This week's prompt was: Share a favorite line of poetry.
There is far too much to choose from for this assignment -- so I'm going to cheat, just a bit, and send you elsewhere -- by linking these lines from Joyce Kilmer's famous poem:
I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as a tree . . .
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Cat on my shoulder,
dog at my knee, I live
amidst amulets, icons,paintings by unknown
artists, carvings by
Indonesian strangers,figures that invoke
religions that are not
mine; spirit that is.Leaves come down
in a clatter of color.
The windchimes ring.
Ah, I'm just not feeling very poetic today...
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I found this at fotogail's MySpace page. I think you'll need flash to see it.
These are photos of my garden, this year:
Get Your Own! | View Slideshow
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The other night I caught a bit of Larry King Live, with Donald Trump and Robert T. Kiyosaki, pitching their book Why We Want You to be Rich.
King asked for the definition of rich in this country. Curious?
If you make one million dollars a year, without working -- you can consider yourself rich. Any less? No cigar. Make that much, but have to work for it? You don't qualify.
So my feeling that I'm rich is just that: a feeling. I am apparently trying to create my own reality, out of almost nothing. At least by these standards.
Many people in my situation, suddenly and completely unable to work, would be homeless, and hungry. But I own my house -- at least so far, though it's been a close thing more than once. Some people would call this an apartment, but I own it -- so it's a house. My house.
It's a house full of beautiful stuff. Well, OK, full of stuff that I think is beautiful, or useful, or amusing.
I have the collector gene. Even as a child, I collected things. When I had a job that involved a lot of travel, within a day or two the hotel bureau would have an accumulation of local objects: a shell, a feather, a stone; perhaps a piece of jewelry or other small artifact. A lifetime of collections came together in this house when I moved here thirteen years ago.
So I live here in this wonderful place, remodeled to suit me. Each day I am surrounded by things that I like -- some of them made by people I love. I share my house with dogs, and cats, and parakeets, and even, now and then, with friends. I am not hungry. I have this sweet little laptop (thanks to you.) I have been woven into the World Wide Web. I have a tiny, but beautiful, garden oasis.
Today, this country's population officially reached 300 million.
From Wikipedia:
The official poverty rate in the U.S. has increased for four consecutive years, from a 26-year low of 11.3% in 2000 to 12.7% in 2004. This means that 37.0 million people were below the official poverty thresholds in 2004. This is 5.4 million more than in 2000. The poverty rate for children under 18 years old increased from 16.2% to 17.8% over that period.
I live above these numbers. Only slightly, but above.
Am I not rich?
From Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary
rich
1 : having abundant possessions and especially material wealth
2 a : having high value or quality b : well supplied or endowed <a city rich in traditions>
3 : magnificently impressive : SUMPTUOUS
4 a : vivid and deep in color <a rich red> b : full and mellow in tone and quality <a rich voice> c : having a strong fragrance <rich perfumes>
5 : highly productive or remunerative <a rich mine>
6 a : having abundant plant nutrients <rich soil> b : highly seasoned, fatty, oily, or sweet <rich foods> c : high in the combustible component <a rich fuel mixture> d : high in some component <cholesterol-rich foods>
7 a : ENTERTAINING; also : LAUGHABLE b : MEANINGFUL, SIGNIFICANT <rich allusions> c : LUSH <rich meadows>
8 : pure or nearly pure <rich lime>
I would say that, by many of these definitions, I am rich, indeed.
You?
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Did you know that leaves
don't fall, but are pushed
by their trees? The first
grosbeak came today.
I saw a tattered warbler
dead on the trail. Do youthink that absence casts
a shadow? How tired I am,
of getting up, of sitting
down, of moving slowly
through dense and un-
forgiving days. Dreamsfollow me with their
yellow eyes, day after
day, only slightly familiar
and bringing no comfort.
I turned on the heat, though
maples are burning with color.
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Summer and autumn are arguing with each other; autumn is winning.
There is a new public service ad on television -- a cowboy rides into view, then swings off his horse and lights a cigarette. Whomp! the horse falls dead. A message rolls across the screen, something like second hand smoke is deadly.
I think of this as my neighbor and I sit on the deck, in the rain, putting poison into our bodies.
I wonder how tough it was to train that horse to fall down?
Avoiding the news, distracting myself from my tiredness, I've been watching Home & Garden Television. Why do people want their bedrooms to look like hotel rooms? Designed and impersonal? I don't get it. Even if you get all shy and conservative in the rest of your house, isn't this the one room that ought to most reflect your uniqueness, as a person, as a couple?
Today, in the States, we acknowledge Columbus Day -- that most ambiguous of holidays. Some celebrate; some protest; some mourn. Another reminder of the natural diversity of this nation.
I've been thinking lately about intelligence -- what kind, how much, does it matter?
My dogs desperately need haircuts; the kitchen cupboards are bare; books and magazines and midstream projects are scattered on the livingroom floor. But I sit, and watch television, and think.
That's all.
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You probably know that the Rolling Stones were in Missoula this week. At least one Montana blogger attended the concert; my next-door neighbor and I just sat on the deck and listened, watching the light show reflect off the cloud cover. She stuck with it the whole time; I came & went.
The other next door neighbors had a pre-concert party and then went, with their many and happy guests, off to the stadium. The morning after, I spotted this dinosaur floating above their fence. A party gift from daughter-in-law.
What could she have meant?
Hmmm???
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Saturday morning, tired but inspired from Friday's adventures, I headed out to our newly renovated Missoula Art Museum for Montana Poetry: A Conversation, with Sandra Alcosser, Tami Haaland, Kim Anderson, Rick Newby, Beth Ferris, Arlynn Fishbaugh, Lowell Jaeger, Megan McNamer, Mandy Smoker, and Corby Skinner.
I was especially looking forward to seeing Beth, a poet and person I greatly admire. A bonus was a conversation with B.J. Buckley, another poet I've crossed paths with over the years, and whose work I like.
What a great setting this was -- a line of poets sitting at a long table in front of several works by Rudy Autio -- facing a room full of poets. Introvert though I am, I felt at home.
I did take some notes, and will offer a list of websites to visit at the end of this post, but NewWest offers audio of this conversation -- you can go listen to it yourself. There are so many projects and books in process; now including a Missoula poetry critique group, the organization of which has been delegated to me. Those who signed up at the conference will hear from me in the next few days; if any of you are interested, email me.
Some links from the poetry panel, and a brief wander amidst the tables:
I was surprised at the late entry onto the web of many of these organizations -- and that there weren't more offerings at the conference for web-based writers. Perhaps because it's the Montana Festival of the Book. Still, lots of us are online, and I expect that future conferences will offer more on web-based writing and publishing.
Next time, let's arrange a bloggers' lunch. Yes?
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