Jun 13 2009

A Plea for Mercy

Natalie

Leo stopped by this morning.  He gave us grief for not going to church.  Now, I am a believer in going to church; however, I am also good at excuses.  I liked this poem from “The Writer’s Almanac.”  Since I will be needing mercy, it fits my attitude.

A Plea For Mercy

by Anne Porter

When I am brought before the Lord
What can I say to him
How plead for mercy?

I’ll say I loved
My husband and the five
Children we had together
Though I was most unworthy

I’ll say I loved
The summer mornings
I loved the way the sun comes up
And sets the dew on fire
I loved the way
The cobwebs shine
On the tall grass
When they are strung with dew

I’ll say I loved
The way that little bird
The titmouse flies
I’ll say I loved
Its lightness
Lilt
And beauty.

“A Plea For Mercy” by Anne Porter, from Living Things Collected Poems. © Zoland Books, 2006.


May 3 2009

“In Blackwater Woods”

Natalie

This morning’s Writer’s Almanac poem is by Mary Oliver.  After reading some of the books in Roger’s collection and knowing that she is  a particular favorite of host Garrison Keillor, I was pleased to recognize some of her signature language, theme and style.  I love the powerful observation of the final lines. 

To live in this world

you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.


Apr 30 2009

Time to Stare

Natalie

Lately, Roger and I are frustrated by how little time we have to watch our plants grow, appreciate the beauty of spring, and talk aimlessly.  This morning’s “Writer’s Almanac” poem is by William Henry Davies.  It reflects my frustration.  No wonder that our ideal idea of a summer vacation is a week of absolute uninterrupted peace.

LeisureWhat is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty’s glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.


Apr 22 2009

Paper, Scissors, Stone

Roger

OK, I know it’s a stretch, but it does mention gardening in the first stanza, and it seem so appropo for these times.  Swiped from this morning’s Writer’s Almanac with Garrison Keilor, used without permission.

Paper, Scissors, Stone

by Tom Wayman

An executive’s salary for working with paper
beats the wage in a metal shop operating shears
which beats what a gardener earns arranging stone.

But the pay for a surgeon’s use of scissors
is larger than that of a heavy equipment driver removing stone
which in turn beats a secretary’s cheque for handling paper.

And, a geologist’s hours with stone
nets more than a teacher’s with paper
and definitely beats someone’s time in a garment factory with scissors.

In addition: to manufacture paper
you need stone to extract metal to fabricate scissors
to cut the product to size.
To make scissors you must have paper to write out the specs
and a whetstone to sharpen the new edges.
Creating gravel, you require the scissor-blades of the crusher
and lots of order forms and invoices at the office.

Thus I believe there is a connection
between things
and not at all like the hierarchy of winners
of a child’s game.
When a man starts insisting
he should be paid more than me
because he’s more important to the task at hand,
I keep seeing how the whole process collapses
if almost any one of us is missing acheter cialis sur internet.
When a woman claims she deserves more money
because she went to school longer,
I remember the taxes I paid to support her education.
Should she benefit twice?
Then there’s the guy who demands extra
because he has so much seniority
and understands his work so well
he has ceased to care, does as little as possible,
or refuses to master the latest techniques
the new-hires are required to know.
Even if he’s helpful and somehow still curious
after his many years—

Without a machine to precisely measure
how much sweat we each provide
or a contraption hooked up to electrodes in the brain
to record the amount we think,
my getting less than him
and more than her
makes no sense to me.
Surely whatever we do at the job
for our eight hours—as long as it contributes—
has to be worth the same.

And if anyone mentions
this is a nice idea but isn’t possible,
consider what we have now:
everybody dissatisfied, continually grumbling and disputing.
No, I’m afraid it’s the wage system that doesn’t function
except it goes on
and will
until we set to work to stop it

with paper, with scissors, and with stone.

“Paper, Scissors, Stone” by Tom Wayman from The Face of Jack Munro. © Harbour, 1986. Reprinted without permission.