Poetry in Motion

Exhibit A.










How the hell did I miss out on National Poetry month? Of course, it is April so every hack journalist can quote “The Wasteland” and feel smart about things sprouting out of muck. I’ve done it myself. Only two more days of April and it’s all over and not once did I put pen to paper, digits to keypad or mind to rhyme. Sad.
Poetry should be part of everyday reading. Just like the newspaper. Nothing more lovely than a well-written poem – that can smack you in the head with how perfect it is.

I’ve quoted this before, by William Carlos Williams, but who cares:
“It is difficult
to get the news from poems
yet men die miserably every day
for lack
of what is found there.“

What’s found there? In a poem? Whatever it is you happen to need, I say. Whether it’s simplicity, humor, beauty, truth – all that college stuff and more.

How about this everyday Haiku (unearthed from MadgeWorld archives)by one Paddy McInerny, circa 1997.

The angry cat died.
No one liked it anyway.
Wrap it in burlap.

Way to cut to the chase, Paddy. I needed that.

On other springtime fronts: the calla lily bulbs -- stored under the laundry tubs in an old bucket -- started to sprout. So I threw them into some pots on the windowsill and left them to their own devices. The little buggers did a T.S. Elliot on me and actually bloomed.

Exhibit B.



I give you Exhibit B: my calla lilies with store bought tulips. Poetic results -- dare I say.

Shout Hallelujah!

Or just say it. We don't really shout hallelujah here in Minnesota. We are far too polite. In fact, we'd rather say alleluia. But, let's not argue semantics.

We won't say where we've been for the past three months -- that is a tale to be told sometime soon. Let's just revel in some heavy nostalgia for Easters Past -- when Easter was a religious holiday not just an occasion for Brunch with some schmutz dressed up like the Easter Bunny.




Here's our Mother. Looking pretty in a soft, slightly fuzzy coat that she made herself. Can't see the hat very well, but she made that, too. And the dress. Maybe even her underware. Everything homemade but the white gloves. But given enough time, she probably could have made those, too. Yes, that's when a mom was not just a mom, but a seamstress, milliner, cook, nursemaid, gardener, and round the clock ego-bolsterer. Hallelujah, how the heck did she do it without massive amounts of alcohol and cigs? I'd be institutionalized or incarcerated.



Here's our Father. And four of the nine siblings. Backyard at the family manor in south Minneapolis just one block from Incarnation Church--known as the Cradle of Catholicism. (OK. I went to Mass there tonight.) Yeah, we're styling in outfits that our Mother made. There's Joe, the pathetic little guy with glasses. Dig those highwater pants and little brown boots. Rita and I have matching dresses. John in the rear goofing around. Probably looking at Dennis or the "baby" (cause there was always a baby around).

The drill was: First go to Mass. Then find the Easter Basket. Then breakfast--dad cooked and he set the table the night before. There was always a centerpiece of dyed eggs in cellophane grass along with Fanny Farmer Foil Wrapped Easter Eggs. Joy of Joys. Good chocolate. Dad's special treat. Cause some things can't be delegated to the Easter Bunny.

Deo Gratias.

Listening to: Jazz Image with Leigh Hammond.
Enjoying: Fanny Farmer Foil Wrapped Easter Eggs and a chilled Pino Grigot.