It's Saturday and I'm Going to Share The Poem

The Poem

by Judith Barrington

It hides in my heart, waiting as if

in the small circle at the middle

of the labyrinth. I walk towards it

but the path turns away by a purple foxglove

and I must follow the windings that will

in the end lead me to the center.

It smells of cedars and honey'd skin,

cappuccino with grated chocolate,

the brine of its own body's betrayal.

Like a chestnut horse, it hides in shadow,

one white sock and the moist gleam of an eye

announcing its steady presence.

It has lodged in my heart like a stone in the shoe:

each time the great muscle contracts

I feel it rubbing the same tender spot;

there is no avoiding it -- no limping or hopping,

no shaking it to a more comfortable place,

no stillness that can ease the bruise

except the stillness of a motionless heart.

It is the door behind which somebody stands

waiting to kiss and be kissed.

Had to Consult the Dictionary on This One

Duff

Under the deep needle thatch
more needles, and under those,
shanks of needles and darkly thinning hunks,
the ghost bones of had-been needles.
A slurry of carapace and pupal shale,
a billion desiccate curds, pellet and turd
and the vast imponderable leavings
I love to scratch through, a kind of sub-continent,
a wilderness domesticated by rot,
in which, every now and then, I unearth
and turn up once again to the sun
some thing that my eyes might cherish
more than the suckling mouths of microbes do--
this delicate white arch, for instance, the mandible of a vole;
this mummified pin feather shank, its boutonniere
of down like the gray wiry hair in god's ear;
or strangest of all, this odd isosceles triangle
made of interlocked paper clips and rust.
I dangle it on an autumn bare syringa twig
where a junco might find it and by any bird's standards
build with it a superior nest.

-Robert Wrigley (Published in Orion, Jan/Feb 2009)

Grief

Betty Trotter
Elsie Hodel
Marjorie Porter

“Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break." -William Shakespeare. I can only speak names. I find comfort in winter, the ever-growing family, familiar hymns from childhood. I particularly love Sufjan Steven's renditions of "Lo How A Rose E’er Blooming," "Holy, Holy, Holy," and "Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing." Such a strange feeling they bring...

Lo, how a Rose e’er blooming from tender stem hath sprung!

Of Jesse’s lineage coming, as men of old have sung.
It came, a floweret bright, amid the cold of winter,
When half spent was the night.

Isaiah ’twas foretold it, the Rose I have in mind;
With Mary we behold it, the virgin mother kind.
To show God’s love aright, she bore to men a Savior,
When half spent was the night.

The shepherds heard the story proclaimed by angels bright,
How Christ, the Lord of glory was born on earth this night.
To Bethlehem they sped and in the manger found Him,
As angel heralds said.

This Flower, whose fragrance tender with sweetness fills the air,
Dispels with glorious splendor the darkness everywhere;
True Man, yet very God, from sin and death He saves us,
And lightens every load.

O Savior, Child of Mary, who felt our human woe,
O Savior, King of glory, who dost our weakness know;
Bring us at length we pray, to the bright courts of Heaven,
And to the endless day!

Holy Circus Babies!

I don't know what else to say. I am both elated and relieved to announce that I have completed my internship with the MU English Department as managing editor and designer of the M Review, our online literary publication. Like all good and hard things that come to an end, I see on the live version that I have a bit more work to do. There are a few snags. Regardless, I am happy to post the link for your reading pleasure. Jay and I collected an unusual bit of material-poetry and fiction-with a tendency toward the surreal and poetic dramatizations of interior moments. (I.E. Quirky, folks.) I have learned much from this experience and I hope that I will find opportunities in the future to work with literary journals.

The fact that M is officially going live tomorrow has become a significant gesture, as we will be gathering together with our English department community of students and teachers to celebrate the life of Jackie Mosier, recent Marylhurst graduate, who lost her battle with breast cancer. At the last minute, I tried to delicately incorporate a dedication in her honor to our 2008 issue. What I came up with is the illustration above, of a dove and flowers. I hope that people realize it is a dove. Does it look like a dove? It's kind of chubby.

Jackie had a zest for reading and writing, really good interprative and analytical skills, and opened her home again and again to our community for celebrations and hosting visiting authors. She leaves behind two adorable dogs and a husband, as well as an inspiring work ethic and creativity.

Happy Valentine's Day!

The Ache of Marriage

The ache of marriage:

thigh and tongue, beloved,
are heavy with it,
it throbs in the teeth

We look for communion
and are turned away, beloved,
each and each

It is leviathan and we
in its belly
looking for joy, some joy
not to be known outside it

two by two in the ark of
the ache of it.


--A poem we recently fell in love with, by Denise Levertov (subject of my senior thesis!)

My Favorite Poem

...From LIT 358 Latin American Literature (Translated) "Before Names" I don't care about the word, that commonplace. What I want is the grand chaos that spins out syntax, the obscure birthplace of "of," "otherwise," "nevertheless," and "how," all those inscrutable crutches I walk on. Who understands language understands God, Whose Son is the Word. It kills you to understand. Words only hide something deeper, deaf and dumb, something invented to be silenced. In moments of grace, rare as they are, you'll be able to snatch it out: a live fish in your bare hand. Pure terror. by Adelia Prado of Brazil