Ann Leary, author of The Good House
Author of The Good House
We’re in California, driving up the Pacific Coast Highway from Los Angeles to San Francisco. Just beautiful.
Dev, the photographer took the nicest photos:
We ate a dinner of delicious fishes we had never heard of in Carmel-by-the-Sea last night and then I dreamt I was in the Lewis and Clark expedition, in canoes, in tents, but I was in college and was hiding the fact that I had cocaine with me. I know. I know.
I love California. Now here’s a nice poem.
I HAVE NEWS FOR YOU
by Tony Hoagland
Photo by Moses Pendleton
One of my favorite poems is featured on The Writer’s Almanac today. Enjoy!
I Knew a Woman
by Theodore Roethke
I knew a woman, lovely in her bones,
When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them;
Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:
The shapes a bright container can contain!
Of her choice virtues only gods should speak,
Or English poets who grew up on Greek
(I’d have them sing in a chorus, cheek to cheek).
Photo by Phil Holland
Okay, I believe I might have a name for the blog. Don’t want to announce it yet because I want to make sure that it’s available. I will say that I LOVE all your suggestions.
This morning I received an email from our friend Phil Holland in Greece. He has composed another canto in his series The Dancer’s Craft, which is, essentially, a 30-year-long poem documenting the life, work and wild misadventures of choreographer/avant gardener Moses Pendleton. It doesn’t take 30 years to read it, you’ll read it very fast because it’s very good, but that’s how long Phil has been working on it, which just makes me love him. Sticktoitiveness is a trait I highly admire in others because I lack it so. I have general awfuggitiveness.
TODAY by Billy Collins
If ever there were a spring day so perfect,
so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze
that it made you want to throw
open all the windows in the house
and unlatch the door to the canary’s cage,
indeed, rip the little door from its jamb,
a day when the cool brick paths
and the garden bursting with peonies
seemed so etched in sunlight
that you felt like taking
a hammer to the glass paperweight
on the living room end table,
releasing the inhabitants
from their snow-covered cottage
The other day I stopped at the home of Moses Pendleton and Cynthia Quinn. I was told that Moses was out back and here is where I found him:
Moses is working on a commencement speech for an esteemed institution of higher education. He likes to practice his speech with his rapt audience of young daffodils. When I arrived, I swear the delicate blossoms were leaning in to catch his words.
DREAMS
by Langston Hughes
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Photo by Moses Pendleton
Our friend Moses sent me this photo of somebody who is trying to learn about poetry. (if you can’t make it out in the photo, he’s reading Poetry For Dummies. I have seen the various “Dummy” books: Real Estate For Dummies, Investing For Dummies, Golf For Dummies, etc, but it astounds me that there is a Poetry for Dummies. Is there a Love for Dummies, Beauty for Dummies, Heartache for Dummies?
Photo by Moses Pendleton
I believe I’ve posted this photo before, but the blog has been looking a little drab lately, so here it is again. I know. I know.
I’m sorry that I haven’t been able to post a new blog entry each day, these past few weeks. I’ve been a little busy. It actually makes me uneasy all day, if I haven’t posted a blog. I would say that it makes me feel as if I left my bed unmade, but in fact, leaving my bed unmade doesn’t make me uneasy at all. I do it all the time. But I will try to blog each day, even if it’s short.
VACATION by Rita Dove
I love the hour before takeoff,
that stretch of no time, no home
but the gray vinyl seats linked like
unfolding paper dolls. Soon we shall
be summoned to the gate, soon enough
there’ll be the clumsy procedure of row numbers
and perforated stubs—but for now
I can look at these ragtag nuclear families
with their cooing and bickering
or the heeled bachelorette trying
to ignore a baby’s wail and the baby’s
exhausted mother waiting to be called up early
while the athlete, one monstrous hand
asleep on his duffel bag, listens,
perched like a seal trained for the plunge.
Even the lone executive
who has wandered this far into summer
with his lasered itinerary, briefcase
knocking his knees—even he
has worked for the pleasure of bearing
no more than a scrap of himself
into this hall. He’ll dine out, she’ll sleep late,
they’ll let the sun burn them happy all morning
—a little hope, a little whimsy
before the loudspeaker blurts
and we leap up to become
Flight 828, now boarding at Gate 17.
No we're not going to LA affair/But we will dress like this as we do everywhere
Blogger’s Cramp
by Ann Leary
I’ve heard it from more than one or two,
This blog’s becoming a bore for you.
“The blog’s too doggy!” “Not another poem!”
“We’ve seen enough trees! PLEASE, enough loam!”
(Okay, nobody’s complained about loam)
Well, next week for a change of pace,
I’ll take some photos of a tropical place.
Yes, we’re taking a trip, there’s a break in the show,
So prepare yourselves for a blog without snow.
I apologize to those of you whose comments didn’t appear when you posted them. Sometimes they get sent to the spam pile and sometimes I forget to check. It often happens when you post links. I love the links, so if you post something and it doesn’t appear, feel free to let me know so I can dig it out of the spam bin.
I went on a very enjoyable hike with the dogs today, took all sorts of photos, and now can’t find the USB cord (again). So I’ve rifled through the many, many photos on my computer to find something to brighten the blog again and found these winter landscapes. 
