Gardenia

I realize it isn’t generally accepted as “cool” to like music by Mandy Moore.  I mean, yes, she did put out a compliation of cover songs a few years back that I have to give her full credit for.  The album is little-known, called Coverage, and she honestly sang the absolute heck out of a list of songs so classically great that I’ll go as far as to say it is one of my favorite cover albums ever made, but … those were covers.   

I’ve been hearing all sorts of hype surrounding her new album, seeing as how she co-wrote a lot of it with people like The Weepies, Chantal Kreviazuk, Lori McKenna, and Rachael Yamagata … all people I just love.  I must say, though, I was still pretty skeptical about how I was going to feel about the results of these collaborations. 

Well, today I got my answer … I haven’t heard anything else off of her album, but someone uploaded the last track, Gardenia to YouTube, and it is completely and totally, no-questions-asked, BEAUTIFUL!  I mean … wow … I’ve had it on repeat for a while now, and it’s actually made me tear up a little.  (Yeah, yeah, yeah …)  The girl laid down some emotion in this song, and I have to say … I am thoroughly impressed.  So impressed that I will be buying her new album when it comes out.  (Yeah, I said it!)

Check this out, and try to tell me it isn’t just heartwrenchingly beautiful:

She co-wrote this one with Chantal Kreviazuk, who nabbed me as a fan with the lyrics to her song, Feels Like Home, years and years ago.  Anyhow, I am quite liking the lyrics to Gardenia as well. 

So, yeah, that’s my confession of the day.  From one music snob to the world … I love Gardenia by Mandy Moore!  Is-a nice. 

Tom Robbins

Only one of so many reasons why I love Tom Robbins …

My Heart Is Not A Poodle
(Country Song)

My love looks in the window and watches you sleep,
can’t you hear it scratching at your door?
My love howls at the full moon down by the creek,
it ain’t for sale in any store.

My love is a wild thing and and it can’t be trained
to do tricks to entertain your group
so put away that leash and that hoop:
my heart is not a poodle.

My love is wild, hog wild,
it ain’t for a sissy or a child,
it’s the hot stuff, not the mild,
don’t treat it like a poodle.

You can housebreak your puppy, you can housebreak your cat
you can even housebreak some bunny rabbits.
You can teach some old boys to wipe their boots on the mat,
but love holds on to its bad habits.

Passion hides in the shadows where it’s damp and it’s dark
to sneak out and bite you on the leg.
No, it won’t sit up and beg:
My heart is not a poodle.

My love is wild, hog wild,
it ain’t for a sissy or a child,
it’s sweet but it’s also vile,
don’t mistake it for no poodle.

Real love likes to run free like a fox or a cur,
it ain’t looking for no master,
so don’t be tying no fancy ribbons ’round its neck
or it’s gonna run all the faster.
I like the way you look, baby, I love how you smell
I long to be your very own,
but don’t toss me no old bone;
my heart is not a poodle.

My love is wild, hog wild,
it ain’t for a sissy or a child,
it’s the hot stuff, not the mild,
don’t treat it like a poodle.

(spoken)

It ain’t nobody’s lapdog.
Won’t wear no rhinestone collar.
Don’t even think about calling it “Fifi.”

- Tom Robbins
(From Wild Ducks Flying Backward)

I mean … seriously?! The guy is genius. I laugh … and laugh … and laugh …

Shake It Up

*** Click on names to go to the pages to purchase/view/consider, and click on any ‘Lyric’ to see full transcriptions. ***

Two books I think you should check out:

Poetry: Selected Poems by William Bronk
Small Excerpt:

Unsatisfied Desire

However beautiful I think you are,
I am not content to let it end there.
And, oh, you are beautiful even to the extent
that your imperfections insist that beautiful
is not in being perfect but in such faults
- shall we call them faults? – as your imperfection has.
And I could agree: those faults are beautiful …

Book: Love Is a Mix Tape: Life and Loss, One Song at a Time by Rob Sheffield
Small-ish Excerpt:

We met up at a dive called the Garrett on Monday, the night before her birthday. It was not a romantic bar — the carpet was so pot-soaked you got a buzz walking to the bathroom — but it offered privacy, cheap liquor, a cigarette machine that was easy to tilt, and pool tables to distract pain-in-the-ass innocent bystanders. I’d spent the day writing a sonnet sequence for her. I’m not sure what I was thinking–I mean, I used the word “catachresis” in the first line. But I was certain my prosodic ingenuity would melt her heart for good. I used one of my favorite rhyme schemes, stolen from the James Merrill poem “The Octopus,” though he stole it himself, from W. H. Auden’s The Sea and the Mirror, rhyming the first syllable of a trochee with the final syllable in the next line. How could she resist?

At midnight, I gave her the poems.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Well, the last word in the first line is a trochee, and it rhymes with the end of the next line. So ‘catachresis’ rhymes with ‘fleece.’ “

“No, what’s going on?”

“In a catachresis?”

“No. What are you talking about?”

“Uh…I have a big crush on you.”

“Oooooh,” she said. She smiled and let the pages drop on the table. She relaxed in front of my eyes. “So how did it start?”

“Well, I think you’re really beautiful.”

She relaxed a lot more — in fact, her face changed shape a little, got a little more round, as if her jaw unclenched. I didn’t know whether that was a good sign or not, but I couldn’t shut up yet.

“I always thought so. Right away, when I saw you.”

“The amazing black dress,” she nodded. “I was wearing that when I met you. There’s, uh, a lot of *me* in that dress. My Fuck the Hostess dress. It’s a real ‘drop to your knees and say amen’ dress.”

“I noticed. It’s gotten worse since then.”

“I know.” She lit one of my Dunhills. I had never seen her so comfortable. “I was on the phone with my friend Merit tonight, and she was like, Does Rob like you? And I said, I don’t know, he made me a tape and he didn’t call and then we danced together and then he left and called and left a message but didn’t call after that. Merit was like, So do you like Rob?”

I couldn’t believe she was making me do this. “So do you?”

She smiled. “I don’t know. He’s not my type, but I really like him.” She told me her type was farm boys with broad shoulders, football players. She took her time smoking that cigarette. She still had most of her beer left and she was in no hurry at all. I was too scared to talk but I was more scared to not talk.

“I don’t know what your type is. I don’t know what your deal is. I don’t even know if you have a boyfriend. I know I like you and I want to be in your life, that’s it, and if you have any room for a boyfriend, I would like to be your boyfriend, and if you don’t have any room, I would like to be your friend. Any room you have for me in your life is great. If you would like me to start out in one room and move to another, I could do that.”

“But you’d rather be a boyfriend than a friend?”

“Given the choice. No, not given the choice. That’s what I want.”

“Where are you parked?”

“I walked.”

“What’s a catachresis?”

“A rhetorical inversion of tense, kind of like a transumption. Let’s go.”

… … …

And a lot of music I think you should check out:
(Sorry I’ve been slacking with this stuff. I have put every, single one of these artists up on my MySpace page in the last couple of months … but … still … I love a good list!)

Music:

UndiscoveredJames Morrison
Song of the Moment: You Give Me Something
Lyric of the Moment: ’cause you give me something that makes me scared, alright … this could be nothing, but I’m willing to give it a try …

Costello MusicThe Fratellis
Song of the Moment: Flathead
Lyric of the Moment: hey, Flathead, don’t you get mean … she’s the second best killler that I ever have seen …

Girls And Boys - Ingrid Michaelson
Song of the Moment: Breakable
Lyric of the Moment: and we are so fragile, and our cracking bones make noise … and we are just breakable, breakable, breakable girls and boys …

GoodnightWilliam Fitzsimmons
Song of the Moment: It’s Not True
Lyric of the Moment: the room still looks like you … it’s a mess, and all the pictures on the shelf are dusted off by someone else …

These StreetsPaolo Nutini
Song of the Moment: Rewind
Lyric of the Moment: remember at 16 … oh, the crazy drunk night we had … when I kissed you in the hallway, then I took you straight to bed …

Yours To KeepAlbert Hammond, Jr.
Song of the Moment: Call An Ambulance
Lyric of the Moment: and you will only ever hold me, if I tell you it would end …

The StoryBrandi Carlile
Song of the Moment: My Song
Lyric of the Moment: I live every day like there’ll never be a last one …

Cassadaga - Bright Eyes
Song of the Moment: Make A Plan To Love Me
Lyric of the Moment: some things you lose, you don’t get back … so just know what you have …

Corinne Bailey RaeCorinne Bailey Rae
Song of the Moment: ‘Til It Happens To You
Lyric of the Moment: oh, Love, I’m a fool to believe in you …

Memory ManAqualung
Song of the Moment: Rolls So Deep
Lyric of the Moment: it’s like thunder when I look in your eyes … and it rolls, it rolls … it rolls so deep …

Wincing the Night AwayThe Shins
Song of the Moment: Phantom Limb
Lyric of the Moment: a latent power I’m known to hide, to keep some hope alive …

Oh yes … and … Tori Amos, who I absolutely adore in an almost insane kind of way, has a new CD coming out on May 1st. It’s called American Doll Posse, and I haven’t heard anything from it … but I’m still tickled pink with anticipation.

Hope everyone has a great weekend! Be safe, be kind, and … for Pete’s sake (and your own) … have fun!

Poetry (The Love)

Poetry (The Love)

I read a lot of poetry,
and always seem to gravitate
toward the same one

about lost love, unrequited
love, deep-in love, hope-for
love, falling-in love,

forbidden love, lust-disguised-
as love, wearing-out-of love,
and I-love-love love.

For Su it is Foreign Languages
Neruda it is I do not love you …
and, also, If You Forget Me,

Jong is After the Earthquake,
Lovespell: Against Endings,
and Climbing You,

I Carry Your Heart by Cummings,
Litany by Billy Collins,
and Jukebox Lovesong by Hughes.

Then, of course, who can forget
Elizabeth Bishop with her One Art,
and Love Letter by Sylvia Plath?

I always seek out the love,
when nothing ever seems to last;
I always seek out the love …

That is why I wonder,
even as I sit here now,
if maybe I should write

more of culture, the world,
abortion, abuse, misuse,
wars, gardens, buildings,

feminism, machismo, and food.
I wonder as wonder-ers often do,
turning it over and over,

already armed with the answer.
Maybe it is simply me,
and I am simply uninteresting

because I can’t bring my pen
to write about fruit and,
instead, romanticize the juice.

I wonder what makes a poet,
what causes me this burning,
so often hidden from sight?

I wonder, “Why me?”,
and what this need really means.
Hopeless romantic, dim child?

I hope not.  I hope it
makes me, while not more,
maybe brighter, somehow.

Not silly, or foolish, or
naive … absurd, daffy,
sappy, screwball, kooky,

looney, brainless, or unwise …
but that it makes me, instead,
(somehow) a combination of a few.

(Silly in my foolish happiness.
Absurd in my kooky laughter.
Sappy when anchored alongside.)

I think with these thoughts,
still knowing this is not for
only me to try and define.

Love seems to now mean so little,
fidelity kept by so rare and so few.
Love should still matter!

(Maybe now more than ever.)
I guess this is why I read poetry,
why I write, why I romanticize

my way through writing, self, life.
Love should still matter!
Yes, I guess that is why …

© – SKK

Atlas Shrugged

“She sat listening to the music. It was a symphony of triumph. The notes flowed up, they spoke of rising and they were the rising itself, they were the essence and the form of upward motion, they seemed to embody every human act and thought that had ascent as its motive. It was a sunburst of sound, breaking out of hiding and spreading open. It had the freedom of release and the tension of purpose. It swept space clean, and left nothing but the joy of an unobstructed effort. Only a faint echo within the sounds spoke of that from which the music had escaped, but spoke in laughing astonishment at the discovery that there was no ugliness or pain, and there never had had to be. It was the song of an immense deliverance.

She thought: For just a few moments — while this lasts — it is all right to surrender completely — to forget everything and just permit yourself to feel. She thought: Let go — drop the controls — this is it.”

From Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand.

On The Radio

J’adore Regina Spektor!

This is how it works
You’re young until you’re not
You love until you don’t
You try until you can’t

You laugh until you cry
You cry until you laugh
And everyone must breathe
Until their dying breath

No, this is how it works
You peer inside yourself
You take the things you like
And try to love the things you took

And then you take that love you made
And stick it into some
Someone else’s heart
Pumping someone else’s blood

And walking arm in arm
You hope it don’t get harmed
But even if it does
You’ll just do it all again

I think you should love her, too. 

(Snippet taken from On The Radio on Begin To Hope.)

Letter Read

Before I even begin, I’m going to go ahead and ask forgiveness for whatever nonsense comes pouring from my brain, slightly filtered by my heart, straight through to my fingers, and unabashedly out onto this page.

Forgive me? “Sure, okay.” Good. Now that that is out of the way, let’s begin.

I’m currently listening to Rachael Yamagata again, and the song I am stuck on is Letter Read. I’ve had it on repeat for about an hour, and it’s just killing me … not softly. It’s got so much gumption, my eyes are burning. I don’t know, still love that girl.

It’s funny how I get stuck on songs for no particular reason. Right now, for example, I am feeling not one emotion similar to the words pouring out the speakers of this computer, but I am feeling something because of them. This is why I love music so, damn much. It may not mean the same thing to each of us, and probably not anywhere near what the artist intended when it was being written, but it certainly evokes something within each of us … and something is … well, not nothing, that’s for sure. That is, unless you are one of those crazy, soul-less people. If that is the case, I want nothing to do with you, anyway.

I mean, who doesn’t feel this?!

And I’m afraid, and I can’t breathe,
And I’m in love with you
But you are not with me
And I have put so much into a life
I made too much about you now to lie

Then again, maybe it’s just me. Who knows? Wouldn’t be the first time, surely won’t be the last.

I, myself, haven’t been in love in quite some time, or ever. No, no, no. That’s not true. I just have this on-going battle within myself debating whether or not it was actually love if it ended, and then amounted to nothing in the end. Maybe it’s the music, or the new-ish prospect, or the cheese-infested holiday that is lurking around the corner, but some thoughts on this matter have entered my mind lately. (Honestly, I think maybe it’s really to do with the possibility of falling all over again.) I’m sort of flying, not blind, but perhaps with some slightly foggy goggles on here. What I do know is limited, and what I have come up with is very simple at its core.

First of all, partnership. I can’t stress it enough. I’m no expert, but I do know that is what it’s about. 50/50, you know? It’s also about playing no games, and being present. What I mean by no games is no mind games, heart games, harm games. The bad stuff. Scrabble, Monopoly, Scattergories, Twister, Spades, Catch Phrase, Balderdash, and Trivial Pursuit are actually encouraged. And by being present, I mean not stuck in the past, and not too far ahead in the future. That one is tough. We are all a product of our past, and all zooming full speed ahead into the future with every second that ticks down on the clock.  But, you know, just be present.  Find a way, make it happen.

Communicate … that’s all I know to say. Communicate as much as flipping possible.

Ms. Yamagata will have a new CD coming out sometime this year. Not sure when, but I just cannot wait.

I wrote down some CD’s that I desperately need to get my hands on. I’ve either had these and “lost” them, or I have had certain songs downloaded from iTunes, but never got around to purchasing the entire album, or I am just flat-out behind the times with my CD-purchasing. If my Post-it were to be misplaced, discovered by someone else, and published in Found today, it would include:

‘Til The Sun Turns Black- Ray LaMontagne
Nightcrawler – Pete Yorn
Son of Evil Reindeer – Reindeer Section
If Songs Could Be Held – Rosie Thomas
When It’s Over We Still Have To Clear Up – Snow Patrol
With Teeth – Nine Inch Nails
Blinking Lights and Other Revelations – Eels

Those can also be considered my suggestions to you for the day, by the way. I know I’ve mentioned this before, but Rosie Thomas will just, absolutely break your heart. Her voice is so smooth, and her lyrics are incredibly poignant.

It’s worth a shot, anyway.

I’ve had some emails requesting more of my poetry on here … from people I don’t know, and have never, ever met … which is surreal … but nice. (Quick! Name that movie!)

My favorite emails are the ones asking where my book can be purchased. Well, I don’t have a book that has been published, but if one were to be requested enough, I would certainly consider (once again) publishing some of the poetry stuff. I’ll keep it in mind, one way or another. In the meantime, I’ll just keep posting some of my dabbles on here from time to time. So, to answer all of those emails collectively … soon, I’ll post another one soon.

I write and I write and I write and I write. It’s the only way I know. Pen to paper. Inside to outside. It’s who I am, all I know to do.

My new book, which does not have a “deal” (as I have not even ever tried to find one), and I have just started working on recently, will also include some of my poetry. The style in which I am writing it allows for this sort of thing, which is why I prefer it to any other way I have ever written. It’s coming along well so far. To answer yet another round of questions I have been asked recently … yes, I will maybe, actually try (like send it out to agents and publishing houses, try like never before, try) to get this one published. Who knows? Stranger things have happened.

Speaking of, Anna Nicole Smith died today, which I guess isn’t really all that strange when you think about it. My guess is drugs in general, and cocaine to be more specific. Either way, I always think it’s sad when people die, just like that, unnecessarily. I guess it’s the way of the world, but it still makes me sad.

Really … wow. What a sad, crazy world we live in today! Do you not agree? We’ve got Britney flashing her stuff, Lindsay in and out of rehab, Paris being … Paris, and Nicole getting arrested for drugs … and this is what we call “News”. I mean, this is quite literally what we have our younger generation of girls witnessing, and even trying to emulate. It scares the stuffin’ out of me, to be honest. Raising kids in the world today … scary, scary stuff. I don’t know. I wish it were different. I wish people had more values. I wish everything wasn’t so f*cked up. But it is. Plain and simple. It is. I guess the only way to balance that insanity somehow is to keep your feet on the ground, your head level, your values in check, your mind a little sane, and your heart in a good place.

Which, in a very roundabout way, brings me back to the music that I love. The music I listen to is what gives me hope, and allows me to believe in what I really want to believe. It sounds so corny, but it’s all about the human spirit to me. Not the people who try to ruin it, but the people who try to cultivate it, help it flourish, actually make a difference, be respectable.

I’m going off into a whole other realm of random with that kind of talk. Slow down now!

This is what happens when my head and heart go in about a thousand different directions all at one time. It’s okay. I kind of like it, even. I advocate so much for people who think, people who feel … might as well embrace being one of them, right?

In truth, I have thought a lot about starting a new blog and pouring all of my rumblings onto there, anonymously. I haven’t done it, and decided that I won’t. I resolved that I can just use this one, for whatever, and not be ashamed or embarrassed, or feel too exposed.

I’m a writer.

I write and I write and I write and I write. It’s the only way I know. Pen to paper. Inside to outside. It’s who I am, all I know to do.

Quickies

– The release date for Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows has been announced: July 21, 2007. For those of you who are as nerdy as I am, you can already pre-order it on Amazon. (Yes … I did.) Even worse is that I actually got goosebumps when I saw an actual date in association with its release. Yeah, it’s pretty bad.

- Begin To Hope by Regina Spektor, which I have mentioned on here a few times, is $6.99 on Amazon right now as well. I don’t know how much it usually costs, but I do believe that is quite a good deal. If you ever thought about buying it, now is the time. This also goes for Love in the Time of Science by Emiliana Torrini (another I’ve mentioned before), again on Amazon. I think that one is $6.87, or something. Under $7, anyway. (Click the links to go to the exact pages where I found them.)

- I just discovered Found, and I’m completely fascinated by it. I don’t like it as much as PostSecret, but I do like it quite a bit. Same kind of thing.

- For those of you rockin’ it in my neck of the woods, check THIS out sometime. I won’t be at the one this Friday, but … you know … it’s still probably one of the cooler things in this _____ town. (Couldn’t find the words, and I’m in somewhat of a time crunch currently.)

- For those of you who keep up, I’ve started writing another book. I think it’s fiction. I mean, it’s complicated, but … I definitely think it’s fiction. I’m writing it in a style that focuses on a certain scene (point in time/what-have-you), then goes to another, but they all kind of string together in an odd sort of way. (Yes, there is a word for it. Yes, I know it. No, I do not feel the need to bore everyone with writing styles.) It’s moving quickly, just like my first. I put that one on the back-burner for a bit, though. It was making my brain hurt. I’ll assuredly finish this second one before the first. And, heck, who knows? Maybe that first one was just a catalyst to get me kicked into gear with this one, the actual one, the one I, myself, would read if someone else wrote it. I suppose that’s important. Ha!

- Running With Scissors (the movie) apparently becomes available for rent and purchase next Tuesday, Feb. 6th. I haven’t seen it because this town never brought it to theaters. All I can say is I enjoyed the book. (Damn, Amazon should pay me for advertising.)

- The line, “all that I am, all that I ever was, is here in your perfect eyes, they’re all I can see …” has been stuck in my head for days now. I hear that the song (Chasing Cars by Snow Patrol) is horribly over-played on the radio, which is a shame, really. I don’t listen to the radio, so I wouldn’t know. This is probably the reason I can still tolerate it … and so many other songs, for that matter. Doesn’t it suck how radio stations beat the ever-lovin’ crap out of a few good songs, making them unbearable to listen to anymore?! I think so; hence, the no-listening.

- I’m out of time for now.

- Take care, be safe, be happy, be nice … and … as my favorite memo pad at home says, Don’t fuck this up!

(I know it’s not very ladylike, but it’s just so versatile … you know?)

One by Me

 The Only Love Song There Is
(Left To Sing)

Where it used to be about
skinny knees and tight,

tight jeans, now it is about
wrinkles and how there is

love in every crease.
There is wobbling, wibbling,

and never more beauty than now,
when the has been inside pulled out.

There are still clean teeth
and even shiny, shiny hair,

but the hair has flattened and
with age, grayed at the seams.

It is in sitting across the room
and sharing a knowing smile

that spans the years, the kisses,
the struggles, the children,

the wild passion, the sickness,
the dances, and the fights,

where love, true love is found.
The years knows this, finding

them sleeping side by side,
fitting together night after night

in a bed where nothing is left
raw, everything is smooth,

no two days the same, still
somehow set in a perfect routine.

This is the only love
song there is left to sing.

This is the only spark
of light that is not fleeting;

looking forever into the same pair
of eyes, and still finding

something worth stealing another
glance, a million or more times.

© – SKK

(I was telling someone a week or so ago that I sometimes find it difficult to write from a happy/hopeful point of view.  It’s odd, but when I write, it’s usually about mistakes that are so far in the past, I don’t even relate to them much anymore.  That I mainly write that way is a little sad, really.  I’d much more like to capture the happier moments in time, mark them with a few words, rather than bask in the wrongs that have been done now, as well as so far in the past.  With that in mind, I vowed in the same discussion to write something positive, not too cheesy, from my (much more common) happy/hopeful point of view.   I’m not sure if this is exactly what I had in mind at the time, all I know is that I have typed above is what came about, and I think I just might like it.) 

Two by Su

The poems below are two by my favorite new-to-me poet, Adrienne Su.  I think her writing speaks for itself, so I won’t say any more about it … just that I love it, it has inspired me, and I felt like sharing a couple with everyone today.

The English Cannon

It’s not that the first speakers left women out
Unless they were goddesses, harlots, or impossible loves
Seen from afar, often bathing,

And it’s not that the only parts my grandfather could have played
Were as extras in Xanadu,
Nor that it gives no instructions for shopping or cooking.

The trouble is, I’ve spent my life
Getting over the lyrics
That taught me to brush my hair till it’s gleaming,

Stay slim, dress tastefully, and not speak of sex,
Death, violence, or the desire for any of them,
And to let men do the talking and warring. 

And bringing of the news.  I know a girl’s got to protest
These days, but she also has to make money
And do her share of journalism and combat,

And she has to know from the gut whom to trust,
Because what do her teachers know, living in books,
And what does she know, starting from scratch?

- Adrienne Su

Foreign Languages

I learned too late: if you want one to cherish
and comfort you, to be there at times
of near-speechlessness, you have to marry it,

perferably early, before you know the future
isn’t yours to give. Marrying later,
when experience has made you wiser,

has perks, but togetherness doesn’t come naturally.
Don’t make my mistake. I’ve had my fun
but ended up with nothing but history.

The first one I experienced out loud
was French, so brief and I so young
that it never got its tongue in my mouth.

Longer was my passion for Latin, bookish
devotion of my teenage years
I once thought I’d spend my life with,

but just as things were getting serious,
along came Chinese, well-read, older,
a painter and a poet in one, and to top this:

my parents liked him. While technically
there had been others, you could call
this one the first one I slept with. Eventually,

though, craving my own identity,
I grew up and left. Both of us wept.
But it wasn’t long before an equally

erotic arrival, Japanese, seduced me.
I loved the unembarrassed pleasure
it took in my neglected femininity,

understanding every hint, evasion,
unfinished sentence… Japanese softened
my voice, style, even ambitions,

but then I ran out of tuition money
and lived austerely with that dullard
English, for years. Oh, there were plenty

of kisses, notably German and Spanish,
and one impassioned summer with Italian;
I also wished for French to return in some lavish

incarnation, like seaside travel or a stranger
with a charming accent, but by now
I knew that when it came to languages,

I was only a flirt or a fling, a girl you date
for fun before you get ready to settle.
And it was all my fault: I couldn’t commit

to just one. I loved to take new vocabularies
into my mouth, to accustom my lips
to the unfamiliar, to hear them accidentally

append a mafan ni or kudasai
to a request for tea or somebody’s hand;
was thrilled to discover I didn’t know why
 
the modifier was right, only that the one
that felt right was; relished aquiringly
the novel syntax, slang, and idiom

by which the next one lived, and quickly
moving in. It’s true my resume suggests
repeated failure, even superficiality,

but it also delivers me back to the day
in first-year Latin when the teacher
gave the origin of ardent (from ardere,

to burn), and one of the cockier boys yelled out,
“Mrs. Swinson, is your husband ardent?”
Instead of getting mad, she only smiled

a wicked smile of knowing joy and said,
“Of course!” For once, she didn’t go on.
Never having believed that Latin wasn’t dead,

that it was the heart and soul of the Romance,
languages, I caught my breath – no, its breath,
the breath of the written word as its silence

uncoiled into understated passion. Right here,
the cinderblock room, chalk-clouded,
fixing our ablatives, was not so much a teacher

as a woman, alive and doomed as the rest of us.
I converted then, for better or worse, to a lifetime
of beginnings. To the romance of languages.

- Adrienne Su

* The poems above are from her book, Sanctuary, which was published in 2006.  She also has another one, which was published in 1997, called Middle Kingdom.  To purchase either, or both, please click HERE.

* I have been writing a lot as well.  I imagine I will have something new up by the end of this week, for all who are interested.   

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