Four weeks into the school year, my morning routine has been sliced and diced and reconfigured into a new and less flexible shape. Already my morning writing has suffered. This week I’ve been thinking and writing about the importance of just showing up to write (here) and then resolving to do better. In this midst of these thoughts, I happened across this poem by Billy Collins–Another nudge to show up and take the time and write.

You, Reader

I wonder how you are going to feel
when you find out
that I wrote this instead of you,

that it was I who got up early
to sit in the kitchen
and mention with a pen

the rain-soaked windows,
the ivy wallpaper,
and the goldfish circling in its bowl.
…

If you’d like to read the poem in its entirety click here. You will also have the opportunity to click on an audio link and hear Billy Collins give an amusing introduction to the poem before reading it aloud.

You can find more poetic wonders at the Poetry Friday Roundup, hosted this week by Karen Edmisten–click here to join in the fun!

When I touched my pen to paper this morning, I half expected the ink to clot or sludge. I wondered if I’d have to cajole its steady flow with words of apology for my neglect. But as soon as it touched the page, the ink flowed, ready to record my thoughts. It was a visible reminder that I was the one who had hesitated in the relationship–the one who didn’t show up.

Sarah Orne Jewett wrote, “You must find your own quiet center of life, and write from that.” I find ideas in so many places–in a whirling swirl of activity, in a quiet morning walk, in idle conversations with students or strangers, in interactions with family and friends, and in the flutters, squawks and trills from the bird feeders. But to write, I need first to make and take time and then to sit down, breathe, and arrive at that quiet place within myself. Then, as I write, I can begin to make sense of my thoughts and feelings, and above all, try to figure out what matters. What’s the heart of it all? Inevitably, I feel better after I’ve spent time writing. In the hurly burly tumult of school days it’s difficult to carve out that sacred writing time in the morning, to make it a priority. This morning when the ink flowed and my thoughts wandered and then coalesced, I resolved to do better.

In early morning
summer folds into autumn
with a foretelling chill
Geese soar above rolling golden fields
chasing clouds toward southern climes
A deep mist hovers over the land
as though the earth has exhaled
its memories of summer’s warmth
and the essence of the season passing
lingers in the morning air,
a visible adieu.

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

Click here to visit Catherine Flynn’s blog, Reading to the Core, where you’ll find this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup.

At the end of the day we gathered on the carpet, my fourth graders and I.

“So, guys, I’m going to a library book sale on Friday night, and I need your suggestions. Are there any particular books you’d like me to pick up if I see them? What’s missing from our library?”

“Graphic novels!” called a couple of voices.

“Yeah! Like Sisters and Smile!” someone said.

Hands flew up, waving frantically. Book titles and series names came fast and furious and I diligently jotted them down. “The Narnia books!” “The Stone Fox!” “The False Prince!” “Harry Potter!” My page quickly filled with titles. As students shared suggestions, the room filled with a buzz of vigorous nods and side comments like, “Oh, yeah, I love that book!” or “Those are great!”

Finally, I called on yet another enthusiastic student. “Where the Red Fern Grows,” he proclaimed. “You have got to get that book. I cried so hard when I read it.” Then he paused and declared with great sincerity, “That book is powerful!”

This summer and fall the chipmunks have been cavorting in the gardens around our house. They seem to have minimal fear of us or even of our two geriatric cats. We’ve had great fun watching them gorge on sunflower seeds, pose for pictures, linger in the sun, and generally enjoy the high life–or at least as high of a life as a chipmunk can enjoy.  This poem, by Robert Gibb, appeared in my Inbox today, courtesy of the Poetry Foundation’s Poem of the Day.

For The Chipmunk In My Yard

To enjoy more poetry, click here to go to the Poetry Friday Roundup, hosted this week by Michelle Hendrich Barnes at This Little Ditty.

Early one day recently I woke up, instantly remembering that I’d left the kitchen a mess the night before. Eventually, I sighed, dragged myself out of bed, and wandered out, prepared to deal with the accumulated dishes. I was stunned to walk into a pristine kitchen–no dirty dishes, clean counters, and no mess. Wow, someone did the dishes! I thought. It must have been Kurt.  It was such a lovely and unexpected surprise. When my husband awoke later, I made it a point to thank him enthusiastically (because I was truly thankful and because I was hoping to reinforce the behavior.)

“Oh, yeah,” he mumbled, accepting my fervent thanks nonchalantly.

The next night the dishes were done again. “Wow! Thanks, guys! This is great.” I commented.  “Did you do the dishes again, Kurt?”

“No, I did, “piped up my daughter.

“Thanks!”I said, “What a nice surprise to have someone else do them two nights in a row-and without me asking!”

“Yeah,” she said, offhandedly,  “I did them last night, too.”

“What!?” I said, as my husband looked away. “I thought Dada did them.”

“No,” she said, “I did.” She paused, “I was kind of surprised you didn’t say anything.”

My disbelief grew. I looked over at my husband, sitting on the couch trying to look innocent, avoiding eye contact. “I thought Dada did them,” I repeated slowly. I looked at my daughter. “I even thanked him,” I said to her, “and he didn’t say anything to deny it!”

We both turned and stared at him. After a long silence, he finally looked up.

“Well, I didn’t actually say I did them,” he said sheepishly.

I’m still speechless.

Recently while browsing through my brimming bookshelf, I picked up a copy of The Selected Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke and began reading. This poem, with its initial lyrical images of autumn, captured me and then jolted me with the final haunting stanza.

Autumn Day
by Rainer Maria Rilke (translated by Stephen Mitchell)

Lord: it is time. The huge summer has gone by.
Now overlap the sundials with your shadows,
and on the meadows let the wind go free.

Command the fruits to swell on tree and vine;
grant them a few more warm transparent days,
urge them on to fulfillment then, and press
the final sweetness into the heavy wine.

Whoever has no house now, will never have one.
Whoever is alone will stay alone,
will sit, read, write long letters through the evening,
and wander on the boulevards, up and down,
restlessly, while the dry leaves are blowing.

Rilke wrote “Autumn Day” in German and it has been translated many, many times. (Click here if you’d like to see the original German poem and/or if you’re interested in reading multiple translations.) As I read, I was amazed by the differences in the translations. I began to wonder–Is it the translator’s job solely to translate, word by word, or to ensure that the translation includes the rhythm and meaning, the heart of the poem? Or something in between? I found it fascinating to think about the role of translation and the additional demands of translating poetry.

A lifetime ago I was a German major and so I could compare (rustily!) the original and various translation. Below is the translation I thought most closely adhered to Rilke’s original.

Autumn Day (translated by J. Mullen)

Lord: it is time. The summer was great.
Lay your shadows onto the sundials
and let loose the winds upon the fields.

Command the last fruits to be full,
give them yet two more southern days,
urge them to perfection, and chase
the last sweetness into the heavy wine.

Who now has no house, builds no more.
Who is now alone, will long remain so,
will stay awake, read, write long letters
and will wander restlessly here and there
in the avenues, when the leaves drift.

Do you prefer one version over the other?  I prefer the Merrill version, but I’ve begun to think of it as more of a collaboration than a translation. What do you think?

The amazing Amy Ludwig VanDerwater is hosting this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup at her blog, The Poem Farm. Click on the link to enjoy some more poetry.

A huge thank you to Amy Warntz (Runner, Reader & Rockin’ Mom)for the structural inspiration for this post! On this first day of school, I couldn’t have written without it. Thanks, Amy!

goodbye to not knowing the day of the week
hello to TGIF
goodbye to lazy, lounging PJ days
hello to picking out work clothes
goodbye to slow, easy dawns filled with writing and bird song
hello to setting alarms and rushed grab-and-go mornings
goodbye to first grade and a wonderful team
hello to fourth grade and exciting new challenges
goodbye to shorts, tank tops, and iced lattes
hello to slippers, fuzzy socks, and hot coffee
goodbye to sun-ripened berries and juicy pit fruit
hello to the warmth of cinnamon and pumpkin
goodbye to cook-outs and refreshing salads
hello to robust stews and soups bubbling on the stove
goodbye to my girls as they head back to college
hello to weekend visits for concerts or a meal
goodbye to August filled with anticipation and preparation
hello to September and lively, learning days

Beannacht translates from Irish to blessing in English, and this poem is a blessing indeed. I found it difficult to know which stanza to share as each moves me deeply. I have written about my “Make Good Choices” refrain with my children. I wish I could recite this poem to them each time they set off. I love the idea of the wind wrapping words around them protectively. I finally chose to share the second stanza of the poem because of the image of a “flock of colours” awakening a “meadow of delight.” To read the entire poem, just click on the title or click on the video link to hear John O’Donohue recite his work. He has crafted a powerful, beautiful incantation of blessing. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

Beannacht
by John O’Donohue
…
And when your eyes
Freeze behind
The grey window
And the ghost of loss
Gets into you,
May a flock of colours,
Indigo, red, green
And azure blue,
Come to awaken in you
A meadow of delight.
…

To enjoy more poetry, click here to travel Penny Parker Klosterman’s blog and this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup!

You know those people who pack up and move and three (or maybe ten) years later still have sealed boxes shoved in closets or perhaps stored on the second floor of their barn? Well, if you didn’t and you’re reading this, now you do.  We’ve been digging through some accumulated clutter lately and have finally ventured to unpack a few of “those” boxes. What treasures we’ve found!

The first box, bursting at the seams, was filled with my children’s elementary school writing and guaranteed a nostalgic, laughter-filled evening (and material for a different post at another time).  When my husband brought in another box the next day, I dug into it eagerly. It contained a mish mash of items: a college psychology notebook, electric bills from 1994, long-expired coupons, a high school notebook, a horribly angsty poem scribbled on a torn out piece of spiral bound paper, a creased baby picture of me, and more. How had all these items ever been combined into one box?  I felt like an archaeologist, sifting carefully through accumulated layers, wondering what would be revealed.

And then I found the letters. My grandmother must have given me these, but I have no recollection of receiving them and have never read them before. How they came to be in this box is a mystery to me. They are letters that my mother wrote to her parents. They remain in their envelopes, postmarked Birmingham, Alabama from 1965-1969.  Some are casual and chatty, others more occasion-specific. Only one was written after I was born.

Overall, these letters were a precious, unexpected gift– a window into my mother’s daily life as a mother, a wife and a daughter and a glimpse into the times. In July of 1969, my  mom was ending her week-long stay on the maternity ward and wrote to share the name of my newly-born younger sister. She confided that she had read 7 books and written notes, but was bored and didn’t have enough to do. She also detailed how my older sister had been “burning up the wires”, having figured out how to call her at the hospital, and noted that she must “driven the switchboard crazy!”At the end of another letter she shared an anecdote about my older brother, who was maybe 4 or so at the time. They’d been talking about his dark brown eyes and he’d solemnly stated, “I guess I must have drank a lot of coffee, Mommy!” Her shortest note was a heartfelt thank you to her mother, my grandmother, for an unnamed yet clearly meaningful gift that had moved her to tears.  She wrote with news of neighbors and friends, asides about rinsing diapers and doing laundry, information about a raise for my dad, stories of her children, and in one letter described a large November snowfall in Birmingham that set the town into frenzies of excitement and snowman building. My intrepid older sister was apparently “thrilled to death” while my brown-eyed brother became furious every time his gloves got wet. One letter even enclosed the “profile shot you were promised” of my mother 5 1/2 months pregnant with me–and gloriously large already!

 I read each letter again and again and I held them in my hands, tenderly, knowing my mother once held them in her own hands. She wrote these words, sealed these envelopes, addressed them to her parents, certainly never dreaming that I’d be their recipient so many decades later. I’m sure she never imagined that she wouldn’t be here and that these simple, chatty letters would connect us through time on a random sunny morning in 2016. Nor did she imagine that I would read them aloud to my daughters, hoping they would feel a connection to this woman they had never met–that these letters, artifacts of a long-ago time, would help them to imagine their grandmother. Finding and reading these letters was such a gift, albeit a bittersweet one.

I’ll close with my mother’s written words to her mother as they seem especially apt for this moment of connection, 51 years after this letter was written and 35 years after she died.

“I have an enormous lump in my throat – so enough for now.
So, daughter to Mother – I love you.”