Reflections on Reading

I came across the following piece of writing today:
from Lectures and Notes on LIterature, Samuel Taylor Coleridge
[Definition of Poetry]

Readers may be divided into four classes:
1. Sponges, who absord all they read, and return it nearly in the same state, only a little dirtied.
2. Sand-glasses, who retain nothing, are content to get through a book for the sake of getting through the time.
3. Strain-bags, who retain merely the dregs of what they read.
4. Mogul diamonds, equally rare and valuable, who profit by what they read, and enable others to profit by it also.

I have to admit, I find myself in all four categories. Although, ideally, I would like to be considered a Mogul diamond. Try as I might, I often end up as a sand-glass, simply reading to get through the book or article, or poem, just to say I got through it. The (capital R) Romantic (for all who know what I mean) in me wants to be that diamond, who, by some transdencent moment of inspiration is moved by what I read, or better yet, see, such as in the beauty of nature, and, then, is forever transformed, and by this transformation creates a work of art (poem) that will move my audience to the same experience....(sigh!)...oh how I wish!

Yet, here I am, a mere strain-bag, producing the Earl Grey tea of writing...or worse yet a dirty sponge, making murky all that I encounter. (Save me now, Coleridge!)

But, in a paradoxical moment of truth...I write. Perhaps I am just a Cubic Zirconia, or a lump of coal waiting to be pressed and squeezed into what may become that rare and valuable diamond...until then I write and I read. And hope to profit and hope others will profit too.

Works Cited:

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor. "Definition of Poetry: from Lectures and Notes on Literature." The Broadview Anthology of British Literature: The Age of Romanticism. 2nd Ed. Eds. Joseph Black...[et. al]. Toronto: Broadview Press, 2010.

Stepping out of your 'Comfort Zone'

A picture of the beautiful rainforest of Dominica, an island my family and I visited over the Christmas break. The brightly colored 'tubes' are the means of transportation we used to get down the river. Thankfully we were equipped with helmets and life-jackets...I think. I have to say it was one of the most challenging things I have ever done. The adventure started with an (interesting) bus ride to the top of the mountain. The roads in Dominica were very narrow and if your vehicle stopped on the mountain, most people just left the vehicle there (probably easier than trying to get it down). Our driver, Damian, had no trouble navigating the rain-soaked, windy road, as he was able to text, talk on the phone and show Jason pictures of his family and beloved van. Nevertheless, I spent some moments with my head down and praying for a safe return.

The reward at the end of the first leg of the journey was a walking path through the rainforest to a natural pool called "Emerald Pool". We all took a dip in the pool, which was situated under a waterfall ... It was magnificant!

The second leg of the tour brought us to the river ride. We waited patiently for our guides to bring us the tubes, helmets, and life-jackets. The kids (there were about a dozen or so children...not all mine) enthusiastically jumped in the tubes, and floated down the river. My motherly instincts kicked in and I decided to go in after my offspring. The first thing I encountered was a large boulder, which I promptly got stuck on as everyone else floated away. I rocked and rolled and (insert more prayer here), eventually wiggled free. I kept thinking, "What did I get myself into?"

There were moments were the river gently flowed along and I was able to look up and see the majesty of the rainforest above me, this was worth it. It should be noted that the children thought the ride was easy, fun, and wondered what was all the fuss about. On the other hand, I knew right away that it was a life lesson for Lara. Number one, I don't always have to be in control. I had to 'let go' and let the river carry me, the more I fought it, the more trouble I got into. Number two, I have to trust the guides. The young men who took us on the river were very capable and took very good care of us, I needed to relax and let them do the leading. And Number three, I only grow when I step out of my comfort zone, which means I will be uncomfortable. However, the uncomfortable leads to adventure and amazing, new experiences. OK! so what's next?
....maybe, just maybe, some zip-lining!!

Lara

If Women in the 18th Century Could Blog...

I've started reading the First Volume of "Thraliana" which is essentially an 18th century 'Blog' of the Mrs. Hester Thrale-Piozzi. She, of course, did not have a computer, but she relates how she began her 'log' of everyday life at the beginning of her volume:
       
          It is many Years (1768 or before footnote) since Doctor Samuel Johnson advised me to get a little      
          Book, and write in it all the little Anecdotes which might come to my Knowledge, all the
          Observations I might make or hear; all the Verses never likely to be published, and in fine ev'ry
          thing which struck me at the Time. Mr. Thrale has now treated me with a Repository,--and
          provided it with the pompous Title of Thraliana; I must endeavour to fill it with Nonsense
          new and old. 15: September 1776.  (Thrale 1)

So you see, Blogging is not a novel idea, but only has evolved into the convenient online version, which has become widely accessible. I am sure Mrs. Thrale would have been thrilled to have her "Observations" known in an instant...or maybe not. She did threaten to burn her volumes out of fear they may be read.
I can relate to her writer-anxiety.

Lara

Works Cited:

Thrale Lynch, Hester Mrs. "Thraliana: The Diary of Mrs. Hester Lynch Thrale (Later Mrs. Piozzi)
       Volume 1:1776- 1784. 2nd Ed. Eds. Katharine C. Balderston. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1951.

Picking a Title

The first step in creating a blog is to pick a title. Here is where I freeze. (same with picking handles for online personas, I always pick my real name...) Anyway, after some thought I choose "What Language Did" as my title. It is the title of a poem by Eavan Boland, which I have spent some time with over the last couple of months. I have written poems in response to Boland's poem and now it serves as a title to my Blog.

 I am new to blogging, so bear with me as I work out the kinks. To begin I will include the Boland's poem in my first post. It is a haunting poem that deserves a few read throughs. It changes every time. Enjoy!

What Language Did

Eavan Boland

The evening was the same as any other.
I came out and stood on the step.
The suburb was closed in the weather

of an early spring and the shallow tips
of washed-out yellows of narcissi
resisted dusk. And crocuses and snowdrops.

I stood there and felt the melancholy
of growing older in such a season,
when all I could be certain of was simply

in this time of fragrance and refrain,
whatever else might flower before the fruit,
and be renewed, I would not. Not again.

A car splashed by in the twilight.
Peat smoke stayed in the windless
air overhead and I might have missed:

a presence. Suddenly. In the very place
where I would stand in other dusks, and look
to pick out my child from the distance,

was a shepherdess, her smile cracked,
her arm injured from the mantelpieces
and pastorals where she posed with her crook.

Then I turned and saw in the spaces
of the night sky constellations appear,
one by one, over roof-tops and houses,

and Cassiopeia trapped: stabbed where
her thigh met her groin and her hand
her glittering wrist, with the pin-point of a star.

And by the road where rain made standing
pools of water underneath cherry trees,
and blossoms swam on their images,

was a mermaid with invented tresses,
her breasts printed with the salt of it and all
the desolation of the North Sea in her face.

I went nearer. They were disappearing.
Dusk had turned to night but in the air -
did I imagine it? – a voice was saying:

This is what language did to us. Here
is the wound, the silence, the wretchedness
of tides and hillsides and stars where

we languish in a grammar of sighs,
in the high-minded search for euphony,
in the midnight rhetoric of poesie.

We cannot sweat here. Our skin is icy.
We cannot breed here. Our wombs are empty.
Help us to escape youth and beauty.

Write us out of the poem. Make us human
in cadences of change and mortal pain
and words we can grow old and die in.

This copy can be found on the following blog: http://readalittlepoetry.wordpress.com/2010/12/28/what-language-did-by-eavan-boland/