Because Marge Piercy is still alive, and I’m concerned about copyright, I will link to the poem. Find it here: http://www.northnode.org/poem.htm
I found this poem by flipping through the readings in the back of the UU hymnal one Sunday in late September. I needed a poem for October and the last two stanzas were a responsive reading. Memorizing it wasn’t too hard, though Piercy is very precise in her words and I wanted to be doubly sure I would get each phrase right. I’m having trouble with actually remembering to include the third stanza, I want to jump straight from the “mud” to the “work of the world,” bypassing the fields entirely. This is even though I love saying “parlor generals and field deserters” and the image of work done in common rhythm.
I also enjoy the lines about everyday work vessels being put in museums. Sometimes, when looking at something historical on display, I like to imagine all the hands that have touched said item, through its long history.
Marge Piercy has a few of her poems excerpted as readings in our hymnal. And she wrote one of my top five books of all time (Gone to Soldiers.) I expect we will be seeing her again.
For my birthday, the MAunts and I saw BINGO! the musical at the Broadway Rose Theater Company. It was splashy and zippy as promised. And, we got to play BINGO during the production. I particularly enjoyed the turns of phrase in the song “Gentleman Caller.”
I thought winning the BINGO game would be a nice birthday present, but it was not to be.
So the sermon today was kind of boring, or I guess I couldn’t get into it. I was quite hungry, and I spent a large portion of church thinking about my lunch. Here is the result:
It’s great pumpkin time! The Fred Meyer near my house has huge pumpkins for sale. I came upon this one and “he he he he he” took a picture because my boss’s name is Tara and I had intended to give her a hard time about her 79 inch waist. The human version of Tara is rather small and I think this pumpkin might outweigh her.
This was on a power pole in Northwest:
When I google “13th head prose and poetry” this is the first link. When I google phantom billstickers ltd I found that they are a New Zeland firm that specializes “in the production and placement of street posters, shop posters & flyers (retail), programs, brochures, postcards & handbills promoting music, arts, events and street culture.” The web site goes on to explain that they have offices on Auckland, Wellington, Christchurch, & Dunedin. So how the heck did this get put up in Portland?
Ah-hah! A visit to the site’s blog leads to this entry about a “poster run” in Seattle and Portland which happened in October. There are multiple blog entries on poster runs to different American cities, so this is apparently something the company does. The blog entry is worth reading, though the author mostly talks about Seattle.
What a fun thing to discover. Thanks phantom billstickers!
Years ago, living in Massachusetts, I went to get a new official Massachusetts driver license. It all went well, I showed my current Idaho license, paid my (exorbitant) fee and brought along my other documents. Then, I went to take my Idaho driver’s license back from the clerk and the woman snatched it out of my hands. It seems that I had to surrender my current license to get the new one. There would be no holding on to this half-profile under-21 snapshot of my life. So I let it go.
When I went to renew my Oregon driver license I remembered that incident and took a picture of my old one before I went inside. Above you can see my first license in Oregon. When I got it, I was astounded that I didn’t have to renew it for eight years. “Eight years!” I exclaimed to more than one person. “I’ll be 35!” I didn’t mean, as many people assumed, that 35 was so old, just that it was so far away from where I was at that point. Eight years was a very long time.
And now those eight years have elapsed. I’ve lived in four different homes/apartments in my time here and I’ve gotten rid of that striped turtleneck and jean jumper. My hair has gone through many incantations and my weight isn’t what it says there. However, it wasn’t when I got the license, either. I’ve had three jobs and one boyfriend and a host of friends. It’s been a good eight years, and I wanted to keep a memory of my first Oregon driver license. According to this calculator (http://www.livingto100.com/) I have about seven more Oregon Driver Licenses in my future.
And guess what? After they had done all the paperwork for my new license, they punched holes in this one and gave it back to me. So I have it anyway.
By far the longest poem I have memorized, it was good I picked this month to do it as it was the Bike Commute Challenge, and I had a lot of memorizing time on my hands, or on my bike, as it were. By the end of September I was pretty sick of the first quarter of it, because that was the section I had said the most times. I think the next time I pick a long poem I will physically divide it up into four parts and only take one section per week then mesh them all together the last week.
That said, this is a pretty easy poem to commit to memory as it’s ballad type nature easily lends to putting pictures of what comes next in your head. And it’s fun to try different voices for the characters.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Lewis Carroll
The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright–
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.
The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done–
“It’s very rude of him,” she said,
“To come and spoil the fun!”
The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead–
There were no birds to fly.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
“If this were only cleared away,”
They said, “it would be grand!”
“If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year.
Do you suppose,” the Walrus said,
“That they could get it clear?”
“I doubt it,” said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.
“O Oysters, come and walk with us!”
The Walrus did beseech.
“A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each.”
The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head–
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.
But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat–
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn’t any feet.
Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more–
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.
“The time has come,” the Walrus said,
“To talk of many things:
Of shoes–and ships–and sealing-wax–
Of cabbages–and kings–
And why the sea is boiling hot–
And whether pigs have wings.”
“But wait a bit,” the Oysters cried,
“Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!”
“No hurry!” said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.
“A loaf of bread,” the Walrus said,
“Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed–
Now if you’re ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed.”
“But not on us!” the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
“After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!”
“The night is fine,” the Walrus said.
“Do you admire the view?
“It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!”
The Carpenter said nothing but
“Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf–
I’ve had to ask you twice!”
“It seems a shame,” the Walrus said,
“To play them such a trick,
After we’ve brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!”
The Carpenter said nothing but
“The butter’s spread too thick!”
“I weep for you,” the Walrus said:
“I deeply sympathize.”
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.
“O Oysters,” said the Carpenter,
“You’ve had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?’
But answer came there none–
And this was scarcely odd, because
They’d eaten every one.
Before we discuss September’s Poem, here are some excerpts from a delightful article about memorizing poetry. These observations of Jim Holt are things I’ve found to be true in my short time memorizing.
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/04/05/books/review/Holt-t.html
Got Poetry?
By JIM HOLT
Published: April 2, 2009
The process of memorizing a poem is fairly mechanical at first. You cling to the meter and rhyme scheme (if there is one), declaiming the lines in a sort of sing-songy way without worrying too much about what they mean. But then something organic starts to happen. Mere memorization gives way to performance. You begin to feel the tension between the abstract meter of the poem — the “duh DA duh DA duh DA duh DA duh DA” of iambic pentameter, say — and the rhythms arising from the actual sense of the words. (Part of the genius of Yeats or Pope is the way they intensify meaning by bucking against the meter.) It’s a physical feeling, and it’s a deeply pleasurable one. You can get something like it by reading the poem out loud off the page, but the sensation is far more powerful when the words come from within. (The act of reading tends to spoil physical pleasure.) It’s the difference between sight-reading a Beethoven piano sonata and playing it from memory — doing the latter, you somehow feel you come closer to channeling the composer’s emotions. And with poetry you don’t need a piano.
Nor, as I have found, will memorizing poetry make you more popular. Rather the reverse. No one wants to hear you declaim it. Almost no one, anyway. I do have one friend, a Wall Street bond-trader, who can’t get enough of my recitations. He takes me to the Grand Havana Cigar Club, high above Midtown Manhattan, and sits rapt as I intone, “The unpurged images of day recede. . . .” He calls to one of the stunningly pretty waitresses. “Come over here and listen to my friend recite this Yeats poem.” Oh dear.
I hope that I have at least dispelled three myths.
Myth No. 1: Poetry is painful to memorize. It is not at all painful. Just do a line or two a day.
Myth No. 2: There isn’t enough room in your memory to store a lot of poetry. Bad analogy. Memory is a muscle, not a quart jar.
Myth No. 3: Everyone needs an iPod. You do not need an iPod. Memorize poetry instead.
Jim Holt
My position on women changing their names when they marry is well known. So I don’t actually recommend you follow the “before” part of this ad. But the retro-cheezy nature of this sign always makes me smile. Totally remember Anders Printing Company.
