Poetry Friday - Heron

Happy Poetry Month!

I’m sure I’m not alone in thinking that when we witness an amazing and spontaneous occurrence in nature, there is some kind of meaning or message in it for us. The poem I am sharing today describes one of those moments. It happened a few years ago on a foggy summer morning. I was sitting in the sunroom on my purple yoga mat, staring out at our backyard and doing a little stretch before work. Then I lay flat on my back for just a few moments, closed my eyes and took in some deep breaths before sitting up again. Within the seconds that my eyes were closed, something had happened outside. Right there, standing on the nearby rocks at the edge of our tiny pond, was something staring in at me – a heron. I didn’t move. She didn’t move. And she didn’t stay for long. Two minutes—maybe? Later that day, I went out back to skim that little pond. Right there, in the tangle of lily pads, was one water lily in full bloom – the only one that ever bloomed during the short time that we lived in that house. The heron visitor seemed to have just sprung to life out of the petals and fog. I’d never had a heron visit my backyard before that day, and I haven’t had one visit since.

heron

sprung from

pink water lily

petals

she

appears

an apparition

in August

morning mist

a messenger

a still-life

a dream—

‘be patient’

she might say

but in a

blink

she is gone

     

     —by Sheri Doyle, all rights reserved

The one and only water lily that bloomed in our pond that summer.

Robyn Hood Black is hosting the Poetry Friday roundup here. 

Poetry Friday: Miracles

Welcome! The Poetry Friday roundup is here.

My dad turned 90 this week. We celebrated his birthday last Saturday night with a potluck buffet, cake, music, and good conversation. He received a set of famous moustaches from my sixteen-year-old, and the guys had fun posing as Charlie Chaplin, Hulk Hogan, Salvador Dali, Magnum, P.I., and Mario. My dad wore the Albert Einstein moustache, which seemed to suit him perfectly.

When asked about his secret to living a long and full life, my dad had a simple answer – he credits his longevity to “being happy.” Well, he also offered a few practical tips: share your life with a good partner, or one good friend, look after your body, leave your worries behind when you go to sleep. But it’s my dad’s happy glow that seems to keep him young in spirit.

My dad has always been an optimist, although he has lived through his share of struggles. He was a child of the Depression, served in War World II, and nurtured a business through many ups and downs. He has seen friends and loved ones come and go, and has managed his own health challenges. Over the years, he has taught me through example to find happiness in simple things.  

Now, as I assist him in writing his memoir, I am reminded again and again of this strength in perspective. 

The poem “Miracles” by Walt Whitman comes to mind when I think of my dad.

Miracles
by Walt Whitman
Why, who makes much of a miracle? As to me I know of nothing else but miracles, Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan, Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky, Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of    the water, Or stand under trees in the woods, Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night    with any one I love, Or sit at table at dinner with the rest, Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car, Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer    forenoon, Or animals feeding in the fields, Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air, Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so    quiet and bright, Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring; These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles, The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place. To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle, Every cubic inch of space is a miracle, Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with    the same, Every foot of the interior swarms with the same. To me the sea is a continual miracle, The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—    the ships with men in them, What stranger miracles are there?

Please leave your link below. Thank you for stopping by!

Happy New Year!

Poetry Friday: a poem and a song

I just noticed that “light” is a theme for many of the Poetry Friday posts. By coincidence, I am sharing a poem about light by William Butler Yeats. 

Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven

By William Butler Yeats

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,  

Enwrought with golden and silver light,  

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths  

Of night and light and the half light,  

I would spread the cloths under your feet:

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;  

I have spread my dreams under your feet;  

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

Perhaps many of you already know and love the poem. But have you heard it set to music? I hadn’t but was blown away by Mark Sirett’s composition based on Yeat’s poem. 

My daughter’s high school choir performed “Cloths of Heaven” and I’m hoping that you’ll be able to hear it in the YouTube video I am attempting to embed here. I love how the choir embellishes some of the words by drawing them out and/or repeating them.

I created a video that shares the sound recording but displays the poem so that listeners can read along. But you can also click to play it and then scroll up to the top of this post where the poem might be easier to read.
Hope you enjoy it!

Check out the Poetry Friday roundup at my juicy little universe.

Hurricane Relief Effort

My heart goes out to everyone affected by Hurricane Sandy.

To help with the relief effort, Kate Messner is hosting KidLitCares—an online talent auction.
Please check out the Skype author visits, manuscript critiques, and other services available to bid on here. Winners will make donations, their highest bid, to the Red Cross disaster relief fund.

Such a great idea!

Happy Halloween!

Although there were some discussions over whether or not we should postpone it until Hurricane Sandy's last winds had blown through our city, Halloween was a go here tonight.

So we strung pumpkin lights, carved jack-o'-lanterns, and set out bowls of treats.

                       

           Some friendly baseball players handed out candy to the trick-or-treaters

so that I, Mary Shelley, could get some writing done.

Perhaps it was the haunting mood of the entire evening that allowed the words to flow.

I'll put my pen down for another night, but my mind cannot rest. The story is always with me.

Happy Halloween!