Trees

I think that I shall never see   
A poem lovely as a tree.


A tree whose hungry mouth is prest   
Against the sweet earth’s flowing breast;


A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;


A tree that may in summer wear   
A nest of robins in her hair;


Upon whose bosom snow has lain;   
Who intimately lives with rain.


Poems are made by fools like me,   
But only God can make a tree.  Joyce Kilmer 1914.

"Too long a sacrifice can make a stone of the heart. O when may it suffice?"

W.B. Yeats wrote the above poetry quote.  Yesterday my oldest son, who I haven't seen or heard from since 2007, turned 30.

I was at the usual spot at noon on his birthday, The Lost Dog Cafe in Westover, for lunch.  As always, the empty chair showed up.

I ate a Rin Tin Tin personal pizza pie, leaving a slice, with a symbolic bite out of it, and drank most of my draft, then took a symbolic swallow out of Jimmy's, excuse me, Jim's, paid and left.  The pie and libation were good, the company was nonexistent.

Two years ago I encountered his mother on a public street and asked her if Jim was alive, well, married, had children, and where he lived.  Stony silence was her answer to these five indispensable questions any parent must know about their child, but this year I discovered her Twitter account and saw that she had invited him to address her first grade classroom last June on "Heroes Day," so as of eight months ago at least he was alive.

 

Her Face at First Just Ghostly

The British band Procol Harum put out an LP in 1967 that featured the song A Whiter Shade of Pale. As a young man I was listening to an FM radio station one night when this song came on and the DJ explained that this was the song that made rock gentle. Oh yeah.

And the fact that the album also contained the song Conquistador made it one of the great albums, in my top ten, of all time.

Conquistador, there is no time, I must pay my respects
And though I came to jeer at you, I leave now with regrets
And as the gloom begins to fall
I see there is no, only all
And though you came with sword held high
You did not conquer, only die




The truth is plain to see. Procol Harum, A Whiter Shade of Pale.

I lost a world the other day...

Now that I'm not running for awhile, I have some time on my hands. I could use it for reflection.

I went out and bought The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson. I love her poems, and other than Shakespeare, I look to her the most for inspiration when I'm deeply moved by things.

She apparently wrote 1,775 poems before she died in 1886 at the age of 55. Here's one from the Time and Eternity section.

I lost a world the other day.
Has anybody found?
You'll know it by the row of stars
Around its forehead bound.

A rich man might not notice it;
Yet to my frugal eye
Of more esteem than ducats.
Oh, find it, sir, for me!

Uh, I think runnin' means a lot to me. Who knew?