Tuesday, December 9, 2014

Used Book Treasures

One of my favorite poets is Ruth Stone. I have all her recent books, and just added her first two  poetry books to my collection - now that I have them I am reading Topography, her second poetry collection. It is a delight to read all the poems in it. I can see that she masterfully started as a poet and compare how she changed and grew in her newer volumes. The copy I bought is also a bit of a treasure. It's a first edition hardbound with the original owner's name neatly added in the front. It also has the original receipt from Harvard's book store. It is a great way to finish my Ruth Stone collection.

Thursday, November 27, 2014

Happy Thanksgiving

Happy Thanksgiving to each of you.

This year I am listing my top five reasons for being grateful.

My family and friends

People who love me just the way I am


Getting closer down the road to no hunger in our world


Here are a few links to thanksgiving poems and prayers: http://christianity.about.com/od/thanksgivingverses/a/thanksgivingpra.htm

Friday, November 7, 2014

A Poem from a Film Still

The following poem came from a film by Kimsooja titled A Needle Woman. Sometimes a still or picture seems to whisper to me a whole life, this poem developed that way. Here is a link to the film still at the artist's website. The image on the right is the needle woman lying on a rock. My poem was first published in Mystic Horizons, an online lit journal which has gone dark.

View of a Film Still from Kimsooja’s A Needle Woman

Father, I mend your shirt. Its grayed silk soft in my arms.
This view of Kitakyushu with its racing river
looks the same as water standing still.
I am surface, smooth rock against vibrant sky,
slate and azure. I am your needle woman.

A strand of hair at nape of neck becomes my thread.
My body is the needle holding two worlds. I sew together
the field of time where stone and air meet. When mother
hands me clothing to patch my thought is always I am needed,
I am quiet. This I do with the needle’s voice.

Father, what the needle tells me of your shirt
I see again in cloud, ledge and sky.
The fabric stronger for the patching,
more beautiful well-worn. This shirt holds
the shape of your chest, the olive odors of your skin.
I give it back to you mended, whole.

A look through my needle exposes
hip curved into rock. Another look shows
open horizon. Inside my own heartbeat I study
the needle’s point. The slender metal stabs fabric,
emerges to fingers underneath. Blindly I guide the needle.
My fingers anxious, willing to be pierced.
Mother hands me another shirt saying, mend first,
and in so doing you will create.

Patricia L. Johnson