I will be away from the blogosphere until next week.
My mother's service is this weekend.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
There are certain styles of hair,
("Up-dos" they call them)
At Darlene's Salon,
That impresses, like the heft
Of cathedral tunes.
After Emily Dickinson:
There's a certain slant of light,
On winter afternoons,
That oppresses, like the weight
Of cathedral tunes.
These updos are really popular around here around weddings and prom times. All kinds of updos--like high rise apartment buildings--on top of young girls' heads.
I have a habit of imagining each hairdo as a kind of music or poem. From folk to classical to rock. Today, at the salon, I saw folk music turn into classical.
And there's always country music . . .
Thursday, February 9, 2012
At the sight of her hair falling,
A young girl cries out sharply.
A woman is moving.
A woman's new hairdo is not moving.
So which one do you prefer:
The beauty of anticipation,
The beauty of suggestion,
(This will look just real fine on you . . . )
Or the reality of reflection
When you hair is scattered across the floor?
O thin ladies at Darlene's Salon,
Why are you all platinum blondes?
I know your local accents
Your slangy rhythms and double negatives:
I don't know nothing!
You say. You who are involved
In all the knowing of this town.
(after "13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird" by Wallace Stevens)
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Saturday, February 4, 2012
after John Keats
Ah, unhappy boughs! that must forever shed
Your leaves, that can never bid the Spring hello
Ah, unhappy melodist, wearièd, off key,
Forever piping songs that grow old;
More, more unhappy love! Forever warm
and then, forever chilled to the bone,
Forever panting Bob Dylan's"Forever Young."
We keep getting spring and then winter, spring and then winter. The photos above are from yesterday. Some of the spring flowers are pushing up, and some of the new leaves showing. I don't remember seeing skunk cabbages until late March last year. Or snow drops and crocuses. Today it is snowing, and tomorrow, who knows. It might be summer.
Of course I was just parodying this stanza from "Ode to a Grecian Urn" by Keats. For some reason, those words, "More happy love! More happy, happy love!" have a way or replaying in my mind at times, twisting into a variety of mocking lines. And I always think of Dylan as the deity of no tone . . .
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearièd,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.