New Beginnings

So, after a months and eons long (and tragic!) lack of blogging, I've decided to give it another go. We've been revamped, renamed, and redesigned over here and I hope all of that back-breaking painting and remodeling of the page here is worth it.

I do have to admit. Being one of those Whippersnappers of the Internet age, Twitter is more my style. 140 characters, I'm in, I'm out, I'm back to life. But sometimes, you need a place that's bigger than a tiny text box. Sometimes there are things to be said that require space to breathe.

What those things are, well, I don't know yet. Glee is over for the summer, so there goes the opportunity to squee and rehash that.

But, as a reader and a writer, I'm sure I'll find something to say. I've rarely been speechless in the past.

When in doubt, however, there is always poetry to supply words that might otherwise hang invisible between us.


My First Memory (of Librarians)


by Nikki Giovanni

This is my first memory:
A big room with heavy wooden tables that sat on a creaky
          wood floor
A line of green shades—bankers’ lights—down the center
Heavy oak chairs that were too low or maybe I was simply
          too short
                    For me to sit in and read
So my first book was always big

In the foyer up four steps a semi-circle desk presided
To the left side the card catalogue
On the right newspapers draped over what looked like
          a quilt rack
Magazines face out from the wall

The welcoming smile of my librarian
The anticipation in my heart
All those books—another world—just waiting
At my fingertips.

Morning Poem, by Mary Oliver

Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange

sticks of the sun
the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again

and fasten themselves to the high branches--
and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands

of summer lilies.
If it is your nature
to be happy
you will swim away along the soft trails

for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere.
And if your spirit
carries within it

the thorn
that is heavier than lead--
if it's all you can do
to keep on trudging--

there is still
somwhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted--

each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly,
every morning,

whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray.