Call and Response

This is offered in response to the prompt for a "Call and Response poem" from dVerse- Poets Pub. (before I knew of the time limit) This is a marvelous site for learning about different kinds of poetry as well.

Call and Response

"I've a strange heaviness in my arms, Mac. Can't seem to row at all. Something's wrong. I need to get back to Mae and the baby." 


"We'll turn her around, Angus. We can do the rowing. Should be back by the afternoon if the waves hold constant." 


He saw Mae sitting by the window, the baby in her arms, as he rushed into the house.


"What's wrong, Mae? The baby's so still."


"Oh, Angy Mal, our Donald died this morning. He had a fierce fever while you were gone. He fought hard, poor wee one. I was praying you'd come."


"I had to come back, I couldn't row, Mae, had a heaviness in my arms. What can I do?"


"Best to make a casket to bury our baby in. Paint it white, pure soul that he was."


Angus carried the casket in his arms for the funeral. "Mae, this is the heaviness I felt in my arms in the boat, the very same."

I Had A Dream

For Kelly

I had a dream when my daughter turned twenty: she began to eat the tall plant in our living room. I knew she wouldn't stop. She turned green like the plant, her lips, her face, her neck. I feared the plant would take her over, evolve her into a new life form. The she/plant grew wildly out of control, spread to the carpet, filled the room, then the house. I panicked, declared: "There'll be no more plant eating in this house!" As if I could stop it, or her, or needed to.

Prophecies come in dreams. She moved to Trinidad's Rain Forest, staked her claim to earth, connected to the plants in this far away land,  discovered the ancient world view and speaks it anew: "All my relations." She gives back in balance as she takes, knows her power, walks in beauty in a sacred way and brings her medicine to mother earth. Earth needs her medicine.

How to Fish And Not Get Seasick

These odd structures with the odd name of trobacchi are actually an ingenious way to fish without ever going out to sea. Like fishing huts on stilts. They dot the 15 km southern coastline in my province of Abruzzo with their organic, quirky constructions that look like the anatomy of some exotic sea creature. Two or three of their long arms provide a network for nets that project out to sea and take advantage of favorable currents to scoop up fish.

Made from acacia trees that grow behind the beaches and salvaged drift wood washed in by the tide, each one looks quite different. Fishing families since the 18th century used these ancient formations as their main source of income. It took ingenuity to devise a framework for fishing based on a sparse population that needed to lessen loss of life at sea and not be hampered by weather conditions. Indeed, as they are repaired, trobocchi have resisted decades of storms while remaining flexible. Impressive.

Due to the over- fishing in deeper waters, Trobocchi are now cultural symbols, tourist attractions and even restaurants rather than sustainable fishing machines. My Honey and I joined friends for a Slow Food meal on a trobocco not far from us near Vasto and pictured below. The food was fresh, local and typical (the criteria of Slow Food Movement) and we feasted on gifts from the sea. One dish was a local fish soup called Rodetto di Pesche all Vastese made with assorted fishes, tomatoes, garlic and olive oil. Delicious.

There is some food that feeds more than physical hunger. This would be an example. 

How about for you?

Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire

It's chestnut season where I live. Chestnuts used to offer tasty sustenance through the long winter months to the peasants in this Abruzzo area of Italy. They are now available at the open markets that dot our region. Look for skins with a healthy glow and a beautiful brown shine.

Chestnuts from our local market were roasted on an open fire right on my stove in a fancy roasting pan purchased in our little town.

Wash the chestnuts in cold water first. Cut an X shape on the flatter end (so it doesn't explode when cooked) but not piercing the skin, then roast on low flame for about 15- 20 minutes. Shake them frequently and put a lid on the pan since chestnuts open up dramatically and with force. Doesn't it look like they've just opened their hearts?

Drop into a bowl when they're all opened and nicely roasted. Squeeze the chestnut before peeling and it will peel easier. Sprinkle with a little salt or cinnamon and eat while warm. Wine is a wonderful accompaniment.

I'm sorry that a blog can't contain smells because roasting chestnuts have a gorgeous, abundant, open- fire scent that made my mouth water before I ate one. European chestnuts are larger, sweeter and easier to peel than American chestnuts.

But it's the taste that is most remarkable. Chestnuts, freshly roasted, have a smooth, substantial texture. I knew I was eating a tree gift with in its essential treeness intact. Their taste hints at cinnamon (before adding it) but nutty and sweet with a full on, ample chestnut taste of their own that kept me popping them.

It seems like such a bounteous gift from the tall ones, an extravagant sharing of tree substance with us two-leggeds. Have we lavished this kind of plentiful love back on them? Or offered gratitude for this all- inclusive nourishment? These sweet chestnuts are part of me. My strength redolent with this tree gift.

Talking is Good, But We Knew That

My Honey and I were reading about stress reduction the other day. We knew the secret from experience: "talk to each other." Turns out that we were right all along. You've read all the suggestions for handling stress: exercise, meditate, breath. All good. But now they're finding that talking to your spouse or loved ones reduces stress the best. 38 years of marriage taught us that, but it's good to have research back us up. We should have written a book.

It seems too simple, doesn't it? Just talk. Tell folks that care about you and that you care about how you're feeling. Women do that with one another fairly easily on a regular basis but it's good for men too. Talk to your spouse, talk to another trusted relative, talk to a close friend. Do it often. They know you and love you. They hold your highest good in their heart. We're made for that love. It's good for us.

Have a great weekend.

100,000 Monks

100,000 Monks pray for a better world.

Let us join them.

All our energy toward a worthy goal.

What might we accomplish?

Steve Jobs, Rilke, Monet

“Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice.
And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.”

                                            Steve Jobs, 
                                                    Stanford University Commencement address, 2005

You carry within you the capacity to imagine and give shape to your world. It is a pure and blessed way of living. Train yourself to this, but also trust whatever comes. If it comes from your desire, from some inner need, accept that and hate nothing.

Worpswede, July 16, 1903

Letters to a Young Poet

Rilke

Monet

Soft Air and Cartoons

I sit on my balcony as the day turns to evening and the air is soft from a lovely slide back to summer temps. It reminds me of an Irish poem I read that admonished me, as I remember it, to "let him be, he is growing, the air is soft above his head." I love that image of soft air above a child's head. The air feels like that this evening and lets my mind wander. I no longer remember the poem's name but it sounds like it was written by a grandmother.

I remember an incident with my grandfather when I was about six and trying to mow the lawn with his push mower. The details are long gone but he said to me: "You're a disappointment." I felt the sting of that remark like a slap. I didn't know then what I had done to cause it or why he thought that. I couldn't ask him nor could I slough it off. I thought about it for years, turned it over and over in my mind wondering if it belonged to me or not.

One of the blogs I follow, "in search of white space" by erin, had a poem today about a young girl with cancer. Do yourself a favor and check out erin's elegant poetry. It stirred up these thoughts from long ago. Also made me remember the months I spent working as a nurse on a children's cancer ward in Boston back in the 60's and how I ended up appreciating my time there among these brave little ones. I heaped my inadequate aids on the side of healing as disease ravaged their small bodies and they lived as best they could. But what surprised me was the amount of laughter we shared. We watched cartoons and would dissolve in giggles at the slapstick absurdity of cartoons in those days. The kids would try some of the moves themselves and laugh all over again. They taught me how to stay in the moment those wise ones who's names I can still call.

Seems remarkable, this play of presences, past and present that stir up the rich stew of our lives and let us taste it, maybe savor it, once more.