Peg Duthie's Blog, page 55

"And the wind says, 'Yes, / I must get to work now' "

The subject line's from Kate Barnes's "The Knife Edge," as is this:

When I woke up this morning
I found I was writing a poem in my dream
and the only line I could hold on to
was: take nothing for granted.

So I will write down that one line
and go looking for the rest;
I will take nothing for granted.

From October 2011:


Breakfast in Athens airport


Sunrise over Larnaca Bay


Larnaca at daybreak, looking out from the other side of our apartment

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"Live your life, do your work, then take your hat."

The subject line is from Thoreau's "Conscience Is Instinct Bred in the House." It is an insufferable poem (which is I admit in line with my general reaction of Thoreau) but that line had me giggling.

A snippet from elsewhere: "The poet is not a bag of sugar!" - Wolf Biermann, "The Poet's After-Dinner Speech"

It was a mishap-punctuated week. No lasting harm (AFAIK) was done, though, and my brain apparently likes to pounce on resemblances everywhere:



The sweet potato drippings in my oven formed the head of a flopped-on-the-floor puppy...



leftover pan juices reminded me of the water and paint suspensions used for marbling paper...



...and good things happened as well. A friend from college was in town, so I put together a few snacks, including this salad (roasted beets and pickled lemon). It looked good and tasted great with the sparkling rosé she brought over. (We went to Lockeland Table for dinner; I'm noshing on leftover octopi pizza for breakfast, though it just dawned on me that I had better do something about all the garlic that's now on my breath, since I'm singing this morning. Oops...)

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pickles and poems

There are at least three recipes for salt-preserved lemons in my house. A week or so ago, I finally got around to two of them. One was a spicy Israeli riff that won't be ready until June; the other a simple Greek version with a fridge life of two months.

I fished two pieces of lemon out of the Greek jar yesterday. Mmmm.

Last summer, I went to a dinner where the appetizers included pickles from Pickle Me This, a new Nashville business. That business is moving to Brooklyn in May. Brooklyn is in for a treat.

Yesterday, Alimentum published a set of poems about great restaurants. The set includes my pieces about Sweet 16th (the icon on the DW version of this post is of their crackacino cupcake) and Novecento. Bon appetit!

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"A life is made of many things..."

Entombed within our deep despair,
Our pain seems more than we can bear;
But days shall pass and nature knows
that deep beneath the winter snow
A rose lies curled and hums its song.

For something always, always sings.
This is the message Easter brings:
From deep despair and perished things
A green shoot always, always springs,
And something always, always sings.

-- Alicia S. Carpenter, "A Promise Through the Ages Rings"

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snowflakes and snowflakes

Two days ago, snowflakes slowly drifted down all day. There weren't a lot of them, and they weren't sticking, but it was enough for me to rant to a friend, "It was snowing this morning here in Nashville. SNOWING. Big, fat flakes of SNOW. We are supposed to be able to plant things outside after Good Friday! This is not right!"

( But yesterday was so warm I sat outside to study )

...And there were snowflakes -- that is, Snowflake amarylli:



In other news, my poem "Schrodinger's Top Hat" has been chosen as a Goodreads finalist; voting is open to members until April 1. Wheeyay!

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gardeners against Bradford pears

During lunch yesterday, I read an entertaining article by Kim Green on how to become a gardener, and I was struck by her hatred of Bradford pears (I think there are at least four jabs at them in the piece; bamboo gets at least three).

So I looked them up just now, and lo, there's a 2011 post by Southern Living's Grumpy Gardener titled I Just Hate Bradford Pears. So there you go.

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doggies and daffodils

I went to Cheekwood after church today. By the time I finished lunch, there were dozens of dogs lined up for a doggie-model contest...



...and some being fluffed and prepped in adjacent gardens and lots:



( more photos under the cut )

[There are a few more snapshots chez Flickr.]

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what French music and French cuisine have in common

Observations by trombonist Jeremy Wilson during his recital earlier this week (quotes approximate):

"You have no idea what it is [that you've just been served], but it's tasty. I love the weirdness of French music. You get stuff like fried chicken voiceboxes..."
(Comparing toContrasting against German music/cuisine, which is meaty and "sticks with you") "They're both [French music and cuisine] unbelievably decadent and then, poof, it's gone. And it's served in small, exquisite portions."

Also, I love this word in the program: Wechselposaunist, which means "switching trombonist" -- Wilson floated between second trombone, first trombone, and bass trumpet during his tenure with the Vienna Philharmonic. [Euphonic considerations aside, I switched from soprano to alto during last night's rehearsal to even out the numbers for this Sunday's services. "You really like moving around, don't you?" Yes, indeed I do. :-)]


(Above the stage, before the recital)

[Revised for clarity 22 March]

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"so unpredictable, so out of control"

Happy first day of spring, Northern Hemisphere! There is no longer snow in the ten-day forecast for Nashville; it was merely bitterly cold during parts of my ride this afternoon.

As I approached the Forrest Green trailhead, I passed a group of musicians coming in. It's not every day you see a double-bass (uncased) being hauled toward the marshes. Some minutes later (after taking a brief water and write-things-down break), I rode west on the loop and heard them playing on/around a bench a couple hundred feet off the main trail. There was a white umbrella open -- the kind used to manipulate light during photo shoots. A woman and her dog stopped to listen to them.

The subject line's from Linda Pastan's "Misreading Housman, which begins, "On this first day of spring, snow / covers the fruit trees..." Last night's bathtub reading was the May 2001 issue of Poetry. The poem that grabbed me the most this time was Albert Goldbarth's "Maypurés" (which includes Brahe, parrots, dead stars, and travel journals in asking "What does one say / to a friend whose sorrow is somebody gone / beyond the level of breath, beyond / the bonds inside the atom?"). The pages I dogeared back in 2001 include page 100, which has this "fugitive piece" from Christian Wiman (this is before he became editor in chief):

As tired as I am of hearing mediocre poets praised and rewarded, I am more weary of hearing poets, especially good ones, lament their own neglect. The real work of poetry has almost always occurred outside of whatever inner circle of ordained poets and critics happens to hold sway at the moment. Poets should just shut up and work. Including this one. Or poets should think about giving it all up and going into the world in some different way. Including this one.

On related notes, this week's reading has also included Jessica Burstein's essay on academic envy and (via Mary) Terri Windling's collection of quotes on forgiveness and inadequacy.

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"Hope is the hardest love we carry"

Today's subject line is from Jane Hirshfield's Hope and Love. It is one of the pieces I am currently rehearsing for this Sunday's services. The other one is a lively setting of Emily Dickinson's "Hope Is the Thing with Feathers":



I've also been looking at various hymns set to "Charleston" (albeit wayyy slower than the midi at Hymnary). We sang the version that begins "There's a wideness in your mercy" (words by Frederick William Faber) at church not too long ago:


There's a wideness in your mercy like the wideness of the sea;
there's a kindness in your justice which is more than liberty.

But we make your love too narrow by false limits of our own,
and we magnify your strictness with a zeal you will not own.

For the love of God is broader than the measures of our minds
and the heart of the Eternal is most wonderfully kind.

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