Misadventures of the Monster Librarian

When I get restless lately I've been forcing myself outdoors; I walk, meander, stroll, run, skip, do whatever I can to let go of that restless feeling that steels in. Last night I went back to a new favorite spot and hiked; walked circles familiarizing myself with the bumps and moss covered rocks, the trees and bushes. As I settled onto the ground I noticed that the three deer (who first made their appearance when there was still snow on the ground) were across the way from me. I watched as three turned into five, five turned into four--the skittish one running away at the first sign of a car. We studied each other and neither seemed to mind the other, so we went about our business; the deer ate grass and rye, natural lawn mowers; I sat and envied the sky its colors, the wind its gusts, and the deer their flippant white tails. "Afternoon on a hill" I will be the gladdest thing Under the sun! I will touch a hundred flowers And not pick one. I will look

As promised, here are the pics of Farmer MacDonald's goats! Last night after I gave them dinner I sat with them and was climbed on, chewed on, nuzzled, loved. Goats are such amiable creatures. I am in love with them! The goats! Quick! Make a star formation! Checking out the new digs.

"Piano" Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me; Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings. In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide. So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past. --D.H. Lawrence

Happy 35th Birthday A1! Where has the time gone?  Only one more day of work and then a short weekend. Two more days of work after the short weekend and I am going to enjoy some silence...maybe a museum too...? "Museum Piece" The good gray guardians of art Patrol the halls on spongy shoes, Impartially protective, though Perhaps suspicious of Toulouse. Here dozes one against the wall, Disposed upon a funeral chair. A Degas dancer pirouettes Upon the parting of his hair. See how she spins! The grace is there, But strain as well is plain to see.   Degas loved the two together: Beauty joined to energy. Edgar Degas purchased once A fine El Greco , which he kept Against the wall beside his bed To hang his pants on while he slept. -- Richard Wilbur

Last night was supposed to be a night for relaxing, prayer and meditation with some friends who've started a spirituality group; I was looking forward to the down time, but happened instead to be in the right (or wrong?) place at the right (wrong?) time. A coworker accidentally put her hand through a pane of glass in the kitchen while a few of us were hanging around talking. In the span of seconds, which seemed to move so slowly, we realized that our friends arm warranted a trip to the ER so, after applying pressure and wrapping arm with towels, Sierra and I and I took Elo to the ER. The night, which didn't go as I planned, was actually exactly what I needed. The time was spent being present to a friend, which forced me to forget about things which had previously seemed important--stresses and concerns--and gain the same sense of calm to be there for her. During the drive into town, and through sitting at the ER--sitting with the uncertainty--we were able to laugh an

Event How the elements solidify! --- The moonlight, that chalk cliff In whose rift we lie Back to back. I here an owl cry From its cold indigo. Intolerable vowels enter my heart. The child in the white crib revolves and sighs, Opens its mouth now, demanding. His little face is carved in pained, red wood. Then there are the stars - ineradicable, hard. One touch : it burns and sickens. I cannot see your eyes. Where apple bloom ices the night I walk in a ring, A groove of old faults, deep and bitter. Love cannot come here. A black gap discloses itself. On the opposite lip A small white soul is waving, a small white maggot. My limbs, also, have left me. Who has dismembered us? The dark is melting. We touch like cripples. -- Sylvia Plath

Wretched Man by Marcus Mumford

It is so beautiful today. It's one of those days when I want to do nothing more than lay down like a cat lapping up the sun, feeling the warmth at my very center , falling asleep in a sunny spot until the darkness creeps in and cools off the earth. It is around 80 degrees (F) and all feels right; spring is doing its work, spreading daffodils and crocuses; wildlife is out and enjoying the heat and the bounty of fresh veggies: deer (usually a trio) graze in a (not yet used) cow pasture full of rye; porcupines totter along roads looking unperturbed by the flash of car lights; Canadian geese honk serenading no one; peepers call in a chorus, at times deafening; frogs play a real life game of Frogger after the rains; and the rains, seem to come and come and come, but at this time it's good--no tomatoes in the ground yet to ruin.  This week has been crazy...and it's only Tuesday. My boss is off again this week on vacation and I'm in charge and so tired and so ready for his re

Easter has wiped me out. We made roasted Farm pork, Julia Child's scalloped potatoes, roasted tofu with baby spinach and cider gravy, broccoli and rice casserole, a bib leaf salad with apples, cranberries and almonds and assorted veggies. Looking forward to digging in at 6pm, but until then I am looking forward to a long nap...not possible; meeting, milking and a shower first. *sigh* "Absence" I have scarcely left you When you go in me, crystalline, Or trembling, Or uneasy, wounded by me Or overwhelmed with love, as when your eyes Close upon the gift of life That without cease I give you. My love, We have found each other Thirsty and we have Drunk up all the water and the Blood, We found each other Hungry And we bit each other As fire bites, Leaving wounds in us. But wait for me, Keep for me your sweetness. I will give you too A rose. 

During my last semester as an undergrad I was taking four English lit classe s; wonderfully happy, while totally bogged down with tons of reading. One of my classes (my Senior Capstone to be exact) was Women Poets of the 20th Century, something that I was not looking forward to--I hated most female writers at the time--weird phase to have gone through!--but something that I wound up loving so much! One of the wonderful lady poets I was intro'd to that last semester of school was Adrienne Rich. A true gem. Enjoy! "The Art of Translation" 1 To have seen you exactly, once: red hair over cold cheeks fresh from the freeway your lingo, your daunting and dauntless eyes. But then to lift toward home, mile upon mile back where they'd barely heard your name --neither as terrorist nor as genius would they detain you-- to wing it back to my country bearing your war-flecked protocols-- that was a mission, surely: my art's pouch crammed wi

I seldom write about religion, so if you don't like reading about it, you might want to skip this post: Being raised Catholict I grew to hate the Lenten season, the 40 days leading up to Easter; in my mind I reconciled the holiday less with chocolate as I grew up, and more with a time when I felt bad about myself. Felt bad that I'd slipped and accidentally eaten meat on a Friday; felt bad that I slipped and swore (the year I gave swearing up); always felt bad that I wasn't a good enough Catholic. It took until I was in my 20s and a really cool priest (and dear friend) to help me realize that the most important thing about Lent isn't giving something up, it is using this time of year, to think of Christ's struggles and the temptations he faced. I think the coolest thing about the time leading up to Easter (Lent) is that this was the time when Jesus was hungry and worn down and being tempted by the Devil--it is at this point that he seems least God-like and most

This poem is so lovely. Lovely lovely lovely. *Sigh of contentment* "The Tea and Sage Poem" At a desk made of glass, In a glass walled-room With red airport carpet, An officer asked My father for fingerprints, And my father refused, So another offered him tea And he sipped it. The teacup Template for fingerprints. My father says, it was just Hot water with a bag. My father says, in his country, Because the earth knows The scent of history, It gave the people sage. I like my tea with sage From my mother’s garden, Next to the snapdragons She calls fishmouths Coming out for air. A remedy For stomach pains she keeps In the kitchen where She always sings. First, she is Hagar Boiling water Where tea is loosened. Then she drops In it a pinch of sage And lets it sit a while. She tells a story: The groom arrives late To his wedding Wearing only one shoe. The bride asks him About the shoe. He tells her He lost it while jumpin

" The charming landscape which I saw this morning, was indubitably made up of some twenty or thirty farms.  Miller owns this field, Locke that, and manning the woodland beyond.  But none of them owns the landscape.  There is a property in the horizon that no man has but he whose eye can integrate all the parts, that is, the poet.  This is the best of these men's farms, yet to this their warranty-deeds give no title." --Ralph Waldo Emerson

Poetry followed me to work yesterday. Actually Ian , a fellow Farmer, asked for a recommendation on which W.S. Merwin book he should buy. I was unsure, so I checked out three for perusal from the library; looking forward to swapping good Merwin poems with him soon. So, since Merwin's on the brain: "Separation" Your absence has gone through me    Like thread through a needle. Everything I do is stitched with its color.   --W.S. Merwin

Remember when we laid in a field and talked about life? We were young, not quite done with high school; I was in love with you and you were in love with no one. Remember the plans we made? Remember how we were supposed to go to NY and bash around London? It doesn't have to be you today, it doesn't have to be with anyone; I just want to crawl into a cave and sleep--lost to no one. I want to hide away...I feel like running away for a few days...but not yet.

I will be glad when April is over so I don't have to post a damn poem every day...I mean, I don't have to, since it's my blog and I can do what I want...but, the librarian in me is shouting, "yes, you do!!" So, I continue. "My philosophy of life" Just when I thought there wasn't room enough for another thought in my head, I had this great idea-- call it a philosophy of life, if you will.Briefly, it involved living the way philosophers live, according to a set of principles. OK, but which ones? That was the hardest part, I admit, but I had a kind of dark foreknowledge of what it would be like. Everything, from eating watermelon or going to the bathroom or just standing on a subway platform, lost in thought for a few minutes, or worrying about rain forests, would be affected, or more precisely, inflected by my new attitude.I wouldn't be preachy, or worry about children and old people, except in the general way prescribed by our cl

Today marks two months since the tree fell on my cabin . Two months of wonderful friends like B1&B2, Mummy Dearest and Family, M&N and Family--all absorbing me into their lives even more; giving me a bed and a room of my own in each place. Each place is unique: my room at B1&B2's a quiet guest room which they've given over to me; drawers now stuffed with my things, half a closet taken by me; a bed that the cat Mabel occasionally naps on, next to me. Mummy Dearest has given over her daughter M's bedroom to me. Large, curtained windows which I pull back at night so that I may see the first rays of the dawn when I wake early, even before the kids across the hall. At M&N's I sleep with Bob Dylan--or at least see a poster of him before I fall asleep, which on occasion leads me humming a Dylan diddy while I read in bed. I love that at the two latter houses when I sleep over on my weekend the kids are glad to see me when I wake, enjoying that we've all had

I had to memorize the first 20 lines of this poem when I was an undergrad. I knew it by heart and then, for whatever reasons, floundered in front of my classmates. Ah, Romantic Lit was such a hot mess for many reason anyway... "The Cloud" I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, From the seas and the streams; I bear light shade for the leaves when laid In their noonday dreams. From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet buds every one, When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, As she dances about the sun. I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under, And then again I dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder. I sift the snow on the mountains below, And their great pines groan aghast; And all the night 'tis my pillow white, While I sleep in the arms of the blast. Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers, Lightning, my pilot, sits; In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, It struggl

I have these moments where I just want to run. Run and run, into the woods, away from work and people and responsibilities. I want to run until my lungs burn and I am laughing; to throw myself down onto a mossy spot underneath the boughs of trees and lay back, my weary head on the cradle of bare flesh that is my arms, folded underneath me in the most comfortable of pillows; " To sleep: perchance to dream ..." These are the moments born from me not being able to imagine being stuck inside any longer. This winter, for whatever reasons, felt like the longest and hardest of my life; I enjoyed close to none of it! Fortunately we've missed out on the snow which has been plaguing some of my friends further west, and today were left instead with the rain--turning on and off all day, though a huge switch were constantly being flipped.  Spending time today looking over my newly tilled garden plot gave me such a sudden jump-start--as though my very soul were renewed

"Hold on to what you believe," Mumford & Sons Because I am back in that Mumford & Sons place. You're welcome.

I was trolling around the internet and found this: Berkshire Farm and Table's Foraging Walks in the Berkshires . So, if you are in Western MA and want to learn cool stuff and forage for food--check them out!

Wow. There is NOTHING sexy about this--thank you Youtube.com

I have so many good memories of libraries, from a young age--maybe that's why I became a librarian...? Anyway, thought I would share this gem.   "My first memory (of librarians)" This is my first memory: A big room with heavy wooden tables that sat on a creaky        wood floor A line of green shades—bankers’ lights—down the center Heavy oak chairs that were too low or maybe I was simply        too short               For me to sit in and read So my first book was always big In the foyer up four steps a semi-circle desk presided To the left side the card catalogue On the right newspapers draped over what looked like        a quilt rack Magazines face out from the wall The welcoming smile of my librarian The anticipation in my heart All those books—another world—just waiting At my fingertips. -- Nikki Giovanni

Just got back from the hospital, visiting dear friends M&N and their new baby Henry--being there made me realize that it has been nearly 5 years since last I was in a baby ward, holding my sister A1's baby (my monster nephew A). I walked into the room to see my dearest friends smiling warmly, holding their new baby--a spot of life and light. I held him; noted tiny feet, small curled fists; shushed his tender cry. I melted. Such is the magic of a new baby. I do have other things to say, but until I can, I hope these poems I've been posting have been enough. Sylvia Plath's reflection on her daughter's birth; the wonder and awe of having a baby. I dedicate this to M & N and Henry   "Morning Song" Love set you going like a fat gold watch. The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry Took its place among the elements. Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue. In a drafty museum, your nakedness Shadows our safety. We stand rou

"The River Merchant's Wife: a letter" While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead I played about the front gate, pulling flowers. You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse, You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums. And we went on living in the village of Chokan: Two small people, without dislike or suspicion. At fourteen I married My Lord you. I never laughed, being bashful. Lowering my head, I looked at the wall. Called to, a thousand times, I never looked back. At fifteen I stopped scowling, I desired my dust to be mingled with yours Forever and forever and forever. Why should I climb the look out? At sixteen you departed, You went into far Ku-to-yen, by the river of swirling eddies, And you have been gone five months. The monkeys make sorrowful noise overhead.    You dragged your feet when you w

This April poetry business is keeping me busy finding lovely things to share. :) Enjoy! " The Intellectual is Always Showing Off" The intellectual is always showing off, the lover is always getting lost. The intellectual runs away. afraid of drowning; the whole business of love is to drown in the sea. Intellectuals plan their repose; lovers are ashamed to rest. The lover is always alone. even surrounded by people; like water and oil, he remains apart. The man who goes to the trouble of giving advice to a lover gets nothing. He's mocked by passion. Love is like musk. It attracts attention. Love is a tree, and the lovers are its shade. -- Rumi

"The Harvest Bow" As you plaited the harvest bow You implicated the mellowed silence in you In wheat that does not rust But brightens as it tightens twist by twist Into a knowable corona, A throwaway love-knot of straw. Hands that aged round ashplants and cane sticks And lapped the spurs on a lifetime of game cocks Harked to their gift and worked with fine intent Until your fingers moved somnambulant: I tell and finger it like braille, Gleaning the unsaid off the palpable, And if I spy into its golden loops I see us walk between the railway slopes Into an evening of long grass and midges, Blue smoke straight up, old beds and ploughs in hedges, An auction notice on an outhouse wall-- You with a harvest bow in your lapel, Me with the fishing rod, already homesick For the big lift of these evenings, as your stick Whacking the tips off weeds and bushes Beats out of time, and beats, but flushes Nothing: that original townland Still tongue-tied in

Ok, not really, but there were two more new calves born Tuesday night/Wednesday morning; went down this afternoon to see them with M and the girls--adorableness ensued.  Since, of course, I forgot my camera I will have to post pics later, so until then here is a pic of Don Curlyone and Laska, two of my favorite calves. Laska (brown) and Don Curlyone (white)

Hungover? Look like shit? Forget to wash your laundry/wearing dirty clothes? Forget to brush your teeth/hair/eyebrows? No problem if this is your job. I want this job. SERIOUSLY.

Walk the Dinosaur. Wow. Flashback. You're welcome.

Poem-ish "poem" for the day: “For love is as strong as death, its jealousy unyielding as the grave. It burns like blazing fire, like a mighty flame. Many waters cannot quench love; rivers cannot wash it away. If one were to give all the wealth of his house for love, it would be utterly scorned.” Song Of Solomon Chapter 8

In the spirit of National Poetry Month, here are two amazing poems by Langston Hughes--I remember studying, "Dream deferred," in my 11th grade English class, which now seems about a million years ago--who, I find, is particularily more enjoyable when read after reading Whitman's Leaves of Grass. Enjoy! "Dream deferred" What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up Like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore-- And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over-- like a syrupy sweet? Maybe it just sags like a heavy load. Or does it explode? And another Hughes gem. "Let America be America again"   Let America be America again. Let it be the dream it used to be. Let it be the pioneer on the plain Seeking a home where he himself is free. (America never was America to me.) Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed-- Let it be that great strong land of love Where never kings connive nor tyran

That was a lame title. Anyway, just read this article about public libraries who have started seed lending. According to the article,   "Seed libraries allow patrons to “check out” carefully organized vegetable seeds to plant on their own. After harvesting the crops, they save and return seeds to be used in the next growing season." Some of the libraries doing it include: San Francisco Public Library’s Potrero branch   Richmond Public Library (CA)  Alameda Free Library CA)  Fairfield (CT) Public Library's Fairfield Woods branch  What cool things does your library do?

The ALA ’s Top Ten Most Frequently Challenged Books of 2010: 1. "And Tango Makes Three" by Peter Parnell and Justin Richardson Reasons: Homosexuality, Religious Viewpoint, Unsuited to Age Group 2. "The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian" by Sherman Alexie Reasons: Offensive language, Racism, Sex Education, Sexually Explicit, Unsuited to Age Group, Violence 3. "Brave New World" by Aldous Huxley Reasons: Insensitivity, Offensive Language, Racism, Sexually Explicit 4. "Crank" by Ellen Hopkins Reasons: Drugs, Offensive Language, Sexually Explicit 5. "The Hunger Games" by Suzanne Collins Reasons: Sexually Explicit, Unsuited to Age Group, Violence 6. "Lush" by Natasha Friend Reasons: Drugs, Offensive Language, Sexually Explicit, Unsuited to Age Group 7. "What My Mother Doesn’t Know" by Sonya Sones Reasons: Sexism, Sexually Explicit, Unsuited to Age Group 8. "Nickel and Dimed: On (Not) Getting

"An hymn to the morning" Attend my lays, ye ever honour'd nine, Assist my labours, and my strains refine; In smoothest numbers pour the notes along, For bright Aurora now demands my song. Aurora hail, and all the thousand dies, Which deck thy progress through the vaulted skies: The morn awakes, and wide extends her rays, On ev'ry leaf the gentle zephyr plays; Harmonious lays the feather'd race resume, Dart the bright eye, and shake the painted plume. Ye shady groves, your verdant gloom display To shield your poet from the burning day: Calliope awake the sacred lyre, While thy fair sisters fan the pleasing fire: The bow'rs, the gales, the variegated skies In all their pleasures in my bosom rise. See in the east th' illustrious king of day! His rising radiance drives the shades away-- But Oh! I feel his fervid beams too strong, And scarce begun, concludes th' abortive song.  --Phillis Wheatley

I wrote about my sapping adventures last week, well here's proof. So thankful my computer is fixed again--so many pictures to download! Pictured are the oxen: Sampson and Joshua, Farmer MacDonald and EvanAlmighty.  I love this last photo.

I never grow tired of how spring seems to sneak up on me every year, no matter how closely I try and watch it, trying to catch every change, no matter how small.This year I promised myself I would document each change somehow. Everything I could think of felt excessive: journaling each change, Facebook status updating each little thing, sending an email, "more blades of green grass--GET EXCITED!" But, instead I've chosen lots of silent gratitude and appreciation and satisfaction and pleasure. So excited for what has begun. While in Buffalo this weekend Beth called across the hall, "I can hear peepers for the first time." So, I opened my window and heard it too--a sure chorus of spring. Arriving back at the Farm Sunday we saw three doe which seem to have made one of the pastures their hang out spot; seeing them today I noticed the grass they stood on and munched has grown greener, so crisp and alive after the browns and muted greens. It sprinkled last night and

I wanted the video too, but this is such a good version of the song that I guess it'll do. Orphan Girl - Gillian Welch and David Rawlings

Hadrian, Roman Emperor In the spirit of continuing with celebrating National Poetry Month: “Little Soul" Little soul little stray little drifter now where will you stay all pale and all alone after the way you used to make fun of things -- Hadrian ,  translated by W.S. Merwin from Poetry (April 2006).

1. YAY!! N just fixed my computer--apparently my hard drive had just (somehow?!?!) manged to slide loose!! HOORAY!! Will be posting pics soon! 2. It is 73 degrees here now!!! 3. I LOVE that scratchy record version of Billie Holiday which I posted earlier today. 4. The Nanci Griffith video I posted on 4/8: her cellist (bass?) player looks like John Malkovich's cousin. Also watch the smug face made at  2:10...ha ha ha. Had to watch it 3 times! 5. I have some new followers! WELCOME!

April is National Poetry Month here in the United States. Been meaning to post a great poem everyday but alas, busy busy lately. Stumbled across this poem by Elizabeth Bishop and liked it. Made me think of how I am feeling...in need of music...and right now it's jazz. "I am in need of music" I am in need of music that would flow Over my fretful, feeling fingertips, Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips, With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow. Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low, Of some song sung to rest the tired dead, A song to fall like water on my head, And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow! There is a magic made by melody: A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep To the subaqueous stillness of the sea, And floats forever in a moon-green pool, Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep. -- Elizabeth Bishop "He's funny that way," Billie Holiday with Eddie Heywood T

Made it to the Buffalo area safely. Sepnding the day being lazy. *Sigh of contentment.* All this thinking of travel this weekend has made my mind wander back to lovely days in sunny places; an ocean; country towns with ancient bridges; flamenco; fields of olive trees flying by a train window. Ah, how I long to visit Spain again. "Oranges in the south of Spain" stars hang out at night linen left to dry red geraniums along the balconies nodding, nodding willing to agree to anything just to keep their cola a gang of kids running through the streets faceless pranksters the moon a plate held before each face who am i? saying who am i running through the streets saying who am i the shadows of the buildings becoming cats that move away the trees immobilized left to stand alone in the dark rubbing their bark from regret like cicadas oranges have more delicacy softly falling, falling in the groves on the hills softly eaten, eaten by the earth swallowed who

Les Paines de Picasso, 1954, Robert Doisneau I stumbled across this picture tonight in my wanderings. Have always loved it. I was going to post the e.e. cumming's poem about Picasso, but realized I already did ( here ), which is actually great because it led me to a stash of Pablo Picasso's very own poems! Enjoy! "whisper" the shiver of hands blind without memory and so, friendly still yet sweet like the words forgotten to the tremble of lips quiet there are no surprises here rest your eyelids until they become stone rest your heart until it stops (it beats now only for itself in some secret place) --Pablo Picasso Pic found here .