Morning.

Lately, I've been setting my alarm to get up early (by my standards), even though I don't absolutely have to. Then, I start accomplishing things. As it turns out, my apartment gets really lovely sunlight in the morning, and it feels good to tell myself I'm taking care of business while the rest of the world sleeps (mostly, I blog, and buzz around the house on espresso). But, in that spirit, I offer a Morning poem. I suggest reading it...in the morning.

Morning, by Billy Collins.

Why do we bother with the rest of the day,
the swale of the afternoon,
the sudden dip into evening,

then night, with his notorious perfumes,
his many-pointed stars?

This is the best--
throwing off the light covers,
feet on the cold floor,
and buzzing around the house on espresso--

maybe a splash of water on the face,
a palmful of vitamins--
but mostly buzzing around the house on espresso,

dictionary and atlas open on the rug,
the typewriter waiting for the key of the head,
a cello on the radio,

and, if necessary, the windows--
trees fifty, a hundred years old
out there,
heavy clouds on the way
and the lawn steaming like a horse
in the early morning.

Wednesday Night Poetry Corner

Today, I was tooling around on the Huffington Post, because really, "office hours" are nothing more than those hours a week when you're required to sit in your office, waiting for students who don't show up, so instead you end up reading everything you can find on the internet. Among the many items of junk, I found a non-junk story about Ann Bancroft and Mel Brooks. Did you know that they were married to each other for forty-five years, until Ann Bancroft passed away? Did you know that I find their love story pretty inspirational over all?

Somehow, reading about them got me thinking about this poem, by a guy named Mark Halliday, who is funny and smart and looks like Larry David. He writes poems that are sometimes tender, and sometimes bitey. I like this one:

The Beloved
Mark Halliday

I wrote this fine glossy poem
about how the true beloved is always ineffable,
the one at the palace window
when the purple light of storm astounds the forest,
the one whose touch is the breeze of April,
the one with breasts of pearl swaying urgent toward the mouth of dream,
cloud-sister of Grace Kelly,
always finally that one in azure kimono

and never the contingent one who flosses
and collides with you in the kitchen
and wants forever to lose five pounds
and notices the smell of your sneakers
and remembers guys with stronger arms.
I wrote the poem and felt kind of brave
and rather ineffable myself
and I kind of saw Apollo in the mirror

so then I published the poem in a smooth journal
dedicated to the Other World that words can make--
world, or only a superb hotel?--

so then my wife reads the poem
and she looks at me: her gray-green eyes
moving in those subtle motions that eyes make
when they're anxious to see something true.

Looking into her eyes then I feel
not like a bad husband really but like a guy
half an inch shorter than he thought
whose poem didn't have the guts to be complicated.

Sweet Things.

1. Remember about ten years ago, when Oprah had to live in Texas for, like, six months, while she was the defendant in a massive trial because on her TV show she said, "Beef is gross"? and then the cattle industry was like, "Oh no, she is going to cost us millions of dollars! LAWSUIT!" Remember that?

Well, listen, I don't want that to happen with me and honey. I love honey, and I want the world to know it. Now that I have thirty-two followers (THIRTY TWO??? That's the power of the Rat!), I need to be responsible about the fact that this blog is becoming very influential. ;)

To wit: I love honey. Look at my cute little honey bear! I use it all the time on my peanut butter toast. So what if it's puke--bad with the good, and all that. I'll keep using honey. So we're clear, I've got mad respect for honey bees.

"My love is a hundred pitchers of honey." --Jack Gilbert, Phenomenal Poet

"That sounds very sticky." --Kendall

2. Sweet Poems by Japanese School Children (as pinned to my office door):
(to clarify: the poems are pinned to the office door. Not the children.):

If I Were an Ant
Suppose I were an ant.
I'd be lazy
for sure.
And
I wouldn't save my food--
I'd eat lots.

--Hitomi Takesi, Third Grade

Sunset Sky
Mom--
the sunset sky is pretty, isn't it?
The crows are eating it.
Mmmm, they say.
Delicious!
But just
a little
sour.

--Igarashi Yuko, Kindergarten

Crow
A crow is pitch black.
You can't see where its eyes are.
A big one look likes
a flying sushi roll.
A very big one looks like
a flying garbage bag.

--Aoki Suguru, Third Grade

Dream
I had a dream
that a ghost appeared
and ate me up.
But then
my sister
ate the ghost.
My sister
is incredible.

--Shimaoka Kotaro, First Grade

Beautiful, right?

Poetically,
Kendall