Imbolc is here again: the old Celtic celebration of women, poetry, milk, and fire. I've tossed back a celebratory mug of hot chocolate, sent off a few letters to women I admire, and stoked the wood stove... so now it's time for poetry!
Here's a haiku almanac of the last few months on the farm:
HARVEST SEASON:
Our thirteen guineas
fed dogs, hawks, and foxes too.
"Free-range" comes with risks.
Chanterelle shining
Amidst shadows in deep woods:
Gold in them there hills!
Celtic year's turning
small lights guide along dark paths
Tonight, we shall sing!
Old Celts used turnips
To light the dead home. Pumpkin's
A New World trade-up!
Into year's dark half
We delve. Opposite of Spring
Isn't Fall, but Root
Brought home hay today
So pigs can burrow and build
a grand storm-proof nest
Come, sweet autumn rain:
All the tools are put away
And pig's got a roof!
O, well-carved pumpkin
Weep not. Full of light you go,
Now to join the saints.
Rural peace of mind:
high woodstacks, jam-full pantry,
Pig's jolt-squeak (fence works).
Bare witness of trees
documents the naked truth
at the branch office.
November closes
Wet snow swells the woodland streams
in shade, mushrooms bloom
Little Shiitake,
such goodness in such small space:
Edible haiku!
WINTER SETS IN:
Ice-rime all around.
Farmstead feathers stir, birds cluck:
Tea-time for chickens!
(Holiday Dollmaker's Lament:)
Artisan's eyestrain
overtakes. Help! Need some elves
to finish more elves!
Ah, Christmas! Warm fire,
Frozen fields, frozen streams, and...
Frozen shower drain.
Oh, pipes, won't you sing?
Warm, uncrystalize and flow.
I need a shower!
Drink deep, my cattle.
Hose uncoils, fills trough to brim
Before ice returns.
Subzero at dawn
hens huddle in nestboxes
laying eggsicles.
Ah dinnae ken gin
Ye can screeve haiku in Scots;
Thocht I'd hae a gae!
(I don't know if / you can write haiku in Scots / Thought I'd give it a try!)
Dawn o Rab Burns Nicht
Craitures blether poetry
tae toast Scotia's bard.
(Thoughts on retrieving wayward livestock after nightfall:)
We heed neighbor's call,
with rope and boots in snowstorm.
Wanna buy a bull?
Alright, folks: your turn! 'Tis the season for poetic inspiration and creative merry-making. Leave a comment with a haiku or two!
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Everything but the Kitchen Sync
Some days,
you forget.
You stand in the hall closet,
trying to candle the eggs
in the only dark spot
and they roll and tip
into a cataclysmic fall
landing as eggshells
and yellow-yolk muck
on the small
hardwood square of floor.
Some days, you try to hang
the clean wet lumps of cloth
up to dry in the freshening wind
But a chicken distracts you
and the sound of a distant dog
and at noon half the laundry
waves at you,
bright cheerful flags on the line,
and half of it peers,
sullen, lumpish, wet
from the basket on the rock.
Some days, you stand
in the garden despairing,
wondering how and when
you will find a source
of more bamboo poles
for the pole beans
and then you notice, forty yards off,
a forest of saplings
tall, straight, and true
waiting patiently
to be thinned.
--copyright Mainecelt 6/30/2010
you forget.
You stand in the hall closet,
trying to candle the eggs
in the only dark spot
and they roll and tip
into a cataclysmic fall
landing as eggshells
and yellow-yolk muck
on the small
hardwood square of floor.
Some days, you try to hang
the clean wet lumps of cloth
up to dry in the freshening wind
But a chicken distracts you
and the sound of a distant dog
and at noon half the laundry
waves at you,
bright cheerful flags on the line,
and half of it peers,
sullen, lumpish, wet
from the basket on the rock.
Some days, you stand
in the garden despairing,
wondering how and when
you will find a source
of more bamboo poles
for the pole beans
and then you notice, forty yards off,
a forest of saplings
tall, straight, and true
waiting patiently
to be thinned.
--copyright Mainecelt 6/30/2010
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Lydia, Lydia, Have You Met Lydia...
In the midst of all those lovely Maytime tasks--piglet-tending, seedling-planting, power-washing the barn--I've dived into some additional adventures: a temporary census job and the ongoing challenges and opportunities of my ministry internship at a local U.C.C. church.
This coming Sunday, I'm supposed to lead worship and preach. The assigned lectionary readings include the story of Lydia. I've heard the old song about "Lydia the tattooed lady," but this biblical Lydia is a bit less "revealed." In fact, she is almost completely obscured by the purple cloth she purveys.
We know very little about her, except that she appears to have been a successful business- woman who opened her home to some wandering apostles, whether they wanted to stay there or not. Some scholars suggest she was a devout follower of Judaism. Others say she was a foreign woman of questionable repute, possibly a Goddess-worshiper. Some say she didn't exist at all, but was merely written in as a symbol for the sort of people whose hospitality made the early house-churches possible. I wish I could know Lydia better... so I tried to imagine what her life was like in the Roman colony of Philippi, what brought her down to the river, what moved her to be baptized and then to ask those apostles, devout but dubious, into her home:
Acts 16: 13-15 (NRSV)
On the sabbath day we went outside the gate by the river, where we supposed there was a place of prayer; and we sat down and spoke to the women who had gathered there.
A certain woman named Lydia, a worshiper of God, was listening to us; she was from the city of Thyatira and a dealer in purple cloth. The Lord opened her heart to listen eagerly to what was said by Paul.
When she and her household were baptized, she urged us, saying, "If you have judged me to be faithful to the Lord, come and stay at my home." And she prevailed upon us.
Here's the Lydia I met in my mind's eye, crafted (so to speak) from whole (purple?) cloth:
LYDIA
The purple wouldn't wash off. Still,
Stubborn and savvy as ever, she planned her path
past market stalls, walled gardens, city gates
past the buzzing, glittering temple,
to a place outside: a praying place.
She went down to that dirty river and
prayed for the soft golden skin of her youth,
the bangles jangling on slender wrists,
the traceries of henna,
painted lines of prettiness and praise--
She prayed with hardened hands for better days.
She went down to that rough-edged river and
prayed for the soft smiles of all her servants,
so deft and deferent, so smooth and skilled
she could not quite learn whether she'd
earned—or merely bought—their trust--
She prayed with oil-rubbed skin and the taste of dust.
She went down to that deep old river and
prayed for the soft hollow of her soul,
the empty ache under the fine fabrics of her trade,
like a weeping burn, all bandage-bound.
She prayed at the river, where the women gathered.
She prayed at the river, where men seldom wandered.
She prayed at the river till a stranger prayed with her,
and the purple folds of her heart fell open
and the stains of her trade no longer concerned her
and she opened her house to apostles and pilgrims
there at the river,
there at the fringes,
where the Spirit weaves through
and the floods bring fertile ground.
--copyright MaineCelt 5/2010
Photo Source: The Global Spiral
This coming Sunday, I'm supposed to lead worship and preach. The assigned lectionary readings include the story of Lydia. I've heard the old song about "Lydia the tattooed lady," but this biblical Lydia is a bit less "revealed." In fact, she is almost completely obscured by the purple cloth she purveys.
We know very little about her, except that she appears to have been a successful business- woman who opened her home to some wandering apostles, whether they wanted to stay there or not. Some scholars suggest she was a devout follower of Judaism. Others say she was a foreign woman of questionable repute, possibly a Goddess-worshiper. Some say she didn't exist at all, but was merely written in as a symbol for the sort of people whose hospitality made the early house-churches possible. I wish I could know Lydia better... so I tried to imagine what her life was like in the Roman colony of Philippi, what brought her down to the river, what moved her to be baptized and then to ask those apostles, devout but dubious, into her home: Acts 16: 13-15 (NRSV)
On the sabbath day we went outside the gate by the river, where we supposed there was a place of prayer; and we sat down and spoke to the women who had gathered there.
A certain woman named Lydia, a worshiper of God, was listening to us; she was from the city of Thyatira and a dealer in purple cloth. The Lord opened her heart to listen eagerly to what was said by Paul.
When she and her household were baptized, she urged us, saying, "If you have judged me to be faithful to the Lord, come and stay at my home." And she prevailed upon us.
Here's the Lydia I met in my mind's eye, crafted (so to speak) from whole (purple?) cloth:
LYDIA
The purple wouldn't wash off. Still,
Stubborn and savvy as ever, she planned her path
past market stalls, walled gardens, city gates
past the buzzing, glittering temple,
to a place outside: a praying place.
She went down to that dirty river and
prayed for the soft golden skin of her youth,
the bangles jangling on slender wrists,
the traceries of henna,
painted lines of prettiness and praise--
She prayed with hardened hands for better days.
She went down to that rough-edged river and
prayed for the soft smiles of all her servants,
so deft and deferent, so smooth and skilled
she could not quite learn whether she'd
earned—or merely bought—their trust--
She prayed with oil-rubbed skin and the taste of dust.
She went down to that deep old river and
prayed for the soft hollow of her soul,
the empty ache under the fine fabrics of her trade,
like a weeping burn, all bandage-bound.
She prayed at the river, where the women gathered.
She prayed at the river, where men seldom wandered.
She prayed at the river till a stranger prayed with her,
and the purple folds of her heart fell open
and the stains of her trade no longer concerned her
and she opened her house to apostles and pilgrims
there at the river,
there at the fringes,
where the Spirit weaves through
and the floods bring fertile ground.
--copyright MaineCelt 5/2010
Photo Source: The Global Spiral
Friday, August 7, 2009
Friday Five: Wind in My Sails
Sally, over at RevGalBlogPals, writes:
"... sailing is a family passion, we love the water and the wind, and take delight in the fresh air and quiet, but also in the competition, striving to do our best!
How about you?
1. Is there a sport/ hobby that is more of a passion than a past-time for you?
I've never been one for sports, although I do like salt-water swimming and Messing About In Boats and I adore a good game of Extreme Croquet.
My hobby/passion is the exploration of folk culture and traditions--especially those of the British Isles. (I come by this anthropological bent honestly-- growing up in a multi-ethnic family with three adopted siblings, intercultural study was simply a part of daily life, and provided a goodly portion of our family fun.) With some like-minded friends, we even started a nonprofit organization to support our folk culture habit, although it's in "sleep mode" while we finish building our house. The Piper and I have justified the purchase of many a CD and weighty ethnographic tome by saying, "It's all for the Ceilidh House library, of course--and we'll use these as reference materials when we teach our bagpipe and Gaelic language students!"
2. Outdoors or indoors?
Outdoors: festival-going, "ethnically-correct" gardening and orchard-tending with heirloom plant varieties, and staying close to the salt water that bouys my spirit and connects me to my ancestors. Indoors: delving into books, gathering with other folklore enthusiasts, swapping stories, and having great music session around the woodstove.
3. Where do you find peace and quiet?
Not sure right now-- it's been a hard year.
I seek peace in the slow intake and release of breath, the comfortable closeness of my partner, the gradually-revealed beauty of our almost-finished house and the slowly-emerging health of our land. Quiet is easier to find than peace--I am thankful every morning and every night that I can begin and end my days surrounded, almost entirely, by natural rather than human-made sounds. (I'll relish the quiet more fully when I can find my missing whetstone and "take care" of a couple of extra roosters, if you know what I mean!)
4. A competitive spirit; good or bad, discuss...
A competitive spirit is like fire: a good servant, a terrible master, and dangerous to play with.
I appreciate its ability to overcome inertia and get a person moving towards a goal, but I don't like the way others tend to be left in a person's wake. I should come clean and declare, right here, that I am a vicious card player, but fortunately my commpetitive streak is matched by a tendency toward distraction and terrible bad luck in the dealing of hands.
5. Is there a song a picture or a poem that sums up your passion ?
I've posted links to Richard Hugo's poem, Glen Uig, in previous posts. It captures some of the essential pain and joy of reconnection to one's past. Here's another poem from Cathal O Searcaigh, translated from Irish Gaelic by Gabriel Fitzmaurice:
A Portrait Of The Blacksmith As A Young Artist
I'm sick and tired of Dun Laoghaire.
Of my bedsit in Cross's Avenue,
A pokey place that cripples my wordsmith's craft
And leaves me nightly in the dumps
Scrounging kindred among the drunks
Instead of hammering poems for my people
On the anvil of my mind.
Almighty God! It's gone too far,
This damned silence.
If I were back in Caiseal na gCorr
I'd not be awkward, half-alive.
No way! But in the smithy of my tongue
I'd be hale and hearty
Working my craft daily
Inciting the bellows of my mind
Stirring thoughts to flame
Hammering loudly
The mettlesome speech of my people.
--found in Writing the Wind: a Celtic Resurgence: The New Celtic Poetry, ed. Thomas Rain Crowe.
Bonus for posting a video/ link.
Heeheehee... I thought you'd never ask: CLICK HERE!
"... sailing is a family passion, we love the water and the wind, and take delight in the fresh air and quiet, but also in the competition, striving to do our best!
How about you?
1. Is there a sport/ hobby that is more of a passion than a past-time for you?
I've never been one for sports, although I do like salt-water swimming and Messing About In Boats and I adore a good game of Extreme Croquet.
My hobby/passion is the exploration of folk culture and traditions--especially those of the British Isles. (I come by this anthropological bent honestly-- growing up in a multi-ethnic family with three adopted siblings, intercultural study was simply a part of daily life, and provided a goodly portion of our family fun.) With some like-minded friends, we even started a nonprofit organization to support our folk culture habit, although it's in "sleep mode" while we finish building our house. The Piper and I have justified the purchase of many a CD and weighty ethnographic tome by saying, "It's all for the Ceilidh House library, of course--and we'll use these as reference materials when we teach our bagpipe and Gaelic language students!"
2. Outdoors or indoors?
Outdoors: festival-going, "ethnically-correct" gardening and orchard-tending with heirloom plant varieties, and staying close to the salt water that bouys my spirit and connects me to my ancestors. Indoors: delving into books, gathering with other folklore enthusiasts, swapping stories, and having great music session around the woodstove.3. Where do you find peace and quiet?
Not sure right now-- it's been a hard year.
I seek peace in the slow intake and release of breath, the comfortable closeness of my partner, the gradually-revealed beauty of our almost-finished house and the slowly-emerging health of our land. Quiet is easier to find than peace--I am thankful every morning and every night that I can begin and end my days surrounded, almost entirely, by natural rather than human-made sounds. (I'll relish the quiet more fully when I can find my missing whetstone and "take care" of a couple of extra roosters, if you know what I mean!)4. A competitive spirit; good or bad, discuss...
A competitive spirit is like fire: a good servant, a terrible master, and dangerous to play with.
I appreciate its ability to overcome inertia and get a person moving towards a goal, but I don't like the way others tend to be left in a person's wake. I should come clean and declare, right here, that I am a vicious card player, but fortunately my commpetitive streak is matched by a tendency toward distraction and terrible bad luck in the dealing of hands. 5. Is there a song a picture or a poem that sums up your passion ?
I've posted links to Richard Hugo's poem, Glen Uig, in previous posts. It captures some of the essential pain and joy of reconnection to one's past. Here's another poem from Cathal O Searcaigh, translated from Irish Gaelic by Gabriel Fitzmaurice:
A Portrait Of The Blacksmith As A Young Artist
I'm sick and tired of Dun Laoghaire.
Of my bedsit in Cross's Avenue,
A pokey place that cripples my wordsmith's craft
And leaves me nightly in the dumps
Scrounging kindred among the drunks
Instead of hammering poems for my people
On the anvil of my mind.
Almighty God! It's gone too far,
This damned silence.
If I were back in Caiseal na gCorr
I'd not be awkward, half-alive.
No way! But in the smithy of my tongue
I'd be hale and hearty
Working my craft daily
Inciting the bellows of my mind
Stirring thoughts to flame
Hammering loudly
The mettlesome speech of my people.
--found in Writing the Wind: a Celtic Resurgence: The New Celtic Poetry, ed. Thomas Rain Crowe.
Bonus for posting a video/ link.
Heeheehee... I thought you'd never ask: CLICK HERE!
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Licht Amang the Mirk?
Overheard on BBC Radio Scotland, during a weather report: 
"Tonight, in the northwest, it'll be dreary; in the northeast, a wee bit less dreary."
The Rain in Maine has stayed mainly on our plain...
and clogged storm-drains, and seeped into our brains.
Slugs of near-Northwestern proportions have been sighted feasting on the sad, rotting remnants of crops and the lush strappy leaves of healthy weeds.
June has seen more than three times its average rainfall this year in Southern Maine. For us, that means ridiculous delays in transplantation and the sowing of warm-weather crops. (Many farmers who planted on a "normal" schedule have lost their crops and will be forced to replant or simply declare the season a loss.) For most folks with livestock, it also means hay-induced desperation. Our hay supplier managed to get some fields cut and wrapped on a rare stretch of sunny days early in last month, so we'll manage, but most of New England's first-cut hay crops are ruined.
We do have our own pasture-management concerns, though: sodden fields are more easily damaged by the hooves of grazing cattle, and our attempts to restrict grazing areas have been foiled. Broilleach, our bull, regards our electric fences as a mere momentary annoyance on the way to the next buffet. Because of these destructive habits, his date with destiny may be coming sooner rather than later--our fields are in too perilous a balance to absorb and rebound from his abuse.
Today it is raining...again. Our last full day of sunny skies was over two weeks ago. I may actually light a fire in the woodstove (in JULY!!!) just so I can run a load of laundry and get it completely dry. This afternoon, when the rain's supposed to slow to a mere drizzle, I may run out and try to plant some more carrots, peas, and lettuce: crops that may survive better than all the melons and squash that go vining and fruiting only in the fields of my dreams.
Speaking of dreams, I sought out some inspiration at the Glasgow Herald's poetry blog. Today's essay seems to be the product of some serious wrestling with heavy (sometimes intangible) objects--an intrinsically Scottish pursuit. Here's the poem, with introductory comments from blog editor Leslie Duncan:
The distinguished Glasgow-born psychiatrist R D Laing (1927-1989) was also an accomplished poet. His collection, simply called Sonnets, was published in 1979 (Michael Joseph). Understandably for someone who looked deeply into troubled humankind, some of the sonnets are dark in tone; but No 37 shows him in pretty positive mood. – Lesley Duncan
There’s Light and Love and Joy and Freshness Yet
There’s light and love and joy and freshness yet.
There’re those who have something to celebrate.
There can be times we hope we’ll not forget.
A helping hand is not always too late.
Up really high there’s still clear perfect blue.
Morning must dawn as long as there is night.
Without the old there’s nothing to renew.
Once in a while it almost feels all right.
Although I know that light needs dark to shine,
I don ‘t expect to tell what atoms mean.
The universe is fine without being mine.
The flowers of countless valleys grow unseen.
What is above subsists on what’s beneath.
The world is not entirely blasted heath.
"Tonight, in the northwest, it'll be dreary; in the northeast, a wee bit less dreary."
The Rain in Maine has stayed mainly on our plain...
and clogged storm-drains, and seeped into our brains.
Slugs of near-Northwestern proportions have been sighted feasting on the sad, rotting remnants of crops and the lush strappy leaves of healthy weeds.
June has seen more than three times its average rainfall this year in Southern Maine. For us, that means ridiculous delays in transplantation and the sowing of warm-weather crops. (Many farmers who planted on a "normal" schedule have lost their crops and will be forced to replant or simply declare the season a loss.) For most folks with livestock, it also means hay-induced desperation. Our hay supplier managed to get some fields cut and wrapped on a rare stretch of sunny days early in last month, so we'll manage, but most of New England's first-cut hay crops are ruined.
We do have our own pasture-management concerns, though: sodden fields are more easily damaged by the hooves of grazing cattle, and our attempts to restrict grazing areas have been foiled. Broilleach, our bull, regards our electric fences as a mere momentary annoyance on the way to the next buffet. Because of these destructive habits, his date with destiny may be coming sooner rather than later--our fields are in too perilous a balance to absorb and rebound from his abuse.
Today it is raining...again. Our last full day of sunny skies was over two weeks ago. I may actually light a fire in the woodstove (in JULY!!!) just so I can run a load of laundry and get it completely dry. This afternoon, when the rain's supposed to slow to a mere drizzle, I may run out and try to plant some more carrots, peas, and lettuce: crops that may survive better than all the melons and squash that go vining and fruiting only in the fields of my dreams.
Speaking of dreams, I sought out some inspiration at the Glasgow Herald's poetry blog. Today's essay seems to be the product of some serious wrestling with heavy (sometimes intangible) objects--an intrinsically Scottish pursuit. Here's the poem, with introductory comments from blog editor Leslie Duncan:
The distinguished Glasgow-born psychiatrist R D Laing (1927-1989) was also an accomplished poet. His collection, simply called Sonnets, was published in 1979 (Michael Joseph). Understandably for someone who looked deeply into troubled humankind, some of the sonnets are dark in tone; but No 37 shows him in pretty positive mood. – Lesley Duncan
There’s Light and Love and Joy and Freshness Yet
There’s light and love and joy and freshness yet.
There’re those who have something to celebrate.
There can be times we hope we’ll not forget.
A helping hand is not always too late.
Up really high there’s still clear perfect blue.
Morning must dawn as long as there is night.
Without the old there’s nothing to renew.
Once in a while it almost feels all right.
Although I know that light needs dark to shine,
I don ‘t expect to tell what atoms mean.
The universe is fine without being mine.
The flowers of countless valleys grow unseen.
What is above subsists on what’s beneath.
The world is not entirely blasted heath.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Gilt Trip
The Gilt Trip: A Rural Adventure
There are folks who make cars and promote them with ads
Where they show that the car is so large,
it can fit in a soccer team, two king-size beds,
and the contents of one garbage barge.
How roomy the car is! The seats come unhinged!
The configurations are endless!
You can fit all your friends...even after a binge!
(You can live in it if you are friendless!)
But in all of those ads, there's one situation
The ad-makers never do feature.
It's the one where a farmer makes use of the car
to transport any sort of farm creature.
They wouldn't want word getting out about this,
but--give me a minute, I'm beggin'--
I'll tell you how great it was, bringing all eight
of our pigs home in our station wagon!
Okay, so the inside was, um...aromatic.
When piglets are nervous, they show it.
But if you need to fetch home a piglet or two,
then a wagon's a good place to stow it!
We borrowed the kennel (we're sorry, dear dog!)
and we brought along two smaller carriers.
They each took two piglets. The kennel
held four. They peeked out from wire-door barriers.
Eight pigs in a car with the windows rolled down.
We paid, rev'd her up, and drove out.
Our cargo was grunting and squealing, but we
drove with glee down the old homeward route.
The car, we admit, needed airing a bit.
But the pigs arrived home safe and sound.
When you don't have a truck, well, a wagon must do
when it's time to haul farm stuff around.
So, ad-men, ad-women, as you sit and plan
for your promos and clever ad copy,
Remember us wagoneers, down on the farm,
with our pigs packed inside our jalopies!
--copyright Mainecelt 2009
P.S. If you're wondering about the title, a gilt is a young female pig.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Friday Five- time out edition
Being a farmer is part of my calling, but it is only one of my vocational passions. I have recently been working to reweave the threads of a rather tattered call to ordained ministry, a call I plan to pursue in the United Church of Christ. (This is a rather new denomination for me, but I've worked in a wide range of churches before, including United Methodist, Disciples of Christ, Presbyterian, and Mennonite congregations.) Now I am struggling to reconnect the different aspects of my vocational life. I've recently joined a webring full of wise, wild and wonderful women--and a few men--who inspire and support this process. Today I'm doing my first official "RevGalBlogPals Meme."
Sally over at RevGalBlogPals writes:
"Holy Week is almost upon us, I suspect that ordained or not, other revgal/pals calendars look a bit like mine, FULL, FULL, FULL.....
Jesus was great at teaching us to take time out, even in that last week, right up to Maundy Thursday he withdrew, John's gospel tells us he hid! He hid not because he was afraid, but because he knew that he needed physical, mental and spiritual strength to get through...
So faced with a busy week:
1. What restores you physically?
Singing. It is one of the most healing pursuits I know. It helps me breathe.
The sound moving through my body shakes loose my grief, releases my joy, and awakens a resonance in my bones. I don't sing often enough, but when I do, every part of my being is energized. They say the same space in the brain that processes music also serves to modulate the space between ourselves and others. When we are worn down by community stress and difficult relationships, no wonder there's such healing power in singing together!
2. What strengthens you emotionally/ mentally?
My friendships with strong women and gentle men, and the laughter and understanding that move back and forth between us. Another source of strength is my sense of rootedness: in my American pioneer and Celtic immigrant heritage, in the multigenerational wisdom and stories of my mentors and kinfolk, and in my own sense of calling and connection to the sea and the land. I grew up on an island and have learned that my emotions and thoughts have their own tidal rhythms. It is only when I forget to attend to these rhythms that I lose my balance.
3. What encourages you spiritually?
Gardening! When I plant and tend and nourish and harvest in the garden, I do these things for my soul as well. The garden has always been a safe, restorative spiritual space for me,
even with all the weeds and pests and the chickens pecking holes in the tomatoes. I grew up gardening, and even when my mother and I quarreled and misunderstood each other, we always spoke gently and lovingly together as we shared the work of gardening. When I neglect the garden, I often find I am neglecting myself as well. When I'm angry and despairing, there's nothing like a session of weed-pulling to settle my spirit. The herbal scents, the touch of wind, the feel of dirt on my hands, the hoped-for "just desserts" of ripe fruit, the satisfaction of wrongs immediately righted... ahhh!
4. Share a favourite poem or piece of music from the coming week.
Gerard Manley Hopkins is, for me, the ultimate Holy Week poet, but I'm hard-pressed to choose between "Carrion Comfort," "Peace," "God's Grandeur," and "That Nature is a Heraclitean Fire..."
5.There may be many services for you to attend/ lead over the next week, which one are you most looking forward to and why? If there aren't do you have a favourite day in Holy week if so which one is it?
I have always had a deep appreciation for Maundy Thursday and the Tenebrae service. How many other rituals allow us to name, accept, and embrace the shadows that haunt us and surround us? So much of Christian worship--and pop culture--is focused on light and brightness and "being of good cheer..." I find myself hungry for these rare opportunities to acknowledge the darkness--the blank emptiness of despair and the gestational, dream-filled fullness of the Soul's Dark Night.
Sally over at RevGalBlogPals writes:
"Holy Week is almost upon us, I suspect that ordained or not, other revgal/pals calendars look a bit like mine, FULL, FULL, FULL.....
Jesus was great at teaching us to take time out, even in that last week, right up to Maundy Thursday he withdrew, John's gospel tells us he hid! He hid not because he was afraid, but because he knew that he needed physical, mental and spiritual strength to get through...
So faced with a busy week:
1. What restores you physically?
Singing. It is one of the most healing pursuits I know. It helps me breathe.
The sound moving through my body shakes loose my grief, releases my joy, and awakens a resonance in my bones. I don't sing often enough, but when I do, every part of my being is energized. They say the same space in the brain that processes music also serves to modulate the space between ourselves and others. When we are worn down by community stress and difficult relationships, no wonder there's such healing power in singing together! 2. What strengthens you emotionally/ mentally?
My friendships with strong women and gentle men, and the laughter and understanding that move back and forth between us. Another source of strength is my sense of rootedness: in my American pioneer and Celtic immigrant heritage, in the multigenerational wisdom and stories of my mentors and kinfolk, and in my own sense of calling and connection to the sea and the land. I grew up on an island and have learned that my emotions and thoughts have their own tidal rhythms. It is only when I forget to attend to these rhythms that I lose my balance.
3. What encourages you spiritually?
Gardening! When I plant and tend and nourish and harvest in the garden, I do these things for my soul as well. The garden has always been a safe, restorative spiritual space for me,
even with all the weeds and pests and the chickens pecking holes in the tomatoes. I grew up gardening, and even when my mother and I quarreled and misunderstood each other, we always spoke gently and lovingly together as we shared the work of gardening. When I neglect the garden, I often find I am neglecting myself as well. When I'm angry and despairing, there's nothing like a session of weed-pulling to settle my spirit. The herbal scents, the touch of wind, the feel of dirt on my hands, the hoped-for "just desserts" of ripe fruit, the satisfaction of wrongs immediately righted... ahhh!4. Share a favourite poem or piece of music from the coming week.
Gerard Manley Hopkins is, for me, the ultimate Holy Week poet, but I'm hard-pressed to choose between "Carrion Comfort," "Peace," "God's Grandeur," and "That Nature is a Heraclitean Fire..."
5.There may be many services for you to attend/ lead over the next week, which one are you most looking forward to and why? If there aren't do you have a favourite day in Holy week if so which one is it?
I have always had a deep appreciation for Maundy Thursday and the Tenebrae service. How many other rituals allow us to name, accept, and embrace the shadows that haunt us and surround us? So much of Christian worship--and pop culture--is focused on light and brightness and "being of good cheer..." I find myself hungry for these rare opportunities to acknowledge the darkness--the blank emptiness of despair and the gestational, dream-filled fullness of the Soul's Dark Night.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Phoenix-- A February Praise-Poem
Among her many gifts, the Celtic Saint/Goddess Bridgit is a Keeper of the Flame. She watches over hearths and forges and every flickering hope. She tends the lamp of learning and tenderly breathes life into the dull embers of creativity. She is a patron of midwives, blacksmiths, and poets.This morning, the outside thermometer registered fifteen degrees at 7:00 AM. Amidst the challenge of morning chores, the words of a poem hovered, then gathered around me, a knitted scarf of sparks. The year's Dark Half is more than halfway done. There are whispers of survival...perhaps even a faint murmur of spring!
PHOENIX
Hands slowed and stiffened
in the aching, hushed cold
before sun comes...
My body huddles closer,
unwilling to unfold.
In our small barn, a muffled rooster sounds,
His crowing hesitant and slow.
Other animals stir and wake.
Above the sudden, unleashed flurry
of canine play,
the sensible cat shifts
and returns to sleep.
Once outside, our steps sing
brittle and broken
emptily echoing the shatter and scatter of ice,
the dull ring of zinc and tin,
the trough's frozen rim.
We carry the waterers in
to thaw on the broad black expanse
of the old woodstove.
We prepare the spare and elegant
meal within:
the old news, the splintery sticks,
the handhewn wood,
then strike and introduce the pale, thin match.
Ah! We watch it linger, lick,
then taste and catch.
Flame flickers faster, feeds
on fuel-feast...
Oh, bless this
wild, wee elemental beast!
Oh, murmur and sing
and praise
this sweet, uncurling heat--
this welcome warmth--
this marvelous box of fire!
--copyright Mainecelt 2/17/2009
Monday, January 5, 2009
Hamely Fare
"What though on hamely fare we dine..." --Robert Burns, "A Man's a Man for A' That."
Wheaties may be "the Breakfast of Champions," but Robert Burns, the national poet of Scotland, was a Champion of Breakfasts. Oatmeal, butter, fish, and all manner of hearty, homely foods received his praises, as did the Common Folk who relied on these foods for survival. "Hamely" (or homely, for the non-Scots reader) was not a term of insult, but of honor and praise. "Hame" was, for Burns, the dwelling not only of the heart, but also of the belly.
January is Robert Burns' birthday month. Near his birthday on the 25th, Scots and folk of Scottish descent the world over take time to gather for a unique repast known as a "Burns Supper." Haggis is carried in to the rousing strains of bagpipes and Burns' "Ode to a Haggis" is recited with all the drama--and the best Scottish accent--the reciter can muster.
Poetic toasts are made to monarchs and lads and lasses. When the glasses are set down, hired musicians or other entertainers lift the spirits. The centerpiece of the night is a speech known as "The Immortal Memory," an oratory ode to the Scottish Bard. There is much pomp and circumstance, but at the heart of this celebration is an earthy man with earthy appetites. He loved women, loved to drink, and loved to eat heartily in good company. These appetites earned him a fair amount of trouble, but also inspired tremendous creativity.
Food, creativity, and memory are always intertwined. We develop a taste for those things that link us to the past (memory) and draw us toward the future (creativity.) The health of our appetites depends partly on what we seek to feed: the body, the gnawing mind, the half-starved spirit... and food addictions have driven not just people, but entire nations, to horrific acts. Chocolate, named "theobroma" or food of the gods, has inspired countless works of art. Yet the production of this substance is still linked to child labor and slavery. My Methodist ancestors swore off sugar in their tea because of its connections with the slave trade, but couldn't bring themselves to give up the tea itself--even though tea production was almost as morally questionable. Where would humanity be--and what would international trade become-- without the consuming passions of sugar, tea, coffee, chocolate, and alcohol?
Whether we take the time to ponder it or not, all farmers--all PEOPLE-- are touched by the connections between international trade and social justice. It matters immensely where we get our food. When I choose "hamely fare," I accept the constraints of a smaller economy. I accept the seasonal limits of availability. I am forced to farm and garden sustainably so that my food--and my neighbors' food-- will continue to grow. But--like the rigid structure of a sonnet or a haiku--these limits result in fantastic creativity. When I wait all year for the sweet, short interlude of Spring's first fiddleheads, Summer's wild strawberries, Autumn's fresh meats and Winter's hearty roots, the rhythms and intervals inspire bardic joy.
As Marge Piercy writes, "Virtue: what a sunrise in the belly!" Locally-sourced food strengthens my connections to plant, animal, and human communities. Locally-sourced food holds me accountable to the farmers and growers on which my life depends. I come to know their names, their faces, their stories. Each bite of food is a sermon in miniature, a powerful reminder of grace and justice and faith. It satiates my senses and satisfies my hungry mind. It feeds my spirit as well as my body.
It's not an easy choice. It's a series of intricate puzzles and ever-present challenges. It takes work, just as growing a crop takes work--or buying fast food takes work, in the form of the hours we earn and the hours they grow, tend, process, prepare, package, serve, clean up, and dispose of what's left after our hurried meals. This morning I made pancakes with Maine-grown oatmeal, but I added a name-brand pancake mix. My lunch of smoked kippers came from a Maine fishery, but I ate them on toast from the grocer's shelf. My hot chocolate was neither organic nor fair-trade certified, but I made it with local milk. The consequence? I feel well-fed and somewhat inspired, but I also feel challenged to do better.
Eating is a political and poetic act. It is a process of relationship-building, of bringing diverse elements together. It is a process of mutual creative transformation.
In this season of hard choices, may we all plant seeds of justice, tend Creation with care, and share the great harvest feast of "hamely fare" together!
Wheaties may be "the Breakfast of Champions," but Robert Burns, the national poet of Scotland, was a Champion of Breakfasts. Oatmeal, butter, fish, and all manner of hearty, homely foods received his praises, as did the Common Folk who relied on these foods for survival. "Hamely" (or homely, for the non-Scots reader) was not a term of insult, but of honor and praise. "Hame" was, for Burns, the dwelling not only of the heart, but also of the belly. January is Robert Burns' birthday month. Near his birthday on the 25th, Scots and folk of Scottish descent the world over take time to gather for a unique repast known as a "Burns Supper." Haggis is carried in to the rousing strains of bagpipes and Burns' "Ode to a Haggis" is recited with all the drama--and the best Scottish accent--the reciter can muster.
Poetic toasts are made to monarchs and lads and lasses. When the glasses are set down, hired musicians or other entertainers lift the spirits. The centerpiece of the night is a speech known as "The Immortal Memory," an oratory ode to the Scottish Bard. There is much pomp and circumstance, but at the heart of this celebration is an earthy man with earthy appetites. He loved women, loved to drink, and loved to eat heartily in good company. These appetites earned him a fair amount of trouble, but also inspired tremendous creativity.Food, creativity, and memory are always intertwined. We develop a taste for those things that link us to the past (memory) and draw us toward the future (creativity.) The health of our appetites depends partly on what we seek to feed: the body, the gnawing mind, the half-starved spirit... and food addictions have driven not just people, but entire nations, to horrific acts. Chocolate, named "theobroma" or food of the gods, has inspired countless works of art. Yet the production of this substance is still linked to child labor and slavery. My Methodist ancestors swore off sugar in their tea because of its connections with the slave trade, but couldn't bring themselves to give up the tea itself--even though tea production was almost as morally questionable. Where would humanity be--and what would international trade become-- without the consuming passions of sugar, tea, coffee, chocolate, and alcohol?
Whether we take the time to ponder it or not, all farmers--all PEOPLE-- are touched by the connections between international trade and social justice. It matters immensely where we get our food. When I choose "hamely fare," I accept the constraints of a smaller economy. I accept the seasonal limits of availability. I am forced to farm and garden sustainably so that my food--and my neighbors' food-- will continue to grow. But--like the rigid structure of a sonnet or a haiku--these limits result in fantastic creativity. When I wait all year for the sweet, short interlude of Spring's first fiddleheads, Summer's wild strawberries, Autumn's fresh meats and Winter's hearty roots, the rhythms and intervals inspire bardic joy.
As Marge Piercy writes, "Virtue: what a sunrise in the belly!" Locally-sourced food strengthens my connections to plant, animal, and human communities. Locally-sourced food holds me accountable to the farmers and growers on which my life depends. I come to know their names, their faces, their stories. Each bite of food is a sermon in miniature, a powerful reminder of grace and justice and faith. It satiates my senses and satisfies my hungry mind. It feeds my spirit as well as my body.It's not an easy choice. It's a series of intricate puzzles and ever-present challenges. It takes work, just as growing a crop takes work--or buying fast food takes work, in the form of the hours we earn and the hours they grow, tend, process, prepare, package, serve, clean up, and dispose of what's left after our hurried meals. This morning I made pancakes with Maine-grown oatmeal, but I added a name-brand pancake mix. My lunch of smoked kippers came from a Maine fishery, but I ate them on toast from the grocer's shelf. My hot chocolate was neither organic nor fair-trade certified, but I made it with local milk. The consequence? I feel well-fed and somewhat inspired, but I also feel challenged to do better.
Eating is a political and poetic act. It is a process of relationship-building, of bringing diverse elements together. It is a process of mutual creative transformation.
In this season of hard choices, may we all plant seeds of justice, tend Creation with care, and share the great harvest feast of "hamely fare" together!
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Happy New Year to you-- Here's some farmyard haiku!
In the midst of frozen pipe adventures and other January delights, one's mind may be drawn to the flickering warmth of the woodstove's embers and other Creative Sparks. What results from a brief encounter with inconsistent flames? Well, today, the results took the form of some farmyard haiku:
1.
Aimless Guinea Cock
His late mate a fisher's feast
Hens: poor substitutes
2.
Twelve plump russet hens
Egg-proud little red soldiers
Call "Ginger" --all come!
3.
Shaggy Highland cows
Gentle eyes under fierce fringe
Horns work-- try your lights.
Haiku Tag-- you're it! Write a haiku or two about the creatures where YOU live. Remember the basic pattern: three lines, the first one five syllables long, the second one seven, and the third one five syllables again. Like farming itself, the harsh elemental demands of the format often trigger tremendous creativity--and sometimes, you just get compost, but at least it's still good for something!
1.
Aimless Guinea Cock
His late mate a fisher's feast
Hens: poor substitutes
2.
Twelve plump russet hens
Egg-proud little red soldiers
Call "Ginger" --all come!
3.
Shaggy Highland cows
Gentle eyes under fierce fringe
Horns work-- try your lights.
Haiku Tag-- you're it! Write a haiku or two about the creatures where YOU live. Remember the basic pattern: three lines, the first one five syllables long, the second one seven, and the third one five syllables again. Like farming itself, the harsh elemental demands of the format often trigger tremendous creativity--and sometimes, you just get compost, but at least it's still good for something!
Thursday, December 4, 2008
The Not-Yet-Dormant Bard
The buds are swelling on the small lilac in the dooryard. This morning's golden light glanced off the smooth brown twigs of new growth coming on the plum tree. The world is preparing for its Winter Sleep, but new growth always comes in the harsh peace of the frozen Dark.Some animals forage and feed, stuffing themselves to prepare for hibernation. On this December day, I find myself ravenous not for food, but for poetry. I started with my favourite snack: the Glasgow Herald poetry blog. Then it was over to the Reflectionary, where--oh surprise and delight--another poem greeted me. Now I'm about to be late for work, but my bardic belly is oh-so-well-fed...
And later today, I'll post some bard-work of my own.
Later:
I'm not sure when I wrote the following poem-- it might have been a couple of years back at an agricultural conference, because I recently discovered it on a scrap of hotel-logo notepaper tucked inside a book of other people's poems, and that's the last time I remember going to a hotel for anything! The poem was most likely written in Spring, in the church season of Lent, as there is a pre-Easter sense to the imagery. Now it's Advent, and I'd hesitate to include it here just now, except that Advent used to be known as "Winter-Lent," a natural time to slow down and hush and reflect before the next burst of hopeful, lively busy-ness.
SABBATH
Opening the hard-nailed, desperate claws
the must-have, must-work-hard,
the churn and trudge, chop and slop and strive
must manage scare commodities like turnip blood...
Taking off the hobnailed, ragged boots
exposing soles--and soul--
to air again, then...
turning tiptoe, shuffle slow, or spin
daring dearest dance
letting ground gather me in
again, again, again
Listening to land--
the tattered patter-song
the lullabye
the deep roots wrapping me
the waters whispering
the earth's warmth stirring me
like lichen, lily, lark
to rise.
(copyright MaineCelt 2008)
Thursday, October 23, 2008
If it's nae Scottish...
Ah'm...weel...gobsmacked!
Maine is the landing-place of my immigrant ancestors. My journey here has echoed theirs, in a way, as my settlement here came at the end of a month-long pilgrimage through Scotland's Highlands & Islands, a graduation gift from Celtophile friends. (That was the only time I've ever been to Scotland, but it felt eerily like home. I flew into Glasgow, took the train north, and blythely wandered from one island to the next, taking Gaelic language and music courses along the way.)
Although I will always be "from away," as the locals say, this place has drawn me back and caused me to put down roots. As my circle of Maine friends has grown, so has my delight in the state's strong Celtic connections. I discovered that Cornish fishermen were among the first European settlers in the early 1600s. I found place names like "Edinburg" and "Belfast" and "Wales." Thanks to a long line of Celtic travelers and settlers, Celtic concepts and ideas permeate the fabric of our state's culture and history. Scots words like "muckle" remain in regular usage, though the meaning has shifted. Knowing these things, and knowing my own family's history of immigration from the Scottish port of Ayr to the Maine town of Livermore Falls, I found myself moved to write. My mother's forebears--Border Reivers, rebels and patriots both--demanded a broadside ballad or a song in praise of the homeland. My father's forebears sternly recalled their heredity as brieves or law-keepers. Their ghosts called for justice, for memory's long reach.
English words didn't suit the task. I chose to write in Scots--which felt strangely comfortable, after listening to Scottish folk music and reading Scottish literature for years. Poet David Whyte once described the task thusly: "poetry is the art of saying something to yourself that you find it impossible to go back upon." I read and re-read my work to make sure it fit Whyte's description...and it did. But then I decided to submit it to a poetry contest--the only Scots-language poetry contest of which I knew, a contest that happened to be in, well, SCOTLAND.
Now the poem had to meet a more serious standard. There would be hours of fact-checking before I could take the bold and brazen step of sending the poor shivering little thing to its judgment and probable death. I searched Scots language websites, flipped back and forth through phrasebooks and dictionaries, and feshed michtily ower whether Ah'd done it richt. Finally, I sent the poem off by e-mail, expecting it to be quietly engulfed by, and lost among, the hundreds of other contest entries. It was enough to feel that I'd done something to honor my ancestors, and that I'd put great effort into doing it as well as possible with the tools I had at hand.
Here's the poem I wrote, with a caveat that you may need a good Scots dictionary nearby in order to understand it!
Screevins Frae a Bothy in Maine
Oot ayont Lewis, ayont the last lintin wing-tip
o skirlin seabirds, careenin aff craigs
whaur dings doon the ruddy Western sun,
Oot ayont strath an glen, the Border’s rollin hills,
Cap & Goon Toons & kenspeckle kirkyairds,
(Care-wairn & keekin thro lum-reek,
ash o anthracite, orange pips an chippie-wraps),
Oot ayont Ayr, anely-kent port o farin
For forebears kythed, aye, & aince mair mislaid:
(Anither muddle amang the hantle
O “Mester Robert Morrisons” on the leet…)
West o Edin(burgh), but East o the wind-
scourit Nebraska plains, the Idaho cattle-range,
an Puget Sound’s ain/ither Western Isles,
(Grossets in the kailyairds, rhodies on the braes),
Jiggin frae ane tae the neist, us unsettled settlers,
greetin gaberlunzies & sillerless sangsters seekin
Oor ain bit land:
Here, we upbigg the noo, we wabbit crofters,
Gowkin an pawky by turns,
Gang at it, ettlin, same as ilka Scot, dreyin oor ain weird on the wrang shore,
Jalousin some Grait Trowth
ayont the lint-dross, stanes an slaistered muck o History…
Kythin oor native place wis nivir wrestit, an
Kythin oor anely hame’s aye here:
The far-flung, sky-boundit ruim
O the hale blessit yirth.
--copyright MaineCelt
January 4th, 2008
Earlier this week, an e-mail came from a woman who works at the Glasgow Herald newspaper. Aye, that's Glasgow, Scotland, not just another funny Maine place-name. The poem placed second in their international contest, the first overseas entry to ever win a prize. "Astounded" doesn't begin to describe my response. There are a hantle of Scots words that suit my feelings better, but I'd start with our household favorite, "Gobsmacked."
The poem will be read aloud at a celebratory event in Scotland in November. Although I heartily wish I could attend in person, I don't plan to spend my winnings on a ticket to Scotland--it would go against certain ancestral traditions of frugality, as well as our tightly-controlled farm budget. Instead, I plan to put the prize towards the purchase of a decent laptop computer with the hope that good tools and much practice will produce a better--and more frequent--writer!
Maine is the landing-place of my immigrant ancestors. My journey here has echoed theirs, in a way, as my settlement here came at the end of a month-long pilgrimage through Scotland's Highlands & Islands, a graduation gift from Celtophile friends. (That was the only time I've ever been to Scotland, but it felt eerily like home. I flew into Glasgow, took the train north, and blythely wandered from one island to the next, taking Gaelic language and music courses along the way.)
Although I will always be "from away," as the locals say, this place has drawn me back and caused me to put down roots. As my circle of Maine friends has grown, so has my delight in the state's strong Celtic connections. I discovered that Cornish fishermen were among the first European settlers in the early 1600s. I found place names like "Edinburg" and "Belfast" and "Wales." Thanks to a long line of Celtic travelers and settlers, Celtic concepts and ideas permeate the fabric of our state's culture and history. Scots words like "muckle" remain in regular usage, though the meaning has shifted. Knowing these things, and knowing my own family's history of immigration from the Scottish port of Ayr to the Maine town of Livermore Falls, I found myself moved to write. My mother's forebears--Border Reivers, rebels and patriots both--demanded a broadside ballad or a song in praise of the homeland. My father's forebears sternly recalled their heredity as brieves or law-keepers. Their ghosts called for justice, for memory's long reach.English words didn't suit the task. I chose to write in Scots--which felt strangely comfortable, after listening to Scottish folk music and reading Scottish literature for years. Poet David Whyte once described the task thusly: "poetry is the art of saying something to yourself that you find it impossible to go back upon." I read and re-read my work to make sure it fit Whyte's description...and it did. But then I decided to submit it to a poetry contest--the only Scots-language poetry contest of which I knew, a contest that happened to be in, well, SCOTLAND.
Now the poem had to meet a more serious standard. There would be hours of fact-checking before I could take the bold and brazen step of sending the poor shivering little thing to its judgment and probable death. I searched Scots language websites, flipped back and forth through phrasebooks and dictionaries, and feshed michtily ower whether Ah'd done it richt. Finally, I sent the poem off by e-mail, expecting it to be quietly engulfed by, and lost among, the hundreds of other contest entries. It was enough to feel that I'd done something to honor my ancestors, and that I'd put great effort into doing it as well as possible with the tools I had at hand.
Here's the poem I wrote, with a caveat that you may need a good Scots dictionary nearby in order to understand it!
Screevins Frae a Bothy in Maine
Oot ayont Lewis, ayont the last lintin wing-tip
o skirlin seabirds, careenin aff craigs
whaur dings doon the ruddy Western sun,
Oot ayont strath an glen, the Border’s rollin hills,
Cap & Goon Toons & kenspeckle kirkyairds,
(Care-wairn & keekin thro lum-reek,
ash o anthracite, orange pips an chippie-wraps),
Oot ayont Ayr, anely-kent port o farin
For forebears kythed, aye, & aince mair mislaid:
(Anither muddle amang the hantle
O “Mester Robert Morrisons” on the leet…)
West o Edin(burgh), but East o the wind-
scourit Nebraska plains, the Idaho cattle-range,
an Puget Sound’s ain/ither Western Isles,
(Grossets in the kailyairds, rhodies on the braes),
Jiggin frae ane tae the neist, us unsettled settlers,
greetin gaberlunzies & sillerless sangsters seekin
Oor ain bit land:
Here, we upbigg the noo, we wabbit crofters,
Gowkin an pawky by turns,
Gang at it, ettlin, same as ilka Scot, dreyin oor ain weird on the wrang shore,
Jalousin some Grait Trowth
ayont the lint-dross, stanes an slaistered muck o History…
Kythin oor native place wis nivir wrestit, an
Kythin oor anely hame’s aye here:
The far-flung, sky-boundit ruim
O the hale blessit yirth.
--copyright MaineCelt
January 4th, 2008
Earlier this week, an e-mail came from a woman who works at the Glasgow Herald newspaper. Aye, that's Glasgow, Scotland, not just another funny Maine place-name. The poem placed second in their international contest, the first overseas entry to ever win a prize. "Astounded" doesn't begin to describe my response. There are a hantle of Scots words that suit my feelings better, but I'd start with our household favorite, "Gobsmacked." The poem will be read aloud at a celebratory event in Scotland in November. Although I heartily wish I could attend in person, I don't plan to spend my winnings on a ticket to Scotland--it would go against certain ancestral traditions of frugality, as well as our tightly-controlled farm budget. Instead, I plan to put the prize towards the purchase of a decent laptop computer with the hope that good tools and much practice will produce a better--and more frequent--writer!
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