National Poetry Month Lightning Round

Greetings, friends! I know you're not used to hearing from me on a Thursday, but it's the last day of National Poetry Month and I didn't want it to pass by entirely unnoticed. You may have noticed that I haven't shared any poetry this month, and that has been intentional. In preparation for this month, a group of us who regularly post to celebrate it were conferring about it in light of the realization that we were actually violating the copyright of the poets whose work we'd shared in past years. While we tried to come up with some creative and interesting ways of celebrating poetry without sharing poetry, we didn't come up with anything much -- at least until Kym came to the rescue earlier this month with a series of quick questions related to poetry and our enjoyment of it. I don't know that everyone will participate, but I thought it was a fun activity for an otherwise non-blog day.

This photo has nothing to do with poetry,
but I thought it was too pretty not to share.

When was the first time you remember being moved by a poem? Bonus points if you remember which poem.

When I was little, I had a beautiful illustrated version of Robert Frost's "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening." To this day, it's still one of my favorites because of the feeling of calm and quiet that washes over me when I read it.

Favorite nursery rhyme?

I'd have to say "Wynken, Blynken, and Nod" (technically a poem!) because we performed it in kindergarten -- I was the moon!

Favorite Mary Oliver poem? (Just one…)

I don't have one -- simply because I haven't read them all yet!

Song lyrics: Poetry? Or something else?

Definitely poetry!

Favorite Dr. Seuss book?

One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish -- it's the first one I remember owning.

A poetry collection you’ve read recently? 

I'm ashamed to say I can't remember! I had intentions of reading several collections this month, but life got in the way. But I'm hoping to read through Billy Collins's Dog Show collection soon because I have a lovely signed copy that was sent to me as a gift.

When do find yourself reaching for poetry most often?

I find I need poetry most often when I'm in need of soothing or calming, but in my opinion, there's no bad time for poetry.

How do you keep track of poems you especially like?

Post-its, bookmarks, or folded-down corners of books

Favorite movie having to do with poetry?

Possession (the book wasn't bad, either!)

Which poem are you keeping in your pocket today?

Probably the next one I read!

Poetry in April: Adrienne Rich

We've come to the last Thursday in April and the last day for sharing poems. This week, all of us are featuring poems by Adrienne Rich, a National Book Award and MacArthur "Genius" Award winner, among many other prizes and honors. You can learn more about her here. The poem I've picked to share was published in 1995, but it feels very apt for the moment we're living in.

What Kind of Times Are These

There's a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill

and the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadows

near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted

who disappeared into those shadows.

I've walked there picking mushrooms at the edge of dread, but don't be fooled

this isn't a Russian poem, this is not somewhere else but here,

our country moving closer to its own truth and dread,

its own ways of making people disappear.

I won't tell you where the place is, the dark mesh of the woods

meeting the unmarked strip of light—

ghost-ridden crossroads, leafmold paradise:

I know already who wants to buy it, sell it, make it disappear.

And I won't tell you where it is, so why do I tell you

anything? Because you still listen, because in times like these

to have you listen at all, it's necessary

to talk about trees.

From Dark Fields of the Republic: Poems 1991-1995, (c) 1995

Be sure to visit Bonny, Kat, Kym, and Vera to read their selections. 

Thanks for joining us "poetry nerds" for another National Poetry Month, and a special thank-you to Kym for leading the charge!

Poetry in April: Poems about Aging

It's another Thursday in April, which means it's again time to share a poem. The theme this week is "Poems about Aging," and I had bookmarked this poem even before I knew I'd be using it. This one comes from Ted Kooser -- it's one of his Valentine's Day poems -- and I love the image it gives me of a couple growing older together.

Splitting an Order

I like to watch on old man cutting a sandwich in half,
maybe an ordinary cold roast beef on whole wheat bread,
no pickles or onion, keeping his shaky hands steady
by placing his forearms firm on the edge of the table
and using both hands, the left to hold the sandwich in place,
and the right to cut it surely, corner to corner,
observing his progress through glasses that moments before
he wiped with his napkin, and then to see him lift half
onto the extra plate that he had asked the server to bring,
and then to wait, offering the plate to his wife
while she slowly unrolls her napkin and places her spoon,
her knife and her fork in their proper places,
then smoothes the starched white napkin over her knees
and meets his eyes and holds out both hands to him.

From Valentines by Ted Kooser, University of Nebraska Press, 2008

Be sure to visit Bonny, Kat, Kym, and Vera today for more poetry!

Poetry in April: A Poem in Your Pocket

It's Thursday, which means it's time to share another poem with you. Today is Poem in Your Pocket Day, and the idea is to share a short poem that could be written on a slip of paper and carried around with you. The one I've chosen to share today is by former U.S. Poet Laureate Billy Collins.

Poem

It's like writing a short letter
to everyone in the world at once,

only I don't have anyone's address
and there is no thin blue envelope to carry it,

no tiny picture of a famous aviator
or of a blooming flower to speed it on its way.

Be sure to visit Bonny, Kat, Kym, and Vera for more poems to carry in your pocket today!

Poetry in April: Poems about Hope

You may be surprised to see a post from me today because it's not one of my usual blogging days, but April is National Poetry Month, and as in years past, a group of us is marking the occasion by sharing poetry every Thursday this month. Kym is our fearless leader, and you'll also find posts from Bonny, Kat, and Vera this month. 

Each Thursday, we have a theme. Today's is (as you might guess) "Poems about Hope." Hope is always something important to have, but I think it's never more important than during times of uncertainty. At this time five years ago, when we were stuck at home and had no idea when that would end, I took great comfort from seeing the signs of spring emerging outside during my daily walks. There really is nothing more hopeful than seeing how nature persists in spite of everything, so I think you'll understand why this poem by Ted Kooser spoke so well and so loudly to me.

Dandelion

The first of a year's abundance of dandelions
is this single kernel of bright yellow
dropped on our path by the sun, sensing
that we might need some marker to help us
find our way through life, to find a path
over the snow-flattened grass that was
blade by blade unbending into green,
on a morning early in April, this happening
just at the moment I thought we were lost
and I'd stopped to look around, hoping
to see something I recognized. And there
it was, a commonplace dandelion, right
at my feet, the first to bloom, especially
yellow, as if pleased to have been the one,
chosen from all the others, to show us the way.

From How to Love the World: Poems of Gratitude and Hope, edited by James Crews (c) 2021, Storey Publishing

Poetry in April: Poem in My Pocket

We have arrived at the final Thursday in April, so this is my last installment of poetry for this year's observance of National Poetry Month. The theme this week is "Poem in My Pocket" -- in other words, a poem is that is short enough to fit on a small piece of paper in your pocket, just in case you wanted to have it on you to share with someone you meet. When I think of short poems, often the first things that come to mind are haikus and limericks, but I think a free-verse poem that is short is often quite effective, saying something powerful with few words. So that's what I went for with my selection.

A Name

When Eve walked among
the animals and named them --
nightingale, red-shouldered hawk,
fiddler crab, fallow deer --
I wonder if she ever wanted
them to speak back, looked into
their wide wonderful eyes and
whispered, Name me, name me.

"A Name" from The Carrying: Poems, (c) 2018, Milkweed Editions

Thank you for sharing this annual celebration of poetry with us this month! Be sure to visit, Kym, Kat, and Bonny one last time today for their selections!

Poetry in April: About Color

Today is the third Thursday of the National Poetry Month, and this week we're sharing poems about color. When I think about color right now, I think about all the spring flowers that are blooming and the trees and shrubs pushing out new growth. The colors of spring are always the treat that makes getting through the gray months of winter worth it. So I found this poem, which made me think of what I have seen growing in my neighborhood and also about how Mother Nature is the most talented artist of all.

Iris
by Sujata Bhatt

Her hand sweeps over the rough grained paper,

then, with a wet sponge, again.

A drop of black is washed grey,

cloudy as warm breath fogging cool glass.

She feels she must make the best of it,

She must get the colour of the stone wall,

of the mist settling around twisted birch trees.

Her eye doesn't miss the rabbit crouched,

a tuft of fog in the tall grass.

Nothing to stop the grey sky from merging into stones,

or the stone walls from tailing off into sky.

But closer, a single iris stands fully opened:

dark wrinkled petals, rain-moist,

the tall slender stalk sways, her hand follows.

Today, even the green is tinged with grey,

the stone's shadow lies heavy over the curling petals

but there's time enough, she'll wait,

study the lopsided shape.

The outer green sepals once enclosing the bud

lie shrivelled: empty shells spiralling

right beneath the petals.

As she stares the sun comes out.

And the largest petal flushes

deep deep violet.

A violet so intense it's almost black.

The other tremble indigo, reveal

paler blue undersides.

Thin red veins running into yellow orange rills,

yellow flows down the green stem.

Her hand moves swiftly from palette to paper,

paper to palette, the delicate brush

swoops down, sweeps up,

move the way a bird builds its nest.

An instant and the sun is gone.

You can learn more about this poet here. Be sure to visit Kym, Bonny, and Kat today to read their selections!

Poetry in April: Ross Gay

It's Thursday again, and that means it's time for another installment of poetry! This week we are all sharing poems by Ross Gay. I've chosen to share the one I haven't stopped thinking about since I read it two weeks ago. It's a long one, but I hope you'll read it all and enjoy it as much as I did.

burial

You're right, you're right,
the fertilizer's good--
it wasn't a gang of dullards
came up with chucking
a fish in the planting hole
or some midwife got lucky
with the placenta--
oh, I'll plant a tree here!--

and a sudden flush of quince

and jam enough for months--yes,

the magic dust our bodies become

casts spells on the roots

about which someone else

could tell you the chemical processes,

but it's just magic to me,

which is why a couple springs ago

when first putting in my two bare root plum trees

out back I took the jar which has become

my father's house,

and lonely for him and hoping to coax him back

for my mother as much as me,

poured some of him in the planting holes

and he dove in glad for the robust air,

saddling a slight gust

into my nose and mouth,

chuckling as I coughed,

but mostly he disappeared

into the minor yawns in the earth

into which I placed the trees,

splaying wide their roots,

casting the gray dust of my old man

evenly throughout the hole,

replacing then the clods

of dense Indiana soil until the roots

and my father were buried,

watering it in all with one hand

while holding the tree

with the other straight as the flag

to the nation of simple joy

of which my father is now a naturalized citizen,

waving the flag

from his subterranean lair,

the roots curled around him

like shawls or jungle gyms, like

hookahs or the arms of ancestors,

before breast-stroking into the xylem,

riding the elevator up

through the cambium and into the leaves where,

when you put your ear close enough,

you can hear him whisper

good morning, where, if you close your eyes

and push your face you can feel

his stubbly jowls and good lord

this year he was giddy at the first

real fruit set and nestled into the 30 or 40 plums

in the two trees, peering out from the sweet meat

with his hands pressed against the purple skin

like cathedral glass,

and imagine his joy as the sun

wizarded forth those abundant sugars

and I plodded barefoot

and prayerful at the first ripe plum's swell and blush,

almost weepy conjuring

some surely ponderous verse

to convey this bottomless grace,

you know, oh father oh father kind of stuff,

hundreds of hot air balloons

filling the sky in my chest, replacing his intubated body

listing like a boat keel side up, replacing

the steady stream of water from the one eye

which his brother wiped before removing the tube,

keeping his hand on the forehead

until the last wind in his body wandered off,

while my brother wailed like an animal,

and my mother said, weeping,

it's ok, it's ok, you can go honey,

at all of which my father

guffawed by kicking from the first bite

buckets of juice down my chin,

staining one of my two button-down shirts,

the salmon-colored silk one, hollering

there's more of that!

almost dancing now in the plum,

in the tree, the way he did as a person,

bent over and biting his lip

and chucking the one hip out

then the other with his elbows cocked

and fists loosely made

and eyes closed and mouth made trumpet

when he knew he could make you happy

just by being a little silly

and sweet.

"burial" from catalog of unabashed gratitude, University of Pittsburgh Press, 2015

You can learn more about Ross Gay here. Be sure to visit Kat, Kym, and Bonny to read their selections!

Poetry on Thursday, 2024 Edition

As I mentioned yesterday, April is National Poetry Month, and to commemorate it, Bonny, Kat, Kym, and I are once again going to be sharing poems with you every Thursday this month. Each week has a theme or featured poet, and for this first Thursday, we are sharing poems about peace and/or humanity. This is a very timely theme, in my opinion, because the current conflict in Israel and Gaza is never far from my mind. Though I don't claim to have any expertise in diplomacy, I firmly believe that a very key step toward ending conflict is seeing the humanity of those we might view as our adversaries. With that in mind, I picked a poem to share this week that beautifully illustrates how much more we have in common one another than we might realize.

Perhaps the World Ends Here
by Joy Harjo

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will
    go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.

It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make
    women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us as our
    poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate
    the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last
    sweet bite.

From The Woman Who Fell from the Sky (W.W. Norton and Company, Inc., 1994)

If you'd like to hear the poet read this poem, you can listen here. And you can learn more about Joy Harjo, former poet laureate of the United States, here.

Poetry in April: A Poem in Your Pocket

It's the final Thursday in National Poetry Month, and today Bonny, Kat, Kym, and I are sharing poems that are short and sweet -- just a little taste of poetry you could carry in your pocket. For today's selection, I turned to a lovely little volume that Kym sent me a couple of years ago: How to Love the World: Poems of Gratitude and Hope. I keep this little book on my nightstand so I can flip through it when I need a pick-me-up. All the poems in it are relatively short, but I picked one of the shorter ones to share today.

Hope
by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

Hope has holes
in its pockets.
It leaves little
crumb trails
so that we,
when anxious,
can follow it.
Hope's secret:
it doesn't know
its destination--
it knows only
that all roads
begin with one
foot in front
of the other.

You can learn more about the poet here, and don't forget to visit Kym, Kat, and Bonny today as well. Thanks for sharing another month of poetry with us!

Poetry in April: Feel the Love

April is National Poetry Month, so all this month, Bonny, Kat, Kym, and I are sharing some poetry on Thursdays. This week's theme is love, and while there's a ton of poetry out there related to romantic love, my thoughts turned to a different kind -- that of a parent for their child. I think this sort of love is so unlike any other, especially when it's a mother's love. So today's poem is written by a mother (poet Sharon Olds) for her child, and it captures some of the feelings I have begun to have as my daughter has gotten older.

Exclusive
   (for my daughter)

I lie on the beach, watching you
as you lie on the beach, memorizing you
against the time when you will not be with me:
your empurpled lips, swollen in the sun
and smooth as the inner lips of shell;
your biscuit-gold skin, glazed and
faintly pitted like the surface of a biscuit;
the serious knotted twine of your hair.
I have loved you instead of anyone else,
love you as a way of loving no one else,
every separate grain of your body
building the god, as you were built within me,
a sealed world. What if from you lips
I had learned the love of other lips,
from you starred, gummed lashes the love of
other lashes, from your shut, quivering
eyes the love of other eyes,
from you body the bodies,
from your life the lives?
Today I see it is there to be learned from you:
to love what I do not own.

Be sure to visit Kym, Kat, and Bonny today for their selections!

Poetry in April: Ada Limón

This week, we are focusing on the poetry of Ada Limón, the current poet laureate of the United States. I was only somewhat familiar with her and her work before, but when Kym proposed that we choose one of her poems this week, I decided to get to know her better by reading her most recent poetry collection. The poem I'm sharing today is from that book.

In the Shadow

 

The wild pansy shoves its persistent face beneath

    the hackberry's shade, true plum and gold,

with the alternate names: Johnny-jump-up

    heartsease, or my favorite, love-in-idleness.

 

I bow closer to the new face. I am always superimposing

    a face on flowers, I call the violet moon vinca

 

the choir, and there are surely eyes in the birdeye speedwall,

    and mouths on the linearleaf snapdragon.

 

It is what we do in order to care for things, make them

    ourselves, our elders, our beloveds, our unborn.

 

But perhaps that is a lazy kind of love Why

    can't I just love the flower for being a flower?

 

How many flowers have I yanked to puppet

    as if it was easy for the world to make flowers?

From The Hurting Kind, (c) 2022

 

 

You can learn more about Ada Limón here, and be sure to visit Kym, Kat, and Bonny today to read some more of her poetry!

Poetry in April: Wonder

I know Thursday is not one of my typical days to post, but it's April, National Poetry Month, and several blogging friends are celebrating it again this year by sharing a poem every Thursday this month.

The theme for this week is "poems about wonder." The subject of wonder always makes me think of nature and how so much happens in the beautiful world around us. And when I think of nature and poetry, I think of Mary Oliver, so I turned to her for this week's selection.

The Other Kingdoms

Consider the other kingdoms. The
trees, for example, with their mellow-sounding
titles: oak, aspen, willow.
Or the snow, for which the peoples of the north
have dozens of words to describe its
different arrivals. Or the creatures, with their
thick fur, their shy and wordless gaze. Their
infallible sense of what their lives
are meant to be. Thus the world
grows rich, grows wild, and you too,
grow rich, grow sweetly wild, as you too
were born to be.

From The Truro Bear and Other Adventures, (c) Mary Oliver 2008

Be sure to visit Bonny, Kat, and Kym for more poetry today!

Poetry on Thursday: A Poem in Your Pocket

Though we are a day early for National Poem in Your Pocket Day, but that's what we've chosen to share this final Thursday in April. Today I am sharing a short and hopeful poem from How to Love the World: Poems of Gratitude and Hope, a collection edited by James Crews that Kym surprised us with last year at the conclusion of April. I have been slowly working my way through this lovely little book, and I'm finding that words of gratitude and hope have been very welcome. This poem felt just perfect for this particular time of year.

Promise
by Barbara Crooker

This day is an open road
stretching out before you.
Roll down the windows.
Step into your life, as if it were a fast car.
Even in industrial parks,
trees are covered with white blossoms,
festive as brides, and the air is soft
as a well-wash shirt on your arms.
The grass has turned implausibly green.
Tomorrow, the world will begin again,
another fresh start. The blue sky stretches,
shakes out its tent of light. Even dandelions glitter
in the lawn, a handful of golden change.

Be sure to visit Bonny, Kat, and Kym today for the poems they've chosen, and you'll start out your Friday with four poems in your pocket!

Poetry on Thursday: Forgiveness

The theme for this week's shared poems is forgiveness, which seems to me an emotion that is probably well represented in poetry. After all, when a poet needs to ask forgiveness of someone, don't they naturally turn to verse? I read a number of poems when I was choosing one to share, and many of them (unsurprisingly) were a little too religious in tone for me, but I found that the one I've selected to be unexpectedly touching and more subtle in its message. I hope you enjoy it.

 

Dark August
by Derek Walcott

So much rain, so much life like the swollen sky
of this black August. My sister, the sun,
broods in her yellow room and won't come out.

Everything goes to hell; the mountain fume
like a kettle, rivers overrun; still,
she will not rise and turn off the rain.

She is in her room, fondling old things,
my poems, turning her album. Even if thunder falls
like a crash of plates from the sky,

she does not come out.
Don't you know I love you but am hopeless
at fixing the rain? But I am learning slowly

to love the dark days, the steaming hills,
the air with gossiping mosquitoes,
and to sip the medicine of bitterness,

so that when you emerge, my sister,
parting the beads of the rain,
with your forehead of flowers and eyes of forgiveness,

all will not be as it was, but it will be true
(you see they will not let me love
as I want), because, my sister, then

I would have learnt to love black days like bright ones,
The black rain, the white hills, when once
I loved only my happiness and you.

You can learn more about Derek Walcott here, and don't forget to visit Bonny, Kat, and Kym today to read more poetry!

Poetry on Thursday: Sharon Olds

Good morning! In this week's installment of poetry, we are all sharing poems by Sharon Olds. You may remember that I shared one of her poems last year, a poem that has stayed with me since I first read it as a teenager. Today the poem I've chosen to share is one that immediately spoke to me as the parent of an almost-teenager, a time when I'm very much thinking of what I was like at her age and watching her begin the process of finding her own identity separate from that as my daughter.

 

Exclusive
(for my daughter)

I lie on the beach, watching you
as you lie on the beach, memorizing you
against the time when you will not be with me:
your empurpled lips, swollen in the sun
and smooth as the inner lips of a shell;
your biscuit-gold skin, glazed and
faintly pitted, like the surface of a biscuit;
the serious knotted twine of your hair.
I have love you instead of anyone else,
loved you as a way of loving no one else,
every separate grain of your body
building the god, as you were build within me,
a sealed world. What if from you lips
I had learned the love of other lips,
from your starred, gummed lashes the love of
other lashes, from you shut, quivering
eyes the love of other eyes,
from your body the bodies,
from you life the lives?
Today I see it is there to be learned from you:
to love what I do not own.

From Strike Sparks: Selected Poems, 1980-2002, Alfred A. Knopf, 2019

 

Be sure to visit Bonny, Kat, and Kym today for other Sharon Olds selections!

The Return of Poetry

No, your eyes do not deceive you -- I am indeed posting on a Thursday, even though it's not one of my current regular days to blog! But for the month of April, National Poetry Month, I'll be sharing poetry each Thursday along with Bonny, Kat, and Kym. If you haven't already, be sure to check out their posts today for the selections they've shared.

The theme for this first week was Hope. Because of how this week ended up, I did a bit of a cop-out and went to an old standby: Emily Dickinson. I'm actually sharing two poems this week because I suspect most (or at least many) of you are probably familiar with this first one or at least its first line:

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Here is the second one, less familiar to me:

Hope is a subtle glutton;
    He feeds upon the fair;
And yet, inspected closely,
    What abstinence is there!

His is the halcyon table
    That never seats but one,
And whatsoever is consumed
    The same amounts remain.

In these times when there is so much suffering in the world, I wish you hope that never gets consumed.

Poetry on Thursdays: A Poem in Your Pocket

It is the last Thursday in April (how did that happen so quickly?), and today is Poem in Your Pocket Day! That link will lead you to the Academy of American Poets website and their page on this annual celebration of poetry, so click on over if you'd like to learn more. The basic idea behind this event is to share poetry, typically with a poem that's short enough to fit in your pocket (I guess because short poems often seem more accessible).

Today I'm doing something brave: I'm sharing a poem I wrote myself. I used to write a lot of poetry as a child and teenager (and most of it, as you might expect, was angst-y and filled with teenager-type stuff), but I haven't written any in years. I guess you could say I've been inspired by all the poetry I've been reading this month because I've found myself jotting phrases down here and there. This is a short one, as befitting the occasion, and it was inspired by the first Thursday of this month (and I even have a photo from that day to set the mood).

                                                On Arising to Snow on the First of April

                                                Though the flakes float down,
                                                Spring flowers are still blooming
                                                And birds greet the day.

                                                                                (c) Sarah Jordan, 2021

I hope you've enjoyed all the poetry this month as much as I have! Be sure to visit Bonny, Kat, and Kym today for more poetry for your pocket!

Poetry on Thursday: Good for a Laugh

Though the month is flying by, we still have two Thursdays left in National Poetry month, and today's theme is poetry that is humorous or clever. I mentioned yesterday that I really enjoyed the volume of Carol Ann Duffy's poetry that I read last week, so I thought I'd share the two shortest poems in the collection. They're both ones that made me laugh at loud, and we could all use more laughter in our lives. These are also two for which you're likely to know the reference of the named male counterpart (and thus get the full effect of the joke).

Mrs Darwin

7 April 1852.

Went to the Zoo.
I said to Him --
Something about that Chimpanzee over there reminds me of you.

Mrs Icarus

I'm not the first or the last
to stand on a hillock,
watching the man she married
prove to the world
he's a total, utter, absolute, Grade A pillock.

From The World's Wife (c) Carol Ann Duffy 1999

Be sure to visit Kym, Kat, and Bonny today for more poetry!

Unraveled, Week 16/2021

Wednesday again! It feels like it's been a very long week, even though we're not officially halfway through. Obviously work has kept me very busy, and then there was the verdict yesterday, which had me in knots until it will announced. I'm still feeling the tension, however, because tomorrow I have to go back for a follow-up mammogram after some "nodules" were found on my previous scan. I've been assured that I shouldn't worry too much and that this is not uncommon, but try telling a naturally anxious person not to worry and see how well that goes!

In any case, it is Wednesday, despite the fact that it's snowing right now and feels more like February than late April. As per usually, I'm linking up today with Kat and the Unravelers to talk about knitting and reading.

Last night, because I was feeling so wrung out by work stress and verdict anxiety, I decided not to pick up the first sleeve of my Aldous and instead finished up this brioche cowl for the charity pile. It's nothing terribly exciting, but it used all but 6 grams of the yarn leftover from the two charity hats that I just knit (the yarn is Fibernymph Dye Works Cozy, a worsted weight superwash merino).

I had a little more of the blue colorway than the yellow/green, so I did a few rounds of 1x1 rib at the top and bottom in just the blue (which you can see better on the inside). I don't remember how many stitches I cast on for this -- I just cast on until it more or less filled my 16 in. circular needle and then made sure I had an even number -- but I did plain-old two-color brioche until I didn't have enough of the yellow/green to work another round and then finished off with the blue. I ended up using 42 grams of each color or about 185 yards in total. It feels really good to have used up just about every last bit of those two skeins of yarn.

Very little reading has been happening this week, but I did quite a bit since last Wednesday that was excellent.

I'd had Writers & Lovers tagged "to read" on my Libby app since hearing it recommended on the What Should I Read Next? podcast, and when I was ready for a new book and saw it had no wait, I thought I'd give it a try. This book grabbed me and pulled me in from the first chapter. I can't put my finger on exactly why this book had such a hold on me, but it felt familiar and comfortable and I just could not put it down. I suppose I identified with the main character -- a woman in her early 30s struggling with the recent death of her mother, the writing of her first novel, her love life, and trying to work off huge student debt -- despite the fact we seem to have nothing in common besides our gender, but I felt so at ease in her thoughts. I gave this book 5 stars and highly recommend it.

Nadia Owusu's debut memoir Aftershocks was another phenomenal read that I couldn't put down. The daughter of a Ghanaian father and an Armenian American mother, Owusu beautifully and lyrically writes about her parents' split, her mother's abandonment of her, her complicated relationship with her stepmother, her struggles with mental illness, the death of her father (who she saw as the one stable constant in her life), and her ongoing difficulty in understanding her identity and a search for her home. This isn't an easy read, but it is extremely well done. I certainly hope that we hear more from Owusu, as it's clear that she is an extremely talented voice. I gave it 5 stars.

Finally, I rounded out my week with a volume of poetry. I've recently started listening to the Novel Pairings podcast (following Mary's recommendation) and listening back from the beginning. One of the earlier episodes was about poetry, and one of the hosts mentioned a new-to-me poet, Carol Ann Duffy, and specifically this collection of her poems, The World's Wife. I couldn't find it from the library so ended up buying a Kindle copy, and I'm delighted I did. All the poems in this collection are told from the point of view of women in myth and history. Some are sad, some are saucy, some are laugh-out-loud funny. It's a quick read (I started reading one night at bedtime and finished the next morning) and one I'm sure to go back to. I gave it 4 stars.

I am still reading The Giver, which I really could finish in an afternoon if I wanted to, but I have chosen to read it at the same pace as Rainbow so I don't inadvertently spoil anything, and on Monday I started reading The God of Small Things, though with my work schedule this week I haven't gotten very far. I hope to spend some time getting lost in it toward the end of the week.

How are your knitting and reading going this week? I hope you have more time for both than I have so far!

See you back here tomorrow for some more poetry!