that's how the light gets in.

A day or two after Jesse Ventura was elected governor of the great state of Minnesota, I found myself on the college campus that would become my second home. Along with completing an interview, a violin lesson, and an overnight stay, I sat in on a class that I'd end up taking for real just two years later: Major American Writers with Mark Dintenfass. That day happened to be a discussion of several poems by Robert Frost, and I sat quietly in the back and listened while they picked apart the staccato opening line of "Directive" and the ABAABCBCB structure of "Fire and Ice." But the conversation around "Mending Wall" is what mattered to me most.

Dintenfass lamented that "good fences make good neighbors" is an oft-quoted Frost line but also often taken completely out of context, especially ironic because the poem itself is about the danger of such "truth" telling. "He will not go behind his father's saying," the narrator points out about his blustering neighbor, "And he likes having thought of it so well / He says again, 'Good fences make good neighbors.'" Robert Frost, in 1914 when "Mending Wall" was published, could not have anticipated viral memes of words ripped from their setting, devoid of meaning. Or maybe he could. If even Socrates is on record as saying "the unexamined life is not worth living," humans have been blithely walking through life with their eyes closed for millennia.

Instead of closing either our eyes or those holes in the wall, let's leave the cracks wide open and heed the call for "Light, More Light." Today is the annual giving day at my alma mater, and I'm eager (as I am each year) to contribute what I can to a place that contributed to my growth in such meaningful ways. Lawrence, for me, was a place to practice listening, to practice questioning, to practice living in a community with people different than myself who were also trying to learn how to listen and question and live in community, too. And, like Frost's narrator, there's enough mischief in me that I hope I can put a notion in your head, too, that listening and questioning is at the root of everything that matters (for more of my thoughts on that, click here).

Here's the poem - it's in the public domain, so I'm free to share it here:

Mending Wall (from North of Boston, 1914)
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbour know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
"Stay where you are until our backs are turned!"
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, "Good fences make good neighbours."
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
"Why do they make good neighbours? Isn't it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down." I could say "Elves" to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, "Good fences make good neighbours."

And for a little change of pace, here's me reading it.

Mending Wall - Robert Frost from Courtney Hanna-McNamara on Vimeo.

this week's adventures in motherhood: the poetry of staying home.

If I had decided to go back to work this year, yesterday would have been my first day with students. I'm feeling surprisingly blank about the whole thing: not good, not bad, not happy, not sad. I guess that's a sign that, in some ways, either decision would have been the right one. I could have spent the day handing out a crisp, freshly printed syllabus to each tentative new face that greeted me at my classroom door, every one dressed up in their "I want to look good but not like I'm trying too hard" finery. Instead, I spent the day with this face: sometimes looking confused when I tried to get her to pick out the cardinal from a big picture of birds, sometimes pinching her eyes shut because squinting is her newest trick, sometimes wide-mouthed with tears because she couldn't get a zipper to work or the snack wasn't coming fast enough. But mostly smiling.

I do miss my poems of the day, as always. This poem has been rattling around in my brain lately; I found it when looking for a suitable piece to bring to that blessingway I attended a while back. The second-to-last line reminds me of the second-to-last line in "J. Alfred Prufrock," but much less melancholy.

Oh, to be a poet! I guess I'll settle for the (much) lesser art of blogging.



After Making Love We Hear Voices - Galway Kinnell

For I can snore like a bullhorn
or play loud music
or sit up talking with any reasonably sober Irishman
and Fergus will only sink deeper
into his dreamless sleep, which goes by all in one flash,
but let there be that heavy breathing
or a stifled come-cry anywhere in the house
and he will wrench himself awake
and make for it on the run--as now, we lie together,
after making love, quiet, touching along the length of our bodies,
familiar touch of the long-married,
and he appears--in his baseball pajamas, it happens,
the neck opening so small he has to screw them on--
and flops down between us and hugs us and snuggles himself to sleep,
his face  gleaming with satisfaction at being this very child.

In the half darkness we look at each other
and smile
and touch arms across this little, startlingly muscled body--
this one whom habit of memory propels to the ground of his making,
sleeper only the mortal sounds can sing awake,
this blessing love gives again into our arms.

wordy wednesday: poem of the day

My friend and former teaching buddy Clara just published a beautiful poem called "Northing" over at Hip Pocket Press. It reminded me so much of the trip Jason and I took to Alaska two summers ago as a belated celebration of finishing his Ph.D. program, getting a tenure-track gig, and moving across the country to start our new life navigating the waters of academia.

Here's the full text of the poem, which was published in HPP's Canary literary journal. Happy Wednesday!

NORTHING - Clara Quinlan

Isn’t the ice in the distance traveling,
doesn’t it know of my approach,

the red, jagged trees a painter’s stroke
sweeping from the highway, rushing over
each hill. This far, have I already come

without you, a faint disappearance
into black, brittle limbs

collapsing from fire, here
a turn to marrow, to my own interminable
exit; have I not coveted you, dark drifts

on the tongue, spine icicled, mindless,
my body endures, the scallops of mountains blued

without trees, the river’s green glass
advancing from the glacier, spilling against
the road, isn’t it cracking, isn’t it

heaving, when was I told to wrest the song,
pass through in mute, alkaline and silt,

breath’s vaporous fingers
a new hour, an unknown stage, the ice
far above and tremulous. When I place

my hand upon the chandeliered river
enter this: while there is still time, tell me

--

how might the end be spared? Hands
indulgent, bucketing all that is strewn
wild, trafficking your many forms, the barren
flesh sings, crystallized, trees tilt
and claw at the relics of light. Spooling up,
a congregation of
white butterflies from the grasses
render the air, demand reprieve against

the vast, the tundra
uninterrupted, glaciers yawning into kingdoms and how

might the slight wing survive?
To put my mouth upon

the prayer that keeps you
and devour, your fingers struck gold my love

--

with conquering. Let nothing come
between, our stride  thickened under

jagged bush, gnarled shoots
mask the creek we search for, we hear
as glass clinking somewhere into

collapse. You who know no end.
The earth will refuse, rocks caught

under sponged lichen beneath our feet as if
the ground should boil. Sky cobbled
in thermals insisting solitude. Give up

your small narrative as time measures itself
only in the empty space our bodies

cleave. A colony of Kittiwakes rises
from the broken black stalks, hip high,
syntax of wings scattering the luckless

vapors of cloud, do not mistake this
for mercy, joy you can attend, the vital damp of green

banished. Toward indulgence, the tendriled snow
atop the mountain cuts its host in faint bones.
Where bounty still abides, bring me

--

born from winter, a system of white mapping the flesh
unwanted, feathered and receding, how far

again should I have followed? You,

wealth of debris, gild the sutured room;
windtorn and willing, I hunger beyond frozen waters.

© Clara Quinlan

refreshing. {wordy wednesday post}

I haven't been doing much reading lately. Usually the only time I have is right before bed, but because someone has decided to become a terrible sleeper in the past two weeks, I am so tired at night that I just go right to sleep (for a few minutes, until I'm woken by the inconsolable crying). I'm still about halfway through Animal, Vegetable, Miracle  and waiting to start Major Pettigrew's Last Stand  and A House and Its Head, plus I've also added The Glass Castle  to my nightstand "to read" pile.

So I wasn't sure what I was going to be able to post today. But I was delighted to receive a surprise package in the mail this week from a former student of mine who is now studying to be an English teacher (best compliment ever, right?) -- a poem of his was published in Baylor's literary magazine this year, and he wanted me to have a copy. It reminds me of Billy Collins and of a favorite poem of mine by Lawrence Ferlinghetti, too. And the note that accompanied the poem? It made me miss teaching. Not so much that I'm ready to jump ship and go back next year, but it's refreshing to be reminded that you are at least a little bit good at something.

Here's the poem. And here's hoping you find some refreshment today, too!

REFRESHMENT
by Trey Willetto

The most important thing
is not the book
But if you have a choice,
a hardback novel
or paperback poetry
is preferable.

The most important thing
is your location.
An agreeable place,
where you and the author
can try and understand each other.

The most important thing
is sunlight, maybe a window.
Or a park with a nice breeze,
a hammock in between trees,
with a river so you can listen
to its ceaseless flow.

The best possible scenario
is that it is fall, the sun
filtering through dying leaves.
Where you forget your intent
to try and read.

and suddenly: National Poetry Month!

How have you been celebrating it?

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I've mentioned Billy Collins before and how much I like his poetry -- here's one of my favorites of his! Though I don't like to say too much in my poem of the day posts, I love the juxtaposition of humor and insight into the human condition on this one: the need in all of us for a book-worthy plot in our mundane daily experience -- the desire for suspense and anticipation and excitement no matter where we live.


Tension -- Billy Collins
Never use the word suddenly just to create tension.
-Writing Fiction

Suddenly, you were planting some yellow petunias
outside in the garden,
and suddenly I was in the study
looking up the word oligarchy for the thirty-seventh time.

When suddenly, without warning,
you planted the last petunia in the flat,
and I suddenly closed the dictionary
now that I was reminded of that vile form of governance.

A moment later, we found ourselves
standing suddenly in the kitchen
where you suddenly opened a can of cat food
and I just as suddenly watched you doing that.

I observed a window of leafy activity
and beyond that, a bird perched on the edge
of the stone birdbath
when suddenly you announced you were leaving

to pick up a few things at the market
and I stunned you by impulsively
pointing out that we were getting low on butter
and another case of wine would not be a bad idea.

Who could tell what the next moment would hold?
another drip from the faucet?
another little spasm of the second hand?
Would the painting of a bowl of pears continue

to hang on the wall from that nail?
Would the heavy anthologies remain on the shelves?
Would the stove hold its position?
Suddenly, it was anyone’s guess.

The sun rose ever higher in the sky.
The state capitals remained motionless on the wall map
when suddenly I found myself lying on a couch
where I closed my eyes and without any warning

began to picture the Andes, of all places,
and a path that led over the mountains to another country
with strange customs and eye-catching hats,
each one suddenly fringed with colorful little tassels.

(source)

wordless.

It's my "all things wordy" post day -- book reviews, poems I love -- and I'm totally drawing a blank. I'll blame it on this nasty cold + sinus infection I've had for a week and a half and my self-imposed deadline. Plus, L hasn't been napping well, so I've had to get creative with finding ways for us to spend some pretty long hours in the afternoons. Here's a picture of our first-ever "just us girls" outing to a mall (the closest one is a 45 minute drive from here):

mmmm, cantaloupe.

Back with something word-worthy next week, promise. (If you want to know what I'm reading, check out the right sidebar or friend me on goodreads!)

Friday round up.

Five things you should definitely take a look at this Friday:

1. I've had chalkboard paint on the brain lately because I'm thinking it'd be fun to have in our kitchen. Robyn must have read my mind (like she did the day she pinned this recipe on her Pinterest board), because she just posted this awesome tutorial, plus a giveaway from her amazingly cool shop.

2. Suzanne shared this website I'd never seen before -- new obsession.

3. L got a million compliments on her new suit at swimming lessons this week! It was a lot easier to get her ready for class by putting the top on her at home and just changing into the bottoms (plus swim diaper) at the pool -- I'm a convert.

4. Once the outdoor pool is open for the season, I'll be making use of this list of safe(r) sunscreens for babies.

5. These complaints written in the margins of medieval manuscripts are too funny, and remind me of my favorite Billy Collins poem! (Thanks, Megan.)

Our peanut is 10 months tomorrow -- I can barely believe it. Hoping she'll celebrate by deciding to sleep more than an hour at a time during the night, but if this past week is any indication, I shouldn't hold my breath.

Happy weekend, all!

for the love of fiction.

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I'm fully ensconced in some Flavia at the moment -- review coming soon -- but this e-card (spotted on Pinterest) has been on the brain lately:

(image)

Do you get ridiculously attached to fictional characters the way I do? It's part of the reason I can't stand to read books with sad endings -- dealing with illness and heartbreak and death is bad enough in real life! It's why I've never read the final Poirot mystery even though I know what happens. And though Downton Abbey isn't a book (though The Onion begs to differ), I can't help feeling my heartstrings seriously tugged whenever Anna gets that weepy look...

A dear friend of mine wrote a beautiful poem that touches on the power of fictional characters to unlock the secret hearts of the protagonists in our own stories. For more of her poetry, you can visit her blog here.

Why I Read Fiction by Megan E. Freeman

You've no interest
in things that never happened
to folks who don't exist

but every time
I turn the final page
(The End)

a timber bar
across a castle door
lifts up

the drawbridge
of a slightly broken heart
slides down

inviting you across
a brackish moat
into

my fortress of non-fiction
love

where I live and breathe and wait
only what's true

only for you

wedding-themed wordy Wednesday.

I'm super excited to be featured on another blog today -- I'm guest posting for Amber over at Educating Miss Amber, because she's off getting married! Hop on over there to check out her blog all about her little guy, Liam, who is just a tiny bit older than my L. My post is a DIY tutorial for an easy-to-make toy for your little one!

In honor of Amber and Craig's wedding this weekend, I'm back with a poem of the day just for them! Okay, two, because I couldn't decide. :)

Wear Me by Robert Kogan
I want you to wear me
comfortably,
as you would a dress
or the silver necklace that you wear
around your neck.
Comfortably, so that I am always
next to you:
but most important --
something you decide
each morning to select. (online source)


I Wish in the City of Your Heart by Robley Wilson
I wish in the city of your heart
you would let me be the street
where you walk when you are most
yourself. I imagine the houses:
It has been raining, but the rain
is done and the children kept home
have begun opening their doors. (online source)

merry merry.

However you celebrate, wherever you are, I hope you are warm and happy and surrounded by people you love in these dark and cold days of winter.

In the spirit of giving, I'll share two things I love with you: my daughter's beautiful face

...and a poem about light, because shining a light in the darkness is what the holiday season is all about.

The Coming of Light -- Mark Strand

Even this late it happens:
the coming of love, the coming of light. 
You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves, 
stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows, 
sending up warm bouquets of air.
Even this late the bones of the body shine 
and tomorrow's dust flares into breath. (source)

wordy Wednesday: poem of the day

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In my former life as an English teacher, I used to read a poem every day at the beginning of class (affectionately known as the "POD" by my students). I borrowed this idea from my amazing mentor when I was a student teacher, and she got it from Billy Collins, the former poet laureate who created the program Poetry 180. Once the bell rang, my class always knew that they should be in their seats, ready to listen to whatever strange or fanciful or sad or hilarious poem I happened to have picked for that day -- sometimes they loved them, sometimes they hated them, but it was a routine they could count on.

As it turns out, it was a routine I counted on, too. And now that I'm not teaching anymore, I really miss having a daily dose of poetry! So instead of sharing a book review with you today, I thought I'd pass along a poem. Just like in my classes, I won't do any analysis or commentary -- that part is up to you, if you choose to do it. This poem was a recent daily feature on Poetry Daily and happens to be based on a line from my favorite Shakespeare play. I picked it for other reasons too -- but that goes against my no commentary policy. :) Enjoy, and then back to your regularly scheduled programming!

Villanelle on a Line from Macbeth by Michael Davis

Stay, imperfect speaker, tell me more.
I don’t want the house, I want its ruins,
cracked panes, grandfather clock, paper-like door.

I want the vines that engulfed exterior walls,
petrified forests of books and manuscripts,
dust-filled afternoons that opened like doors

Onto Hesse’s wind-silvered fields, onto myths
surging up out of the earth. I want the man to say,
“Stay, imperfect speaker, tell me more,”

as he did at the end of every long conversation,
saying “imperfect” and meaning “unfinished,”
saying it always as I moved toward the door,

as I say it now, again and over and again,
I want the words to rebuild the house in shambles:
stay, imperfect speaker, tell me more.

I know: if I went back, there would be nothing
or worse: a new house, pristine, immaculate,
even the vine-filled library gone. I left and shut the door.
Imperfect memory, please, stay, tell me more.