~blackbirds~

I'm not quite sure what I did today.  Well, that's not quite true - I did do things, like dragged myself into a store to buy a gift for my brother, and pay property taxes on my car and boat, and get the new wild dog an ID tag for her collar - I also slogged through work e-mails, uncovering all of the things I had neglected while I was working on the grant proposal.  Tonight I've had the perfect fire going, ignoring the fact that it's quite warm out - because a fire just makes everything better, regardless of the temperature outside.  The new wild dog is settling in:  it's so fun watching her discover things for the first time, such as a dryer sheet that fell out of the pile of clothes that I was taking out of the dryer.  You would have thought that dryer sheet was the most amazing thing ever.  The new wild dog has a point though, because sometimes we get so caught up in stuff that we don't even look at what is right in front of us.  Perhaps the nicest thing about a day that ends with the feeling that you didn't do all that much ends up being just the kind of day that you needed - and one in which you sit and stare for awhile at a live oak leaf whose underside is partially covered in beautiful, spherical balls.  After noticing this one leaf, on the ground, I looked for others with these gall-like structures on them, but didn't find them.  When I opened one up (yes, I brought it inside to the kitchen and used a sharp knife - I simply can't help myself) I discovered that it had a cork-like, solid interior.

~~~~~

Last Sunday, on the way up to North Carolina to pick up the new wild dog - a friend (that accompanied me) and I stopped to take out the mother of a deceased friend for lunch.  Our mutual friend, the person who painted the piece that is still hanging in my soon-to-be demolished dining room, died almost four years ago of a glioblastoma (brain tumor).  She lived - and I mean lived - for a little over a year after her diagnosis.  The stories from that year are many - and Sunday, with my friend's 83 yr old mother sitting across from me at the table - the stories all came flooding back and have been floating around my head ever since.  If I had to summarize them though, in a general way (okay, here I go again with those b-r-o-a-d generalizations...) - I'd have to say they were stories about someone fully engaged in what was in front of them.  I miss the laughter.  I miss the moment - the hilarious ones, the ones that we had simply because we were paying attention.  The let's-laugh-now-because-there's-no-reason-to-wait philosophy of life.  So on Sunday, my friend's mother took her car and drove us to the restaurant - and not even a mile from her home she hits the brake because there is a dazed and scared and recently very pregnant lab wandering the road - and she opens her car up on the busy road and gets out.  My friend and I were worried that this 83 year old woman was going to get hit by a car - and we were worried about the dog - and in those moments it was like our friend was once again with us and we were in the middle of a whacky adventure, like always, because we were alive and things happened and there was no reason to not get involved.  Tonight my friend's mother called to find out how my new wild dog was - she was thrilled to feel like she was a part of the 'rescue' (even if we failed at the other attempt) and I must say that genetics is a marvelous thing because my friend and her mother are so - so what they are - and if I miss the adventures, I simply can't imagine how much she does.  And sitting there at lunch on Sunday, it was like having my friend back, if only for a short time.

~~~~~

My thanks go out to John B. over at Blog Meridian for jarring my memory of Katherine's introduction to her poem - and to a poem that seems to suit my mood this evening.  What a beautiful one - Do you not see how the blackbird / Walks around the feet / Of the women about you?  An interesting essay on this poem can be found here (it was informative for me) - oh, and here - oh, what am I thinking?  He's everywhere and it's late and I'm a scientist and what do I know anyway?  Not much really.  I just like poetry and looking at my garden and wild, spotted dog rescues.

But wasn't Katherine's poem wonderful?  And aren't these images of a blackbird - images of many blackbirds - interesting?  (And doesn't this beg some comparison to Poe's The Raven?).

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird by Wallace Stevens

I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.

II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.

III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.

IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.

V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.

VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.

VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?

VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.

IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.

X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.

XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.

XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.

XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.

~~~~~

All of this Wallace Stevens googling lead me, naturally, to this (and to the realization that I need to read more of his poetry):

In the Carolinas by Wallace Stevens

The lilacs wither in the Carolinas.
Already the butterflies flutter above the cabins.
Already the new-born children interpret love
In the voices of mothers.

Timeless mothers,
How is it that your aspic nipples
For once vent honey?

The pine-tree sweetens my body
The white iris beautifies me.

[(from Harmonium, 1923, 1931)
The Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens, 1982]

~~~~~

Bird ringtone anyone?  Some of these would be quite funny I think. (But then I don't think my ringtone has changed since I was handed the phone in the store).

Comments

[John B.]

Ah, leaf-galls. I've always liked them, too.

You're welcome re the Stevens. When I was getting married for the first time, I wasn't entirely joking when I told my fiancee that I wanted stanza IV of "Thirteen Ways . . . " printed on our reception napkins. Just, you know, something to give our guests to talk about.

Stevens is a marvelous poet. I would teach Stevens for food (which, come to think of it . . . ).

And your link to your earlier post is a reminder that I need to peruse your archives some more.

[Pam]

John, so what did go on the napkins?

I do need to read more Stevens - actually, I got lost in a few of the sites that discussed him. Quite a interesting man I'd say.

[Christopher C NC]

I have been appreciating all the poetry for some time now.

[Pam]

Thanks Christopher. I do hope that someone does!