Jamie Drake blognessmonster

I read this blog today and it reminded me how I wish in the music industry that we were more selfless and giving with each other.  I wonder what that would look like..?

Read The Sad Irony of Selfishness.

I wonder how you are going to feel

when you find out

that I wrote this instead of you

that it was I who got up early

to sit in the kitchen

and mention with a pen

the rain-soaked windows,

the ivy wallpaper, 

and the goldfish circling in its bowl

Go ahead and turn aside,

bite your lip and tear out the page,

but, listen-it was just a matter of time

before one of us happened

to notice the unlit candles

and the clock humming on the wall.

Plus, nothing happened that morning-

a song on the radio,

a car whistling along the road outside-

and I was only thinking

about the shakers of salt and pepper

that were standing side by side on a place mat,

I wondered if they had become friends

after all these years

or if they were still strangers to one another

like you and I

who manage to be known and unknown

to each other at the same time-

me at this table with a bowl of pears, 

you leaning in a doorway somewhere

near some blue hydrangeas, reading this.

-  Billy Collins

I subscribe to Seth’s blog (and suggest you do too).  He has at least a handful per week that really speak to me.  This one I’m currently mulling over.

Poetry 

By 

Mary Oliver

The Journey

One day you finally knew

what you had to do, and began,

though the voices around you

kept shouting

their bad advice—

though the whole house

began to tremble

and you felt the old tug

at your ankles.

“Mend my life!”

each voice cried.

But you didn’t stop.

You knew what you had to do,

though the wind pried

with its stiff fingers

at the very foundations,

though their melancholy

was terrible.

It was already late

enough, and a wild night,

and the road full of fallen

branches and stones.

But little by little,

as you left their voices behind,

the stars began to burn

through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice

which you slowly

recognized as your own,

that kept you company

as you strode deeper and deeper

into the world,

determined to do

the only thing you could do—

determined to save

the only life you could save.

I subscribe to this blog for their helpful life tips.

Sometimes they give TOO many tips (ie “40 ways to be a better person” ect) and it becomes a bit overwhelming.

The best way to read it I find is to skim over the topics and see which areas jump out at you.

Enjoy,

Jamie

What do you think of my new glasses 
I asked as I stood under a shade tree 
before the joined grave of my parents,

and what followed was a long silence 
that descended on the rows of the dead 
and on the fields and the woods beyond,

one of the one hundred kinds of silence 
according to the Chinese belief, 
each one distinct from the others,

but the differences being so faint 
that only a few special monks 
were able to tell one from another.

They make you look very scholarly, 
I heard my mother say 
once I lay down on the ground

and pressed an ear into the soft grass. 
Then I rolled over and pressed 
my other ear to the ground,

the ear my father likes to speak into, 
but he would say nothing, 
and I could not find a silence

among the one hundred Chinese silences 
that would fit the one that he created 
even though I was the one

who had just made up the business 
of the one hundred Chinese silences— 
the Silence of the Night Boat,

and the Silence of the Lotus, 
cousin to the Silence of the Temple Bell 
only deeper and softer, like petals, at its farthest edges.

- Billy Collins

“Hope” is the thing with feathers —
That perches in the soul —
And sings the tune without the words —
And never stops — at all —

And sweetest — in the Gale — is heard —
And sore must be the storm —
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm —

I’ve heard it in the chillest land —
And on the strangest Sea —
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb — of Me.

- Emily Dickinson

O ME! O life!… of the questions of these recurring; 
Of the endless trains of the faithless—of cities fill’d with the foolish; 
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more
faithless?) 
Of eyes that vainly crave the light—of the objects mean—of the struggle ever
renew’d; 
Of the poor results of all—of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me;
Of the empty and useless years of the rest—with the rest me intertwined; 
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life? 

Answer.
That you are here—that life exists, and identity; 
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.

- Walt Whitman

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I’m telling lies.
I say,
It’s in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It’s the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can’t touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can’t see.
I say,
It’s in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I’m a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Now you understand
Just why my head’s not bowed.
I don’t shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It’s in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
‘Cause I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

- Maya Angelou

All morning in the strawberry field They talked about the Russians. Squatted down between the rows We listened. We heard the head woman say, ‘Bomb them off the map.’ Horseflies buzzed, paused and stung. And the taste of strawberries Turned thick and sour. Mary said slowly, ‘I’ve got a fella Old enough to go. If anything should happen…’ The sky was high and blue. Two children laughed at tag In the tall grass, Leaping awkward and long-legged Across the rutted road. The fields were full of bronzed young men Hoeing lettuce, weeding celery. ‘The draft is passed,’ the woman said. ‘We ought to have bombed them long ago.’ ‘Don’t,’ pleaded the little girl With blond braids. Her blue eyes swam with vague terror. She added petishly, ‘I can’t see why You’re always talking this way…’ ‘Oh, stop worrying, Nelda,’ Snapped the woman sharply. She stood up, a thin commanding figure In faded dungarees. Businesslike she asked us, ‘How many quarts?’ She recorded the total in her notebook, And we all turned back to picking. Kneeling over the rows, We reached among the leaves With quick practiced hands, Cupping the berry protectively before Snapping off the stem Between thumb and forefinger.

Sylvia Plath

Irrefutable, beautifully smug As Venus, pedestalled on a half-shell Shawled in blond hair and the salt Scrim of a sea breeze, the women Settle in their belling dresses. Over each weighty stomach a face Floats calm as a moon or a cloud. Smiling to themselves, they meditate Devoutly as the Dutch bulb Forming its twenty petals. The dark still nurses its secret. On the green hill, under the thorn trees, They listen for the millennium, The knock of the small, new heart. Pink-buttoned infants attend them. Looping wool, doing nothing in particular, They step among the archetypes. Dusk hoods them in Mary-blue While far off, the axle of winter Grinds round, bearing down the straw, The star, the wise grey men.

Sylvia Plath