I am going to a baby shower on Sunday, and we have been asked to bring an 8x11 thing to put in a binder for the happy moms. The thing should celebrate life or birth or summat. I'm all about the poetry, and I can't get my mind to compose anything decent, so is this completely wrong, do you think?


e.e. cummings - here's to opening and upward

here's to opening and upward, to leaf and to sap
and to your(in my arms flowering so new)
self whose eyes smell of the sound of rain

and here's to silent certainly mountains;and to
a disappearing poet of always,snow
and to morning;and to morning's beautiful friend
twilight(and a first dream called ocean)and

let must or if be damned with whomever's afraid
down with ought with because with every brain
which thinks it thinks,nor dares to feel(but up
with joy;and up with laughing and drunkenness)

here's to one undiscoverable guess
of whose mad skill each world of blood is made
(whose fatal songs are moving in the moon

Firstly, a poem written by my friend Steve, who mans the stage door at the Guthrie:


Twas the night before Christmas and the show had just ended,
cast and crew in the dram with a cocktail well blended.

Barbara Ehlen was helping a patron into her wrap,
as Rick Holcomb gathered up all the lost and found crap.

Trisha Kirk was still here, trying to think of a way,
to explain to the actors about the midnight matinee.

And me, all alone, at stage door in the dark,
just one more quick e-mail telling Santa where not to park.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
that I thanked my bright stars I was born with a strong bladder.

Well I flew up the stairs and I burst through the door,
then I slipped on some ice, bounced my head off the floor.

I awoke rather dazed, all confused, seeing stars,
it felt just like college after a night at the bars.

When, who to my wondering eye did appear?
On an Arctic Cat snowmobile, it was William Shakespeare!

"Alas," said old Bill, "Get thee up off thy bum,
pr’thee boy do get up, there is work to be done."

"For now is the winter our discontent,"
So I leapt to the sled and we proceeded hell-bent.

"Now Yorick, now Viola, now Hotspur, and Olivia,
On Hamlet, on Gloucester, on Falstaff and Calphurnia.

As he shouted each name, each bold invocation,
each character would appear, Flesh and blood at their station.

Willy Loman was there, as were Nora and Torvald,
Antigone took her place right on cue when Will called.

Malvolio, cross gartered, in his stockings of yella,
and a streetcar pulled up when Bill shouted out Stella!

Til at last there we stood, perhaps ten thousand or more,
all called forth by the Bard, yet not quite sure what for.

"Gentle Friends," Shakespeare said as he lifted his hand.
"I have brought you all here to wipe a blight from the land"

"Tis an insult to all of us born of emotion,
who have toiled with love at our craft, with devotion.

This insidious threat born of greed and derision, this
plague to our souls called reality television."

"This mindless affront without value or a worth,
thinks a kick to the groin the very pinnacle of mirth.

Alright, I agree, the groin shot is a funny old bit,
but it shouldn’t be allowed to overshadow true wit."

"Entertainment should elevate, encourage the spirit to soar,
not wallow in the filth, people this demands War!"

A mighty cheer filled the air as characters shouted out to agree,
and I was honored to think they included little old me.

Our battle will be fought in the schools, in each class,
Lady Macbeth volunteered to kick Paris Hilton’s talentless ass.

Old Prospero stepped up sturdy ax handle in hand,
"Just watch how I vote them off my fair island."

As each character marched off, their mission strong in their heart,
I asked old Shakespeare what I could do as my part.

"My dear friend" William said his eyes filled with delight
"If you work in the arts, you are leading the fight."

Then he wished me the best, and the same to you all,
and as he started his sled he let out one last call.

"So continue your work, bring them drama and cheer,
happy holidays to all and a joyous new year!



And a quiz.....

( I am the Fallen.... )

The original thrust of the poem does not coincide with my situation, but it keeps running through my head anyway

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely,
Crowned with lilies and with laurel they go; but
I am not resigned.

Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains,--but the best is lost.

The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,--
They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

--Edna St. Vincent Millay


And another....


Love is not all; it is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain,
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink,
And rise and sink, and rise and sink again;
Love cannot fill the thickened lung with breath,
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
Yet many a man is making friends with death
Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
It well may be that in a difficult hour,
Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,
Or nagged by want, past resolution's power,
I might be driven to sell your love for peace,
Or trade the memory of this night for food.
It well may be. I do not think I would.

-- Edna St. Vincent Millay