Be Realistic: Expect a Miracle!

“The economy of heaven
Looks for fiestas and fireworks every day.
Every day.
Be realistic, says heaven:
Expect a miracle.”

~ from the poem “Not the Millennium” ~
~ by U. A. Fanthorpe ~
found in her book of Christmas Poems: BC - AD
given to us last year by Auntie Jan
[see also]
Speaking of miracles, as I was looking over Christmas cards from the past few years, I pulled out a couple from people who had begun their letters with passages that were completely new to me, though from familiar authors.

First came these miraculous lines from E.E. Cummings,
sent by my friend Mary Alice:

“Miracles are to come.
With you I leave a remembrance
of miracles: they are by
somebody who can love
and who shall be continually reborn,
a human being.”
Second, no surprise that my friend Tammy, a poet herself,
chose these lines from Richard Hugo:

"I almost forget: he'd do anything for you. Love him
for what you might have become
and love him for what you are, not that far
from him. We are never that far. Love
everyone you can. The list gets longer and shorter.
We're seldom better than weather . . .
Don't be sorry, for him or for self. Love the last star
broken by storm. And love you. You hold it together."

I came across an analysis of Hugo's teaching legacy that concludes with the entire poem and this editorial comment:

"Since we are today, a writing community, or at
least a village of writing teachers, let me conclude this essay
with Hugo's 'Villager.' I can't help imagining it's exactly what
he would like to say to you."

What's wrong will always be wrong. I've seen him lean
against the house hours and glare at the sea. His eyes say
no boat will come. His harsh throated seemingly
good natured mother bends her back to the soil
and there at least all grows well. When I speak with him
his eyes move away to the sea and I imagine
the red in his face from drink is also from
some ancient tribal shame. To him I'm wealthy.
When we talk, I know how wealthy I am.

The police have him on file: petty theft.
I'm certain he steals to make up for the nothing he finds
every day in the sea, and to find money for drink.
Some days a woman picks him up, a sister I'm told,
takes him away and hours later delivers him back
passed out. Next morning again he's propped against
the house, the tide out in his eyes. I imagine
his sister, if that's who she is, knows that oblivion
is what he must have often to survive.

I have much to tell him. And nothing. I'd start
with the sea. I'd say, there was another sea something
like this long ago, and another me. By the time
I got to the point he'd be looking away and be right.
No two hurts are the same, and most have compensations
too lovely to leave. At night, a photo glows alive
inside him when his mother' s asleep and the cops
aren't watching. It lights up in the dark
whenever he looks hard and by dawn has burned out.

I almost forget: he'd do anything for you. Love him
for what you might have become
and love him for what you are, not that far
from him. We are never that far. Love
everyone you can. The list gets longer and shorter.
We're seldom better than weather. We're nearly as good
as a woman we met in passing once at Invergary.
Don't be sorry, for him or for self. Love the last star
broken by storm. And love you. You hold it together.

[See Making Certain It Goes On:
The Collected Poems of Richard Hugo, 415 - 16]

Alumbrados Medellín 2016
Medellín's World-Class Christmas Lights
See more photos
from last year's pre - Christmas trip to Medellin

Plenty to Read

"But will you woo this wild cat?" *

Fuqua & Complete Works
of Shakespeare in Two Volumes
These books were a graduation present to me from
my friend Marietta when I graduated from highschool.
My friend Joni gave the Complete Sonnets to finish out the set!
They knew me well!

**********************
Bringing you up to date on
kittislist.blogspot.com

October: The Not So Grand Test of Virtue
George Orwell & Wayne Muller

September: Paper Roses, Paper Moons, Paper Towns
John Green: Queries & Favorites

August: Guest Blog: HiyaKiyah
Kiyah Rosenbluth on Paper Towns, The One and Only Ivan,
and Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children

July: Guest Blog: Critical Mode
Tammy Sandel on The Agony and The Ecstasy
* Thanks to Cousin Nick for this caption!
~ from The Taming of the Shrew (I, ii, 169)

Refinishing

Rough ~ Sanded ~ Polished
Floor Refinishing Project ~ Philadelphia ~ 2001
Oak.

My belly is an acorn
Of round, sweet meat

Smooth, silky
A heart carved into fur

I can feed the squirrels
Which feed the hawks
Which oversee--
Floating their mighty feathers
Down to earth
As a reminder,
As a sign:

Do not give up
Someone cares

I can lie still
Waiting
Full of promise
In the dirt

I can sprout
And grow
Reach heights and girth
And nobility
Beyond my now,
Beyond yours

Eventually
I can be
Someone you walk on
Her satin-grained,
Robust
Lines
Her oaky flavor
Her gold

What was the floor before she was underfoot?

Hostess to the owls?

Mistress to moss?

Does she miss that life?

Does she warm instinctively, simply yearning for your sole?

~ by Tammy Sandel

"satin - grained, Robust . . . gold . . . underfoot"

For more poetry from Tammy,
check out my current Fortnightly post
~ "Heart of Hearts" ~

Heartfelt

In observation of Valentine's day, I am posting some excerpts from the heartfelt poetry of my multi-talented friend Tammy Sandel. These two poems are filled with visceral images of pumping, bleeding hearts at work. In the first poem, the vivid -- i.e., filled with life! -- motif of red thread, red note and red word connects the reader to the poet's creative energy. The opening lines run like this [emphasis added]:

Red Note*
A blood red thread runs through the chapters of my life, stitching them together, feeding the future from the past like an artery.
Some of my chapter titles are the names of men. Of boys. Of my boys. Of animal friends. Some are titled with women's names, those women who invited me into the intimacy of birthing their child.
And some chapters are simply Moments. . . .

and

Zoom Hover Reverse.**
(tlks 12/12/14)
Alternate realities put me in the center of a Venn diagram. The intersecting circles pen me in with iridescent wings.
Living labile demands strength. Trying to notice and feel and say every thing to every one you love? Zoom.
Wishing, dreaming, imagining is exhilarating. And time consuming. Hover.
Second guessing, guilt, and regrets exhaust. Reverse.
Do you see that I feed you with the meat of my racing heart?
It's the only way I know how to be. . . .

Tammy, thanks for sharing your poems!

To read these poems by Tammy and more,
check out my current post

~ "Heart of Hearts" ~
@ The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker:
A Fortnightly [every 14th & 28th] Literary Blog of
Connection & Coincidence; Custom & Ceremony

Present from my sister- in- law Tina a couple of years ago:
Miniature Heart - Shaped Le Creuset!

Cadbury Flake

"In Scotland
there were vignettes of simple, stunning beauty
all the time
I climbed Dumyat and
took communion with a lab,
found the heather
and tasted every chocolate Flake . . ."

from the poem "Strip the Willow"
by tammy l. knox sandel, 8/17/13

~ excerpt from my current fortnightly blog post ~Tammy's reference to "every chocolate Flake" spoke to my heart. I was not in 1979 a fan of the Flake, though I have since become one, as it is a favorite of my English relatives, including my husband and sons. Back then, however, what Kathy and I loved to buy at the British Rail newsstands were Twix Bars and Mini Babybel cheeses, two novelty snacks not widely available in the United States at the time. Somehow I knew exactly what Tammy meant about the memory of a chocolate treat that comes to symbolize everything new and unique and untried about "a specific place we must find." Or perhaps a place that we have actually found; or an old, exciting time when there was just so much to learn!

Tammy's poem led to a day spent thinking about Flakes and Twix; old friends, new friends, children of friends, and young womanhood. At the close of that day, I was looking in the pantry for some chocolate chips to add to a batch of zucchini bread ('tis the season), and -- to perfectly round out a series of connections and coincidences -- what did I discover and use instead? A package of very crumbly (even more so than usual) Flake Bars, no doubt left over from Gerry's parents' last visit.

Believe it or not, Tammy is not the first author I know to have incorporated a reference to Flakes in her writing! In Gladys Reunited: A Personal American Journey, Sandi Toksvig -- herself a master of the literary coincidence -- describes bringing a friend in the United States a package of Flakes from England:

I had brought her a gift of Cadbury's Flake -- a chocolate bar
that crumbles the minute you unwrap it. She was thrilled.
'We don't have it here. Your mom actually turned me on to them.
The first time, I said, "It comes like this?" It's a mess.
You have to work at them. Great when you're cooking.'

(109; see also
"Birds of Pray" and "Opal: In Love with the World")
Turns out I'm not the only one who uses Flakes when baking! I like it that Sandi's friend had the same idea; and she's right -- they do make a mess and you have to "work at them." Yet, Tammy's advice is undoubtedly the best of all: forget the mess, go for the experience, learn all you can, jump in to "strip the willow" and taste "every chocolate Flake." Just say Yes!

For the rest of Tammy's poem . . . and more
see my current post
"Every Chocolate Flake"
on
The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker
A fortnightly [every 14th & 28th]
literary blog of connection & coincidence; custom & ceremony

New Fortnightly Post Coming Tomorrow:
"Do Not Worry, Do Not Hurry, Just Eat Curry!"

Strip the Willow

[click to hear samples on amazon]

New Fortnightly Post ~ "Every Chocolate Flake"
featuring the poem "Strip the Willow" by Tammy Sandel

strip the willow

I keep going back
to Scotland
which I can only always describe
if people know and care to ask
as Magic

Here’s how you get there:

First,
Journey many hours in the air
then more on a train
where people speak your language
and if you listen hard
you can almost understand

Ride your train through towns
with ancient names
that bloom on your tongue
as you try to roll Glaswegian R’s

Pass sheep inside a stacked stone fence
sometimes a dog running herd
or a shepherd with a staff
and Scottish temper
hurling the staff at fast cars who spook the flock

Other men on this trip nod and tip their hats
like Texas cowboys at the VFW,
wanting nothing but to help you
find your way

The air smells of peat and hops
but you won’t know that yet

You arrive in the dark and sleep late
waking up to a gardener whistling
“Cracklin’ Rosie”
happy tune to welcome
a bright new day

Your clean your teeth
with water so icy it must be pure
and take breakfast
with a lovely girl,
your first Louise

You call home at a decent hour
from a plexiglass phone booth
repeating the numbers twice
distracted by the purring Irish accent
in the booth next door
assuring your parent-loves that you are safe and happy
and you are

You are here to LIVE
to dig in, drink deep
soak up every scrap of knowledge from class
and country and Meadowlark
(even the pub name sounds pretty)

What will happen next?

You cross a small bridge
with other students travelling
one single path to class,
swans swim on the loch below
a castle shimmers beyond
seriously

You search their faces
want to know them, their accent and fashion
and you open yourself like a daisy
bringing all you can to the surface
to be shared straight away
so you can meet them, eat them all

You ride horses with Norwegians
study marketing with the French,
opera with the English,
and share coffee with the professor
who turns out to have a different idea
of cultural exchange
well, that’s experience, too

You walk in the drizzle
noticing patterns,
join the old women limping their way
to worship in an old stone kirk
kneel to strolling Westies
who pause a moment before trotting
back to their master

You take a job on Thursdays
noticing rhythms,
serving single malt to blokes
who take squinting measure of their glass
and American-you
discussing their politics and futbol
and once, the mystical power to heal

Finally convinced of successful outreach
you let in some other Yanks
just a few
who prove as interesting and layered
as Mumford & Sons
modern gospel
yearning, jubilant
triumphant horns over bluegrass over bass;
their family stories and characters
draw you in,
warm your belly
and inspire

They teach you the accent and fashion
of your home country
that magnificent, arrogant one
that you alternately hold tight and apologize for

And some teach you by learning with you
jumping in to Strip the Willow
whirling ceilidh dance of
laughter in a big wide barn
celebration of freedom and joy and youth

Tall and rangy Montana
gathers you up like hay
gives you a greater sense of yourself
of your power and insecurity
the way a mirror reflects the beauty and the flaws

A person can do this
just like a place

So in Scotland, you meet
music from voices past
ideas of future film
words
all of which you somehow already know;
a boy climbs through your window with the moon
stretches his long limbs over yours and
helps you weave a blanket of duvet, wool, and sky

Now
When I remember who I am sometimes
it’s that girl in Scotland
that long-walk every day girl who sought out the wonder,
the soul behind the eyes
who was blessed to have beginner’s mind
come easily

I still see all the shades of mist
and I’m never ever certain of any one thing, for sure
except for love and magic

In Scotland
there were vignettes of simple, stunning beauty
all the time
I climbed Dumyat and
took communion with a lab,
found the heather
and tasted every chocolate Flake;
I knew ‘rapture from an orange
and ecstasy from a blade of grass’*
and it never went away

Why does it happen when it happens?
How’d I get a gift like that?

Is it a specific place we must find,
a person we must know, or
the ripening of our own body inside our skin?
all those things, or none of them
and a commitment to saying yes

I heard bagpipes in the distance
and was completed,
or transformed,
or maybe just returned with gentle magic
to myself.

tammy l. knox sandel, 8/17/13

* Leo Buscaglia, who is (also) not Scottish

For this poem and more
please see my new post
"Every Chocolate Flake"
on the
The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker
A fortnightly [every 14th & 28th]
literary blog of connection & coincidence; custom & ceremony

Highland Wedding at Blair Atholl, 1780
by Scottish painter and illustrator of historical subjects,
David Allan, 1744 - 96
[learn more about this painting and the ceilidh dance]

Tammy Sandel, Guest Poet

I do not write much poetry myself,
but I have plenty of friends who do.
Today I have the pleasure of sharing with you some poems -- about
childbirth, childhood, motherhood,
and eating what's put before you --
written by one of my talented friends:

Tammy Sandel
[BBA, MBA,
Certified Doula (DONA),
Poet, Prankster, Mom]

tammysandel@yahoo.com
www.lafayettedoulas.com


Postpartum Visit

Three days after I attended the birth as doula, I visited this new mother and her little one at home…

Radiant
You hand me your sleeping newborn
And his warm weight thumps against my heart
Flying me back to when I held my own tiny son
(I hold him still, my lap overflowing with legs and arms and words).
Your boy works the indescribable magic
That brings motherhood and family and friendship to a sparkling point of light
That smells like new skin
And feels like truth.
Your trust helps me remember
That your child and my child
Breathe the same air
Gaze at the same sky
Reach out in the same emptiness
To nestle in a safe place.
And love from me is love from you
In an endless circle of women
Holding each others’ hands
And babies.

By Tammy Sandel, CD(DONA)

Tammy Knox Sandel is a birth doula in West Lafayette, Indiana, where she shares a home with her husband, two sons, and three animals. She works to notice, amplify, and celebrate relationships and connections through the experience of birth.
***
west side CVS

three moms are at the photo kiosk
touch-screening
smiling, nodding,
murmuring to themselves
as faces flash by –
baby-plump, gap-toothed, prom-bound
compact little squares of time

i know these
women on stools.
i got here first today
then sally from the blue room,
who used to greet me with a smile and read stories to my son
and kim, the master scrapper,
who helped me learn to PTO

we chat briefly, learn that all 3 of us know all 3 of us,
learn fast about important things:
a daughter’s graduating,
the boys are playing baseball,
good to have both kids at one school

as my pictures print,
i shop
for toilet paper, toothpaste, deodorant
and realize in beauty that I lost a greenbag somewhere
a tall man smiles and hands it over
“in the liquor aisle,” he replies
betraying my selection of
cheap and delicious red wine
oh well.

i finish, look forward to
remembering
with my 68 shots of science projects, easter outfits,
and spring break in chicago.
i am so proud to be “mrs. sandel”
whose order is now ready at the counter
who swipes her reward card
and pays the nice man who found my bag

i peek at the photos
and softly pat my own back
for doing this errand
releasing them from the camera
for noticing and celebrating
and chronicling these moments
of an ordinary
extraordinarily sweet life.

tammy sandel, april 28, 2009

***
Bon Appetit

On a quiet stretch of country
I see you down the road –
Patient turkey vultures
Looming like giants
above the wooly worms.
If you have to take your supper
In the middle of the street,
Get someone to come with you, right?
Enjoy the company
While you feed your young,
And accept the interruptions
with gratitude for the food.
Hunched inside your black housecoats
You meander and strut
Deliberate,
Calm,
Keeping watch
‘Til I’m close enough for someone to sound the alert:
“Hey ever-bod-ee!”
And it’s heavy lift-off in
3…
2…
Whoosh.
Then you all just hang
Chill
Still and colossal on the fence
Waiting for the quiet
So you can go back to work
And clean your plate.

Tammy Sandel, September 1, 2009

***
Parting words from Tammy:
Learn things. Have fun. Do some good.