Dept. of Spring

Saturday, 29 April 2017 04:38 pm
kaffyr: Animation of a Ghibli film scene, water rolling into shore. (Anoesis)
It's Still National Poetry Month

McCormick Boulevard )

Dept. of Remembrance

Saturday, 29 April 2017 02:53 pm
kaffyr: The star poet from the SJ Adventures (Star poet)
Treblinka

It's almost the end of National Poetry Month. I'd meant to post this on Yom HaShoah. 

kaffyr: A still from "Kiki's Delivery Service" (Kiki dreams)
For [personal profile] merrymaia 

Because she reminded me that I once upon a time wrote poetry, and because she loves the outdoor world more than I do. 

What they said to me, what I learned )
kaffyr: (We used to dream)
  photo fb3cd480-2f3f-4212-87a0-472a9271dbf6_zps3tzojemf.png

The New Colossus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame. 
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
Emma Lazarus
kaffyr: Eleven is blue inside the blue TARDIS (Blue Eleven)
Story: Sonnet for Canaan
Author: [personal profile] kaffyr
Characters:
The Doctor, the TARDIS and the rest of us
Rated: Gen
Word Count: 289, per Google docs
Edited by: unedited; all mistakes are my own.
Summary: The Thief's not tame, but worth it nonetheless.
Author's Notes: This was written for [personal profile] canaan 's 2011 [livejournal.com profile] fandom_stocking. I am not a poet, god knows, and know only the bare minimum necessary to cobble together the most common type of sonnet. And yet it seemed best to me to talk about the rhapsody of loving Doctor Who in verse. I labored over this (which probably shows, and is no predictor of quality) but I hope it reflects at least a little of the love I hold for its multiplex subject, as well as the occasional awe in which I hold it.
Disclaimer: As much as I wish it were otherwise, no Whoniverse characters are mine. They are the sole properties of the BBC and their respective creators. I intend no copyright infringement, and take no coin. I do, however, love them all, and thank the BBC for letting me play in their sandbox.




Our lives are ruled by minutes, seconds, hours )
kaffyr: Japanese building w/flowers on blue ground (Blue Nippon)
National Poetry Month

Others on my f'list have mentioned that April is National Poetry Month; a few have posted some of their favorite poems. I'd like to do that, too.

It sounds very simplistic to say "I love poetry," but sometimes saying something like this is simple, rather than simplistic.

I do love poetry. There are times that verse and blank verse can speak to us, or speak on our behalf to others, in a way that even the most eloquent prose can not. It can be rigorously intellectual, it can be an emotional tone poem, it can be transcendent and spiritual, it can tell us things we don't know, or have forgotten, or need to understand, about our world. It can be all of those things, and more.

Put simply (that concept again!), poetry can be a particularly rich and nutritious food for our hearts and our minds. It certainly is for me. There have been times, in fact, when it is more food for me than food. (Which is a horrible, horrible sentence.)

So, in honor of what poetry has taught me and given me, here is a poem by Alden Nowlan. He was born in 1933 in Windsor, Nova Scotia, just a few miles from where I grew up. He was primarily self-educated and a newspaperman, two more reasons I think he's awesome. He died in 1983, after having won the Governor General's Award for Poetry and a Guggenheim Fellowship, and having won a reputation for the marvelous gatherings of people that flocked regularly to his home.

This poem, "The Red Wool Shirt," is, I think, Nowlan at his best. This is the Maritimes in which I grew up, this is fishermen's lives, and he puts it together with just the right number of calm, clear-eyed, remorseless words.

 
I was hanging out my wash )
kaffyr: The TARDIS says hello (River Alive)
Because There's Not Enough DW Poetry ...
... especially really good DW poetry - I recommend this short piece exploring the Doctor and River Song, gorgeous and evocative, by [livejournal.com profile] cosmiccoz . I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

Weather or Not

Monday, 22 June 2009 11:43 pm
kaffyr: The TARDIS says hello (idalek)
Simmer Time
I have a friend at work who loathes - usually with energetic and colorful expletives - weather in which the temperature rises above 50 degrees Fahrenheit. I  have another friend for whom the longest days of the year aren't complete until he has been able to bask in shimmering waves of 90-plus degree heat, like some gila monster spread out in happy torpor upon a flat desert rock.

If I tend to either end of the scale, it would have to be toward summer, because I have a distaste for winter that only a child forced to play in the snow because "it's good for you!" can muster. It's truly hard to appreciate the crisp and porcelain beauty of the season when one's wrists are wet and chapped with snow melted into uncomfortable ice pills inside one's mittens; when one's feet snap and ache with cold, and incipient chillblains.

Still, I must admit that coming to Chicago has changed me. Summers in Chicago are inevitably moist and oppressive - sweat-daubed and reeking with the fume-rich blanket of hot weather inversion that tans our particular urban skies too many days between Memorial Day and Labor Day.

In fact, ever since 1995, when a heat wave took hundreds of lives in Chicago*, (including my cat Rissa. Not, certainly, as tragic as the human victims, but a loss we mourned), summer has reminded me that spring and fall are really the only seasons I can truly love these days.

This is not to say that I don't occasionally still love summer. There's nothing like walking on a summer night and appreciating the cool and the summer stars. I also love barbecues, and I adore swimming, and those are most definitely summer time arts. But I don't get the chance to barbecue much these days, and I haven't been on a beach for decades. All of which is my own damned fault, but it does limit those few aspects of summer that I truly adore.

So why my anti-paean to hot and cold running weather?

Simple: I was reintroduced to Chicago summer today, caught in construction-clotted traffic in an AC-deficient car for oh, about a century at high noon, in 88 degree sunshine.

Oh, my, I do not like hot weather.

* This is how much that summer affected me.

It's poetry. You've been warned. )

Weather or Not

Monday, 22 June 2009 11:43 pm
kaffyr: The TARDIS says hello (idalek)
Simmer Time
I have a friend at work who loathes - usually with energetic and colorful expletives - weather in which the temperature rises above 50 degrees Fahrenheit. I  have another friend for whom the longest days of the year aren't complete until he has been able to bask in shimmering waves of 90-plus degree heat, like some gila monster spread out in happy torpor upon a flat desert rock.

If I tend to either end of the scale, it would have to be toward summer, because I have a distaste for winter that only a child forced to play in the snow because "it's good for you!" can muster. It's truly hard to appreciate the crisp and porcelain beauty of the season when one's wrists are wet and chapped with snow melted into uncomfortable ice pills inside one's mittens; when one's feet snap and ache with cold, and incipient chillblains.

Still, I must admit that coming to Chicago has changed me. Summers in Chicago are inevitably moist and oppressive - sweat-daubed and reeking with the fume-rich blanket of hot weather inversion that tans our particular urban skies too many days between Memorial Day and Labor Day.

In fact, ever since 1995, when a heat wave took hundreds of lives in Chicago*, (including my cat Rissa. Not, certainly, as tragic as the human victims, but a loss we mourned), summer has reminded me that spring and fall are really the only seasons I can truly love these days.

This is not to say that I don't occasionally still love summer. There's nothing like walking on a summer night and appreciating the cool and the summer stars. I also love barbecues, and I adore swimming, and those are most definitely summer time arts. But I don't get the chance to barbecue much these days, and I haven't been on a beach for decades. All of which is my own damned fault, but it does limit those few aspects of summer that I truly adore.

So why my anti-paean to hot and cold running weather?

Simple: I was reintroduced to Chicago summer today, caught in construction-clotted traffic in an AC-deficient car for oh, about a century at high noon, in 88 degree sunshine.

Oh, my, I do not like hot weather.

* This is how much that summer affected me.

It's poetry. You've been warned. )
kaffyr: The TARDIS says hello (Bad Wolf)
In the interest of reminding myself that things can be beautiful, I found a poem I wrote a while back. It made me feel better, and, since I deluged you (deluged, get it? Get it? See, there was all this plumbing...never mind....) with my cranky maunderings, I'm going to take this chance to remind you that I'm sometimes less than cranky.

Night Rain

A screen, a gentle knock and stutter of rain.
Lightning announces itself silently,
low rumble on its heels coming in with the wind.
I can feel my skin.
Pinpoints, the space between them filled with night air
and the shine of dark wet sidewalk.
One story up, the smell of summer pavement hits me.
I breathe it into the spaces between my points.
Will my skin contain me?
The lightning glows over the lake
I sit very still

and expand into joy.


June-July, 1996

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