Tell me a story, dear

from "Tuscan Cypress" in An Italian Garden
A. Mary F. Robinson

XI
Tell me a story, dear, that is not true.
Strange as a vision, full of splendid things;
Here will I lie and dream it is not you,
and dream it is a mocking bird that sings.

For if I find your voice in any part.
Even the sound of it will break my heart;
For if you speak of us and of our love,
I faint and die to feel the thrill thereof.

XVI
Come away Sorrow, Sorrow come away -
Let us go sit in some cool, shadowy place;
There shall you sing and hush me all the day,
While I will dream about my lover's face

Hush me, O Sorrow, like a babe to sleep.
Then close the lids above mine eyes that weep;
Rock me, O Sorrow, like a babe in pain,
Nor, when I slumber, wake me up again.


There is always that one class that you struggle to engage with. The one that you have to drag yourself to. The one that you put off doing the work for because it doesn't interest you at all. That class for me this semester is Victorian Lit. I was excited for the class. I love Victorian novels, and the last time I took a Victorian Lit class it was rather enjoyable. But the works we are studying are failing to engage me and the approach of the class does nothing but frustrate me. I once had a wise professor tell me that the key in each class is to find something that you love, something that fascinates you, and to focus as much energy into that as you can. Well until tonight all my efforts to do this in Victorian had been for naught. And then I read A. Mary F. Robinson. I think I found my in. Her works aren't particularly happy - in fact they are characterized by the horrors of the world and marked by a deep sorrow - but my favourite poets almost always have this. I love the opening lines of poem XI. So, tell me a story, dear.

Homesick

Back in Edmonton, today was the first day of registration at King's. For the past few years I've worked the registration table as one of the students who manages the line. And as crazy as the days were, I really enjoyed it. I loved seeing all of my friends, catching up briefly. I loved the crazy bustle of everyone being on campus at once. And today, I seriously missed it. I wanted to be there, in the middle of the chaos, seeing everybody. So, in a (partially successful) effort to overcome this particular bout of homesickness, I spent the day listening to Simon Hoskyn and Justine Vandergrift, and it has been helping me feel a bit more like I'm at home. One of the great blessing of being at King's was the fact that the community is so musically rich. I got to know, and listen to, some seriously talented musicians. Simon and Justine are just two of these people. I love their music and today it helped me feel a bit more in touch with the community I used to be a part of.

Black Rook in Rainy Weather

Black Rook in Rainy Weather
Sylvia Plath

On the stiff twig up there
Hunches a wet black rook
Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain
I do not expect a miracle
Or an accident

To set the sight on fire
In my eye, nor seek
Any more in the desultory weather some design,
But let spotted leaves fall as they fall,
Without ceremony, or portent.

Although, I admit, I desire,
Occasionally, some backtalk
From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain:
A certain minor light may still
Lean incandescent

Out of kitchen table or chair
As if a celestial burning took
Possission of the most obtuse objects now and then -
Thus hallowing an interval
Otherwise inconsequent

By bestowing largesse, honor,
One might say love. At any rate, I now walk
Wary (for it could happen
Even in this dull, runinous landscape); skeptical,
Yet politic; ignorant

Of whatever angel may choose to flare
Suddenly at my elbow. I only know that rook
Ordering its black feathers can so shine
As to seize my senses, haul
My eyelids up, and grant

A brief respite from fear
Of total neutrality. With luck,
Trekking stubborn through this season
Of fatigue, I shall
Patch together a content

Of sorts. Miracles occur,
If you care to call those spasmodic
Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again,
The long wait for the angel,
For that rare, random descent.


I often wonder what it says about me that I can almost always turn to Sylvia Plath for a poem that captures exactly what is going on in my heart and soul.

(Yes, I know this is not a picture of a rook. I have never seen a rook. This is probably a good thing because large birds terrify me. Actually this swan really freaks me out. I hate how their necks look. They remind me of snakes. Some strange cross between a bird and a snake. Wow. It suddenly dawned on me why I really hate swans.)

Live with Abandon

I am a perfectionist. This can be both an asset and a liability. It's great because I'm detail-oriented and will either do a job all the way or not do it at all. It's horrible because if I don't think I can do something perfectly or exactly the way I want I have a hard time motivating myself to actually do it. Case in point: my unpacking. I am down to all the odds and ends of items and in order to go through them all it is going to take a whole day of organizing. I haven't done it yet because I don't want to get half way through and run out of time or motivation. Lame reason, I know. I am also terrified of failure. I think this has to do with my perfectionism. Seriously. I want to get the perfect job, but I hate being rejected so I have the worst time handing out applications. I am always petrified that I will get a bad mark on papers and assignments, even if there is no real reason to think so, because I don't know if my work was absolutely perfect. I drive friends and family insane because I get upset over marks that are perfectly acceptable, but aren't what I wanted.

What does this have to do with a picture of birds flying across the sunny blue sky? Well, when I stumbled across this picture as I was trying to plan a post for tonight something about the sense of freedom that this picture evokes struck me. Something about not holding back and living with abandon. Perhaps that is a really weird connection to make, but that is where my brain went. I am sorry if this trip into the inner workings of my mind has frightened you. It is a scary place in there.

The picture is from almost four years ago when I was in Tijuana, Mexico with my youth group on a YWAM mission trip. I kind of love it. The bright blue sky, the brilliant sun, the group of birds. Very picturesque in a summery way.

She the Ocean

She the Ocean
by: The Barra MacNeils

He had a way with children
They'd all gather round
To play silly games
He gave from the heart
Sharing their lives he knew so well

She had to paint the seagulls
Watch their feathers
Ruffle in the wind
She was obsessed with motion
Or was it the notion of living by the sea

He loved the prairie
She the ocean where they married
By the tide she would stay
He in a wheat field
Cutting the hay

He lived from the land
Reaping the gifts
He sowed by hand
She stayed the sea
Caressed by the breeze and the touch of the sand

There came a day that he would travel
To his lover
On the shore
She would see her children
On the prairie they'd live no more

He loved the prairie
She the ocean where they married
By the tide she would stay
He in a wheat field
Cutting the hay

He loved the prairie
She the ocean where they married
By the tide she would stay
He in a wheat field
Cutting the hay

Now he loves the seagulls
Watch their movements
On the ocean
She loves her children
Kiss them softly into sleep

For the past week I have been listening to The Barra MacNeils pretty much non-stop. Also, The Rankin Family, Great Big Sea, and Darrell Keigan, none of which are really much of a departure. "She the Ocean" is probably one of my all time favorite songs by The Barra MacNeils. I couldn't explain to you why, since I am not someone from the ocean, nor am I really a beach person, nor do I like seagulls (in fact, they, like all birds, terrify me). Regardless of this fact, something about this song sucks me in every time. It's mostly the second verse (She had to paint the seagulls / Watch their feathers / Ruffle in the wind / She was obsessed with motion / Or was it the notion of living by the sea) that randomly will pop into my head. And it made me think of this picture that I took of a seagull sitting on a windy beach. This picture is actually on a beach outside of LA. I was sitting there, minding my own business, and this seagull decided I would be a good person to hang out with. I disagreed, but grabbed my camera anyway. It was really (and I do mean REALLY) windy on the beach, and actually fairly chilly, but that is kind of the way I prefer my beaches. I'm weird, I know.