1, I scratched my head and wondered exactly what in the world I was going to write — until I remembered: The Foreigner! Well, I didn't remember it by name, but I remembered the play description. The play is about a shy man who pretends to not know English on a cruise full of English-speaking people. What other situations can create opportunities for people to share information, confess, reveal or otherwise communicate?

I came up with one. It involved The Cowboy.

Not every word was stellar. In fact, much of it probably was contrived, and possibly impossible to read. The chapters that feature The Cowboy, however, were ingenious, if I dare say so myself. There may be a story in there somewhere, or bits of one, or even a short story that can be edited and re-purposed. Maybe. I won't make any promises. I wrote many, many pages of words, and some of those words (beyond articles and conjunctions) may be of use at some point in the future. But really, I don't care. What I do care is that I know I can do something like that, possibly even better, in the future. All it takes is the precious commodity of time — which, for the story burning in me is a small price to pay.

Thanks, NaNoWriMo. If I can pull it off again next year, maybe I'll even come up with a story and outline in October.

And the rest of you: what are you waiting for? You can wait until next November — or you can start now to warm up for the next one. I think I'll choose the latter. Let me know which you choose.

A Precious Gift, The Gift of Fear

2011-12-12T00:30:00.000-05:00

You know when your skin prickles and you just know something isn't right? That is instinct, something most of us ignore if we think it will cause us embarrassment.

Gavin de Becker will convince you to react otherwise in his brilliant book, The Gift of Fear: Survival Signals that Protect Us from Violence.

For de Becker, instinct is the gathering of data we cannot articulate but simply understand. If a voice comes from a location a person should not logically be traveling, if the gesture or tone of voice doesn't comfort us as it should, if the offer for help seems too forceful — our minds won't explain it to us, but upon reflection, it all makes sense.

Equally important is knowing the difference between what should cause fear and how we invoke it in ourselves. Being petrified that you're in an empty parking lot is a waste of fear if there is no real threat. Using your spidey-senses to listen for the unexpected footsteps, however, is a good way to determine a true threat and use your fear only if needed.

The author earned my trust early on in his book as he revealed his own background in security and safety. Just because presidents, military, national security and celebrities trust him doesn't make him enough of a reliable resource. What he says, how he says it and how he determines the danger of a situation seems sane, reasonable and thoughtful.

He takes a look at many different threats people could face: in the workplace, at home, from strangers and those familiar. He offers indicators, tips on what to look for to help assess the real threat. Someone writes a thousand fan letters: weird, but maybe not threatening. I know, isn't "weird" already threatening? Not necessarily. If you feel threatened, always consult a professional — but let this professional help you determine if you need to consult a professional.

This is not a self-defense book, but a rational look at human behavior. Based on his experiences, de Becker asks certain questions and analyzes behavior to help clients go beyond fear and into the situation itself. Is the "stalker" really a threat, or a nuisance? How can you best determine that and end the situation? Will a restraining order do more harm than good to deter the abusive spouse? Most importantly, should someone really be afraid in a situation? Is what they perceive a threat really dangerous?

I strongly recommend this book. I plan to get extra copies of this book and share it with pretty much everyone I know, men and women. Anyone can find themselves threatened and in danger, and the more people who know what to look for and how to reasonably respond, the better.

A Century Ago, A World Ago

2011-11-11T11:00:00.000-05:00

Ninety-three years ago today, the Great War ended. It was a brutal war in ways we never imagined. We found and used techniques and technology that changed the fundamental application and understanding of "war."

Barbed wire, mustard gas, foxholes, trench warfare, machine guns, shell shock, the Lost Generation, no man's land — thanks to what we now call World War I, all of these are part of our lexicon. Every nation was appalled, sickened and saddened by that which we had wrought: mass casualties, mass destruction, world war.

Think about that phrase for a moment: world war. It didn't exist before the 20th century.

In the wake of the Great War, the World War, the War to End All Wars, nations tried to come together to prevent another. They established international organizations to address issues and concerns globally, to embrace pacifism, to bring about peace in our time. With the Treaty of Versailles, they thought they would keep it from happening again.

We all know how that worked out.

World War I officially ended with a cease fire scheduled for 11 a.m. November 11, 1918. We began by recognizing Armistice Day, then evolving it into Veterans Day, for all who serve.

Nearly a century later, we rely still on those who have and will give all. "Thanks" isn't enough, but I hope it will do until we can give them what they really deserve: no reason to take up arms.

The fields in Flanders, Belgium, where the earth was churned by battle and burial of the casualties of war, were covered in poppies. John McCrae wrote this memorable poem after presiding over a friend's funeral.

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
      Between the crosses, row on row,
   That mark our place; and in the sky
   The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
   Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
         In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
   The torch; be yours to hold it high.
   If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
         In Flanders fields.

In November, Go NaNoWriMo!

2011-11-07T00:30:00.000-05:00

It may be folly, but I have taken on a new task: writing a novel.

I'm under no illusion that my will be good, or even readable. I hope to learn something from it, and maybe even come up with a character or short story or two that can be salvaged. But I am keeping even those hopes modest.

This is all part of a national movement to get people writing, National Novel Writing Month (affectionately knows as NaNoWriMo). The stated goal:finishing a 50,000 word-novel by November 30. Some people worry about finishing their novel, some worry about a word count. Frankly, I just worry that I'll have something worth my time by the end of the month.

Thankfully, I'm not alone in my quest. I have suckered a few other people in, and they also have modest hopes. One is a novelist who wants to start a new story. Another is a self-proclaimed "non-writer" who has stories in her head. Still another wants to give it a try because it sounds like fun. The last in this motley crew is working on something in her head but hasn't gotten anything on paper yet.

And whose brilliant idea was this? Well, I was the one to rally the troops. To be fair, I wouldn't have considered it had another writer not suggested it, but in the end, it's all my fault. I took up the baton and started running. Amazing how often the folks who are ready to grab the baton are those I would never have expected — but who make for fantastic partners. So far, I even met another new (to me) writer whose sense of humor makes me laugh, especially since I would never have said it as well as he (whatever "it" is: horror, King Arthur, psychotics).

I nearly forgot to offer a summary of the story! Here it is: it's about someone who must listen. The main character is dying. Sheis told if she listens to people who need to "unburden" themselves, she will benefit. She has a choice: listen or not. You'd think it would be easy, but how easy is it to really listen when you are yourself in need of an ear?

My goal: 2,000 words a day through the month of November (taking an occasional day off for, say, Thanksgiving or a friend's anniversary or wedding) (not the same friend). So far, I'm on track: I've written one good chapter, one mediocre chapter, one awful one and one that I'm afraid to re-read because I liked it as I wrote it. Total so far: 11,972 words — not bad for a poet who tries to keep her work at a single page.

I'll let you know how it's going. And if you want, give it a try. Sure, you're a week behind, but has that ever stopped you? Er, don't answer that. Just... give it a shot, and let me know how you're faring.

All Hallow's Read: The Votes are In!

2011-11-01T00:30:00.000-04:00

I declare All Hallow's Read a success.

Every single person who received a poem loved the idea and planned to read it tonight. (I recommended reading it with the light on, then realized they'd have to kind of do that anyway.)

It was our first Halloween in our new house, and we had a few dozen trick-or-treaters. They didn't start out as early as I thought, but I forgot that we are at the back of the neighborhood. It takes folks longer to get to us.

I was crazy-generous with the candy, but that's what happens when there are nine bags of candy to give away. (Can anyone say, "Eating ourselves into proper winter padding?")

And everyone, even those who may be too young to read by themselves, got a poem. (Hey, Mom and Dad can read, and decide if it is something to be read to them now or later.)

So, we'll do it again next year. Thanks again for the suggestion, Neil Gaiman!

Hallowe'en, All Hallow's Read 2011

2011-10-31T00:30:00.000-04:00

Happy Halloween! Happy All Hallow's Read! Here is the poem I will share with my neighborhood trick-or-treaters — by one of my favorite poets. Enjoy!

The Little Ghost

I KNEW her for a little ghost
That in my garden walked;
The wall is high -- higher than most --
And the green gate was locked.

And yet I did not think of that
Till after she was gone --
I knew her by the broad white hat,
All ruffled, she had on.

By the dear ruffles round her feet,
By her small hands that hung
In their lace mitts, austere and sweet,
Her gown's white folds among.

I watched to see if she would stay,
What she would do -- and oh!
She looked as if she liked the way
I let my garden grow!

She bent above my favourite mint
With conscious garden grace,
She smiled and smiled -- there was no hint
Of sadness in her face.

She held her gown on either side
To let her slippers show,
And up the walk she went with pride,
The way great ladies go.

And where the wall is built in new
And is of ivy bare
She paused -- then opened and passed through
A gate that once was there.

by Edna St VincentMillay

Courtesy of Things That Go Boo!

Cisco and Khan

2011-10-30T21:39:00.002-04:00

Thank you to everyone who has been so kind and understanding during this trying month. I am so sorry to say that both of my cats, Khan and Cisco, fell ill and died from complications of cancer.

Khan died October 5.

Cisco died October 17.

Soon I'll share some wonderful memories and photos of my loving cats.

However, for now, I must simply thank you for your generosity and support during this sad time.

Cisco News: It Gets Better

2011-10-11T20:48:00.000-04:00

This morning, I woke up to a cat who seemed to be in a much better mood than he was the evening before.

In the light of day, Cisco wanted me to pet him while he ate a few bites of his crunchy food from his own dish, then witness his use of his litterbox.

I have never been so pleased to feed a feline then watch him crouched in a box, concentrating on his own urination.

I didn't have to crack open the Pedialyte (unflavored). There was no need to whip out the Gerber's beef with gravy baby food again. (Does one heat it up for a cat? Does it improve the smell?) I didn't need to pester the nurses at the hospital again to find out just how much liquified baby food a 13.9-pound cat should eat at a single sitting.

Cisco was eating, and that was enough for me.

He also was quite a character: he hopped up on "his" chair and demanded to be petted in a very loud voice. Now, I'm a sucker for that kind of thing anyway, so when a sick cat says, "Pet me," who am I to argue?

He is not out of the woods yet. He has to continue to eat and drink (and keep both down), and his intestines need to keep doing their thing (so to speak).

Plus, there's the whole pending urinalysis results (and more delicious drugs if there is an infection).

Heaven forbid, this rally may be temporary.

However, he ate for me this morning, and that has made my world so much better.

Feeding and The Force

2011-10-10T20:07:00.001-04:00

For those keeping score at home, Cisco has returned from the hospital. Because he is not eating on his own, I must hand-feed him.

Anyone with a cat has read between the lines: "I'm mixing baby food and water and squeezing it from a syringe between Cisco's tightly clenched jaws into his unwilling, possibly un-swallowing mouth."

I have been more or less successful: most of what I feed him has gone into his mouth and, presumably, down his throat. I am wearing some, as is the pillow on the chair where we were seated, but that's a small price to pay. He is "eating." That keeps him out of the hospital, for the time being.

As long as we keep it up and he gets back to eating and drinking on his own sometime soon, we will achieve our goal. Otherwise, he will wind up with something else shaved on his body and yet another poke with a needle. No one wants that, least of all my feline heart.

I'm going into the bedroom, where he currently is ensconced, and I'll finish one of the books I'm reading. I think we'll both like the company.

Here's to everyone staying out of the hospital for a while.

Passing the Time at the Clinic

2011-10-09T15:19:00.001-04:00

I spent last night at the emergency vet office again. This time, it was my dark-haired beauty, Cisco, who was in need. I know the dark makes everything more sinister, but sometimes we cannot wait until the light of day to determine if the sunrise will banish the shadows.

I don't take books or magazines with me on these trips. (Alas, David and I have gained too much experience lately to permit us to make this decision.) I carry my cat, my credit card and enough patience to try to make it through the wait. David carries me. I can't wonder if my cat will be coming home or not: if a trip to the vet is needed at 2:30 a.m., rarely does the patient come right back home.

During those long hours, when the wonderful nocturnal lab techs are demystifying the bleeding, or vomiting, or apparent pain (why don't cats issue ticker-tapes from their heads that translate their complaints from cat to human?) — during those long, short hours I rely on the kindness of strangers' magazines.

As we sat in the small, private waiting room, in relatively — okay, nothing personal, clinic, but — uncomfortable chairs, I found myself in Afghanistan. Thanks to National Geographic, I looked in the eyes of a woman whose husband cut off her nose as other men held her down. Her crime? She ran to a friend's for safety the last time he beat her nearly senseless.

Cisco doesn't like strangers, especially in a vet's office, and I heard him through the whitewashed walls, weakly arguing in his distinctive flat voice, Really, I am better n — wait, what do you think you're doing with THAT? Without a second thought, I moved closer to the wall through which I heard him. I saw photos of a woman deep in labor standing on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, in full burqa, waiting for her husband to find a working vehicle to continue their drive to the hospital.

Cisco's radiograph (when did they stop calling them x-rays?) showed one kidney larger than the other, and to confirm that it wasn't just a trick of light or positioning, they were going to re-shoot it. In the reception area, a large dog's toenails clicked on the linoleum as his owner's voice explained his plight. I read about a 21-year-old woman imprisoned because she could not care for her husband to whom she was married when she was 12 and he was a 70-year-old paralytic.

The vet poked her head into the room: we hadn't been forgotten, she assured us, but they're waiting for his blood panel, and he is resting quietly. (I hadn't heard him for a while, so I could concur.) I read the caption of photos describing a woman brave enough to remove the burqa and drive a car.

Cisco has what look like stones in his bladder: maybe they're blocking or passing through his urethra? In the reception area, I heard a few more canine patients: did dogs self-destruct at night? Cisco's annoyed exclamations cut through the distant din: he was not pleased that someone was touching him. I moved on to Vanity Fair, which burst at the seams with bizarre, lofty ads for Gucci, Prada and other luxury items out of my universe.

Cisco's blood panel was mostly normal, but his white blood cell count was off the charts. Maybe the stones they saw in his bladder...? Only in VF could the rich be so poor: Sean Parker, whom Justin Timberlake portrayed in The Social Network, in real life couldn't be the way Aaron Sorkin portrayed him (though the interview presented a very similar character).

Finally, the vet could diagnose no further without the ultrasound technicians due in the clinic later that morning. Later that morning? I was grateful there were no clocks in the room. I prefer the passing of time be marked by the number of Travel and Leisure magazines David consumes. My pile was hefty enough, but I didn't look, couldn't look. All I wanted was to stroke and comfort my now-quiet cat while the receptionist processed the estimate into a contract.

I didn't see Cisco in the glass-front oxygen box that faced the door, which was the best visual clue of the night. I turned the corner and there he was, with the other less-urgent patients. He looked at me as only an unhappy, sick cat can. Thanks, lady, his eyes seemed to say, and his sharp, scolding cry made me smile. When the door opened, I practically crawled into his cage and he let me stroke his warm fur, all the while complaining vociferously. "I know, I know," I told him, "I am sorry."

I wriggled out of my t-shirt and slipped it under his head in the cage, gently interrupting the nurse: "I know I may never see it again, but I want him to have it — I want him to be able to smell me in his cage." I know he will: his hypersensitive schnozz has gotten us into enough adventures to assure me it can, and hopefully will, be with him.

I kept the high-beams on as we drove home, catching the silhouette of the deer family in a neighbor's yard as we turned the corner to our own dark driveway. I always slow to a crawl when we approach the park, their home: this is their time, their space. I should not be here.
I should be in bed with my husband rolling over on his side of the bed, Cisco shifting from time to time and displacing my legs on "my" side of the bed. Instead, the house will be eerily quiet, the room surprisingly cold, and I will be fitfully sleeping until the vet calls with what I hope is good news.

The day outside my window is a glorious, sunny day. In a different universe, I'd be in the mountains, taking in fresh air and wandering along the trails. David and I would stop at Spelunker's for a burger (him) and a strawberry shortcake (me), and when we got home, we'd see Cisco waiting for us as he reclined against the pillows on the bed. But it is not this day, where I keep my cell phone inches from my hand, trying to give the doctors another half- hour, another hour, before I call. No news is good news, right? Life is exquisite when it is reduced to the size of a 13.9-pound cat.

Banned Books Week: What's the Big Deal?

2011-09-27T00:00:00.000-04:00

Every year, the American Library Association reminds us that freedom is not free by holding Banned Books Week. And every year, I get the same questions: What's the big deal? Books aren't really banned, they're just challenged — and shouldn't I have the right to tell my kids what they can read?

Well, here's the thing: parents have the right to tell their own children what they can read. However, they do not have the right to tell other people's children, including me and mine, what they can read.

I was among the more fortunate children: my parents didn't curtail my reading. I showed my folks what I had checked out from the library; in the off-chance they weren't around or available when I got home, the books were stacked on my nightstand in my bedroom. They were books, for heaven's sake, and everyone loves books, right?

That doesn't mean I didn't make my parents uncomfortable with what I read. When I asked Dad about a phrase in Sonnets from the Portuguese that included the phrase "pregnant lips," he gravely suggested I was too young to read it — which translated to "Dad the engineer doesn't want to discuss poetical lips." I was six, and I was learning to judge what was the best resources for research.

This understanding that some language was "hot" made the reading of Very Special People a little confusing a couple of years later. One set of conjoined twins was described as having separate upper bodies but sharing a lower body. I knew about lungs, intestines and anus, but penis? Whether I had heard that word before (during Mom's "facts of life" discussions) was immaterial: I had never seen it written. It seemed rather "lip"-y in nature, so I went straight to the dictionary.

Try reading the definition of any word when you haven't a clue as to what it is.

That definition included another word I couldn't understand, whose definition was equally puzzling, which led to another definition... I surrendered, extrapolating from the sentence enough information I needed to move on.

However, I did encounter a book I didn't understand — and when Mom saw it on my stack of library books, she wondered aloud if it was a little "old" for me. I told her I didn't know, and we left it at that. I found the first few pages tedious and terribly boring, so I returned it rather quickly. The title? Helter Skelter. I was eleven.

In short, I read anything I wanted. I read all of the exciting, titillating books girls my age were read, swapping amongst each other. My friend Carole remembers the same list, her copies fat and swollen from repeated droppings in the pool, where she and her friends shared and read them.

Whether I should have read Audrey Rose, The Reincarnation of Peter Proud, Sybil, Go Ask Alice, Forever or Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret isn't the real question. (If it was, the answer is unequivocally "yes.") The question is: who should have decided what I should read?

I always respect a parent's wishes regarding their children's exposure to books, music and movies. However, they're not my parents. They're not my kids' parents. They have no right to tell anyone but their own children what they may consume.

Library funds are so limited, the broad array of books once found in the library already is dwindling. Don't use that to control your own children's — and, inevitably, everyone else's children's — reading material. Go with your family to the library, help them choose, and steer them away from books like And Tango Makes Three, The Perks of Being a Wallflower and The Earth, My Butt, and Other Big, Round Things. That is your perogative.

Just don't decide for me what those things are, and I won't do that for you.

Happy Banned Books Week, people. Choose your reading materials, and read something that might or might not be objectionable. Be your own judge.

Fall for the Book: Conor Grennan

2011-09-26T00:00:00.000-04:00

When Conor Grennan tells his audience that his actions were not heroic, that anyone could and would have done them, he honestly believes that. His explanation makes sense.

All it takes are baby steps.

All he planned to do was volunteer at a Nepalese orphanage: baby step. After that, it was only one step to helping these children find a safe home.

When a parent came to claim her sons, it was a step to help her become reacquainted with them and help her find the resources to feed and clothe them in the city.

That led to the question: were they all really orphans? Next step: find out whose parents are alive.

When children became "lost," it was only a step to try to find them.

Just baby steps. Putting one foot in front of the other. In fact, he noted, "This book has one message: there is nothing extraordinary about the person I was going into this."

It's a truth I hold very dear: you don't have to be a hero to do heroic things. You just have to do them.

Of course, had Conor told me clouds were gummi bears, I'd have believed him. His self-deprecating approach to everything, his willingness to show his failures and foibles, made him someone I could trust.

I met him first on the pages of his memoir, Little Princes: One Man's Promise to Bring Home the Lost Children of Nepal. He was funny, charming and utterly trustworthy. Anyone who confesses to having been petrified of an orphanage full of children gets my vote.

At the 2011 Fall for the Book Festival, he was exactly the same. He pointed to the title of his book, the cover of which reached 12 feet high on the screen behind him on stage, and confessed, "I wouldn't read this book."

(I concur: I began reading it only because it was Fairfax County Public Library's 2011 selection for the community reading program, "All Fairfax Reads" — and the author was going to be at the book festival. I am so glad I did.)

He also confessed that he doesn't trust those darned Canadians after being told by some of those countrymen that he didn't really need to read the guide books (which wrote of Nepal as a pretty dangerous country in the midst of a civil war).

He confessed that he signed up to volunteer at the orphanage because it made him look less self-absorbed. Plus, it was a great way to impress women, which was "a pretty low bar."

In other words, he wasn't special. Quite the opposite.

And yet, this man helped save at least 50 trafficked children in Nepal from slavery, starvation, abandonment and almost certain death by creating a home for them. He created a non-profit organization to fund his efforts.

And he trekked through the mountains of Nepal searching for the parents of the children in his care.

He's right: you don't have to be a hero to be heroic. And he took lots and lots of baby steps.

Meet Conor on the pages of his memoir. (A portion of the proceeds fund Next Generation Nepal, his organization.) Then see if you can't take a baby step of your own for something that matters to you. If a guy intent on impressing chicks can wind up helping save children on the other side of the world, just think what you can do in your own neighborhood.

Fall for the Book: Abraham Verghese

2011-09-25T06:00:00.000-04:00

First of all, if you're in a book club, Abraham Verghese salutes you: it was you who made his debut novel a success.

"Book clubs made this book happen," he flatly stated during his appearance at the 2011 Fall for the Book Festival. It was the widespread reading by those very book clubs that propelled Cutting for Stone onto the New York Times bestseller list, he freely admitted.

Myself I know it was more than that. Cutting for Stone is a thoughtful, sensitive, thought-provoking book — which started out as a glimmer of a story to an exhausted, nearly burned-out physician treating HAV/AIDS patients in a small town in Tennessee.

"All I knew is that there was a beautiful South Indian nun who gives birth to twins," he said.

He needed to take a break from his medical practice. He had written two books already, both non-fiction, My Own Country and The Tennis Partner. He had an idea for a story, and he wanted — no, needed to try his hand at fiction.

When his application to the Iowa Writers' Workshop was accepted, he found himself in the writing community he needed. Once a week he spent time as a doctor with AIDS patients in a nearby hospital; the rest of the time, he was writing fiction, reading, recharging.

He admired Émile Zola, whose novels weren't "about" Paris, but "of Paris." He wanted to create "that atmosphere, that verisimilitude" in his novel.

His readers will agree: he succeeded.

The story spans the lives of two generations and takes place primarily in Addis Ababa. First, there are the professionals who wind up at Missing hospital: doctors and nuns who administer more than just medicine and the people who help them provide this service. It's the shocking arrival of unexpected twins that sends everyone's lives into a direction other than they would have anticipated.

The characters in his novel are complex, interesting and surprisingly likeable. Even the general whose actions affect Missing's obstetrician so profoundly is one to be respected. When I asked Verghese if there were any characters he didn't like in his story, his response was immediate: "No. If I hadn't liked them, I would have cut them."

His respect for fiction is unequivocal, so his foray into it makes sense. "I have no patience for people who do not read fiction," he stated flatly. "Uncle Tom's Cabin ended slavery." Books speak to readers, he insisted. "That's what is so magical about books: they speak to each of us differently."

Verghese's novel spoke to me of a rich life outside of the boundaries I know. Cutting for Stone took an exotic "other" and turned it into a familiar location: of people, of situations, of life and love.

I am almost afraid to talk about it because I approached it without knowing anything about the story. All I knew was that Verghese would be at the 2011 Fall for the Book Festival, and that my friend Pat found it one of the best books she had read in years.

What I will tell you instead is how books affected the author. "I read Lolita when I was nine. I read Lady Chatterley's Lover when I was ten. When I came across a book titled Of Human Bondage when I was eleven," he paused as the audience laughed, "I discovered it was not at all what I anticipated."

And therein lies the magic.

I strongly recommend Cutting for Stone — and don't be surprised if you wind up purchasing multiple copies for friends and family.

Name That Seat on National Punctuation Day!

2011-09-24T12:22:00.000-04:00

On National Punctuation Day, let's salute Portland, Oregon's sense of whimsy.

Scattered around TriMet's Yamhill platform are seats like this: question marks, exclamation points, semi-colons, commas — all properly used.

Look around you at all of the ways punctuation helps us understand what is being communicated. And take a minute to appreciate art as Portland has used it — and think of how you can do the same in your world.

2011 Fall for the Book: I'm Ready!

2011-09-19T00:00:00.000-04:00

There are some great authors scheduled for this year's Fall for the Book in Fairfax (and beyond).

I have two words for you: Stephen King.

Two more: Amy Tan.

Actually, that's not even my immediate reading list.

Every year, the festival has many great authors, and I have to pick and choose which events I can attend. For this year's festival, I plan to attend the events featuring Abraham Verghese (Cutting for Stone, the author's first novel) and Conor Grennan (Little Princes, a memoir).

I already read Natasha Tretheway's 2007 Pultizer Prize-winning poetry collection, Native Guard, multiple times, and it is in my library collection. (If I don't excavate my copy this weekend, I shall be purchasing another copy for her to autograph at her reading next week.)

Needless to say, I have read books by the "headliners."

My first exposure to 2011's Fairfax Award-winner Amy Tan was The Joy Luck Club, which was touching yet sweeping. I followed up with every single one of her books, saving the latest (Saving Fish from Drowning) for when I settled into my new library. (Had someone told me it would take nearly a year after packing away most of my books, I wouldn't have waited.)

Equally imprisoned in my storage unit was dozens of books by the festival's 2011 Mason Award-winner. I won't list every Stephen King novel I have read, but let's just say I wore a cross for a year when I was in junior high because 'Salem's Lot scared me so much. (We don't discuss the 1979 TV movie.)

Take a look at this year's event schedule and let me know what you think I should see — or what you'd like to see. Am I missing your favorite author, or an undiscovered gem? Tell me!

National Punctuation Day: Are You Ready?

2011-09-14T00:30:00.000-04:00

How do you plan to celebrate National Punctuation Day September 24?

Will you make sure to use punctuation properly all day? Will you correct inaccurate punctuation practiced by others? Will you send around a sentence and ask friends and family to properly punctuate it?

Or will you write an ode to poetry?

I challenge you to write a punctuation poem. Anything you want, however you want. The only rule: send your poem(s) to me. I will gladly publish any and all punctuation poems. I'll even publish them anonymously, if you prefer.

All submissions will win a book of poetry.

Well, what are you waiting for? Go write a punctuation poem!

Warning: Comparative Religion Course Badly Disguised as a Novel

2011-09-08T00:25:00.000-04:00

Jeffrey Small's debut novel, The Breath of God, was heralded as a "novel of suspense" and likened to the work of popular novelist Dan Brown. I was very excited and couldn't wait to crack the spine. Once I got in, however, I found a far different book than I anticipated — and not as enjoyable.

Grant Matthews encounters a 2,000-year-old text that reveals what Jesus Christ did during his two decades of action accounted for in the Holy Bible. Before he can unpack his bags, a Southern preacher with ambition decides to debunk Matthews' prematurely and unintentionally published revelations. However, technology fails him and he must travel east again to find the original documents, following Kinley and the surreptitious clues he leaves with a few different people around the world. Only he's not alone, and this self-proclaimed "servant of God" will stop at nothing to protect his religion — and his church.

Of course, Small threw in a brilliant teacher; a romance with an unbelievably smart, resourceful and supportive woman; and lots of long lectures on three major world religions to give readers a boring, tedious Dan Brown novel.

If Small's purpose was to provide us with a book on comparative religion, we would have been better served with a series of essays, rather than essays disguised as a novel.

The book starts out slow, methodical — in a word, tedious. The "secret" is revealed in such a subtle way I had to re-read a revealing chapter just to find it, and the explanation as to why the secret is so white-hot is woven into multiple chapters, diluting the excitement of the discovery. All dialog is too pitch-perfect, too tautly woven to be conversation: there is no casual conversation if everything is wrought with Meaning. And that's just the construction of the novel.

Let's move onto characters, my personal litmus test. Everyone is constructed of flimsy beige cardboard with no complexity or depth. The bad guys are wicked beyond imagination, shallow and easily distracted by something shiny — and way, way too successful. The good guys are practically wearing white and riding up on Shadowfax with a banner declaring their purity, blindly bungling along without a clue to their imminent danger. Random facts are included in dialog and character development to offer: Grant's folly of youth is blown out of proportion, Kristin's youthful trauma was too tautly played, Kinley's omnipotence is heralded by too many people. Police experts are too stupid to find a single computer program their investigators should have found as easily as Grant accidenntally did (at a Pivotal Moment in the Story). And the unbelievable relative ease Grant finds at the end of the story was insulting to every character that had gone before.

Finally, the action: it was too slow in the beginning, too cumbersome in the middle, too disjointed near the end — and the multiple surprise endings weren't just surprises, but totally unexpected in a bad way. "I didn't see that coming" is good if the author didn't seem to hide it just so he could spring it on the reader at the Opportune Moment. I wanted to pitch the book across the room.

I do not recommend this book.

However, if you read it and enjoyed it, then let me know what you liked about it.

Discovering a Shirley Jackson Award Winner

2011-09-03T00:32:00.000-04:00

I have become a fan of short-story collections. I have enjoyed the works of John Connelly, not enjoyed the works of Kelly Link — then I encountered Tunneling to the Center of the Earth. Please stop what you are doing (yes, reading this review) and go purchase a copy, read it and return to this review.

See???????

Holy cow. This begs not only the question of who thinks of this kind of stuff, but how can someone make the telling of it so right?

Like with other collections, the first story had a wow-factor of 11. The idea of a "professional" grandparent is intriguing, and a business that would be really pretty win-win for all parties involved.

If that's where Kevin Wilson left it, I'd be impressed. No, it's where he goes with "Grand Stand-Ins" that haunts me now, weeks after my first encounter with it.

And "The Shooting Man" may not have been a total surprise, but — again — it's where the story travels after it leaves my imagination that rocks my world.

Not to brag, but I have a pretty twisted mind, having grown up on Stephen King and book after book of hauntings and spirits and the like. I have scared myself awake from a dead sleep more times than my husband cares to count, and I have kept myself awake in total fear more than once. And yet, Kevin Wilson surprises me in the best way possible.

Every single story is unique, every single story is different — and yet, every single story enchants, startles, frightens, unsettles... whatever path Wilson intends it to take, that's where it goes.

I, for one, will follow him wherever he leads, including his new novel, The Family Fang.

By the way, if you need just one more push: Tunneling to the Center of the Earth won a 2009 Shirley Jackson Award.

Alright, if you're still reading, I appreciate your dedication, but I release you from those bonds. Go get this book. However, you must tell me what you thought. Okay?

Can Happiness Be Taught?

2011-08-30T00:23:00.001-04:00

Do we need to be taught to be happy? Children, usually not — but adults... We need some help in that area, Gretchen Rubin decided one day. She saw a harried woman with a child, and no one looked happy. She wanted to change that in her own life.

And, with the help of a publisher and marketing department, she turned it into a movement: The Happiness Project. It comes to you with daily quotes, a book, a daily blog (maintained by the author herself!) and a whole lot of discussion. Making a mint off the idea that she should be nicer to her family may not have been her original intention, but I am sure it made her happy.

From this writing, you may think me a skeptic — and you would be wrong. I fell for this idea: hook, line and sinker. I didn't think I needed to be happier for any particular reason, but the idea intrigued me. Walking by the stack of books in the bookstore, I wondered to myself exactly what one does to make herself sing in the morning and clean her closets. So I checked it out from the library. (Some skeptical habits are hard to shake.)

It started out strong, and was interesting. Everyone needs to get out her/his own mindset from time to time, reassess and become the person s/he wants to be. Happiness is a mindset, and I have consciously re-set my happiness dial from time to time. It can be done. But a lifestyle re-set? Rubin sets out to do that very thing for an entire year, breaking up her evolution into month-size bites. The book was as much a how-to as a memoir of a year in the life.

I was with her, lock, stock and barrel — until April.

You see, she launched her blog in March — and she used content from it rather liberally beginning in April. Until then, what she wrote was personal, interesting, self-revealing. Afterward, however, she turned to the studio audience for their reaction — too often for my taste. If I wanted to know what random, unnamed strangers thought, I'd have found my own resources.

My interest started to wane around summer, when she spent a month reading sad memoirs and biographies. She explained how it wasn't to laud her great, easy life over another's short, sad one, but that's exactly how it felt.

Her repetition was tedious. She established in January that she had fabulous, involved in-laws who live around the corner (and who, as Jews, alleviated the pressure of "which family gets Christmas this year"); a patient, loving husband with Hepatitis C; supportive parents; and young, brilliant, beautiful daughters. I got it early on.

She liberally quoted famous and obscure authors, which made her sound just this side of know-it-all, at least in the beginning. By July, I wondered if she had an original thought in her head.

By September, I was scanning chapters, skipping the blog excerpts, looking for "interesting parts."

That might have been me reading too much too soon, not pacing myself properly for that type of book. Fast-moving fiction can be swallowed nearly whole; instructional memoirs, maybe not so quickly.

Add with that the fact that her life already was completely off the charts: as a Yale alumna and successful lawyer who clerked for U.S. Supreme Court Justice Sandra Day O'Connor who happens to be the wife of a successful laywer-cum-private equity investor, with a home on Manhattan's Upper East Side.

Let's leave out the influential parents on both sides and apparent wealth for at least a couple of generations, because we know those things do not guarantee happiness. It's the ability to do what we want that makes us swoon with envy. (I wonder if the publishing house took that into consideration before publishing the irony of a happiness book by someone with that bio.)

In the end, I took away a couple of great ideas, such as, "If you aren't going to do something about what you're complaining about, STFU" (which wasn't even her idea) and starting a children's literature reading group (which was). I might find my own Truths and Commandments, and hers (and her reading public) offer a good place to start. I am continuing to make a conscious effort to be positive (which I started before reading Rubin's book). I will try to get to sleep earlier. I'll get rid of that which I don't need (which may be easy, what with all of my recent unpacking). It's a worthwhile read.

If asked, I'd recommend reading the book, but read it critically. Take what interests you with a liberal grain of salt and cheerfully discard that which doesn't apply to you. It's what Gretchen would want you to do.

Books Without Borders

2011-08-26T00:46:00.001-04:00

I have seen the future without Borders, and it is Target.

And it makes me wish to weep.

David and I stopped by Borders the other day to indulge yet again (and to say "hello" to our future shelves). We had a stack of goods we literally could not carry without each others' help. Between coffee table books on music and guitars, a Jackie Chan video, Game of Thrones, The Anubis Gates, another Flavia mystery novel and a few novels and DVDs that will be gifts, our arms were full.

While we were there, I could not find some of the more recently published books, but I suspect most of the newer items had been snatched up quickly. There was a biography I had tried for the better part of a year to pick up at the bookstore, but was again unsuccessful.

Today I encountered a book trailer that made me want to race out and purchase said book (thanks to Harper Collins Canada). I knew I wasn't going to risk another encounter at Borders so soon — it's too exhausting to see such a loved bookstore in such disarray and disrepair. I was going to Target, anyway, so figured I'd try my luck there.

"No luck" doesn't quite describe it.

There was room for for 12 books in the young adult "section." Three slots were taken up by the first Harry Potter novel. The top row was all Rick Riordian novels. The rest of the collection was composed of whatever teen vampire romances are hot to teens.

I wanted to cry.

I knew I'd miss Borders, but I didn't realize the vast wasteland that awaited me.

It is in part my own fault. I have a thing about Barnes & Noble: I don't like paying for a "club" discount. I'm not a member of those big box warehouse stores for that very reason (well, that, and refusing to buy a vat of mayonnaise I'l never finish, if only because I can't reach the bottom of the 10-gallon barrel to finish it off). Paying what is a comparatively paltry sum to receive reasonable discounts shouldn't rub me the wrong way, but it does.

I'll be a member of a free discount club to the end of time, and they are free to mine my purchasing history for their marketing programs; it's only fair to help them sell me what I may (or may not) need. For that information alone I deserve a discount, and I'm glad to take it at what seems like no additional cost to me. (I am not foolish enough to think anything is truly free.) However, to pay for that same "privilege" offends me. Both I and the company in question will benefit, them more so because they can use my data to further their sales, market to their customers and determine their inventory. I just want to buy at the "member" discount without having to pay for it up front.

However, if Target makes me weep over books again, I might give up bookstores altogether. Amazon serves me well, gives me recommendations, sells to me at a reasonable price and delivers it at lightning-quick speed — and I can shop in my underpants. (Sorry for the visual — and no, pouring bleach in your eyes will not help.) I love my library and have been voraciously consuming those books at an alarming rate. I just want to hand a book I love to a friend, who then can love it, too — and the library frowns on that.

I cannot go cold turkey, so I'll still hit up my thrift stores and used bookstores, which are my true passion. However, as it stands, sparkling new bookstores may be a thing of the past.

Hopefully Barnes & Noble will come around to my way of thinking, especially since the competition is shrinking (for the time being). If not, I'll have to totally change my book buying habits which, while a benefit to my wallet, will take its toll on my bookish soul.

Tell me: what are you doing for your books these days, now that the Age of Borders is waning?

Book Review: At Home

2011-08-22T00:21:00.000-04:00

I would follow Bill Bryson anywhere. I already have. I have been with him on the Appalachian Trail, into the universe, across America, through England and all the way Down Under. He does not fail to delight readers — even when he stays home.

In At Home, the furthest he goes is to the roof.

Bryson literally strolls through his home in a quiet English hamlet, pondering who has come before (and literally how many there are still there, in body if not in spirit) and how they created the space around them.

Many students of history know the kitchen was often separate from the rest of the house, but how it evolved from a sure-fire death trap to today's modern amenities is worth the trip alone. In the kitchen, Bryson considers food and ponders why we eat what we eat — and who in their right mind would think [fill in the blank here] was a good idea for the plate? From wheat to corn, from meat to dairy, from spices to grain, Bryson ponders what we eat, and how it came to be on our plate, rather than in a bog, blowing in the breeze, or hoofing it in a wild pasture.

Another fascinating room is the, ahem, boudoir. It's not nearly as tantilizing as one would expect. It's more so. Honestly, from women's rights to privacy, from where people to slept to how they did (or didn't) sleep, and with whom — if you didn't think about it before, you can't help but ponder it now.

Nothing is too small: from salt to bedbugs, from lighting (inside and out) to laundry, from wheat to bread. In Bryson's hands, nothing can be small: why are salt and pepper the most popular condiments? Where and how did modern archaeology begin? Where did servants sleep? How could people navigate roads, or even the inside of their house, with a single tallow candle?

In contrast, nothing is too big: take the Crystal Palace Exposition, where glass is king and the toilets were nearly as popular as the rest of the expo. Even the entire English vicar situation is easily understood, and we walk away grateful for the Church of England, landowners and country parishes.

Bryson's deft touch makes every single chapter of this non-fiction tome delightful, educational, thoughtful, shocking, mournful, interesting, respectful, bawdy and just plain fun. Please, please read it — and let me know what you think.

All Hallow's Read: Are You In?

2011-08-17T00:06:00.001-04:00

I really like Neil Gaiman. Not only is he a great author (American Gods, Neverwhere, Stardust, to mention a few), he comes up with other good ideas, too — like All Hallow's Read.

Instead of giving out candy on Halloween, Gaiman suggested giving out scary books, and encouraging people to read.

How quickly can I say, "I'm in!"?

Now, to be fair, it's not going to be easy. There are plenty of people who don't like Halloween, or who associate the wrong spirit with it. Plus — perish the thought — some people don't like scary books or stories. (I know, crazy, but they're out there.)

So, how will I encourage it in my new neighborhood?

First of all, I won't go cold turkey on the candy. I'd hate to be known as "that house that doesn't give out candy." I certainly don't want to get mixed up with the house that gives out toothbrushes, or political pamphlets. (Darn the American election system for putting elections so close to Halloween — though, to be honest, it really is a similar activity: getting dressed up and pretending to be someone else...)

Maybe I'll just start with a poem, a single sheet of paper. Maybe a limerick, or a sonnet? There are plenty of good ones out there, or I could write my own. Start a series of poems, collect the entire set... I could have some fun with this!

Halloween will bring out David's inner spook-tacular decorating, so the porch will be scary. I'll hand out a poem with candy, which also can be scary. Then we'll see if anyone else joins us next year. (And if you don't like my ideas, check out Darla Moore's ideas in the Columbus Public Schools Examiner, to see if one of them tickles your fancy.)

So, who else is in?

Books and Movies, and What's 'Beloved'

2011-08-14T00:26:00.001-04:00

I decided to read Tatiana de Rosnay's haunting novel, Sarah's Key, when I saw a trailer for the movie at my favorite movie theater. I love Kristin Scott Thomas, and the story sounded compelling. It also sounded more like an adventure story, full of near-misses and redemption, so I thought this Holocaust story would be an uplifting story.

What in the world was I thinking?

My first clue should have been the stern, beleaguered look on Thomas' face. There was a misleading clue about the fate of some of the characters in the story, which fed into my Little Mary Sunshine optimism. Trust me, I have learned my lesson.

Had I watched the "movie trailer" on the publisher's website, I might have been warned away properly. I offer this public service announcement: marketers need to stop referring to books of this ilk, including The Kite Runner and other beautiful, poignant and disturbing books as "beloved" — or they should be fired on the spot. Winnie-the-Pooh is beloved. The Eyre Affair is beloved. This novel is many things, but certainly not "beloved." Readers will resent being played like that and will stop reading books plied in such a stunningly deceitful way.

Thank you. We now return to our regular programming.

The unique, clever and very readable story is, in fact, two intertwined stories.

In the summer of 1942, the Vichy government cooperated with the Germans to deal with the "Jewish problem." French police and French soldiers rounded up many of the Jews of Paris and corralled them in the Vélodrome d'Hiver. Not all Jews were taken: a few were left behind, mostly teens, so it didn't appear to be a roundup.

Days later, those who survived the heat without shelter, food, water, medical attention and sanitation in Vel' d'Hiv were taken to a camp outside Orléans. There the men were separated from the women and children, never to be seen again. Days later, mothers were torn from their children by any means possible (buckets of water dousing the child, if the parties were lucky) and loaded into a train. The children were left in the camp, alone, with only the police to keep an eye that they don't escape. Those who survived those long, miserable days met the same fate as their parents: a train ride to Auschwitz and immediate execution.

In the novel, Sarah was one of those children rounded up that late summer night. Before the police could find her 4-year-old brother, she hid him in the cupboard in their apartment, locking it soundly with a key so he would be safe until they returned later that evening, when this mess was over. As Sarah was about to learn, this was a much bigger situation than she realized, and she clung to the key with her life.

On the sixtieth anniversary of the Vel' d'Hiv, Julia Jarmond is writing an article for her English-language newspaper in Paris. Her family has begun renovation on an apartment that once belonged to her husband's grandmother, who was recently placed in a nearby convalescent home. She was sickened by what she read about Vel' d'Hiv, and she struggled to learn what she could. It was as real as the man whose entire family was taken — except him, because the French left behind some teens. It was as real as the fact that her husband's family moved into their apartment within weeks of the roundup. It was as real as the tales told by the witnesses who couldn't believe their government would do the work of the Germans for them.

The two stories are told, for the most part, in alternating chapters that take a reader's breath away. One wants to know what happened to Sarah as Julia investigates not only the story for the newspaper, but her own story, and the story of her husband's family — and asks if anyone can be held blameless in that chaotic time. When the story resolves itself, one can only answer the question in her/his own heart of hearts.

This is a fabulously written story: a deft tale with plausible, sympathetic (but not cloyingly so) characters facing unfathomable obstacles with everything they are. I read deep into the night and thought about the story even when the book was not in my hand. It haunts me now, and I cradle Sarah's hope and pain in my own heart, living every excruciating moment with her in my mind, over and over. My mouth was agape time and again as the story continued, unrelenting, through waves of horror and hope, sadness and redemption.

The language of Sarah's Key is smooth and lovely, not always the case for a book originally published in a different language than English. This is not a translation, which gladdened my heart; translations often take the readers a step away from the story when the words become a story of their own.

I recommend this book only for the brave reader, or the foolish one — this book will not leave readers unchanged, and only those who wish to continue to live with Julia and Sarah in their minds and hearts should pick up the book. If you are brave enough to do so, you will not regret it.

Book Review: Stranger Things Happen

2011-08-09T00:53:00.000-04:00

I am all about weird. I seek out the weird. However, I think I hit my weird quota with the short story collection Stranger Things Happen.

Kelly Link's collection of short stories goes to New York and beyond. What she does well is spin the yarn: I wasn't sure where the story was going, but I was game to follow Link's lead.

At first.

Then things got weird.

When a story concluded, I honestly had no idea what it meant. I was lost. It had to mean more than just the words on the page, or it would have been a colossal waste of time.

I was transfixed by the first story, "Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose," where a man with major memory issues is writing a letter to his wife. As the story unfolded, I was transfixed. Many other storytellers tried to imagine this lost-feeling destination with limited success — but Link had a handle on it. Well, until the end approached, and while I saw where it was going, I didn't like it.

She retold a couple of fairy tales in "Travels With the Snow Queen" and "Shoe and Marriage," and she threw in some folklore with "Flying Lessons." All interesting tales, all successful beginnings, all faltered near the end for me.

The two most successful stories — "The Specialist's Hat" and "Survivor's Ball, or The Donner Party" — were more direct, more specific, told the tale to the end instead of letting go and making the reader try to follow the balloon into the atmosphere.

Why did I finish it? Well, it's not a good reason, but it is an explanation: I read it to the end because NPR recommended it. However, they also publish Nancy Pearl's recommendations, and I have yet to find a gem for me among her suggestions.

In the end, I cannot recommend the book as a whole. One or two stories may strike you, but don't feel obligated to read them all. Let me know what you think, and which stories you liked.

What I Didn't Read

2011-08-04T00:57:00.000-04:00

Lately, I've been picking up books, just to put them back down. I blame part of that on The Discovery of Witches, which I enjoyed greatly (and will review in the near future).

The rest I blame on bad books.

To be fair, not all of them have been "bad" in the traditional "wish to rip out your eyeballs to save your soul" kind of way, but perhaps unsuitable for the time being:

I knew Game of Thrones was too heavy for my brain right now, and I will pick it up after the library is settled.
I already read Geek Love at a different time in my life, when I could handle the story of a family of people purposely bred to be born with bizarre, extreme birth defects.
I couldn't wait to read about the Unseen University in Unseen Academicals, but I put it away after a few pages. I blame that on a sinus headache.

Others, however, were. I must be the last person to read The Hunger Games — well, almost read it. After about 20 pages, I had to stop. The lead character was totally non-dynamic and simple. Plus, the "dystopian" story wasn't totally unique: when civilization ends, so does civility. This novel just throws young adults into the gory part of the story because it's young adult fiction — and apparently, that's the only way this author thinks youth will read her story. (As a former Nickelodeon staff writer, she might know of such things, so perhaps I am talking out of my hat.)

The Hunger Games might get better, but I didn't want to invest the time. There are too many good stories out there to waste time on something that doesn't intrigue me.

What should I pick up next? Let me know!

For Joan: Be the Best of Whatever You Are

2011-07-30T00:48:00.000-04:00

Be the Best of Whatever You Are

by Douglas Malloch

If you can't be a pine on the top of the hill
Be a scrub in the valley - but be
The best little scrub by the side of the rill;
Be a bush if you can't be a tree.

If you can't be a bush be a bit of the grass,
And some highway some happier make;
If you can't be a muskie then just be a bass -
But the liveliest bass in the lake!

We can't all be captains, we've got to be crew,
There's something for all of us here.
There's big work to do and there's lesser to do,
And the task we must do is the near.

If you can't be a highway then just be a trail,
If you can't be the sun be a star;
It isn't by size that you win or you fail -
Be the best of whatever you are!

Thanks to Apples4theTeacher.

Customer Service

2011-07-28T00:08:00.001-04:00

Every person in the workforce has to provide some level of customer service. Whether you are a CEO or data entry clerk, a police officer or an auto mechanic, you have to provide a service to another entity.

How you provide that service depends on a number of factors — including just how cantankerous you are feeling at that moment, that hour, that day.

I recently had two encounters (on the same day) and experienced two entirely different attitudes with two different customer service representatives at a local utility company. After a recent move, my online records showed only my old account — and the company's solution to my e-mail was to delete my old account. I had service, but the company website didn't recognize it.

What else is a girl to do but call?

It didn't go well. My service representative was having a bad day.

First, she asked my name. Apparently I used the wrong one because she kept asking for my "full" name. I kept telling her, increasing the volume and decreasing the speed at which I spoke, in case I was not clear. This went on for about three minutes (though it felt a lot longer). Finally she said, "That is not the name on your account, so I can only give you general information."

To be fair, she was correct. I was using a shortened version of my legal first name and my current legal last name, which appeared on the e-mail the company sent me minutes before. To my surprise, those were not the names on my account. To be even more fair, she couldn't give me the correct information in case I was a nefarious thief trying to steal the poor woman's utility.

We were at an impasse.

I finally broke through by uttering my legal first name. She followed by asking for my maiden name, which was the last name on the account. I told her the last four digits of my Social Security Number, and we were in.

I asked her to confirm my account number — which she did at lightning speed. I asked her to repeat it, which she did, again at lightning speed. So I tried to slow her down by repeating only the first four numbers, then asking for the rest.

She slowly repeated first number. She paused for five seconds, then slowly revealed the second number, pausing after that for another five seconds. This went on for the entire, very long account number.

After 10 minutes, I couldn't get off the phone fast enough.

I went online to manage my account, and I was glad that the new account number worked. I couldn't change my name online, and I gasped when I saw my account balance was in the triple digits for a single months' use. I needed a customer representative to fix these errors.

I dialed the phone, steeling myself for the inevitable tension I would face.

Instead, my call was handled by a most pleasant, efficient woman who changed my name on the account at my request and explained why my balance was as large as it was. I actually understood her explanation, and she agreed to my solution. She assured me I could easily make changes to my account in the future either online or by phone. The call lasted about two minutes and accomplished everything I needed.

So, what was the difference?

I could attribute part of the difficulty of the first call to possible culture and language issues: the representative had a heavy accent and may not have spoke English as a first language, or might have grown up in a country where my name was not common.

Maybe she was new and didn't know what other information she could ask regarding my identity.

Perhaps she was on probation, or there was a memo handed down that morning stating there could be no leeway in the information customers gave.

Or maybe she was just having a day.

I can recall with stark clarity the last time I had that kind of day. What this one couple asked for — and the anger with which they asked for it — was something I could, under normal circumstances, handle. Alas, I had just moved into a new office and I stood in the flotsam and jetsam of my work life, boxes around an un-assembled desk at my feet. As my co-worker swooped in to save me (and them), I stepped away from the office to gird my loins.

My first representative didn't have that choice. All she got was me, riddled with misunderstanding and miscommunication.

Customer service is a challenge for customer and service provider both. I try to remember when I pick up the phone that it could be me at the other end of the line: the impatient me dissatisfied from the get-to; the clueless me who doesn't know her own name; the friendly me who listens to questions and responds with the proper information; the "up to here" me who has had enough from the rest of the world already that day. I can't say I always remember, but heaven knows I try. Let's hope the rest of the Customer Service World does the same.

Thoughts on The Rapture

2011-07-23T00:20:00.001-04:00

With the apocalypse only months away, an enterprising Christian has given the faithful peace of mind: After Rapture Pet Care services. Those convinced they will be greeted by the loving face of God on October 21, 2011 can pay a pittance to ensure their pets are adopted and cared for by non-believers.

The After Rapture Pet Care website assures the faithful their beloved companion animals will not be shuttled off to a shelter or left to wither away alone in their homes, unloved, lonely and unfed. Instead, they will be taken in to a volunteer's home to be treated as one of their own.

Both the Saved and the heathens are banking on a future clouded in doubt and ripe with promise.

For $10, the saintly Saved are caring in perpetuity for their beloved animals, a true concern for those who are in the running for being Chosen.

If I thought I was among the Saved, the only thing worse than leaving my cats behind would be not leaving my cats behind. I'm not sure what would piss me off more: being wrong about what God expected of the Righteous or the wasted $10 I would need for the presumably short writhing in hellfire and damnation to which I will be subject in the aftermath of the Rapture. I can't imagine the grief at discovering my life's goal of Righteousness was all wrong. What I can imagine is the pride of the self-appointed Saved, and how that doesn't fit with the humility of their Savior.

However, let's leave the Saved for a moment. It's the After The Rapture Pet Care volunteers I want to recognize for their sacrifices. They know they're not among the Saved, or at least they have their doubts. Frankly, after listening to hymns calling humans — God's creations — "wretches," I can't imagine a single true believer identifying themselves as Saved. They might try to be the best person they can be, and they'd be too busy doing the right thing to condemn another. It's that kind of person who personifies the heart and soul of a generous, loving God: the person who would take a frightened, hungry animal into their heart and home.

Many of these volunteers may not identify themselves as Christians. And yet, this generous nature is not recognized for its own worth, and it is perceived as not being valued by their Christian God because that volunteer might not have come to God through the Son. I would hate to have an "omnipotent" deity with that limitation. In Judaism, there is recognition that the truly righteous may not be among the Chosen, but God will love and accept them anyway. That's my kind of God.

If the Rapture is about taking the righteous to the bosom of God, it would be deliciously ironic if the people who most deserve the love of God are the ones who think they'll be around to watch the sun set October 21. Wouldn't there be a whole bunch of confused humans and pets if that happened.

Finally, one last question: in which category — Saved or Left Behind — would you put the enterprising person who has profited off this fear and pride with After The Rapture Pet Care?

Summer Reading: What's On Tap?

2011-06-03T00:26:00.003-04:00

Summer is right around the corner — unless you're the kind of person who lives the season from Memorial Day to Labor Day, then you're already behind in your summer reading!

Honestly, I've been otherwise occupied to think much about a summer reading list. The whole "finally getting a new house, then having to set it up and move in" definitely puts a crimp in that reading schedule. After moving into Alicia's house in March, I was nearly too exhausted to read. Only a new Dan Simmons book pulled me out of my exhausted funk.

However, this move is different: it will reunite me with all of the books that have been, as my friend Judy put it, in "book purgatory." I tend to think of it as "storage hell," but either way, they're in a different spot than I am. Now, I don't want to be in either purgatory or hell, so I'm grateful for that small blessing, but separation, even under these circumstances, is trying.

Back to the matter at hand: summer reading.

Currently, I have a couple of books set aside for my reading enjoyment.

My most recent purchase is the newest tome by Geraldine Brooks, Caleb's Crossing. I can't wait to see how she brings history to life again. Go ahead, try to not care about the plague when reading Year of Wonders. Try to be nonchalant about, well, everything when reading People of the Book. Surrender to Geraldine Brooks, and you'll be a better person for it.

I have at least one Fluff 'n Trash™book in my lineup: Penny Vincenzi's An Outrageous Affair. There may be value to it, but I don't care. I am reading it for the sheer love of the bosom-heaving story. (They're British bosoms, so they sport a stiff upper lip. Or decorum, at the very least.)

Stephen King is in my future: most likely Full Dark, No Stars. I'm itching to read Under the Dome, too, but as both books are hefty tomes, I will be forced to choose one if I plan to read anything of his before he appears at Fall for the Book this autumn.

Jasper Fforde published a new Thursday Next novel this year I haven't even picked up yet. (Did I mention that Alicia will throw me out onto the mean streets of the city if I dare bring in another book?) (Okay, I mean besides the ones I've sneaked in already.) (Wait, I've said too much already!) There is a reason for the delay in reading this book, which I will reveal when I discuss this book with you, my Intrepid Reader.

I want to re-read a book, but I haven't decided which one yet. I nearly did that with Geek Love this week, but the opening sentences made me queasy. (I must have been a braver reader in my earlier years.) All of my books will have a new-to-me feeling, so I will approach my library cautiously.

I want to try to actually consume a Jonathan Franzen book, rather than just gaze at them longingly on the shelf.

After seeing a single, very titilating scene from the HBO series of the same name, I am intrigued to read George R. R. Martin's Game of Thrones. I read the first two chapters the other day and enjoyed it, but the weight of the paperback is too hefty for me right now.

Lev Grossman's second novel in the Magicians series, The Magician King, is coming out in August. I wasn't keen on the gritty realism and killjoy spirit of the first novel, The Magicians, when I read it last year, but I might have to re-visit it. (Heck, I'm reading Awakening, the most recent S.J. Bolton novel in the library, so Grossman gets a second chance.)

So, what's on your reading list? What do you recommend I pick up this summer?

Book Review: The White Devil

2011-05-26T00:53:00.002-04:00

Justin Evans hopefully had a much more enjoyable experience as an American student abroad than he gives Andrew in his latest novel, The White Devil. As a former student, the author provides the story with a level of authenticity of living conditions only he could share.

However, the school is not as interesting nor as well-examined, as I would have hoped — though that's because his characters did not leave room for a dank, damp, drafty old school.

Andrew is sent overseas to straighten out his life at Harrow, an an English boarding school his father declares is his son's "last chance" at — redemption, regret, attitude adjustment, maybe all of the above. Alas, his uncanny resemblance to a famous, beautiful alumnus draws the attention from an unlikely source: the school ghost.

This is not just any old ghost. Rather, this one is linked to a larger-than-life Harrow alumnus steeped in lore and mystery — and, most importantly, romance.

Being inside the head of a teenage boy for a few hundred pages was truly educational. Additionally, this beautiful boy had no shortage of suitors, including young women with bad reputations and hormone-focused agendas. And yet there was still time for research, essay-writing, reading poetry, rehearsing a play and getting, ahem, to know other people (not least of which is a promiscuous, lonely and pitiful teenage girl surrounded by boys).

The story was fraught with emotion, hormones, fear (imagined and real) and chance. It required staid characters to climb out of their comfort zones, which can be exciting. I liked the characters, staid and unhinged. Some were drawn with very bold, thick strokes, but sometimes finding the familiar in a character makes the story easier to follow.

After finishing the book, I needed to think about it. I was a little disappointed with the ending, which at first seemed too obvious, having been telegraphed from one of the (too obvious) clues in the novel. However, in retrospect, it makes sense — and carries the terribly, terribly romantic story to a nearly Wagnerian ending.

In the end, it was an interesting treatment of a ghost story, unique enough to keep the die-hard ghosty interested and familiar enough to satisfy traditionalists.

Book Review: The Summer of Night

2011-05-18T00:14:00.009-04:00

I am a fan of Dan Simmons. I loved the shocking rollercoaster that was Drood and enjoyed greatly the complex Native American lore of Black Hills. I didn't mind too much when he took his time getting to where he was getting because I figured it would be interesting.

When Summer of Night took its sweet time, I thought it was par for the course. I also had a flashback to The Terror, a book that gave me nightmares and took too long to even start. I nearly stopped reading once or twice: once because it involved a situation with an animal (which was telegraphed from the beginning) and once because it was boring. Only an early tease prompted me to keep going.

In the end, I found it a long trip on a short road. It wasn't bad, but it could have been tighter, which would have made it more intense.

A school in a small midwestern town is closing due to low enrollment. However, a child goes missing on the last day of school, and administrators seem unconcerned because his family is not reputable. A group of rising sixth graders become suspicious and begin investigating as only youngsters can: under the radar, noticed only by the driver of the redering truck.

The clues are funky: unusual but a little too far out to be plausible, even under the most extreme of circumstances. Adults ignore the children at the right times under the right circumstances so they can discover clues. People die under the most implausible cirstances, covered over by the slimiest of bad guys.

In the end, it's not a bad "junk food" book, but it's shouldn't be your first choice of junk food books. You can do better for shlocky horror.

Hedgehog in the Fog

2011-05-07T00:44:00.004-04:00

Enjoy this lovely, award-winning video, "Hedgehog in the Fog," by Yuriy Norshteyn.

May Day Poem

2011-05-01T00:45:00.002-04:00

Because I can't stop dead in my tracks at the end of April: a bonus poem! Happy National Poetry Month!

May Day

I've decided to waste my life again,
Like I used to: get drunk on
The light in the leaves, find a wall
Against which something can happen,

Whatever may have happened
Long ago—let a bullet hole echoing
The will of an executioner, a crevice
In which a love note was hidden,

Be a cell where a struggling tendril
Utters a few spare syllables at dawn.
I've decided to waste my life
In a new way, to forget whoever

Touched a hair on my head, because
It doesn't matter what came to pass,
Only that it passed, because we repeat
Ourselves, we repeat ourselves.

I've decided to walk a long way
Out of the way, to allow something
Dreaded to waken for no good reason,
Let it go without saying,

Let it go as it will to the place 
It will go without saying: a wall
Against which a body was pressed
For no good reason, other than this.
by Phillis Levin

Because Life is Complicated

2011-04-30T00:28:00.002-04:00

Dear Lonely Animal,

I'm writing to you from the loneliest, most
secluded island in the world. I mean, 
the farthest away place from anything else.

There are so many fruits here growing on trees
or on vines that wrap and wrap. Fruits
like I've never seen except the bananas.

All night the abandoned dogs howled.
I wonder if one dog gives the first howl, and if 
they take turns who's first like carrying 

the flag in school. Carrying the flag 
way out in front and the others 
following along behind in two long lines, 

pairs holding hands. Also the roosters here crow 
from 4am onward. They're still crowing right now 
and it's almost noon here on the island.

Noon stares back no matter where you are.  
Today I'm going to hike to the extinct volcano 
and balance on the rim of the crater. Yesterday 

a gust almost blew me inside. I heard 
that the black widows live inside the volcano 
far down below in the high grasses that you can't 

see from the rim. Well, I was going to tell you 
that this morning the bells rang and I 
followed them and at the source of the bells, 

there I found so many animals 
all gathered together in a room 
with carved wooden statues

and wooden benches and low wooden slats 
for kneeling. And the animals were there 
singing together, all their voices singing, 

with big strong voices rising from even 
the filthiest animals. I mean, I've seen animals 
come together and sing before, except in 

high fancy vaults where bits of colored glass 
are pieced together into stories. Some days 
I want to sing with them.

I wish more animals sang together all the time.
But then I can't sing sometimes
because I think of the news that happens

when the animals stop singing.  
And then I think of all the medications 
and their side effects that are advertised 

between the pieces of news. And then I think 
of all the money the drug companies spent
to videotape their photogenic, well-groomed animals,

and all the money they spent to buy 
a prime-time spot, and I think, what money 
buys the news, and what news 

creates the drugs, and what
drugs control the animals, and I get so
choked I can't sing anymore, Lonely Animal.  

I can't sing with the other animals. Because it's 
hard to know what an animal will do when it 
stops singing. It's complicated, you know, it's just 

complicated—

by Oni Buchanan
listen to it on poets.org

All Weddings are Royal, All Marriages Sacred

2011-04-29T00:01:00.000-04:00

Dependants

How good we are for each other, walking through
a land of silence and darkness. You
open doors for me, I answer the phone for you.

I play jungle loud. You read with the light on.
Beautiful. The curve of your cheekbone,
explosive vowels, exact use of cologne.

What are you thinking? I ask in a language of touch
unique to us. You tap my palm nothing much.
At stations we compete senses, see which

comes first—light in the tunnel, whiplash down the rail.
I kick your shins when we go out for meals.
You dab my lips. I finger yours like Braille.

by Paul Farley

A Poem About Boots

2011-04-28T00:34:00.002-04:00

Boots

INFANTRY COLUMNS

We're foot—slog—slog—slog—sloggin' over Africa —
Foot—foot—foot—foot—sloggin' over Africa —
(Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up an' down again!)
There's no discharge in the war!

Seven—six—eleven—five—nine-an'-twenty mile to-day —
Four—eleven—seventeen—thirty-two the day before —
(Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up an' down again!)
There's no discharge in the war!

Don't—don't—don't—don't—look at what's in front of you.
(Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up an' down again);
Men—men—men—men—men go mad with watchin' em,
An' there's no discharge in the war!

Try—try—try—try—to think o' something different —
Oh—my—God—keep—me from goin' lunatic!
(Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up an' down again!)
There's no discharge in the war!

Count—count—count—count—the bullets in the bandoliers.
If—your—eyes—drop—they will get atop o' you!
(Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up an' down again) —
There's no discharge in the war!

We—can—stick—out—'unger, thirst, an' weariness,
But—not—not—not—not the chronic sight of 'em —
Boot—boots—boots—boots—movin' up an' down again,
An' there's no discharge in the war!

'Taint—so—bad—by—day because o' company,
But night—brings—long—strings—o' forty thousand million
Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up an' down again.
There's no discharge in the war!

I—'ave—marched—six—weeks in 'Ell an' certify
It—is—not—fire—devils, dark, or anything,
But boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up an' down again,
An' there's no discharge in the war!

by Rudyard Kipling

courtesy of Old Poetry

Kindness

2011-04-27T00:28:00.000-04:00

Kindness

Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.
Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.
Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to mail letters and purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
it is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.

by Naomi Shihab Nye
From The Words Under the Words: Selected Poems. © Eighth Mountain Press, 1995.
Courtesy The Writer's Almanac

Answer: From the Same Place as Bravery

2011-04-26T00:32:00.000-04:00

Where Dreams Come From

A girl slams the door of her little room
under the eaves where marauding squirrels
scamper overhead like herds of ideas.
She has forgotten to be grateful she has
finally a room with a door that shuts.

She is furious her parents don't comprehend
why she wants to go to college, that place
of musical comedy fantasies and weekend
football her father watches, beer can
in hand. It is as if she announced I want
to journey to Iceland or Machu Picchu.
Nobody in their family goes to college.
Where do dreams come from? Do they
sneak in through torn screens at night
to light on the arm like mosquitoes?

Are they passed from mouth to ear
like gossip or dirty jokes? Do they
sprout from underground on damp
mornings like toadstools that form
fairy rings on dewtipped grasses?

No, they slink out of books, they lurk
in the stacks of libraries. Out of pages
turned they rise like the scent of peonies
and infect the brain with their promise.
I want, I will, says the girl and already

she is halfway out the door and down
the street from this neighborhood, this
mortgaged house, this family tight
and constricting as the collar on the next
door dog who howls on his chain all night.

by Marge Piercy, from The Hunger Moon: New and Selected Poems, 1980-2010. © Alfred A. Knopf, 2011.

Courtesy The Writer's Almanac

Art of an Age

2011-04-25T00:15:00.000-04:00

Tattoo

What once was meant to be a statement—
a dripping dagger held in the fist
of a shuddering heart—is now just a bruise
on a bony old shoulder, the spot
where vanity once punched him hard
and the ache lingered on. He looks like
someone you had to reckon with,
strong as a stallion, fast and ornery,
but on this chilly morning, as he walks
between the tables at a yard sale
with the sleeves of his tight black T-shirt
rolled up to show us who he was,
he is only another old man, picking up
broken tools and putting them back,
his heart gone soft and blue with stories.

by Ted Kooser
from Delights & Shadows, Copper Canyon Press
Courtesy of the poet (and The Writer's Almanac)

A Loving God

2011-04-24T00:33:00.002-04:00

God Says Yes To Me

I asked God if it was okay to be melodramatic
and she said yes
I asked her if it was okay to be short
and she said it sure is
I asked her if I could wear nail polish
or not wear nail polish
and she said honey
she calls me that sometimes
she said you can do just exactly
what you want to
Thanks God I said
And is it even okay if I don't paragraph
my letters
Sweetcakes God said
who knows where she picked that up
what I'm telling you is
Yes Yes Yes

by Kaylin Haught
from The Palm of Your Hand. © Tilbury House Publishers, 1995.
Courtesy of The Writer's Almanac

Instructions for a Satisfying Life

2011-04-23T00:57:00.000-04:00

Some General Instructions

Do not bake bread in an oven that is not made of stone
Or you risk having imperfect bread. Byron wrote,
“The greatest pleasure in life is drinking hock
And soda water the morning after, when one has
A hangover,” or words to that effect. It is a
Pleasure, for me, of the past. I do not drink so much
Any more. And when I do, I am not in sufficiently good
Shape to enjoy the hock and seltzer in the morning.
I am envious of this pleasure as I think of it. Do not
You be envious. In fact I cannot tell envy
From wish and desire and sharing imperfectly
What others have got and not got. But envy is a good word
To use, as hate is, and lust, because they make their point
In the worst and most direct way, so that as a
Result one is able to deal with them and go on one’s way.
I read Don Juan twenty years ago, and six years later
I wrote a poem in emulation of it. I began
Searching for another stanza but gave in
To the ottava rima after a while, after I’d tried
Some practice stanzas in it; it worked so well
It was too late to stop, it seemed to me. Do not
Be in too much of a hurry to emulate what
You admire. Sometimes it may take a number of years
Before you are ready, but there it is, building
Inside you, a constructing egg. Low-slung
Buildings are sometimes dangerous to walk in and
Out of. A building should be at least one foot and a half
Above one’s height, so that if one leaps
In surprise or joy or fear, one’s head will not be injured.
Very high ceilings such as those in Gothic
Churches are excellent for giving a spiritual feeling.
Low roofs make one feel like a mole in general. But
Smallish rooms can be cosy. Many tiny people
In a little room make an amusing sight. Large
Persons, both male and female, are best seen out of doors.
Ships sided against a canal’s side may be touched and
Patted, but sleeping animals should not be, for
They may bite, in anger and surprise. Of all animals
The duck is seventeenth lowliest, the eagle not as high
On the list as one would imagine, rating
Only ninety-fifth. The elephant is either two or four
Depending on the author of the list, and the tiger
Is seven. The lion is three or six. Blue is the
Favorite color of many people because the sky
Is blue and the sea is blue and many people’s eyes
Are blue, but blue is not popular in those countries
Where it is the color of mold. In Spain blue
Symbolizes cowardice. In America it symbolizes “Americanness.”
The racial mixture in North America should
Not be misunderstood. The English came here first,
And the Irish and the Germans and the Dutch. There were
Some French here also. The Russians, the Jews, and
The Blacks came afterwards. The women are only coming now
To a new kind of prominence in America, where “Liberation”
Is their byword. Giraffes, which people ordinarily
Associate with Africa, can be seen in many urban zoos
All over the world. They are an adaptable animal,
As Greek culture was an adaptable culture. Rome
Spread it all over the world. You should know,
Before it did, Alexander spread it as well. Read
As many books as you can without reading interfering
With your time for living. Boxing was formerly illegal
In England, and also, I believe, in America. If
You feel a law is unjust, you may work to change it.
It is not true, as many people say, that
That is just the way things are. Or, Those are the rules,
Immutably. The rules can be changed, although
It may be a slow process. When decorating a window, you
Should try to catch the eye of the passerby, then
Hold it; he’or she should become constantly more
Absorbed in what is being seen. Stuffed animal toys should be
Fluffy and a pleasure to hold in the hands. They
Should not be too resistant, nor should they be made
With any poisonous materials. Be careful not to set fire
To a friend’s house. When covering over
A gas stove with paper or inflammable plastic
So you can paint the kitchen without injuring the stove,
Be sure there is no pilot light, or that it is out.
Do not take pills too quickly when you think you have a cold
Or other minor ailment, but wait and see if it
Goes away by itself, as many processes do
Which are really part of something else, not
What we suspected. Raphael’s art is no longer as popular
As it was fifty years ago, but an aura
Still hangs about it, partly from its former renown.
The numbers seven and eleven are important to remember in dice
As are the expressions “hard eight,” “Little Joe,” and “fever,”
Which means five. Girls in short skirts when they
Kneel to play dice are beautiful, and even if they
Are not very rich or good rollers, may be
Pleasant as a part of the game. Saint Ursula
And her eleven thousand virgins has
Recently been discovered to be a printer’s mistake;
There were only eleven virgins, not eleven thousand.
This makes it necessary to append a brief explanation
When speaking of Apollinaire’s parody Les
Onze Mille Verges, which means eleven thousand
Male sexual organs—or sticks, for beating. It is a pornographic book.
Sexual information should be obtained while one is young
Enough to enjoy it. To learn of cunnilingus at fifty
Argues a wasted life. One may be tempted to
Rush out into the streets of Hong Kong or
Wherever one is and try to do too much all in one day.
Birds should never be chased out of a nature sanctuary
And shot. Do not believe the beauty of people’s faces
Is a sure indication of virtue. The days of
Allegory are over. The Days of Irony are here.
Irony and Deception. But do not harden your heart. Remain
Kind and flexible. Travel a lot. By all means
Go to Greece. Meet persons of various social
Orders. Morocco should be visited by foot,
Siberia by plane. Do not be put off by
Thinking of mortality. You live long enough. There
Would, if you lived longer, never be any new
People. Enjoy the new people you see. Put your hand out
And touch that girl’s arm. If you are
Able to, have children. When taking pills, be sure
You know what they are. Avoid cholesterol. In conversation
Be understanding and witty, in order that you may give
Comfort and excitement at the same time. This is the
high road to popularity
And social success, but it is also good
For your soul and for your sense of yourself. Be supportive of others
At the expense of your wit, not otherwise. No
Joke is worth hurting someone deeply. Avoid contagious diseases.
If you do not have money, you must probably earn some
But do it in a way that is pleasant and does
Not take too much time. Painting ridiculous pictures
Is one good way, and giving lectures about yourself is another.
I once had the idea of importing tropical birds
From Africa to America, but the test cage of birds
All died on the ship, so I was unable to become
Rich that way. Another scheme I had was
To translate some songs from French into English, but
No one wanted to sing them. Living outside Florence
In February, March, and April was an excellent idea
For me, and may be for you, although I recently revisited
The place where I lived, and it is now more “built up”;
Still, a little bit further out, it is not, and the fruit trees
There seem the most beautiful in the world. Every day
A new flower would appear in the garden, or every other day,
And I was able to put all this in what I wrote. I let
The weather and the landscape be narrative in me. To make money
By writing, though, was difficult. So I taught
English in a university in spite of my fear that
I knew nothing. Do not let your fear of ignorance keep you
From teaching, if that would be good for you, nor
Should you let your need for success interfere with what you love,
In fact, to do. Things have a way of working out
Which is nonsensical, and one should try to see
How that process works. If you can understand chance,
You will be lucky, for luck is what chance is about
To become, in a human context, either
Good luck or bad. You should visit places that
Have a lot of savour for you. You should be glad
To be alive. You must try to be as good as you can.
I do not know what virtue is in an absolute way,
But in the particular it is excellence which does not harm
The material but ennobles and refines it. So, honesty
Ennobles the heart and harms not the person or the coins
He remembers to give back. So, courage ennobles the heart
And the bearer’s body; and tenderness refines the touch.
The problem of being good and also doing what one wishes
Is not as difficult as it seems. It is, however,
Best to get embarked early on one’s dearest desires.
Be attentive to your dreams. They are usually about sex,
But they deal with other things as well in an indirect fashion
And contain information that you should have.
You should also read poetry. Do not eat too many bananas.
In the springtime, plant. In the autumn, harvest.
In the summer and winter, exercise. Do not put
Your finger inside a clam shell or
It may be snapped off by the living clam. Do not wear a shirt
More than two times without sending it to the laundry.
Be a bee fancier only if you have a face net. Avoid flies,
Hornets, and wasps. Clasp other people’s hands firmly
When you are introduced to them. Say “I am glad to meet you!”
Be able to make a mouth and cheeks like a fish. It
Is entertaining. Speaking in accents
Can also entertain people. But do not think
Mainly of being entertaining. Think of your death.
Think of the death of the fish you just imitated. Be
artistic, and be unfamiliar.
Think of the blue sky, how artists have
Imitated it. Think of your secretest thoughts,
How poets have imitated them. Think of what you feel
Secretly, and how music has imitated that. Make a moue.
Get faucets for every water outlet in your
House. You may like to spend some summers on
An island. Buy woolen material in Scotland and have
The cloth cut in London, lapels made in France.
Become religious when you are tired of everything
Else. As a little old man or woman, die
In a fine and original spirit that is yours alone.
When you are dead, waste, and make room for the future.
Do not make tea from water which is already boiling.
Use the water just as it starts to boil. Otherwise
It will not successfully “draw” the tea, or
The tea will not successfully “draw” it. Byron
Wrote that no man under thirty should ever see
An ugly woman, suggesting desire should be so strong
It affected the princeliest of senses; and Schopenhauer
Suggested the elimination of the human species
As the way to escape from the Will, which he saw as a monstrous
Demon-like force which destroys us. When
Pleasure is mild, you should enjoy it, and
When it is violent, permit it, as far as
You can, to enjoy you. Pain should be
Dealt with as efficiently as possible. To “cure” a dead octopus
You hold it by one leg and bang it against a rock.
This makes a noise heard all around the harbor,
But it is necessary, for otherwise the meat would be too tough.
Fowl are best plucked by humans, but machines
Are more humanitarian, since extended chicken
Plucking is an unpleasant job. Do not eat unwashed beets
Or rare pork, nor should you gobble uncooked dough.
Fruits, vegetables, and cheese make an excellent diet.
You should understand some science. Electricity
Is fascinating. Do not be defeated by the
Feeling that there is too much for you to know. That
Is a myth of the oppressor. You are
Capable of understanding life. And it is yours alone
And only this time. Women who appeal to you
Should be told so, and loved, if you can, but no one
Should be able to shake you so much that you wish to
Give up. The sensations you feel are caused by outside
Phenomena and inside impulses. Whatever you
Experience is both “a person out there” and a dream
As well as unwashed electrons. It is your task to see this through
To a conclusion that makes sense to all concerned
And that reflects credit on this poem, your species, and yourself.
Now go. You cannot come back until these lessons are learned
And you can show that you have learned them for yourself.

by Kenneth Koch
Courtesy New York Review of Books

One of My Faves by One of My Faves

2011-04-22T00:06:00.000-04:00

XIII (Dedications)

I know you are reading this poem
late, before leaving your office
of the one intense yellow lamp-spot and the darkening window
in the lassitude of a building faded to quiet
long after rush-hour. I know you are reading this poem
standing up in a bookstore far from the ocean
on a gray day of early spring, faint flakes driven
across the plains' enormous spaces around you.
I know you are reading this poem
in a room where too much has happened for you to bear
where the bedclothes lie in stagnant coils on the bed
and the open valise speaks of flight
but you cannot leave yet. I know you are reading this poem
as the underground train loses momentum and before running
up the stairs
toward a new kind of love
your life has never allowed.
I know you are reading this poem by the light
of the television screen where soundless images jerk and slide
while you wait for the newscast from the intifada.
I know you are reading this poem in a waiting-room
of eyes met and unmeeting, of identity with strangers.
I know you are reading this poem by fluorescent light
in the boredom and fatigue of the young who are counted out,
count themselves out, at too early an age. I know
you are reading this poem through your failing sight, the thick
lens enlarging these letters beyond all meaning yet you read on
because even the alphabet is precious.
I know you are reading this poem as you pace beside the stove
warming milk, a crying child on your shoulder, a book in your
hand
because life is short and you too are thirsty.
I know you are reading this poem which is not in your language
guessing at some words while others keep you reading
and I want to know which words they are.
I know you are reading this poem listening for something, torn
between bitterness and hope
turning back once again to the task you cannot refuse.
I know you are reading this poem because there is nothing else
left to read
there where you have landed, stripped as you are.(1990-91)

by Adrienne Rich
from Atlas of a Difficult World

A Video Poem — Go Librarians!

2011-04-21T00:40:00.001-04:00

Click here to read the lyrics.

Thanks to Suzanne Levy for sharing. And remember: every week is Library Week!

Pulitzer Prize for Poetry: The Best of It

2011-04-20T00:04:00.001-04:00

Kay Ryan won the 2011 Pulitzer Prize for poetry. Enjoy this title poem for the award-winning book, The Best of It.

The Best of It

However carved up
or pared down we get,
we keep on making
the best of it as though
it doesn't matter that
our acre's down to
a square foot. As
though our garden
could be one bean
and we'd rejoice if
it flourishes, as
though one bean
could nourish us.

by Kay Ryan
Originally published in The Niagara River
© Grove Press
Courtesy The Writer's Almanac

Passover Poem

2011-04-19T00:52:00.012-04:00

Yes, I know the first night of Passover was last night, but I think you still can enjoy this poem on the second day.

Peace Is Not the Product of Despair

Peace is not the product of despair.

An army's most invincible least used.

Strength engenders weakness when abused,

Serving best by merely being there.

One conquers in the end by being just, 

Vanquishing the conscience with the right. 

Each child that's passed over in the night 

Restores just one-half bullet's worth of trust.

by Connie Falzon

from Post Poems

Value

2011-04-18T00:01:00.000-04:00

The Things
When I walk in my house I see pictures,
bought long ago, framed and hanging
—de Kooning, Arp, Laurencin, Henry Moore—
that I've cherished and stared at for years,
yet my eyes keep returning to the masters
of the trivial—a white stone perfectly round,
tiny lead models of baseball players, a cowbell,
a broken great-grandmother's rocker,
a dead dog's toy—valueless, unforgettable
detritus that my children will throw away
as I did my mother's souvenirs of trips
with my dead father, Kodaks of kittens,
and bundles of cards from her mother Kate.

by Donald Hall

Courtesy poets.org

Romeo and Juliet

2011-04-17T00:39:00.001-04:00

'Twas in a restaurant they met,
Romeo and Juliet,
He had no cash to pay the debt, so
Romeo'd what Julie-et.

Sorry, it is one of my favorite poems. However, today is the birthday of Olivia Hussy, the woman who is the iconic Juliet for a generation, thanks to Italian director Franco Zeffirelli. Click here for her Wikipedia entry.

Enjoy the snippet of Romeo and Juliet below. It's sheer poetry!

ROMEO AND JULIET

Act 2, Scene 2
ROMEO

But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale with grief,
That thou her maid art far more fair than she:
Be not her maid, since she is envious;
Her vestal livery is but sick and green
And none but fools do wear it; cast it off.
It is my lady, O, it is my love!
O, that she knew she were!
She speaks yet she says nothing: what of that?
Her eye discourses; I will answer it.
I am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks:
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.
What if her eyes were there, they in her head?
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,
As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven
Would through the airy region stream so bright
That birds would sing and think it were not night.
See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O, that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!

JULIET

Ay me!

ROMEO

She speaks:
O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art
As glorious to this night, being o'er my head
As is a winged messenger of heaven
Unto the white-upturned wondering eyes
Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds
And sails upon the bosom of the air.

JULIET

O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?
Deny thy father and refuse thy name
Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,
And I'll no longer be a Capulet.

ROMEO

[Aside] Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?

JULIET

'Tis but thy name that is my enemy;
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.
What's Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part
Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!
What's in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet;
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes
Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name,
And for that name which is no part of thee
Take all myself.

For Cat and Jeremy, Who Wed Today

2011-04-16T00:52:00.002-04:00

The Kiss

She pressed her lips to mind.
 —a typo

How many years I must have yearned
for someone’s lips against mind.
Pheromones, newly born, were floating
between us. There was hardly any air.

She kissed me again, reaching that place
that sends messages to toes and fingertips,
then all the way to something like home.
Some music was playing on its own.

Nothing like a woman who knows
to kiss the right thing at the right time,
then kisses the things she’s missed.
How had I ever settled for less?

I was thinking this is intelligence,
this is the wisest tongue
since the Oracle got into a Greek’s ear,
speaking sense. It’s the Good,

defining itself. I was out of my mind.
She was in. We married as soon as we could.




by Stephen Dunn 

Courtesy poets.org

Love your Library — and Enjoy Carl Sandburg, Dead Poet

2011-04-15T00:56:00.041-04:00

April 10-16 is National Library Week! To honor libraries and librarians, I share with you a poem shared with me by my librarian friend, Suzanne, who serves as a prime example of what is great about libraries and librarians.   I'm glad she has been a part of my library — and my life.
Please enjoy this poem shared by Suzanne, who grew up on the shores of Lake Michigan and whose family has a personal connection to Carl Sandburg and his family's goats.

PICNIC BOAT
SUNDAY night and the park policemen tell each other it
     is dark as a stack of black cats on Lake Michigan.
A big picnic boat comes home to Chicago from the peach
     farms of Saugatuck.
Hundreds of electric bulbs break the night's darkness, a
     flock of red and yellow birds with wings at a standstill.
Running along the deck railings are festoons and leaping
     in curves are loops of light from prow and stern
     to the tall smokestacks.
Over the hoarse crunch of waves at my pier comes a
     hoarse answer in the rhythmic oompa of the brasses

by Carl Sandburg

Poem in Your Pocket Day is Today!

2011-04-14T00:45:00.002-04:00

Here is my favorite poem in my "pocket," which doubles as my bulletin board at work. What's yours? Let me know!

Small Frogs Killed On The Highway

Still,
I would leap too
Into the light,
If I had the chance.
It is everything, the wet green stalk of the field
On the other side of the road.
They crouch there, too, faltering in terror
And take strange wing. Many
Of the dead never moved, but many
Of the dead are alive forever in the split second
Auto headlights more sudden
Than their drivers know.
The drivers burrow backward into dank pools
Where nothing begets
Nothing.

Across the road, tadpoles are dancing
On the quarter thumbnail
Of the moon. They can't see,
Not yet.

by James Wright
courtesy of Poetryconnection.net

Bet You Know This Dead Poet

2011-04-13T00:35:00.001-04:00

Annabel Lee

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
by Edgar Allan Poe
Courtey poemhunter.com

Now, who is your favorite dead poet? Tell me!

Wallace Stevens: The Plain Sense of Things

2011-04-12T00:53:00.000-04:00

The Plain Sense of Things

After the leaves have fallen, we return
To a plain sense of things. It is as if
We had come to an end of the imagination,
Inanimate in an inert savoir.

It is difficult even to choose the adjective
For this blank cold, this sadness without cause.
The great structure has become a minor house.
No turban walks across the lessened floors.

The greenhouse never so badly needed paint.
The chimney is fifty years old and slants to one side.
A fantastic effort has failed, a repetition
In a repetitiousness of men and flies.

Yet the absence of the imagination had
Itself to be imagined. The great pond,
The plain sense of it, without reflections, leaves,
Mud, water like dirty glass, expressing silence

Of a sort, silence of a rat come out to see,
The great pond and its waste of the lilies, all this
Had to be imagined as an inevitable knowledge,
Required, as a necessity requires.

by Wallace Stevens

Courtesy poets.org

Monday Morning Poem

2011-04-11T00:49:00.002-04:00

12 Line Thank You: A Monday Morning Poem

She was rushing busy busy
When she tripped on the reflection
Stopped by beauty
Stunned by wonder
When she fell into the time warp
Timeless beauty
Endless wonder
When she heard the monk-voice whisper
‘Write them beauty
Sing them wonder’
And she stopped to write a poem
Twelve line thank you, ode to wonder.

by Joanna Paterson

Are You Ready for Poem in Your Pocket Day?

2011-04-10T00:35:00.002-04:00

Here's a tasty little morsel for you, just in case you're not quite ready for that special day April 14.

Being walkers with the dawn and morning

Being walkers with the dawn and morning,
Walkers with the sun and morning,
We are not afraid of night,
Nor days of gloom,
Nor darkness–
Being walkers with the sun and morning.

by Langston Hughes

Courtesy Short Poems

Another Wonderful Poem by the Same Poet as Yesterday

2011-04-09T14:01:00.000-04:00

Why I'm Here

Because my mother was on a date

with a man in the band, and my father,

thinking she was alone, asked her to dance.

And because, years earlier, my father

dug a foxhole but his buddy

sick with the flu, asked him for it, so he dug

another for himself. In the night

the first hole was shelled.

I'm here because my mother was twenty-seven

and in the '50s that was old to still be single.

And because my father wouldn't work on weapons,

though he was an atomic engineer.

My mother, having gone to Berkeley, liked that.

My father liked that she didn't eat like a bird

when he took her to the best restaurant in L.A.

The rest of the reasons are long gone.

One decides to get dressed, go out, though she'd rather

stay home, but no, melancholy must be battled through,

so the skirt, the cinched belt, the shoes, and a life is changed.

I'm here because Jews were hated

so my grandparents left their villages,

came to America, married one who could cook,

one whose brother had a business,

married longing and disappointment

and secured in this way the future.

It's good to treasure the gift, but good

to see that it wasn't really meant for you.

The feeling that it couldn't have been otherwise

is just a feeling. My family

around the patio table in July.

I've taken over the barbequing

that used to be my father's job, ask him

how many coals, though I know how many.

We've been gathering here for years,

so I believe we will go on forever.

It's right to praise the random,

the tiny god of probability that brought us here,

to praise not meaning, but feeling, the still-warm

sky at dusk, the light that lingers and the night

that when it comes is gentle.

by Jacqueline Berger
from The Gift That Arrives Broken.
© Autumn House Press, 2010.

Glimpse of a Marriage

2011-04-08T00:06:00.000-04:00

Teaching My Husband to Swim

Usually I'm the one who knows nothing,
frozen at the computer while my husband
tries to talk me through.
But this morning at the inn where we've come
to celebrate our second anniversary,
he tells me how many people in the past
have tried and failed to teach him how to swim.
I throw my suit on and grab our towels.
This is something I know I can do.
We've already been in the pool—a late afternoon
dip when we got here, me doing laps
and my husband dog paddling beside me,
his head above water, or holding his breath
the length of the pool before coming up for air.
Now I stand by the side, pulling my elbows back
and turning my head to demonstrate the crawl.
The fog has burned off the valley
and the pool shines, set off by the vineyards
whose grapes in another month
will be ready for harvest.
My husband in the pool tries to follow what I'm showing
but yanks his head to the surface, coughing water.
I get in with him and we discuss the mechanics
of breathing. He doesn't know about exhaling
through the nose under water, never learned
the significance of making bubbles.
It's a revelation. I send him
back and forth across the pool and it works.
He's swimming. Each time his face comes up
as his arm draws back,
the O of his mouth looks like wonder
or terror. We move on to the breast stroke,
and his head, like a needle stitching cloth,
gathers the water in the thick folds.
I stand off to the side coaching,
triumphant but careful to let the victory be his.
An ironic high five when we get out of the water
is all he wants to signify the occasion.
In the delicate economy of marriage
giving costs less than receiving,
the thin wire of power
threaded through the soft body of need.
We're ready for a hot bath
and both fit in the large tub in our room
where we lather our bodies and hair,
passing the soap between us.

by Jacqueline Berger
from The Gift that Arrives Broken.
© Autumn House Press, 2010.

In Honor of Cats, Especially My Own

2011-04-07T00:16:00.002-04:00

The Naming Of Cats

The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
It isn't just one of your holiday games;
You may think at first I'm as mad as a hatter
When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.
First of all, there's the name that the family use daily,
Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo or James,
Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey--
All of them sensible everyday names.
There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter,
Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames:
Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter--
But all of them sensible everyday names.
But I tell you, a cat needs a name that's particular,
A name that's peculiar, and more dignified,
Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular,
Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?
Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum,
Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat,
Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum-
Names that never belong to more than one cat.
But above and beyond there's still one name left over,
And that is the name that you never will guess;
The name that no human research can discover--
But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.
When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:
His ineffable effable
Effanineffable
Deep and inscrutable singular Name.

by T. S. EliotCourtesy Famous Poets and Poems

Speaking of which, who is your favorite dead poet? Let me know by April 14 and you will be in the running for a book of poetry. Even though Dead Poets Remembrance Day isn't until October 7, it's never too early to appreciate dead poets.

Just an Ordinary Day

2011-04-06T00:41:00.000-04:00

The day of my father's memorial service, I was surprised to see people dressed in casual clothing, going about their daily lives. Didn't they know the world was different? Couldn't they feel it?

This is for all those days I didn't feel it, either. Not yet.

Names on a Full Moon

Somewhere in a nearby yard a blue jay
yaks and yaks the morning quiet
way beyond the clicking news of smiles
and banks washing profits off casket walls.
Mid morning and the news reads
Sarandrea, Jessica Y., 22, Pfc, Army; Miami
First Cavalry Division. Killed in Iraq.

Marjorie Pollock is text messaging
by the organic oranges at Whole Foods.
Neal Bellenger holds a two pound
ground buffalo package in his left hand
a cell phone in his right.
The newlyweds contemplate organic cane
sugar as second ingredients in yogurt.
Daniel B. Hyde, 24 First Lieutenant, Army,
Modesto, California is dead in Iraq.

Beyond the three dollar collard greens
traffic zips and tears the afternoon.
No need to signal or cut off the competition.
It’s only three lanes and four hundred yards
to the gas station and a cheap hoagie.
A homeless man passes out a newspaper
at the traffic island. Put a little in the pot
please, and God Bless you Jeffrey Reed 23
Army Sergeant, Chesterfield, Virginia dead in Iraq.

Late afternoon stuffs the mind, wipes
pleasure off a job that may or may not
exist in a few days, or tomorrow.
Lorna Guzman, social worker for Women
in Distress hopes Day Care is taking care.
Keisha wants to tell the M.D.
with 40 patients a day that
she missed another period.
She has to get home.
She has a class tonight.
Patrick De Voe, he’s dead in Afghanistan
Twenty-seven, Private First Class
from Auburn, New York.
You know where that is, but then

It’s almost dinner time and Shirley
brings in take out hot and sour, lo mein
a side of barbecued wings.
Did you hear Tiger’s back?
TVs blink the news, the news, the news.
Who did what and who said if?
She’s a Democrat underneath.
How about that short horse in England?
They think it’s stuck in mud.
George Clooney may show up on ER.
You know Rush Lim and the other one
who took all the rich guy’s cash.
He’s going to plead and Jay Leno
will have his say later on.

By the way, it’s a full moon.
Look out the window at the perfect sky but
don’t forget the names whispered in the stars.
Jessica, Daniel, Jeffrey, Patrick
echo in blood, in guns, in storms.
They’re coming home.

-- David Plumb
courtesy of Voices Education Project

My New Anthem: 'Reading a Book!'

2011-04-05T00:05:00.004-04:00

The next time someone tries to derail you from reading poetry, or any other book, just refer them to Julian Smith:

And here is your poem of the day. Enjoy — then go read a book!

Angel Shark

Wan oxymoron of a fish, dotted

dun and fledge winged, mud-feathered when

it glides through silt, by nature bottom fed.

Whoever named it named himself a man

of undisputed Christian eye,

who saw in mortal depths a guardian

and humblest trumpeter. God tongue to cry,

it haunts an earth too dread for dread-

filled man til rapture calls: Arise and fly.

by Hailey Leithauser

courtesy poets.org

Women, Poetry and History

2011-04-04T00:28:00.001-04:00

On April 4, 2006, the women of Kuwait voted for the first time — and made a difference: about 60 percent of eligible voters were women.

In recognition of that hallmark, I share a poem written by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. The book was titled Suffrage Songs and Verses and sold for 10¢ a copy.

LOCKED INSIDE

She beats upon her bolted door,
With faint weak hands;
Drearily walks the narrow floor;
Sullenly sits, blank walls before;
  Despairing stands. Life calls her, Duty, Pleasure, Gain–
  Her dreams respond;
But the blank daylights wax and wane,
Dull peace, sharp agony, slow pain–
  No hope beyond.

Till she comes a thought! She lifts her head,
  The world grows wide!
A voice–as if clear words were said–
"Your door, O long imprisonéd,
  Is locked inside!"

Read Beach Glass, Start a Notebook

2011-04-03T21:12:00.000-04:00

Beach Glass

While you walk the water's edge,

turning over concepts

I can't envision, the honking buoy

serves notice that at any time

the wind may change,

the reef-bell clatters

its treble monotone, deaf as Cassandra

to any note but warning. The ocean,

cumbered by no business more urgent

than keeping open old accounts

that never balanced,

goes on shuffling its millenniums

of quartz, granite, and basalt.

It behaves

toward the permutations of novelty—

driftwood and shipwreck, last night's

beer cans, spilt oil, the coughed-up

residue of plastic—with random

impartiality, playing catch or tag

ot touch-last like a terrier,

turning the same thing over and over,

over and over. For the ocean, nothing

is beneath consideration.

The houses

of so many mussels and periwinkles

have been abandoned here, it's hopeless

to know which to salvage. Instead

I keep a lookout for beach glass—

amber of Budweiser, chrysoprase

of Almadén and Gallo, lapis

by way of (no getting around it,

I'm afraid) Phillips'

Milk of Magnesia, with now and then a rare

translucent turquoise or blurred amethyst

of no known origin.

The process

goes on forever: they came from sand,

they go back to gravel,

along with treasuries

of Murano, the buttressed

astonishments of Chartres,

which even now are readying

for being turned over and over as gravely

and gradually as an intellect

engaged in the hazardous

redefinition of structures

no one has yet looked at.

by Amy Clampitt

Courtesy Famous Poets and Poems

How I celebrated National Poetry Month today: I created a notebook on poets.org. It was easy and fun. Click here to do it!

Poems and Grasshoppers

2011-04-02T13:10:00.001-04:00


Grasshopper It's funny when the mind thinks about the psyche, as if a grasshopper could ponder a helicopter. It's a bad idea to fall asleep while flying a helicopter: when you wake up, the helicopter is gone and you are too, left behind in a dream, and there is no way to catch up, for catching up doesn't figure in the scheme of things. You are who you are, right now, and the mind is so scared it closes its eyes and then forgets it has eyes and the grasshopper, the one that thinks you're a helicopter, leaps onto your back! He is a brave little grasshopper and he never sleeps for the poem he writes is the act of always being awake, better than anything you could ever write or do. Then he springs away. by Ron Padgett Courtesy of poets.org How I celebrated National Poetry Month: I celebrated two days at once! I subscribed to the poets.org newsletter and signed up for a Poem a Day. (Those of you who did the same thing will recognize the poem above). I cheated, but only a little: I did what I'm doing, and let it count at "integrating poetry and technology." Remember to share your favorite poems with me (published, original, found — your call!) and I'll share them with the rest of the class. I have at least a few already, so hang on to your hats!

Thirty Ways to Celebrate National Poetry Month, Starting Today!

2011-04-01T00:52:00.011-04:00

The Academy of American Poets has 30 ways to spend the 30 days of April as a poetry lover. I myself will do this, and share with you how it goes.

Here is the list, as provided on poets.org.

	Celebrate Poem in Your Pocket Day The idea is simple: select a poem you love, carry it with you, then share it with co-workers, family, and friends.

	Read a book of poetry "Poetry is a response to the daily necessity of getting the world right."

	Memorize a poem "Getting a poem or prose passage truly 'by heart' implies getting it by mind and memory and understanding and delight."

	Revisit a poem "America is a country of second acts, so today, why not brush the dust off these classics and give them a fresh read?"

	Put poetry in an unexpected place "Books should be brought to the doorstep like electricity, or like milk in England: they should be considered utilities."

	Bring a poem to your place of worship "We define poetry as the unofficial view of being, and bringing the art of language in contact with your spiritual practices can deepen both."

	Attend a poetry reading "Readings have been occurring for decades around the world in universities, bookstores, cafes, corner pubs, and coffeehouses."

	Play Exquisite Corpse "Each participant is unaware of what the others have written, thus producing a surprising—sometimes absurd—yet often beautiful poem."

	Read a poem at an open mic "It's a great way to meet other writers in your area and find out about your local writing community."

	Support literary organizations "Many national and local literary organizations offer programs that reach out to the general public to broaden the recognition of poets and their work."

	Listen on your commute "Often, hearing an author read their own work can clarify questions surrounding their work's tone."

	Subscribe to a literary magazine "Full of surprising and challenging poetry, short fiction, interviews, and reviews, literary journals are at the forefront of contemporary poetry."

	Start a notebook on Poets.org "Poets.org lets users build their own personal portable online commonplace book out of the materials on our site."

	Put a poem in a letter "It's always a treat to get a letter, but finding a poem in the envelope makes the experience extra special."

	Take a poem out to lunch "Adding a poem to lunch puts some poetry in your day and gives you something great to read while you eat."

	Put a poem on the pavement "Go one step beyond hopscotch squares and write a poem in chalk on your sidewalk."

	Recite a poem to family and friends "You can use holidays or birthdays as an opportunity to celebrate with a poem that is dear to you, or one that reminds you of the season."

	Organize a poetry reading "When looking for a venue, consider your local library, coffee shop, bookstore, art gallery, bar or performance space."

	Promote public support for poetry "Every year, Congress decides how much money will be given to the National Endowment for the Arts to be distributed all across America."

	Start a poetry reading group "Select books that would engage discussion and not intimidate the reader new to poetry."

	Read interviews and literary criticism "Reading reviews can also be a helpful exercise and lend direction to your future reading."

	Buy a book of poems for your library "Many libraries have undergone or are facing severe cuts in funding. These cuts are often made manifest on library shelves."

	Start a commonplace book "Since the Renaissance, devoted readers have been copying their favorite poems and quotations into notebooks to form their own personal anthologies called commonplace books."

	Integrate poetry with technology "Many email programs allow you to create personalized signatures that are automatically added to the end of every email you send."

	Ask the Post Office for more poet stamps "To be eligible, suggested poets must have been deceased for at least ten years and must be American or of American descent."

	Sign up for a poetry class or workshop "Colleges and arts centers often make individual courses in literature and writing available to the general public."

	Subscribe to our free newsletter "Short and to the point, the Poets.org Update, our electronic newsletter, will keep you informed on Academy news and events."

And here is your poem of the day. Enjoy.

The Last Day

Let's say it begins at six o'clock
on April's first morning when the sun has risen
to vibrate three inches above the mountain
and light shimmies along three wires looped
from the tall trunk of the pine to the house
where you are not awake yet,
though a few birds sail the lower air
near the just-thawed ground. Boughs still
heavy with cones lie scattered, and beyond the stolid
granite church with its black windows,
one bird sings the sweetest notes into being.
Stalks are rising — exploding in yellow
in last year's garden and one ladybug climbs
the screen — as if it had all the time in the world.

by Patricia Fargnoli
from Duties of the Spirit
Tupelo Press, 2005
Courtesy of The Writer's Almanac.

Comfort in Books

2011-03-31T00:27:00.013-04:00

For the first time in nearly two decades, I am not surrounded by books.

Well, let me clarify: I am not inundated by books stacked around me in every room in the house.

That doesn't mean I don't have books in the house. And it's not even my house!

Last summer, Carole helped me "de-clutter" my library so the amount of books I had actually fit within the bookshelves. (I know, where is the fun in that?) Rest assured, it was for a good cause: the house was on the market, and professionals recommended implementing the "d" word.

What that meant was the boxing of about 20 boxes of books. Give or take, that is; I didn't count. I just closed my eyes and received the books Carole handed me. We weeded out the ones I wasn't reading at the moment, added the ones I was unlikely to re-read in the immediate future, and made the remaining ones look like they were meant to be there. Carole arranged the ones that remained with attractive, bookish knickknacks from her own shelves, rescued some from mine, and displayed them in a lovely fashion.

It was that room that sold the house.

Oh, don't misunderstand me: the new kitchen floor wasn't a washout and the couch set off the living room. However, it was the love on those shelves that made someone think about how they would love that house, too — and, apparently, see beyond the cat scratching posts flanking the front door.

However, now... Now I have half a box of books in a cube in Alicia's guest room.

Well, that's how it started. Then I found Summer of Night by Dan Simmons tucked, unread, on her bedroom shelves, and that was promptly plopped on the air purifier.

Then I was lured into the library book sale and found myself the new owner of a stack of books, including new-to-David Dean Koontz and, for me, American Wife (which had good reviews and I had meant to read when it first came out). And a few more titles that looked delicious... With hardback novels priced at a dollar and the money funding library programs, who was I to deny the Friends of the Library a few shekels in exchange for books?

Alicia made a Marge Simpson sound when she saw them stacked on the shoe holder that evening. "Okay, but no more books!" she declared, the only sane person in the house. David and I nodded. We could comply.

That is, until the latest Borders coupon was too much to resist. I had managed to walk out of the store without A Discovery of Witches enough times to make me feel pious, and the box of books we took to Alicia's house was still buried. I could see the end of At Home looming on the horizon: what was I to do? I was too excited to not tell Alicia. She just shook her head.

Then I dropped off some items at the local thrift store with low prices and a decent selection of books. I told myself that one book was going to the Lunchroom Lending Library at work, one was for David and the other two... well, I'd give them away when I finished them. Really.

I showed Alicia the first one, for David, which appeared work-related. "Eat This, Not That? I've seen that at the bookstores," she said. Then she saw the others. "And where are these going?" she asked.

"One is going to work," I responded weakly.

She sighed. I was officially incorrigible. (Which was not news to either of us.)

I am sated — for now. I have plotted them carefully: first, I finish Summer of Night. That will take me a few days. After that, I will follow up that with the new-to-me Penny Vincenzi in the box we brought with us, then dive right into Witches.

At least, that's the plan. I've had a few more titles suggested to me, and I've unfrozen my library reservation list, so I might have a few new titles from which to choose.

What other titles can you suggest to lure me off the straight-and-narrow? Tempt me with your suggestions!