Too Romantic?

     I thought I could never get this poem published. It's hard to know if a poem is too emotional or sentimental or overly romantic. In a book on poetry by poet Ted Kooser, there is a poem by another contemporary poet which Kooser said was dangerously close to being too romantic. I thought, "Well, then I must be a downright sap, because I actually think it's somewhat restrained." Compared to Barrett Browning, Byron, and Shakespeare, in fact, I thought it was pretty darn tame! This is why I think many of my poems are unpublishable; but I've discussed (whined about) this at length in earlier posts.

     So I'm very grateful indeed to the editor of Decanto not only for accepting this poem, but for accepting it with alacrity. There are still a few editors out there who embrace the romantic.

     The Falling

     There was something in your soul
     that wrapped around my reason—
     lyrical, warm, and lovely.

     My mind stood still, so it might
     fathom the fugitive light
     that spoke to me through your eyes,

     so it might plumb the shadows
     that softened the sharp corners
     of your uncompromising

     yet humble intelligence.
     My restless hands stretched, yearning,
     to learn the complex texture

     of your deep simplicity;
     the once insensate days pulsed
     with the rhythms of your voice.

     I rejoiced in the rapture
     of knowing that on this earth
     burned the splendor of your soul.

© Leticia Austria 2011
First published in Decanto

From My Big Orange Book

In my Big Orange Book I have copied down several poems by American lyric poet Sara Teasdale. Her poems have resonated with me since college, when I found an early edition of her volume Love Songs in an antiquarian bookstore. She's been a major influence on my own poetry. Though her early work can at times be what one might call "sentimental," her best poems are, in my opinion, quite moving. Her language is accessible and also extremely musical, which is why many composers, including most notably John Duke, have chosen her texts to set to music.

 

Teasdale used this sonnet as the introduction to Love Songs. It has no title, but simply bears the dedication "To E." I assume she wrote it for her husband, Ernst Filsinger. It's one of my favorite Teasdale poems.

 

        I have remembered beauty in the night,

           Against black silences I waked to see

           A shower of sunlight over Italy

        And Green Ravello dreaming on her height;

        I have remembered music in the dark,

           The clean swift brightness of a fugue of Bach's,

           And running water singing on the rocks

        When once in English woods I heard a lark.

 

        But all remembered beauty is no more

           Than a vague prelude to the thought of you—

           You are the rarest soul I ever knew,

              Lover of beauty, knightliest and best;

        My thoughts seek you as waves that seek the shore,

              And when I think of you, I am at rest.

 

 

source



You Know You're Middle-Aged When ...

... your shoe size increases. For decades, I wore a 7B. Reliable. Foolproof. When ordered through a catalogue or QVC, I never had to return them. But now ... ! I'm up to 7 and a half, uh, C, sometimes 8, depending on the shoe. Yes, ladies, let's face it, the feet spread along with the hips and thighs. Also, there's menopause and its lovely symptoms, one of which is the waning and waxing (and I'm not referring to hair removal) of various parts of the body, including feet. One never knows on any given day just how much one's feet will swell.

 

... your shoe wardrobe shrinks. Granted, I was never the shoe fanatic so many women seem to be. I don't think I ever owned more than twenty pairs of shoes at once. Ever, honest. Then as a religious, I was allowed only one pair of closed shoes (black), one pair of sandals (black), one pair of gardening shoes (preferably black), and one pair of slippers (any color). Of course, wearing the same outfit every day helped. Ever wonder why nuns' shoes are so—orthopedic? It's because nuns spend so much time on their feet, working, walking, cleaning; and the floors of modern monasteries are often linoleum tile over concrete. Ouch. That'll give you heel spurs, for sure. But even before I entered, my foot health began to decline and I had to give up wearing heels. My shoe wardrobe eventually consisted mainly of Clarks clogs and sandals. I think I had eight pairs of Clarks clogs. Great shoes, those. Did wonders toward relieving my heel spurs and plantar fasciitis. And now I have also discovered crocs, the shoe choice of surgeons and nurses and other people who spend much of their time on their feet. Not that I spend a lot of time on my feet now. But they are great for grocery shopping and other activities that involve much walking/standing on unforgiving concrete floors.

 

... your life is "their" nostalgia. I look at what young people are wearing these past five or ten years, and I think, "I should have saved all my clothes from junior high and high school and sold them on eBay; I'd have made a fortune." Low-riders? We called them "hip-huggers." Boot cut? We called them "flares." (No, not "bell bottoms"; those were a different shape altogether.) Those clingy knit tops they wear over collared shirts? We wore that look in the eighth grade. Those wide leather belts with the metal-rimmed holes? Ditto. Platform shoes and big wedgies? Double ditto. A fortune, I tell you, I coulda made. Coulda-woulda-shoulda!

 

And that's just fashion. Don't get me started on the other stuff. But you know the ultimate sure-fire way to know you're middle-aged? When you start writing stuff like this.

Then and Now

Then: 17 August 2009

     It has been over a year since I started this volume, and I am thoroughly ashamed of myself. I've all but abandoned you, and the poetry hasn't been all that forthcoming either. My last poem was over a month ago. If it weren't for my reading—which isn't much, admittedly—my brain would surely atrophy. I lead the life of my mother and father and have none of my own. Or should I say rather, that I have no life outside that of my mother and father? I have devoted myself completely to them.

     I try not to think of the future—too frightening—and when I do feel frightened, I try to submit myself to Providence.

     Too many memories haunt me. Part of me wants to cleave to them as some sort of confirmation of I'm not sure what, and part of me thinks it's perhaps better if I try to put my past lives in a drawer, close it firmly, and never consciously think of those lives again. What pleasure does it give me to think of them? None. Only pain and regret.

     All the regrets I have about my two and a half years in the monastery have yet to be sorted and clarified, and finally—hopefully—converted into a more tranquil, philosophical vein. Right now, I'm still torn between resentment of not being completely understood by the sisters, not having been given enough of a chance, and guilt that I just didn't try hard enough to overcome my need to be the authority in all matters musical and linguistic. Sometimes I think that I wasted the gift of my vocation through sheer pride and obstinacy; and in those moments when that thought torments my peace, I long to have a wise and holy confessor to whom I can pour out my soul. Then again, if I hadn't left, I wouldn't be here to relieve my mother of some of the heavy burden of caring for my father, nor would I have the gift of healing the rift, at least in part, that has long existed between my father and me.

     If I hadn't left opera, I would have spiraled rapidly down the shaft of frustration and dissatisfaction that I had already begun to descend. My friends, dear as they were to me, most likely would not have offered enough to sustain me through my increasing restlessness. My success as a coach would have continued to fuel my pride and my intolerance of what I perceived to be mediocrity. In short, I would have become hateful to myself and undeserving as ever to remain in God's grace.

     No, I am better off where I am, living a humble, hidden, and hopefully useful life. My demons continue to taunt and tempt me, but I try my best to stay close to Jesus and Mary. If my writing never gives any pleasure to anyone except a very small handful of people, I will be satisfied, and not seek anything more.

 

Now: 28 October 2012

     It's a perfectly gorgeous day, one that sets your heart rejoicing the second you go out the door and into the refreshing, golden crispness of autumn. The sky is endlessly brilliant and only the smallest breezes disturb the treetops.

     I'm back in a writing slump after a month of relative productivity, but never mind. I've learned a good deal from that month, received much encouragement and affirmation, and rest in the renewed confidence that I still have it in me to write good poetry. My muse may not be consistent or even reliable, but it isn't dead!

     Mom and I live a very quiet life. The monastery has rid me forever, I think, of the old restlessness that made me jump in my car and wonder where I could go to run away from myself. I was only running away from emptiness. Now I stay at home for contentment. Every night when I hug my mother and wish her a good sleep, I feel grateful and blessed. Life is found inside oneself.

     I no longer feel regret for my time in the cloister. I can now accept peacefully my own shortcomings and my failure to fulfill the vocation God gave me. I look on my present life as his generous gift of a second chance and am happy with that. He has given me back music, too, in a measure I can deal with serenely, without stress or anxiety, just the pure joy.

     My musical past, too, I can now look back on without regret. If my temper and intolerance held me back from accomplishing more than I did, I can only smile ruefully and move on. What have I missed, after all? Nothing at all. I've only been given more than enough, more than I ever deserved.

     I have the peaceful, useful life I have always, at my heart's core, wanted.

Golden Light

John Atkinson Grimshaw
"Golden Light"

 

 

Giuramento (Oath)

 

If autumn's graces never came again,

Its lace no longer glimmered in the lane,

Its leaves no longer wept with cooling rain—

     Still, I would love.

 

Should autumn's music sing its last refrain

And summer ever glisten on the plain,

The memory of autumn will remain—

     So, too, my love.

 

© Leticia Austria 2009
First published in Decanto



"Organized" Is in the Eye of the Beholder

     The other evening, my mother came into my room, looked at my shelves, and murmured, "How do you find anything in here?" To which I gave the inevitable reply: "I know exactly where everything is."

     How many times have we heard this short exchange? And which are you: the ask-er, or the answerer? Whichever you are may tell in the proverbial nutshell a great deal about your character. So you might correctly conclude that, being the answerer, I am somewhat less than neat, maybe even downright messy; but does it follow that I am also unorganized? Are all messy people unorganized, or are there degrees of messiness? And if there are, do these degrees somehow correspond to one's mental processes? Or is one's neatness or messiness an unconscious rebellion, if you will, against those processes? For instance, if one has difficulty organizing ideas into some cohesive whole, does one therefore make up for it by keeping shelves in admirable order, each object in its logical, prescribed place? Conversely, if one "lives" much inside one's own head, amusing oneself by making ordered sense out of random thoughts, does his physical environment pay the price by being neglected and, over time, disordered?

     There may be no easy, formulaic answers to any of these questions; I just put them out there in an effort to defend my own messiness.

     It is perfectly true, however, that I know exactly where everything is in my room, even though, to others' eyes, my shelves are a choked and hopeless jungle of books, file folders, journals, and binders. If you were to ask me to show you how my poem "Elegy" developed from initial concept, through all drafts and revisions, to the final product, I would be able to supply promptly all the relevant information; first, the file containing the rejected poem from which I culled the first line, then the notebook in which I drafted the first versions of "Elegy," then the file that contains typed copies with minor revisions, and finally the binder in which I keep the final version. And you would probably be agape that I could produce all that so quickly and efficiently from my so-called "mess."

     Were I more technologically oriented, all of the aforesaid would be in my hard drive and I would just open the pertinent files. Honestly, though—where's the challenge in that? Where's the fun?  Moreover, where would be the satisfaction in proving that I indeed do know where everything is? I submit that being messy has definite advantages—if nothing else, the mind is made sharper by the sheer exercise of keeping track of one's own mess. Organization begins and ends in the mind. Whether or not it manifests itself in one's surroundings is, IMHO, completely irrelevant.

    
    

Whassup?

     As I headed out the door to go to Mass this morning, I suddenly realized that I hadn't been anywhere at all since I went to Mass last Sunday! A whole week at home. It's amazing how tempus indeed fugit , even when one never sets foot outside the door, if one makes use of imagination, thought, and curiosity. To satisfy any and all of these, there are books and music, both reliable and inexhaustible sources, and both of which I possess enough to keep me happily engrossed for the remainder of my earthly life.

     I've been dipping into two brilliant essay collections these past two weeks: In Defense of Sanity: The Best Essays of G. K. Chesterton,  and Christopher Morley's Philadelphia. The first covers a wide and astonishingly diverse variety of topics from pocket knives to the Book of Job; the second, being focused on the city of Philadelphia, is narrower in scope; nevertheless, Morley often takes us on delightful tangents: a mere slice of sunlight on the side of a building inspires him to write an extended and rather lovely version of the "stop and smell the roses" idea. I look forward to receiving Morley's collection of essays on New York, which I ordered a few days ago.

     In an earlier post I wrote that I also ordered a score of Schubert's piano sonatas so that I could study them in depth while I listened. It arrived yesterday, and I look forward to beginning my study this week. Just glancing through the score, I realized I was imagining my hands playing the notes—inevitable, I suppose. Still, I have no real desire to play. For one thing, though I still have a baby grand, it's in an appalling enough state to discourage anything but the most casual "noodling." Serious practice is completely out of the question, and a very good thing it is so, for me.

     On the poetry front, I've had an extremely fertile month—five new ones and one major revision. This is indeed "fertile" compared to the utter barrenness of previous months. I wrote somewhere in my journal that I would be happy to write one good poem per month, and I still mean that. I'd settle for one good one over four or five mediocre ones, which the Lord knows I've written in many a month in the past several years. No, my reject file is plump enough.

     So that, in a few short paragraphs, is "whassup." I do have definite plans to get out of the house this week, but even if I didn't, there is plenty on my shelves to keep my brain from turning into total mush. Thank the great God for the written word of brilliant men and women, and for glorious music.

Ears without Eyes

     A few years ago I gathered all my piano scores that were in solid physical shape and weren't rife with my personal markings and sold them to Half Price Books, in hope that some earnest piano student with limited funds would snatch them up. Snatched they were; in fact, when I returned to Half Price a couple of weeks later, most of my scores were gone. I wasn't surprised, really; piano scores of the better editions can be very expensive when bought new, especially for poor students.

     Besides needing the shelf space for my ever-expanding library of books, I sold my scores because I decided once for all to give up playing the piano, even for personal pleasure—"personal pleasure" for me never could last long, as my temper and hyper-perfectionism always got the better of me. I did, however, keep a few: Mozart sonatas, Chopin nocturnes, a handful of concertos. Some things one cannot part with, for any reason. It would be like losing a limb. (Another reason why I made a very poor nun.)

     Now that I can once again listen to piano music without the emotional pain—for which I am infinitely grateful—I find it peculiar in a sort of amusing way that listening is so difficult for me without actually seeing the music. It occurred to me last night, as I listened to the chiaroscuro  of Schubert's D959, that I would better understand not only the music but also Kempff's interpretation (for that was whose performance I was listening to) if I had the score in front of me, and could see the actual markings. Only in that moment did I realize just how much of a hindrance my musical history was to simple aural learning. I thought of all the music lovers in the world, those with a genuine, refined, informed taste, who can't read a note of music. How do they "learn" the music without seeing it? * That one could indeed learn merely by listening is a notion I never seriously had to consider till now—now that I had no score to consult whenever my ears prompted the question, "Why did Kempff do that ? Why did he make that specific choice, if it was  his choice and not an actual marking in the score?"

     I don't regret for a moment the basic reason behind selling my scores, but now I do regret not being able to consult them, to which end, I have ordered the Complete Schubert Sonatas (unfortunately sans  the "fragments") in the very edition I once owned. I anticipate its arrival as I would the arrival of a dear friend I've not seen in a long time. Its renewed presence in my life will not stir up old, painful memories, but will only enrich and enhance my newly found "personal pleasure" in listening to music.

* I'm not referring to "playing by ear," which is another thing entirely; I'm referring to getting to know a piece of music intimately through study.

    

From My Big Orange Book

"Destructive self-criticism stops you from creating. Divine dissatisfaction inspires you to go on." — Ellen Burstyn, actor

Ms. Burstyn said this in a segment of Inside the Actors Studio. When I heard it, I immediately wrote it down in my Big Orange Book.

Along the same lines, pianist Stephen Hough wrote this recently on Twitter:

"Practising at any age: calm, concentrated, devoted, perfection as much as you can ... but kind to yourself, smiling, relaxed!"

When I read this, I thought back to all the years I cursed like a sailor and yelled at myself in practice sessions, called myself an idiot, threw music scores and even a jar of sun tea across the room, and banged my fists on the piano keys in frustrated rage. No wonder I now suffer from high blood pressure. If I'd known then what I know now ... nah. I'd still call myself an idiot. Too bad. Who knows how much more I would have accomplished, had I been kinder to myself and not given in to "destructive self-criticism"?

With a Little Help from My Friends

     I love my Facebook friends. Many of them are poets, teachers, lovers of poetry, or people who simply love words and their evocative power. Quite a few of them are people I've never met face to face; we've become comrades of the written word through a social network. I'm not afraid to ask their advice or to solicit constructive criticism when working on a poem, and they always come through for me. I've done this a couple of times just in this past month, and the result is that new poems are flowing out of me after an unusually long period of writer's block. My friends help me when I need them, and they help me even when I don't think I need them.

     Contrastingly, I recently "met" a fellow poet through the internet whose opposition to advice and constructive criticism frankly confounds me. It has been my experience that when a poet reaches out to a colleague and sends him some of his work, it is because he wants feedback—but in this particular case, I assumed wrongly. Not only did this poet reject my well-meaning suggestions, but wrote me quite bluntly that they were not appreciated—nor were the suggestions of yet another colleague, who apparently made the same assumption I did about well-meaning, supportive collaboration.

     To say that I was bewildered, even shaken, by this reaction is an understatement. But we all have different ways of working, different ways of growing; and perhaps, contrary to what Donne wrote, being an island has its good points. For me, though, I need the eyes, ears, and objectivity of others to help me grow as a poet and as a person. I am truly grateful for any help that my friends so kindly give me.

Inner Quiet

     Right off, I want to make clear that I love family get-togethers. Aside from major holidays, our immediate family gathers once weekly or once every two weeks, usually on Sunday, for the midday meal, lively banter, and lately, a game or two of Mexican Train Dominos. These gatherings take place here at my mother's house, the old homestead, if you will. It is a small—nay, tiny house in which one may easily hear from one end of it a conversation held at the other end, unless doors are closed or the conversants are whispering. When siblings mit  spouses are assembled all together in one room, be it the living or dining room, and everyone is talking at once, either to each other in pairs or on top of each other in a futile effort to be heard, the noise level can be truly astonishing.

     Astonishing, yes—especially to one who has lived fifteen years all alone in a small apartment, followed by nearly two and a half years in one of the quietest habitations on earth—a Catholic cloister. I didn't need to move to midtown Manhattan directly from the monastery to experience the noise equivalent of culture shock (sound shock, perhaps?); no, I simply had to move back to the family homestead. Even after six years back "in the world," I can still be easily and negatively affected by noise. Nor does the noise have to be excessive; it can be my mother's TV turned up just a tad past comfortable, a neighbor's stereo's mega bass thumping just a little too loudly, a crowded restaurant, a shopping mall on a Saturday afternoon. My sensitive ears are literally pained and, if I'm not vigilant, my quiet core can be jangled.

     This quiet core is something that was carefully nurtured during my brief time as a monastic. It has become essential to my day-to-day existence now that I no longer have the enclosure walls to shield me from the noise and potentially negative influence of the world. I believe those who adhere to Asian philosophies would call this inner peace a "Zen place." To Christians, it is that deepest part of the soul where the Holy Trinity dwells. It is the peace of Christ that creates this quiet core, a peace that is given when we, through a conscious effort of the will and with the help of divine grace, strive to keep its environment (mind, soul, and body) a fit dwelling place. It is where we meet God in moments of silent contemplation, where we hear his wordless voice speaking to us through the Spirit. It is not a silence of emptiness, but of sublime fullness. This is precisely why monasteries exist, and why a quiet environment is so crucial to monastic life.

     However, not everyone is called to be a monastic. Most people live in the secular, noisy, jostling, stress-filled world that is only a pilgrimage to the life we are all meant to live. Monastic life strives to provide a taste of that promised life, but if we can't live in a monastery we can at least build and maintain an inner monastery where we can retreat from the world's noise and confusion and listen to the stirrings of the Holy Spirit.

     My family's boisterous banter is by no means a negative influence, but in all honesty, it is at times aurally challenging and disturbing to one's calm. So when I'm sitting at the dining room table with my family, playing dominos, and everyone around me is talking at once and at the top of their voices, I make a special effort to remain as quiet and inwardly still as possible. When my mother turns her TV up near maximum volume because she's growing a bit hard of hearing, I try my best not to grumble, even in my mind. When my neighbor's mega bass pounds away through my bedroom wall, I delay my prayer time till he shuts it off, and in the meanwhile try to be patient by thinking of how patient God is with me. It's either that, or go mad.

A Pianist's Farewell

     I wrote this in the monastery when I decided once and for all to give up the piano. Since I knew full well and for a long time that the day would come, when it did come it really wasn't as painful as I thought it would be. Still, it was emotional.

     After I left the cloister and began to submit my poems for publication, I sent this one in to the 2008 Utmost Christian Poets Contest (Novice Division), an international contest out of Canada. At that time it was titled "A Pianist's Farewell upon Entering the Cloister." To my genuine surprise, it won Best Rhyming Poem and Third Prize Over All. Shortly after that, it was published in The Storyteller magazine under its present, less cumbersome, title.

 

A Pianist's Farewell

 

I never thought to leave you, friend,

Who were the very breath of me,

My working day, my restless night,

The steersman of my destiny.

I made a solemn vow to you—

Or was it you to me? Who knows?

It was so long a life ago,

And thieving time too fleeting goes.

 

Was ever there a day, an hour,

That was not colored by your voice?

You snatched me from the womb, I think,

Purloined from me all will and choice ...

Ah, no, I tease you, dearest friend!

To you I may so freely speak,

For you have known my deepest deep

And bore me up to heaven's peak.

 

With you, I soared beyond my self;

Upon your keys, I knew no fear

Of man, or dreams, or my own heart—

My aim was true, my vision clear.

Through you, I gave my laughter words;

Through you, I let my sorrow weep;

To you I told my greatest love,

And in you, let my secret sleep.

 

You were my solace and my strength,

My wise and faithful confidante.

Though now I live without your voice,

My memory its echoes haunt.

It must be so. If ever we

Should meet again, I cannot tell.

I loved you, heart and soul and mind,

O truest, dearest friend. Farewell.

 

© Leticia Austria 2006

Lately I've Been ...

I swiped this meme from November's Autumn. It's appeared on a few other blogs as well.

 

Lately I've been ...

 

... writing revisions of my new poem, formerly titled "The Language of the Sea," now titled "Amphitrite." I'm still not happy with it, and honestly don't know if it'll work out at all. I might just chuck it into my rejects file and see if, in future, any portion of it can be culled for use in another poem. I've done that a few times, with successful results. Waste not, want not, even when it comes to poetry.

 

... reading In Defense of Sanity: The Best Essays of C. K. Chesterton.  I've not read any Chesterton till now and am loving these essays. What a fertile mind, what an engaging and lucid writer! He is indeed a master essayist, worthy to be placed in the same rank with Johnson, Hazlitt, Addison and Steele, and Lamb, all of whom were recommended by my great "kinsman of the shelf" Helene Hanff, through her book 84, Charing Cross Road.  However, nowhere does Helene mention Chesterton, and if indeed she never read him, she certainly missed out on a great writer. She'd have loved him, I think.

 

... listening quite a lot these days to Schubert's piano sonatas. I owned a score of them for years, contemplating every so often actually studying one or two of them; but for some reason his solo piano music didn't appeal to me. Besides which, much of it lay very awkwardly under my tiny hands. (I have, however, loved and played many of his lieder.) But I recently bought Stephen Hough's CD and upon listening to it, my opinion of Schubert changed completely. I suspect the change is also partly due to age—some music and certain composers are better appreciated, and indeed, better understood, from a more mature viewpoint. Of course, since I have quit the piano altogether, I still won't be playing any Schubert, but I now have the great satisfaction of listening to him. As Hough has written, while Beethoven is overtly passionate, Schubert is more reticent. His passions are glimpsed through a veil, through a partially opened curtain. And though what may be glimpsed is bleak, it is nonetheless intensely moving.

 

... watching—why, Dancing with the Stars,  of course! My mother and I are hooked. Well, she's been hooked a lot longer than I have; I am only a recent convert. I must admit, it's great fun and a nice change of pace from all the cooking shows, House Hunters, and House Hunters International.  Ever since I moved to Houston in 1989, I no longer watch current series, and I know even without sampling an episode that I would absolutely loathe reality shows such as—I don't know, that housewives thing, or whatever. But I genuinely enjoy DWTS.  I doubt, however, I could ever get into American Idol, America's Got Talent, and whatnot, simply because I can't stand most of what passes for singing these days. I am both a dinosaur and a cultural snob. Yep, I am. Call me Niles.

 

... looking pretty bad. Cannot tell a lie; my physical appearance has definitely seen better days.

 

... feeling under the weather. Which is probably why I've been looking bad. I'm just getting over a cold; still feel a bit 'snarfy' in the sinuses. Allergies don't help, either. I am grateful, though, that autumn is here. Summer in Texas is far too long and hot. You'd think I'd be used to that, but the sad truth is, you never  get used to it.

 

... anticipating receiving in the mail the Complete Schubert Sonatas played by Wilhelm Kempff. Yes, this dinosaur still listens to music on CDs, and sometimes even on vinyl. I had a hard time deciding between Kempff and Brendel, but ultimately went with Kempff. I'll probably get Brendel later on. The thing about classical music, including opera, is that you can't just listen to one artist performing any one piece. In order to appreciate a piece properly, you have to listen to as many interpreters of it as possible. Otherwise, you're not appreciating the piece of music itself; you're appreciating one person's interpretation.

 

... wishing oh, so many things! I wish I could go to Italy again. I wish I could go to England again. I wish I could write a poem without ripping my brain and the poem to shreds. I wish I could write a poem, period. I wish my hair would stop falling out onto the bathroom floor.

 

... loving being able to listen to piano music again without feeling that invisible knife twist in my gut. And in case you're thinking, "Well, why don't you write a poem about that?"—fact is, I already did.

 

Gaylord the Basset Hound

     The Christmas I was two years old, my godmother gave me a large toy basset hound. Someone in my family named him Gaylord. Though, alas, no photographs exist of Gaylord in his youth, I can tell you he was large—almost as large as I must have been at that time—floppy, and soft as a pillow. His coloring wasn't at all basset-like, as his fur was of a pink plush velour and his underside was yellow; but the big, sad, black and white felt eyes, the ultra-long face, the ears that fell almost to the black pompom nose, and the short, stocky legs beneath the long body, all were unmistakable basset traits.

     I had a number of toys throughout my childhood, nothing like the hordes today's children all seem to have, but a good number. Why a child cleaves to one particular toy more than the others is a question for psychologists; all I know is that Gaylord always took the place of honor above all my other toys when I assembled them beside me at bedtime and he was my constant companion during the day, indoors and out. I must have handled him a bit roughly, as is a child's wont, or else he was on the fragile side, because poor Gaylord suffered many a wound in those early years, mostly in his seams. My middle sister was surgeon, I was nurse, and we would "operate" on his wounds in all seriousness and with the utmost precision. That my sister's stitches have held to this day is testament to her skills as a surgeon/seamstress.

     Yes, I said "to this day"—because, believe it or not, Gaylord is still with us and dwelling on the top shelf of my closet. His velour fur, once shining pink, is now a non-descript shade of taupe, and gaping bald patches predominate his hide. His black and white felt eyes have crackled and chipped and I can no longer remember what were their former shape. His pompom nose is hanging by a few threads and his red felt mouth, which must have smiled in his youth, is reduced to a pathetic chapped pout.

     When I was living in Houston I asked my mother to ship him to me. And when I entered the monastery, I shipped him to another of my sisters (not his surgeon) for safekeeping. She told me she cried when she opened the box and saw his forlorn face.

     Today, Gaylord lies on his side in well-deserved peace, with all my journals and a few beloved relics of my girlhood. I think it's only fitting.

White Roses

"Woman with a Rose"
Kenneth Frazier



It has been my custom these past few years to listen to the "Sunday Baroque" program on the classical radio station while driving to Mass. One Sunday, they played music from John Blow's Venus and Adonis,  and the announcer, in her introduction, related a version of the myth I had never heard of before. I grew up with the version, first encountered in Edith Hamilton's Mythology, that "a crimson flower" sprang up where Adonis' blood fell. Other versions tell of a flower the hue of a pomegranate; still others plainly state that it was an anemone. The announcer on "Sunday Baroque," however, said that when Venus wept at Adonis' death, white roses sprang up where her tears fell. Almost immediately, a line in iambic pentameter came into my mind: "White roses bloom where I have shed my tears." I thought it a very good opener for a sonnet, and couldn't wait to get home and work on it. The notion that the goddess of love's deepest and purest love was for a man who never loved her in return moved me, as it hit very close to home—which is why I felt compelled to write the poem.

 

First, though, I did a bit of research on the net and found mention of the white rose twist of the myth, but couldn't find an actual text of the myth itself that included it. However, that doesn't mean one doesn't exist. I decided to keep the white roses, but the original line wound up being the closing line rather than the opener. In writing the first draft, I found myself associating the basic premise of the story with the concept of courtly love, or chaste love, symbolized by alabaster as well as the white rose, which in turn brought in the reference to carnal love, symbolized by the red, or "ruddy" rose.

The rhyme scheme of this sonnet is a bit unusual: abcdabcd eeffgg

 



White Roses 

 

He lay in alabaster night; no kiss

of ruddy rose had ever touched his limbs.

No hand of mine, however loving, dared

to break the night's pure silence, choosing life

eternal over momentary bliss.

Had bold, irreverent songs drowned out the hymns

that brought his sleep, had baser instinct bared

what better instinct hid, then day's bright knife

 

would have cut short that alabaster night

and taken him forever from this sight;

then in the place of his ennobled brow,

there would not be the witness living now:

that after all the staid, untarnished years,

white roses bloom where I have shed my tears.

 

 

© Leticia Austria 2010

Autumn Idyll

"Fall Canopy"
Vladimir Sorin

 

Autumn Idyll

 

Perhaps I'll see him in another place,

A softer world, where we may know the sighs

And slanted tone of autumn's lullabies,

Where leaves embellish paths of shadow-lace;

A place where days go round with measured pace

And footsteps linger. Nothing would disguise,

In such a world, the gladness in his eyes,

Or dim the shining candor in my face.

And I will tell him what I long to tell;

My veil will fall as limpid as a leaf

Through windless air. It would be too unkind,

Good sense, to shatter this idyllic spell!

Allow this lovely, gossamer belief

To gleam, oblique as autumn, in my mind.

 

 

© Leticia Austria 2010



Music Monday: From My Big Orange Book

In my Big Orange Book, whose purpose is described in a previous post, I copied down the lyrics of Enrico Ruggeri's song "L'Orizzonte (di una donna sola)" in the original Italian, along with my translation. (You'll find the text and translation below the video.) When I began the Big Orange Book, I was living in Houston, going through a long period of solitude, mostly of my own choosing. My closest friends were also colleagues at work, and there were times when I needed to separate myself from my work altogether, which meant separating myself also from my friends. Those times were much needed times of restoration, but they brought a certain weight of loneliness. I guess that's why I took to this song.

L'Orizzonte (di una donna sola) The Horizon (of a lone woman) - words and music by Enrico Ruggeri

Mangiano spesso da sole
     They often eat alone
E si domandano perché
     And wonder why
E quasi si sentono in colpa
     And they almost feel guilty
Se si avventurano per bere un caffè
     If they venture out for a coffee
Parlano ancora di vole
     They talk again about flights
Che non prendono quasi mai
     That they almost never take
Ed hanno paura del tempo
     And they're afraid of time
Perché il tempo ti sa guardare in faccia
     Because time knows how to look you in the face
Ed hanno gli occhi all'orizzonte
     They have their eyes toward the horizon
Ma non vanno via
     But they don't leave
Combattute tra il presente
     Torn between the present
E la malinconia
     And melancholy
Ma il mondo non aspetta ancora
     But the world still doesn't wait
Guardi indietro e già domani è qui
     Look back, and already tomorrow is here
Ci sono donne così, ci sono vite così
     There are women like that, there are lives like that

Perdono troppe occasioni
     They miss too many chances
Non vogliono sbagliare più
     They don't want to make another mistake
Piangono a certe canzoni
     They cry at certain songs
Errori di gioventù
     Errors of youth
Scrivono lettere lunghe
     They write long letters
Che non mandano quasi mai
     Which they almost never send
Ed hanno il colore del vento
     And they have the color of wind
Perché è il vento che porta più lontano
     Because it's the wind that carries farther
L'orizzonte si addormenta
     The horizon goes to sleep
Prima di noi due
     Before we do
E scopri quella luce spenta
     And you discover that extinguished light
Tra le braccia sue
     Within his arms
Tu non sei cambiata ancora
     Still, you haven't changed
Guardi indietro e mi ritrovi qui
     Look back and you'll find me here
Sei una donna così, con un amore così
     You're that kind of woman, with a love like that

E nascondono i pensieri
     And they hide their thoughts
Nel silenzio
     In the silence
Tra le ombre e i desideri
     Between the shadows and their desires
E gli amici più sinceri
     And their most sincere friends
Non telefonano più
     Don't call anymore
Perché quando eri felice
     Because when you were happy
Non televonavi tu
     You never called
L'orizzonte ci risveglia
     The horizon will reawaken us
Quando lo vorrai
     When you want it to
E anche se il tuo amore sbaglia
     And even if your lover makes a mistake
Lo perdonerai
     You'll forgive him
Se qualcuno sta aspettando
     If someone is waiting
Guardi indietro e lo ritrovi qui
     Look back and you'll find him here
Per una donna così
     For a woman like that
Un orizzonte così
     A horizon like that