I admit I maybe forgot about this blog.... though not in the bad sense. It almost seems to me I've been running to keep up with the clock-but I guess that's just how life goes! To brief ya'll of recent events, I received my license this December and by Jove am I loving it! I drove by myself for a long distance the first time last week, when I was running to volunteer at the Springville Art Museum. I blasted the Tangled soundtrack and felt the warm February Utah breeze (we've had an uncommonly warm winter) from my rolled down windows. Drivers passing in the other direction can easily vouch how broad my grin was. Whenever I drive I can't help but feel slightly giddy (or giddish?)
As far as music goes, I am working on Allemande by J.S. Bach and Minet's Old French Dances. They are gorgeous. I've also recently been obsessed with Classical 89 radio. They play the best variety of classical music, along with Spanish guitar and for an added bonus they play BBC World News at the start of very hour.
I am also currently working on a project similar to the one that I started with this blog. I am collecting poetry, written works (word clambake!), and quotes into my book I made at my writing summer class in 2010. So far,I have a many poems my dear Ms. Dickinson, William Wordsworth, Robert Burns, Kipling, Byron, Keats, Moore, Andrew Marvell, and my new favorite: Billy Collins. I was introduced to Billy Collins from one of the other English teachers at Timpview. His books The Trouble with Poetry, The Art of Drowning, and Sailing Alone Around the Room are my favorites. His poem, Monday highlights his particular style that I am in love with:
The birds are in their trees,
the toast is in the toaster,
and the poets are at their windows.
They are at their windows
in every section of the tangerine of earth-
the Chinese poets looking up at the moon,
the American poets gazing out
at the pink and blue ribbons of sunrise.
The clerks are at their desks,
the miners are down in their mines,
and the poets are looking out their windows
maybe with a cigarette, a cup of tea,
and maybe a flannel shirt or bathrobe is involved.
The proofreaders are playing the ping-pong
game of proofreading,
glancing back and forth from page to page,
the chefs are dicing celery and potatoes,
and the poets are at their windows
because it is their job for which
they are paid nothing every Friday afternoon.
Which window it hardly seems to matter
though many have a favorite,
for there is always something to see-
a bird grasping a thin branch,
the headlights of a taxi rounding a corner,
those two boys in wool caps angling across the street.
The fishermen bob in their boats,
the linemen climb their round poles,
the barbers wait by their mirrors and chairs,
and the poets continue to stare
at the cracked birdbath or a limb knocked down by the wind.
By now, it should go without saying
that what the oven is to the baker
and the berry-stained blouse to the dry cleaner,
so the window is to the poet.
Just think-
before the invention of the window,
the poets would have had to put on a jacket
and a winter hat to go outside
or remain indoors with only a wall to stare at.
And when I say a wall,
I do not mean a wall with striped wallpaper
and a sketch of a cow in a frame.
I mean a cold wall of fieldstones,
the wall of the medieval sonnet,
the original woman's heart of stone,
the stone caught in the throat of her poet-lover.
-Billy Collins
There is just a crisp, concise organization of brilliance that he has. I'm sure you'll hear more from me about this chap. I just realized that I have so much more to say but I want to break up this post into a few parts. The ones coming up after this one shortly will be about my experiences writing this year, more poems I need to share that I've written and collected, my suave date with Mr. Tate (yes, it does indeed rhyme) and friends and other marvels.
