photo by ParsecTraveller.
Janet at Across the Page recently asked her blog readers to calculate their ages based on their chocolate habits.
The first thing we had to do was pick the number of times per week we would like to have chocolate (more than once, less than 10).
I picked 7, since my ideal scenario would go something like this:
Start the week off right:
♥ From Color Me Katie, "Rules to Live By." (My thoughts exactly.)
♥ From Sarah Aronson at Through the Tollbooth, "Antidotes to the Low Moments." Oh yeah, she knows what it’s all about (hummus, chocolate croissant bread pudding, and raspberry buttermilk cake)!
"From the moment I picked up your book until I laid it down, I was convulsed with laughter. Some day I intend reading it."
~ Groucho Marx
“In summer, the song sings itself.” ~ William Carlos Williams
photo by BékiPeti.
Happy Poetry Friday!
So glad you’re here. I can’t talk too much, because my mouth is full of sweet juicy peach. The past two weeks, I’ve been gorging myself on these perfect orbs of blushing summer goodness and appreciating how beautifully they epitomize the season. Summer days are long, slow, lazy-drowsy sort of affairs where you might just get it into your head that time is standing still. Peaches originated in China, where they were favored by emperors and consumed by the immortals. They’ve always symbolized longevity in Chinese culture.
I invite you to taste this poem and savor its essential truth. How many summers can you taste in one bite of peach? Ingest this perfect moment in time; reflect on the eternity of words.
FROM BLOSSOMS
by Li-Young Lee
From blossoms comes
this brown paper bag of peaches
we bought from the boy
at the bend in the road where we turned toward
signs painted Peaches.
From laden boughs, from hands,
from sweet fellowship in the bins,
comes nectar at the roadside, succulent
peaches we devour, dusty skin and all,
comes the familiar dust of summer, dust we eat.
O, to take what we love inside,
to carry within us an orchard, to eat
not only the skin, but the shade,
not only the sugar, but the days, to hold
the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into
the round jubilance of peach.
There are days we live
as if death were nowhere
in the background, from joy
to joy to joy, from wing to wing,
from blossom to blossom to
impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.
photo by Priscilla1295.
I’m anxious to see what delicious treat you’ve brought to today’s feast. Please leave your offerings with Mr. Linky by including the title of your poem or the book you’re reviewing in parentheses after your name, along with a comment.
And, to tide you over while you’re reading all the good poems being shared today, please help yourself to some peach sorbet or peach pie. If you happen to be smiling at this very moment, you may have both! ☺
photo by jensteele.
photo by chocolategourmand.
Thanks for joining us and have a great weekend!!
“It is the poet’s privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past. The poet’s voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.” ~ William Faulkner
It all started when Noodles the Monkey found the big stash of peaches used to celebrate Grace Lin’s new book, Where the Mountain Meets the Moon.
He loved reading about the greedy monkeys, but he also remembered the part about Minli using her last copper coin to buy a peach for a hungry beggar. After he ate the peach, he planted the pit, which instantly grew into a big tree full of ripe, luscious fruit. Mmmmmm! All the people in the marketplace relished those peaches, and Minli soon discovered who the beggar really was.
The more Noodles looked at the peaches, the hungrier he got. Maybe he could convince the alphabet soup kitchen helpers to bake something special with them!
I’ve been a handwriting analysis buff for many years. There’s just something about studying the size, slant, curves, angles, loops, speed, and spacing of writing that I find endlessly fascinating.
Though quite controversial, graphology is still used by some to screen job applicants, to verify court evidence, even as a tool to shed light on mental and physical health. My interest, though, is purely about personality; I think grading a lot of English essays was what got me hooked in the first place. Sure, I loved reading what my students had to say, but their handwriting provided additional insight about who they were as individuals.
Handwriting is brainwriting — an interesting picture of human intellect, thought and emotion. It’s something wholly your own, like fingerprints, and is controlled by the central nervous system. Even if you really wanted to, it’s almost impossible to consciously erradicate all the traits that make your handwriting distinctive and unique.
Jama's Alphabet Soup 