NPM09: "Nothing Gold Can Stay" by Robert Frost

Robert Frost was a wonderful poet. With famous poems like "Fire and Ice" and "The Road Not Taken," we can see why. One of the places I first heard Frost was from the mouth of Ponyboy in the movie The Outsiders. Here's the poem "Nothing Gold Can Stay."

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

NPM09: "This is Just to Say" Poems

The poem, "This is Just to Say" by William Carlos Williams is interesting in itself. It's an apology, sorta. More, it's an explanation of why it's easier (and at times advantageous) to ask forgiveness than permission. It's meant to be playful.

What makes it more fun is how people are responding by writing their own "This is Just to Say" poems.  Some of these are highlighted in the recent This American Life radio episode "Mistakes Were Made" which I recommend you check out. The author of the Somewhere in the Suburbs blog has also asked readers to write their own version of the poem.

First, the original poem by William Carlos Williams. Second, my poem, followed by others from elsewhere.

This Is Just To Say (via)
by William Carlos Williams

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

My attempt...

This is Just to Say
by Steve McCoy

I left
an insulting comment
on your
blog

when you
heartily
recommended the new
U2 album

Forgive me
I was already
logged in
and have functioning ears

Two from Kenneth Koch, poet (via)

Last evening we went dancing and I broke your leg.
Forgive me. I was clumsy and
I wanted you here in the wards, where I am the doctor!

(And...)

I chopped down the house that you had been saving to live in next summer.
I am sorry, but it was morning, and I had nothing to do
and its wooden beams were so inviting.

Carol (Somewhere...commenter)

I called
your new husband
by the name
of your old boyfriend.

The one
We thought
Would
Marry you.

Forgive me.
He was familiar
So jolly
And easy talk to.

NPM09: Song "3 a.m." by Gregory Alan Isakov

This is also a Music Monday addendum, but whatever. My introduction to Gregory Alan Isakov was last Thursday as he opened for Brandi Carlile. More people need to hear about this guy.  I've been listening to him since Thursday and I like his songwriting a lot. Here's good music-based poetry for your Monday night during this National Poetry Month. I found some lyrics for the song with mistakes. Some I could correct, others still may not be perfect. I did my best. Enjoy!

Well, it's 3AM again, like it always seems to be
Driving northbound, driving homeward, driving wind is driving me.
It just seems so funny how I always end up here
Walking outside in a storm while looking way up past the treeline
It's been some time

Give me darkness when I'm dreaming, give me moonlight when I'm leaving,
Give me shoes that weren't made for standing.
Give me treeline, give me big sky, give me snowbound,
Give me rainclouds, give me bedtime just sometimes

Now you're talking in my room, there ain't nobody here
Cause I've been driving like a trucker, I've been wearing through the gears
I've been training like a soldier, I've been burning through this sorrow
The only talking lately is a background radio

You are my friend and I was a saint
And riding that hope was like catching some train
Now I just walk, but I don't mind the rain
Singing so much softer than I did back then

Well the night I think is darker, we can really say,
God's been living in that ocean, sending us all the big waves
And I wish I was a sailor so I could know just how to trust
Maybe I could bring some grace back home to dry land for each of us

Say what you see, you say it so well
Just say you will wait like snow on the rail
Combing that train yard for some kind of saint
Even my own self, it just don't seem mine

Give me darkness when I'm dreaming, give me moonlight when I'm leaving
Give me mustang horse and muscle, oh, I won't be going gentle
Give me slandered looks when I'm lying, give me fingers when I'm crying
I ain't out there to cheat you, see I killed that damn coyote in me

Music Monday 4.13.09

Brandi-carlile-2007

Brandi Carlile (MySpace) put on a wonderful concert on Thursday.  I attended with my gorgeous wife, who is a fine concert companion.  The Pabst Theater in Milwaukee was in good form, as expected.  I wish I could post a video to every song in Brandi's 2 hour set.  She played lots of stuff from her two albums, a few covers (like Let It Be, Folsom Prison Blues and more), and about 5 new songs.  One of her new songs, "That Year," was a highlight and I want to share it with you. The video (not mine) is actually from the Milwaukee concert, too. By the way, if you are a Baptist, like me, you will want to pay attention to her comments about being an "extreme Baptist." Always helpful to hear how the world talks about us. When she said "extreme Baptist" I almost went "Woohoo!" and then realized it was meant in a less than positive way. :)

A few bits and pieces. Kevin Drew of Broken Social Scene has written and directed a 15 minute film for Feist's haunting "The Water." It's creepy and well worth 15 minutes of your time.  It stars Leslie Feist, Cillian Murphy, and David Fox. Check this interview with DM Stith. His album, Heavy Ghost, is a great 2009 piece of art. The third installment of Manchester Orchestra's "musical journey in eleven acts" leading up to the release of their new album, Mean Everything to Nothing (iTunes pre-order for $7.99), is available for viewing at MySpace. The video is for the song "I've Got Friends," and the song is available for free download.

NPM09: Colossians 1:15-20

What scholars call an early Christian hymn or poem, Colossians 1:15-20 is a beautiful statement of the lordship and supremacy of Jesus Christ. 

He is the image of the invisible God,
the firstborn of all creation.
For by him all things were created,
    in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible,
    whether thrones or dominions or rulers or authorities
—all things were created through him and for him.
And he is before all things,
and in him all things hold together.
And he is the head of the body, the church.
He is the beginning, the firstborn from the dead,
that in everything he might be preeminent.
For in him all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell,
and through him to reconcile to himself all things,
    whether on earth or in heaven,
making peace by the blood of his cross.

NPM09: Easter Weekend Hymns

3432469984_86337d8480 I have a wonderful old Baptist Hymnal from the American Baptist Publication Society, printed in 1883. There is a "Certificate" section at the beginning with printed signatures by those who compiled the hymns. It includes several names including John A. Broadus, Basil Manly, and T.T. Eaton.  There are over 700 hymns and chants, without music.  For Easter weekend I have two hymns for you themed for the weekend: death and resurrection. I do love our great hymn-writing poets of the past and present.

Death

Alas! and did my Saviour bleed?
And did my Sovereign die?
Would he devote that sacred head
For such a worm as I?

Was it for crimes that I had done
He groaned upon the tree?
Amazing pity! Grace unknown!
And love beyond degree!

Well might the sun in darkness hide,
And shut his glories in,
When Christ, the mighty Maker, died,
For man, the creature's sin.

Thus might I hide my blushing face
While his dear cross appears,
Dissolve my heart in thankfulness,
And melt mine eyes to tears.

But drops of grief can ne'er repay
The debt of love I owe:
Here, Lord, I give myself away,
'Tis all that I can do.
(Isaac Watts, 1707)

Resurrection

The strife is o'er, the battle done;
The victory of life is won;
Oh, let the song of praise be sung.
        Alleluia.

The powers of death have done their worst,
But Christ their legions hath dispersed
Let shouts of holy joy outburst.
        Alleluia.

He closed the yawning gates of hell;
The bars from heaven's high portals fell;
Let hymns of praise his triumphs tell.
        Alleluia.

Lord, by the stripes which wounded thee,
From death's dread sting thy servants free,
That we may live and sing to thee.
        Alleluia.
(Francis Pott, 1860)

NPM09: Writer's Almanac & Kingsolver Quote

03-keillor-300The Writer's Almanac is a daily podcast and NPR radio spot hosted by Garrison Keillor. It's just over 5 minutes a pop with some interesting stuff about writers and the world (birthdays, historical events, etc) explained with writers in mind. Never just a list of facts, Keillor does an excellent job including things worth thinking about.  He always finishes with at least one poem.  Think of The Writer's Almanac as a kind of 5 minute devotional for writers. If you are a writer or aspire to write one day, I encourage you to follow along with this great podcast.

One fact mentioned in yesterday's podcast is the birthday of author Barbara Kingsolver. I loved the Kingsolver quote Keillor reads about how to improve at writing.

It is harrowing for me to try to teach 20-year-old students, who earnestly want to improve their writing. The best I can think to tell them is: Quit smoking, and observe posted speed limits. This will improve your odds of getting old enough to be wise.

NPM09: Carl Sandburg - Chicago Poems

Carl portrait_largeCarl Sandburg's (1916) Chicago Poems is a well known collection of free verse from the Pulitzer Prize winning poet and author. I just picked it up tonight after looking through it a dozen times since moving back to the Chicago area.  I'm glad I did.  Wonderful stuff.

Here are a few selections (via)...

Crimson

CRIMSON is the slow smolder of the cigar end I hold,
Gray is the ash that stiffens and covers all silent the fire.
(A great man I know is dead and while he lies in his
     coffin a gone flame I sit here in cumbering shadows
     and smoke and watch my thoughts come and go.)

Fog

THE fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

Chicago

     HOG Butcher for the World,
     Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,
     Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight
            Handler;
     Stormy, husky, brawling,
     City of the Big Shoulders:

They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I
     have seen your painted women under the gas lamps
     luring the farm boys.
And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it
     is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to
     kill again.
And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the
     faces of women and children I have seen the marks
     of wanton hunger.
And having answered so I turn once more to those who
     sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer
     and say to them:
Come and show me another city with lifted head singing
     so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.
Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on
     job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the
     little soft cities;
Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning
     as a savage pitted against the wilderness,
          Bareheaded,
          Shoveling,
          Wrecking,
          Planning,
          Building, breaking, rebuilding,
Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with
     white teeth,
Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young
     man laughs,
Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has
     never lost a battle,
Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse.
     and under his ribs the heart of the people,
                              Laughing!
Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of
     Youth, half-naked, sweating, proud to be Hog
     Butcher, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with
     Railroads and Freight Handler to the Nation.

NPM09: "Can Poetry Matter?" and "Insomnia"

Dana Gioia (a dude) has a wonderful and important essay that I like to point to on National Poetry Month: "Can Poetry Matter?" (found in his book Can Poetry Matter?).  I've shortened Gioia's concluding points below, but I wanted to give you a taste here.

...I would wishthat poetry could again become a part of American public culture. I don't think this is impossible. All it would require is that poets and poetry teachers take more responsibility for bringing their art to the public. I will close with six modest proposals for how this dream might come true.

1. When poets give public readings, they should spend part of every program reciting other people's work

2. When arts administrators plan public readings, they should avoid the standard subculture format of poetry only. Mix poetry with the other arts, especially music.

3. Poets need to write prose about poetry more often, more candidly, and more effectively. 

4. Poets who compile anthologies—or even reading lists—should be scrupulously honest in including only poems they genuinely admire.

5. Poetry teachers especially at the high school and undergraduate levels, should spend less time on analysis and more on performance. Poetry needs to be liberated from literary criticism. Poems should be memorized, recited, and performed. The sheer joy of the art must be emphasized.

6. Finally poets and arts administrators should use radio to expand the art's audience. Poetry is an aural medium, and thus ideally suited to radio.

It is time to experiment, time to leave the well-ordered but stuffy classroom, time to restore a vulgar vitality to poetry and unleash the energy now trapped in the subculture. There is nothing to lose. Society has already told us that poetry is dead. Let's build a funeral pyre out of the desiccated conventions piled around us and watch the ancient, spangle-feathered, unkillable phoenix rise from the ashes.

Read the rest of Gioia's "Can Poetry Matter?" as well as some of his poetry, at DanaGioia.net. Here's his poem "Insomnia" from Daily Horoscope...

Now you hear what the house has to say.
Pipes clanking, water running in the dark,
the mortgaged walls shifting in discomfort,
and voices mounting in an endless drone
of small complaints like the sounds of a family
that year by year you've learned how to ignore.

But now you must listen to the things you own,
all that you've worked for these past years,
the murmur of property, of things in disrepair,
the moving parts about to come undone,
and twisting in the sheets remember all
the faces you could not bring yourself to love.

How many voices have escaped you until now,
the venting furnace, the floorboards underfoot,
the steady accusations of the clock
numbering the minutes no one will mark.
The terrible clarity this moment brings,
the useless insight, the unbroken dark.

Music Monday 4.6.09 Addendum

Molly and I are going to see Brandi Carlile in Milwaukee on Thursday night at the Pabst Theater. It's going to be a great night. I thought I would put up a video or two in anticipation...



Music Monday 4.6.09

Ahh, more Beirut goodness for you. This is an excellent quality video of their 37 minute set at Music Hall of Williamsburg. I love the first song, "East Harlem," which Zach Condon wrote at 17 years old. If you don't know Beirut, start with their wonderful debut Gulag Orkestar. Enjoy "East Harlem." Watch the whole concert at BaebleMusic.


Watch the full concert at baeblemusic.com

Deep Dark Woods is one of those bands on my radar. I really like "Glory Hallelujah!"...

During this National Poetry Month, I want to try to use Music Mondays as a way to highlight the poetry behind the music. I wanted to start with Bob Dylan because he's, well, Bob Dylan. A favorite of mine is "A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall." It's from The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan, only $6.99 right now at Amazon. Lyrics are under the video so you can follow along.

"A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall" by Bob Dylan (lyrics via)

Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?
And where have you been, my darling young one?
I've stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains,
I've walked and I've crawled on six crooked highways,
I've stepped in the middle of seven sad forests,
I've been out in front of a dozen dead oceans,
I've been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard,
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, and it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

Oh, what did you see, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you see, my darling young one?
I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it,
I saw a highway of diamonds with nobody on it,
I saw a black branch with blood that kept drippin',
I saw a room full of men with their hammers a-bleedin',
I saw a white ladder all covered with water,
I saw ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken,
I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children,
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, and it's a hard,
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

Oh, what did you hear, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you hear, my darling young one?
I heard the sound of a thunder that roared out a warnin',
Heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world,
I heard one hundred drummers whose hands were a-blazin',
I heard ten thousand whisperin' and nobody listenin',
I heard one person starve, I heard many people laughin',
Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter,
I heard the sound of a clown who cried in the alley,
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

Oh, what did you meet, my blue-eyed son?
And who did you meet, my darling young one?
I met a young child beside a dead pony,
I met a white man who walked a black dog,
I met a young woman whose body was burning,
I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow,
I met one man who was wounded in love,
I met another man who was woundedin hatred,
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

And what'll you do now, my blue-eyed son?
And what'll you do now, my darling young one?
I'm a-goin' back out 'fore the rain starts a-fallin',
I'll walk to the depths of the deepest dark forest,
Where the people are many and their hands are all empty,
Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters,
Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison,
And the executioner's face is always well hidden,
Where hunger is ugly, where the souls are forgotten,
Where black is the color, where none is the number,
And I'll tell it and speak itand think it and breathe it,
And reflect from the mountain so all souls can see it,
And I'll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin',
But I'll know my song well before I start singin',
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, and it's a hard,
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

NPM09: "Where the Sidewalk Ends"

Wherethesidewalkends

Shel Silverstein's poetry is a lot of fun. Our kids love it, and so do we. We just read tonight through the first fourth of his book Where the Sidewalk Ends because the kids kept asking for another poem, then another, then another. We obliged.  We plan on finishing the book all the way through soon and then maybe check out another. Here's the title poem from the book...

Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein (online location)

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.

NPM09: A Sabbath Poem

He thought to keep himself from Hell
by knowing and by loving well.
His work and vision, his desire
Would keep him climbing up the stair.

At limit now of flesh and bone,
He cannot climb for holding on.
"I fear the drop, I feel the blaze --
Lord, grant thy mercy and thy grace."

Wendell Berry from A Timbered Choir: The Sabbath Poems 1979-1997, p108.

NPM09: Mom and "The Lanyard" by Billy Collins

183526695_9ef4042a90It's now a rule. Every year I need to re-post one of my favorite poems, "The Lanyard" by Billy Collins, on the anniversary of my mom's death. That's today. She died in 2007 from cancer at the age of 59. It's not really meant to be a sad poem, though it is now that for me. It's supposed to be sorta funny and insightful, as the video shows. 

So here's to your Mom and mine.  Video is of Collins reading and the text of the poem is below that.

The Lanyard by Billy Collins

The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.

No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.

I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.

She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light

and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.

Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift—not the worn truth

that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.

Phriday is for Photos 4.3.09

3397117350_97407796bb_o
2387632838_1e72cbd467_o

Here's two photos taken with my camera phone. Just goes to show you can do some pretty cool things without shelling out a bunch of money for a digital SLR.  The first is from this week when the boys were at a laser tag place for a birthday party. That the floor of an upstairs party room. The second is from a year ago tomorrow in downtown Woodstock, IL.

My photography website.

NPM09: "To Dorothy" by Marvin Bell

Writers on Writing is a favorite podcast of mine in which Barbara DeMarco-Barrett interviews authors, poets, and literary agents on the art and business of writing. Last night I listened to her interview of the American poet Marvin Bell. I really enjoyed it, especially his reading of "To Dorothy," a poem about his wife. Today, as I think about it, it's also a poem about my wife. I love you, sootie.

To Dorothy

You are not beautiful, exactly.
You are beautiful, inexactly.
You let a weed grow by the mulberry
And a mulberry grow by the house.
So close, in the personal quiet
Of a windy night, it brushes the wall
And sweeps away the day till we sleep.

A child said it, and it seemed true:
"Things that are lost are all equal."
But it isn't true. If I lost you,
The air wouldn't move, nor the tree grow.
Someone would pull the weed, my flower.
The quiet wouldn't be yours. If I lost you,
I'd have to ask the grass to let me sleep.

Here's a video of Marvin Bell talking about poetry. It's short...

NPM09: Goodnight by David Ferry

"Goodnight" by David Ferry (via, from the book Of No Country I Know)

Lying in bed and waiting to find out
Whatever is going to happen: the window shade


Making its slightest sound as the night wind,
Outside, in the night, breathes quietly on it;


It is parental hovering over the infantile;
Something like that; it is like being a baby,


And over the sleep of the baby there is a father,
Or mother, breathing, hovering; the streetlight light


In the nighttime branches breathing quietly too;
Altering; realtering; it is the body breathing;


The crib of knowing: something about what the day
Will bring; and something about what the night will hold,


Safely, at least for the rest of the night, I pray.

NPM09: Billy Collins "Litany"

Npm_poster_2009_550

Billy Collins is one of my very favorite living poets. His poetry has a beauty and realism to it that seems unpretentious and able to be enjoyed and understood by anyone and everyone.  There's too little of that today. He also regularly injects humor, which I find refreshing.  I've posted stuff from Collins several times the last few years and I'm sure his name will come up a few times this month. 

To start National Poetry Month 2009 I give you a video of the wonderful Billy Collins reading "Litany." You can find this poem in his book Nine Horses and you can read it online at Poetry Foundation...