Elegy for the Personal Letter

by Allison Joseph

I miss the rumpled corners of correspondence,
the ink blots and crossouts that show
someone lives on the other end, a person
whose hands make errors, leave traces.
I miss fine stationary, its raised elegant
lettering prominent on creamy shades of ivory
or pearl grey. I even miss hasty notes
dashed off on notebook paper, edges
ragged as their scribbled messages—
can’t much write now—thinking of you.
When letters come now, they are formatted
by some distant computer, addressed
to Occupant or To the family living at—
meager greetings at best,
salutations made by committee.
Among the glossy catalogs
and one time only offers
the bills and invoices,
letters arrive so rarely now that I drop
all other mail to the floor when
an envelope arrives and the handwriting
is actual handwriting, the return address
somewhere I can locate on any map.
So seldom is it that letters come
That I stop everything else
to identify the scrawl that has come this far—
the twist and the whirl of the letters,
the loops of the numerals. I open
those envelopes first, forgetting
the claim of any other mail,
hoping for news I could not read
in any other way but this.

“Elegy for the Personal Letter” by Allison Joseph, from My Father’s Kites. ©

 Subscribe to this blog here.
 

Hello Susan,

Interesting that I should receive a blog from you on children’s literature.  It has been suggested to me that I convert one of my poems into an illustrated children’s book.  I always get something from you that is timely for me.  My favourite children’s book is “The Rainbow Goblins” by Ul de Rico.

 

A good friend gifted me with that book soon after I had been burglarised and raped at knife point in my apartment.  It was just a kind gesture on her part, stemming from a desire to “do” something, for me. Of course I did all the police follow-up and received counselling on ending violence effectively, and it’s years later now, and I am fine.  I’ve even given talks to women’s groups about protecting oneself and staying safe.

  

I must say, however, that the book, “The Rainbow Goblins”, was most instrumental in helping me to get back on track.  The story said to me that it is  less important that there are people and forces or circumstances beyond your control that can, and do, sometimes, come in and take things from you or hurt you;  But, more, that you can overcome them or defeat them.

  

It is brilliantly illustrated as well.  Sometimes, children’s books are even better and more meaningful for adults.  Shel Silverstein is another favourite children’s author of mine. (was, he is deceased, though his works live on)  Thank you for the piece on Margaret Wise Brown.  I am embarrassed to admit that I’d never heard of her, but I will be looking her up. That’s for sure!  I am also a fan of Lesléa Newman.

There is a part of me that, like “Peter Pan”, in a way, will always be a wide eyed girl of ten or so, and I like it that way.  She keeps me from growing old, which is different from aging, and she never lets me take myself too seriously.  We have a lot of fun.  :-D 

 

The Rainbow Goblins

Subscribe to this blog here.

I hate milk chocolate, don’t want clouds
of cream diluting the dark night sky,
don’t want pralines or raisins, rubble
in this smooth plateau. I like my coffee
black, my beer from Germany, wine
from Burgundy, the darker, the better.
I like my heroes complicated and brooding,
James Dean in oiled leather, leaning
on a motorcycle. You know the color.

Oh, chocolate! From the spice bazaars
of Africa, hulled in mills, beaten,
pressed in bars. The cold slab of a cave’s
interior, when all the stars
have gone to sleep.

Chocolate strolls up to the microphone
and plays jazz at midnight, the low slow
notes of a bass clarinet. Chocolate saunters
down the runway, slouches in quaint
boutiques; its style is je ne sais quoi.
Chocolate stays up late and gambles,
likes roulette. Always bets
on the noir.

“Ode to Chocolate” by Barbara Crooker, from More. © C&R Press, 2010. 

Are you a chocolate lover? What is your favorite kind? Dark, light, nutty, nougat?

P.S. If you are an email subscriber and want to comment, simply click on the name of the post and go to the bottom. Thanks!

Subscribe to this blog here.

P.S.This poem was featured on Writer’s Almanac. If you don’t subscribe already, you might want to. Great stuff!

It’s like so many other things in life
to which you must say no or yes.
So you take your car to the new mechanic.
Sometimes the best thing to do is trust.

The package left with the disreputable-looking
clerk, the check gulped by the night deposit,
the envelope passed by dozens of strangers—
all show up at their intended destinations.

The theft that could have happened doesn’t.
Wind finally gets where it was going
through the snowy trees, and the river, even
when frozen, arrives at the right place.

And sometimes you sense how faithfully your life
is delivered, even though you can’t read the address.

From Waking Before Dawn. © Red Dragonfly Press, 2007.

 
When I was going through a very difficult time in my life several years ago, someone I respected a great deal told me to, “Trust the process.” I did then and I still do. And I would also add:

 May we all show up at our intended destinations.

 
Subscribe to this blog here.

Check out my day job here. I help people trust the process.

To be blessed
said the old woman
is to live and work
so hard
God’s love
washes right through you
like milk through a cow

To be blessed
said the dark red tulip
is to knock their eyes out
with the slug of lust
implied by
your up-ended
skirt

To be blessed
said the dog
is to have a pinch
of God
inside you
and all the other dogs
can smell it

 
“The Blessing of the Old Woman, the Tulip, and the Dog” by Alicia Suskin Ostriker, from The Book of Seventy. © University of Pittsburgh Press, 2009.

Blessings to you, my dear readers. HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Subscribe to this blog here.

Check out my day job here.

Is there something in your life that you need to rise above in order to live your best life? What are you a “slave” to? Perhaps a negative attitude or a negative belief in yourself? Who or what inspires you to keep going despite these obstacles?

Click here to view the embedded video.

P.S. If for some reason you can’t view the video go here.

Reverence
by Julie Cadwallader-Staub

The air vibrated
with the sound of cicadas
on those hot Missouri nights after sundown
when the grown-ups gathered on the wide back lawn,
sank into their slung-back canvas chairs
tall glasses of iced tea beading in the heat

and we sisters chased fireflies
reaching for them in the dark
admiring their compact black bodies
their orange stripes and seeking antennas
as they crawled to our fingertips
and clicked open into the night air.

In all the days and years that have followed,
I don’t know that I’ve ever experienced
that same utter certainty of the goodness of life
that was as palpable
as the sound of the cicadas on those nights:

my sisters running around with me in the dark,
the murmur of the grown-ups’ voices,
the way reverence mixes with amazement
to see such a small body
emit so much light.
 
“Reverence” by Julie Cadwallader-Staub, from Friends Journal. ©Religious Society of Friends.

Subscribe to this blog here.

by Anne Porter

When I was a child
I once sat sobbing on the floor
Beside my mother’s piano
As she played and sang
For there was in her singing
A shy yet solemn glory
My smallness could not hold

And when I was asked
Why I was crying
I had no words for it
I only shook my head
And went on crying

Why is it that music
At its most beautiful
Opens a wound in us
An ache a desolation
Deep as a homesickness
For some far-off
And half-forgotten country

I’ve never understood
Why this is so

But there’s an ancient legend
From the other side of the world
That gives away the secret
Of this mysterious sorrow

For centuries on centuries
We have been wandering
But we were made for Paradise
As deer for the forest

And when music comes to us
With its heavenly beauty
It brings us desolation
For when we hear it
We half remember
That lost native country

We dimly remember the fields
Their fragrant windswept clover
The birdsongs in the orchards
The wild white violets in the moss
By the transparent streams

And shining at the heart of it
Is the longed-for beauty
Of the One who waits for us
Who will always wait for us
In those radiant meadows

Yet also came to live with us
And wanders where we wander.

“Music” by Anne Porter from Living Things: Collected Poems. © Steerforth Press, 2006.

 What kind of music moves you the most? Please comment below. I’d love to hear from you.

 
Comment on this blog here.

Subscribe to this blog here.