Book Challenge Update

Yesterday saw the end of Little Women and I have now moved on to Jo's Boys. I had read Little Women before. I love, love, love it. There is always a new lesson to take in and moral to learn and a reminder that some things about people are truly timeless. I think this time I learned more from each of the sisters than I have before. Instead of focusing on the story most like my own with small additions from the others, I found different and more well-rounded traits in each story that felt applicable to my life. It is always nice to have a reminder that we are all pilgrims who bear our burdens, but that there is some hope that those burdens will be lifted and it is within us to lift them. 

I have never read Jo's Boys, but I am enjoying it thus far. It's so different to read about boys in this similar setting, but interesting nonetheless. Little Women gives you boys and men that are exemplar - they are the kind you look to have in your life as a woman. Jo's Boys seems to be giving you all types of boys to see how they turn out. They won't all be Laurie's or Mr. March's or John's or even Mr. Bhaer's. Some might turn out to be more like Ned Moffat or Fred Vaughn. 

12/30 books for 2011. 

Here and Now

I was reading at The Yawp about an ekphrasis project (poetry inspired by images in this case) and thought it sounded like a great idea. I did a free write at Sans Serif about the picture before I started writing. I'll be pulling some of my ideas from that free write for this poem. 


Here's the image I started out with:

(Photo from "Getting Pregnant Over 40 - Is it possible?" http://www.squidoo.com/get-pregnant-over-40  Copyright © 2011, Squidoo, LLC and respective copyright owners)

With a free write under my belt, I sat down to write a poem. I'm not sure it's quite there yet, but here's (at least) a first draft:

Here and Now

Our minds dwell on future and past

Where will we leave our footprints

behind? Where have they gone before?

A child lies restless in the belly of a woman

who is on her path to starting a family.

The child tosses and turns, the mother thinks

“Where will he go – a mover like this?

Will he be a doctor or lawyer or teacher?

Where have I been? Here and there.

And now I am going to be a mother.”

She smiles to herself at the future path

laid before her, brick by brick 

in her mind.

This woman is already a mother.

Her child inside her is already her child.

He is living, experiencing her care,

her movements, her strange food desires,

her inhale, her exhale – he takes her breath.

Placing a foot behind her belly button,

he presses – Know I am here. She knows.

Tickling toes that she will soon see bare,

she hums to herself and to him – 

living in the moment.

Comments welcome.

Orphic Mission

Today's post is another from the P&W prompt series (again, thanks to Angelspeak):


Flip through the dictionary and randomly choose 10 words. Write a poem with each word in every other line.


Here are the words I collected (with definitions from Merriam-Webster):


perigee - the point on the moon's elliptical path closest to Earth (making it look large)
apogee - the point on the moon's elliptical path farthest from Earth (making it look small)
quintessence - the most typical example of a thing; the essence of a thing in its most pure/concentrated form;the fifth and highest element in ancient and medieval philosophy that permeates all nature and is the substance composing the celestial bodies
divest - to undress or strip
orphic - having to do with Orpheus (the poet/musician who almost rescues his wife Eurydice from Hades by charming Pluto and Persephone with his lyre)
lignin (or lignify) - the substance that makes wood cells hard ( to convert into wood/woody tissue)
tissular - relating to organismic tissue
embrew (another spelling of imbrue) - to stain (something)
wame - (chiefly Scottish) the belly; in a woman, the womb
forbear - to hold back or abstain, particularly with effort


I got some from links on the front page of the site and rest from browsing the dictionary by letter. It wasn't until I looked up quintessence a second time that I got the celestial/alchemical definition, but by that time I already had 8 words and a theme was starting to arise. Words like changeling started coming to mind, so I came up with a draft: (the link is really worth reading if you don't know too much about about changeling/fairy lore - some of the references will make more sense)

With sweat streaming, a woman on an orphic mission

made her way up ol’ fairye hill, her fair complexion ruddy

with the strain of climbing. So close was the perigee moon

and with it the hope of recovering her baby for this changeling,

the hope that the quintessential vulnerability of her child, her real child

kept it safe from the little people’s wicked ways.

This child, stock or fetch, lignifying in her arm, failed to thrive.

Its tissular structures became rigid as she neared the stones-

her last chance at saving her little girl. The tugging of fear at her wame

collapsed any confidence she had left, embrewing her thoughts

 divesting her of her power to have an effect. Passing the lump in her arms

through the Crick stones thrice, she waited her child with hope.

The moon forbore its ancient potent, as though the apogee had come

too soon.


Because that was just terrible and the interesting words I had picked were often too obscure to really convey well the meaning, I drafted again, dropping the words where necessary, but trying to retain their meaning as much as possible.  

Orphic Mission

Sweat streaming into her eyes, a young woman panted

up ol' fairye hill, her fair complexion ruddy with strain.

The full moon bloomed large over the crest of the hill

a terra cotta medallion, her only remaining hope.

Pulling at the swaddling blankets in her arms, she glanced

at the false infant, a stock or fetch, lignifying before her eyes

a failure to thrive that was apparent from the moment she saw

the out-turned coat on the floor, fallen from the cradle.

The struggle to breathe, a hint of blue at the tips of the fingers

Gasping and grasping, a suddenly fussy changeling lay

where once was nestled a tranquil child, touched by the heavens

The deceitful being she held became more and more rigid

as she neared the stones - her last chance at saving her little girl

A fear tugged in her belly, collapsing any confidence she held,

imbruing her thoughts and divesting her of maternal power

Passing the body in her arms through the crick stone thrice

She awaited the arrival of her child, hope waning

The moon withheld its ancient potency, as though the perigee

had come too late




Comments welcome.

A family recipe

Today's post is another prompt a la The Red Dress Club RemembeRED series: 

"I once told a friend that i love her posts because I read with my nose, and she has the unique ability to describe the olfactory sense perfectly.

Sounds can do the same thing. Have you ever heard a song and suddenly you were swept back to a time in your life you had pushed to the back of your memory?

For many of us a scent or a sound can bring back a rush of remembraces.

This week, your memoir prompt assignment is to think of a sound or a smell that reminds you of something from your past and write a post about that memory. Don't forget to incorporate the sound/smell of your choosing!"

So here's my response - just a quick short one today!

A Family Recipe

I stood at the unfamiliar stove, sifting through the available spices and ingredients.

All dried and they're not all here... why can't I find normal spices in Hong Kong?

Chopped onions already making my eyes water with their acrid odor, I cracked the tinned tomatoes and a sharp tinny smell assaulted my nose. Not like at home...

Cool granite with a warm wooden cutting board hold the trophies of my horn of plenty. Mason jars full of bright, sweet-smelling Romas with their bite of once-fresh basil, intensified by the canning salt that touches the palette when tasted. 

My husband stands with a fragrant glass of Merlot in hand, breathing in the barrel from which it was delivered, philosophizing with my father and sneaking a tomato from the jar. I rap his hand with the back of a wooden spoon before turning back to the stove.

The sharpness of the onions fade from the air as they fold together with the spicy tang of the garlic in the searing pan. Olive oil takes on a new bouquet as the sauteing root vegetables are brightened with a dash of Riesling - the cloying sweetness steaming into my face with the alcohol that leaves me heady.

My mother and grandmother move about the kitchen, making some sweet-concoction of their own for dessert - delicate breezes of sugar and vanilla waft by as they pass.

Adding tomatoes from jars, a crackling of fresh ground pepper gives the sweet-smelling sauce a sudden savory scent that is augmented by the pungently grassy aroma of fresh cut parsley. 

Adding fresh, doughy pasta to the boiling water to my left lets off yeasty, floury bubbles as it begins to simmer. 

The longer the sauce cooks and the less we can all find something to occupy our hands, the closer we all drift to the stove, eventually becoming the people who watch the water boil and sneaking a spoon into the sauce when possible. 

I woke up from the daydream to the smell of tinny tomatoes and onions, sharp as knives in my eyes now.

And this is why it’s so hard to produce a family recipe.