I watched the videos and decided that while some of these things were fun and playful, they didn't really fit the way I was trying to go with my blog. I already was using Sitemeter from last time, so I decided to add a Cluster Map to get a similar feature for myself that didn't require me to go the Sitemeter's site. I also added the feature to allow people to easily add my blog to their feeds. Finally, based on a comment by the blog 23@40, I decided to change my feed profile to only a short version, so that people would have to click through to see the actual changes that I have made.
I spent less time on this in part because I have seen most of Google Gadgets since I use iGoogle for my home page at work. And, as I noted above, most of the gadgets seem playful, not useful, for what I am doing.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Rust Belt Blues
I wrote this poem a number of years ago, after a visit to my hometown in Pennsylvania. Given the state of the economy right now, and the fact that I saw a national news story about a town across the river from where I grew up, I thought it appropriate to the times.
*************************************
Rust Belt Blues
Train tracks go in, out.
The rusting fortress of a factory
darkens the sky.
In its shadow
The old Italian men in sleeveless T-shirts
and black lace-up oxfords
Collect in metal yard chairs
Behind backyard wire fences,
Drinking Iron City and playing bocce.
Contained within their kitchens
Their aproned wives hum —
stir, simmer, soothe —
Providers of earthly sustenance.
“No one should leave my house hungry.”
But I have left and returned,
Hungry still.
Poking sticks into sidewalk cracks,
Children line the crumbling curbs.
Grubby, grimy, bickering,
They are ready at an instant
To issue or accept the challenge.
Running downhill until
Lungs and legs give out —
They collapse at the curb, resuming their endless vigil.
My body remembers, doubles over,
Sharing that sensation,
Boredom alternating with breathless intensity.
The local gas station describes my life here —
My relationship with this place — STOP-N-GO.
I pay the clerk in the plexiglass box,
A grade school class mate
Who doesn’t even register my credit card name.
His practiced hand avoids all touch,
Drops the card in mine.
We held hands to NASA launches
In the TV room of our old school
Whose windows now stare like haunted eyes.
Shattered and abandoned,
His eyes, too, are vacant.
I hear peripheral echoes,
Shadows upon shadows.
Hometown.
********************************************
Back in the original 23 things, I found a collection of photos of my hometown which I linked to then. Here's a link to the collection:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/tags/theghosttownofnewkensington/
It helps explain things.
*************************************
Rust Belt Blues
Train tracks go in, out.
The rusting fortress of a factory
darkens the sky.
In its shadow
The old Italian men in sleeveless T-shirts
and black lace-up oxfords
Collect in metal yard chairs
Behind backyard wire fences,
Drinking Iron City and playing bocce.
Contained within their kitchens
Their aproned wives hum —
stir, simmer, soothe —
Providers of earthly sustenance.
“No one should leave my house hungry.”
But I have left and returned,
Hungry still.
Poking sticks into sidewalk cracks,
Children line the crumbling curbs.
Grubby, grimy, bickering,
They are ready at an instant
To issue or accept the challenge.
Running downhill until
Lungs and legs give out —
They collapse at the curb, resuming their endless vigil.
My body remembers, doubles over,
Sharing that sensation,
Boredom alternating with breathless intensity.
The local gas station describes my life here —
My relationship with this place — STOP-N-GO.
I pay the clerk in the plexiglass box,
A grade school class mate
Who doesn’t even register my credit card name.
His practiced hand avoids all touch,
Drops the card in mine.
We held hands to NASA launches
In the TV room of our old school
Whose windows now stare like haunted eyes.
Shattered and abandoned,
His eyes, too, are vacant.
I hear peripheral echoes,
Shadows upon shadows.
Hometown.
********************************************
Back in the original 23 things, I found a collection of photos of my hometown which I linked to then. Here's a link to the collection:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/tags/theghosttownofnewkensington/
It helps explain things.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Thing 24 -- Updating my blog
I actually have been blogging since I finished the 23 Things on a Stick. I have most recently tried to start moving toward doing some posting of poetry and creative writing. I like feeling like I have a forum in which to write, since I spent my first career trying to teach college students how to write clearly and articulately. Unfortunately, few people have been reading what I have been posting, at least as far as Sitemeter is concerned. ( I am unclear as to whether Sitemeter registers people who read postings through a feed.)
I still read some of the blogs of other people who did the 23 things when I did, and I picked up some others, both professional and recreational. I haven't really been commenting on other people's blogs too often, although I do occasionally comment on some of the professional ones with teacherly responses. I suppose fair is fair--if I want comments, I should make them as well.
I did enjoy giving my blog a facelift. I still want to change the title--eventually. But I changed templates, uploaded a real photo of myself, and changed my avatar's setting and outfit. I also added a blog feed with some of my favorites that I read.
I'm glad to have this opportunity to learn more. If you read this, please consider reading some of the poetry below and giving me feedback--I would welcome it!
I still read some of the blogs of other people who did the 23 things when I did, and I picked up some others, both professional and recreational. I haven't really been commenting on other people's blogs too often, although I do occasionally comment on some of the professional ones with teacherly responses. I suppose fair is fair--if I want comments, I should make them as well.
I did enjoy giving my blog a facelift. I still want to change the title--eventually. But I changed templates, uploaded a real photo of myself, and changed my avatar's setting and outfit. I also added a blog feed with some of my favorites that I read.
I'm glad to have this opportunity to learn more. If you read this, please consider reading some of the poetry below and giving me feedback--I would welcome it!
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Legacies
I wrote this poem about my father's death, and its subsequent impact on me.
**************************************
Legacies
I
I drive like my father.
I never really noticed before
But during my long commute
On the open interstate
I can now see.
My left knee bent, 90 degrees,
Supports my left hand —
Back on the knee,
Fingers curled round the wheel —
My right hand occasionally lends support
But usually rests, gently,
On my right thigh.
The realization shocks me,
Driving into the sun
On the anniversary of his death.
Another brilliant October day.
His legacy revolves around cars.
When the phone call came,
I was painting the new garage.
That cool October day,
Leaves surrounded my feet.
My purple sweatshirt was streaked with
The signs of my marginal competence.
Inside the phone machine blinked,
And I heard my mother’s voice
Apologizing
For telling me of his death
By these mechanical means —
Of the unexpected stalling
Of a life I had never been without.
II
Autumn had always been my favorite.
New plaid skirts and knee socks,
Sharp pencils and smooth paper —
Did I become a teacher from that love?
He calmed my annual fears,
Assuring me that I would do just fine.
The glory of the trees would
Line our river valley
Masking the industrial ruin
In a riot of color.
We’d watch the World Series together,
Especially if the Pirates played.
Baseball linked us
Across our age and gender.
After that call I cried for my loss,
But also for my little boy’s.
He’d never know my gruff, burly dad.
He wouldn’t remember him at all.
So we watch the World Series together,
My son and I.
And every time I look at him,
I see my dad.
The cemetery is an isolated island
On a deer trail
In a sea of corn.
At his funeral,
Yellow leaves floated
In the breeze.
III
I came to dread October.
T.S. Eliot was wrong, I thought.
So many people died in October —
Autumn was cruel, indifferent,
Killing off parents
As if they were no more than the leaves
That could return in spring.
Yet my father’s memory and spirit
Return mysteriously.
The first time that I parked my car
In that coveted, close spot
At the crowded mall lot,
I thought it chance.
But then it happened again
And again. And again.
Everywhere I went.
Then I knew.
He’d given me his special gift —
His luck at finding
The perfect spot.
So when it happens —
Every time —
I whisper “Thanks, Dad.”
IV
Can the patterns arise?
Move and shift?
After my car pulls into the lot,
I emerge to hear the sound —
Familiar, yet barely —
At the edges of recognition.
The sensations wrap about me —
The chill dense breeze,
Trees dancing to music of their own making,
Brown leaves playing tag —
All part of the acrid tang
Of ripeness and decay.
My head tilts upward,
As if of its own accord.
The darkness of inverted Vs
Perforate the cool blue
Gradually, consistently, persistently
Moving, shifting,
To become the southbound giant.
The geese honk.
I accept the complexities of autumn.
************************************
**************************************
Legacies
I
I drive like my father.
I never really noticed before
But during my long commute
On the open interstate
I can now see.
My left knee bent, 90 degrees,
Supports my left hand —
Back on the knee,
Fingers curled round the wheel —
My right hand occasionally lends support
But usually rests, gently,
On my right thigh.
The realization shocks me,
Driving into the sun
On the anniversary of his death.
Another brilliant October day.
His legacy revolves around cars.
When the phone call came,
I was painting the new garage.
That cool October day,
Leaves surrounded my feet.
My purple sweatshirt was streaked with
The signs of my marginal competence.
Inside the phone machine blinked,
And I heard my mother’s voice
Apologizing
For telling me of his death
By these mechanical means —
Of the unexpected stalling
Of a life I had never been without.
II
Autumn had always been my favorite.
New plaid skirts and knee socks,
Sharp pencils and smooth paper —
Did I become a teacher from that love?
He calmed my annual fears,
Assuring me that I would do just fine.
The glory of the trees would
Line our river valley
Masking the industrial ruin
In a riot of color.
We’d watch the World Series together,
Especially if the Pirates played.
Baseball linked us
Across our age and gender.
After that call I cried for my loss,
But also for my little boy’s.
He’d never know my gruff, burly dad.
He wouldn’t remember him at all.
So we watch the World Series together,
My son and I.
And every time I look at him,
I see my dad.
The cemetery is an isolated island
On a deer trail
In a sea of corn.
At his funeral,
Yellow leaves floated
In the breeze.
III
I came to dread October.
T.S. Eliot was wrong, I thought.
So many people died in October —
Autumn was cruel, indifferent,
Killing off parents
As if they were no more than the leaves
That could return in spring.
Yet my father’s memory and spirit
Return mysteriously.
The first time that I parked my car
In that coveted, close spot
At the crowded mall lot,
I thought it chance.
But then it happened again
And again. And again.
Everywhere I went.
Then I knew.
He’d given me his special gift —
His luck at finding
The perfect spot.
So when it happens —
Every time —
I whisper “Thanks, Dad.”
IV
Can the patterns arise?
Move and shift?
After my car pulls into the lot,
I emerge to hear the sound —
Familiar, yet barely —
At the edges of recognition.
The sensations wrap about me —
The chill dense breeze,
Trees dancing to music of their own making,
Brown leaves playing tag —
All part of the acrid tang
Of ripeness and decay.
My head tilts upward,
As if of its own accord.
The darkness of inverted Vs
Perforate the cool blue
Gradually, consistently, persistently
Moving, shifting,
To become the southbound giant.
The geese honk.
I accept the complexities of autumn.
************************************
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Inauguration Day at School
Well, if yesterday was inspiring, today was incredible. I have to admit that it is heart-warming and encouraging to see even the difficult students being swept up into enthusiasm and cheers while watching an inauguration and a speech.
Just a desire to riff on the word--inauguration. An augury is a forecasting, a looking toward what the future may bring. (We'll skip the bird entrails part.) So what President Obama is doing, by being "inaugurated," is bringing us forward, predicting and prognosticating, what our future may hold.
So, on this occasion, a quick poem.
TEARS
Glances
Through the crowd
Emotion sweeps through and over.
Barriers crash like a sonic boom
Words ring out,
Ring true.
The fabric of what has been
Full of countless, painful tears
Now rent completely.
In its place,
In the hopeful eyes of multitudes,
Tears of joy.
Just a desire to riff on the word--inauguration. An augury is a forecasting, a looking toward what the future may bring. (We'll skip the bird entrails part.) So what President Obama is doing, by being "inaugurated," is bringing us forward, predicting and prognosticating, what our future may hold.
So, on this occasion, a quick poem.
TEARS
Glances
Through the crowd
Emotion sweeps through and over.
Barriers crash like a sonic boom
Words ring out,
Ring true.
The fabric of what has been
Full of countless, painful tears
Now rent completely.
In its place,
In the hopeful eyes of multitudes,
Tears of joy.
Monday, January 19, 2009
At School for MLK Day
The school I work at has consciously chosen to be in session on MLK day, so as to teach about and around the topics relevant to human and civil rights.
I am often amazed at our students and their willingness to jump into such activities with enthusiasm and gusto. Today I did some of the normal things with students--lunch, recess, and dismissal duties--but I also helped 6 fourth grade boys put together two lasagnas (of the 14 the group was making) for a women's shelter, watched children talk about human rights and what they are, and listened to them sing songs about freedom and peace in English and in Hebrew.
Some days, the world seems to brim with possibilities. Today was such a day.
I am often amazed at our students and their willingness to jump into such activities with enthusiasm and gusto. Today I did some of the normal things with students--lunch, recess, and dismissal duties--but I also helped 6 fourth grade boys put together two lasagnas (of the 14 the group was making) for a women's shelter, watched children talk about human rights and what they are, and listened to them sing songs about freedom and peace in English and in Hebrew.
Some days, the world seems to brim with possibilities. Today was such a day.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Re-Solving to do more
I am once again trying to "solve" my inactivity -- my laziness when it comes to writing -- by making a commitment in public to do better. We'll see how well I do.
This time around I want to put some effort into the various poems I began long ago, to polish them up and put them out there. Constructive commentary is always welcome.
**********************************
Kinship Shows
Kathy and Eleanor sit
daintily
on the sofa.
Their interacting,
polite arguing,
being individuals,
somehow point up the similarities:
beauty shop hair
ironed print dresses
inflections of their voices
shared blindness.
A gentle breeze and the summer heat
encircle them
and the stories I know.
Their Scottish father came to this coal region--
doing the same work he'd always done--
But in America, work echoing
promise and plenty.
Kathy cared for him until he died at 96
in Smithton
a coal and beer town on the Youghigheny,
where she lived a genteel life.
Yet not.
She and a different sister--Agnes--
married brothers, those Stolting boys.
In the 1930s and 40s,
in that rural Pennsylvania backwater,
Kathy's husband Carl and Eleanor's Frank ran a tavern.
But Carl chose
perhaps not only religiously
to be a minister.
From a barman's to a minister's wife--
perhaps that's why she takes so much
in stride.
Till 94 she lived in Smithton
fortified by the brewery's fumes.
But now,
because her blindness scares him,
her son Roy cares for her.
At 98, in Texas,
she is remote
from home and family.
Rooted still in her rural home
Eleanor is surrounded
by fruit trees and family.
Even blind she bakes
pies
cakes
cobblers
as she always has.
The baby in her family at 93,
she spends her days with daughter Doris Ann
and the extensive generations
who all live nearby.
While she traveled with her husband Frank
to remote places in Europe,
she always remained grounded
not far from where she was born
in her spot in the Laurel highlands.
She looks so much like her mother
who died when Eleanor was just a girl.
As they click their teeth
and dispense firmly loving hugs,
I see them
now, but then too,
as the younger women they once were.
I imagine my grandmother Agnes on the couch there too--
a woman I never knew--
between them
in age, appearance, views--
The lovely Robertson girls
still
ready to take their town by storm.
**************************************
I wrote the first draft of this almost ten years ago, so not surprisingly both of these women have since died. This poem is part of a family album of sorts that I have worked at, on and off, over my adulthood. I've decided it is time to resume it and polish it up. I am frustrated, though, that I can't make the tabbing for some of the lines work. But at least the content is there.
This time around I want to put some effort into the various poems I began long ago, to polish them up and put them out there. Constructive commentary is always welcome.
**********************************
Kinship Shows
Kathy and Eleanor sit
daintily
on the sofa.
Their interacting,
polite arguing,
being individuals,
somehow point up the similarities:
beauty shop hair
ironed print dresses
inflections of their voices
shared blindness.
A gentle breeze and the summer heat
encircle them
and the stories I know.
Their Scottish father came to this coal region--
doing the same work he'd always done--
But in America, work echoing
promise and plenty.
Kathy cared for him until he died at 96
in Smithton
a coal and beer town on the Youghigheny,
where she lived a genteel life.
Yet not.
She and a different sister--Agnes--
married brothers, those Stolting boys.
In the 1930s and 40s,
in that rural Pennsylvania backwater,
Kathy's husband Carl and Eleanor's Frank ran a tavern.
But Carl chose
perhaps not only religiously
to be a minister.
From a barman's to a minister's wife--
perhaps that's why she takes so much
in stride.
Till 94 she lived in Smithton
fortified by the brewery's fumes.
But now,
because her blindness scares him,
her son Roy cares for her.
At 98, in Texas,
she is remote
from home and family.
Rooted still in her rural home
Eleanor is surrounded
by fruit trees and family.
Even blind she bakes
pies
cakes
cobblers
as she always has.
The baby in her family at 93,
she spends her days with daughter Doris Ann
and the extensive generations
who all live nearby.
While she traveled with her husband Frank
to remote places in Europe,
she always remained grounded
not far from where she was born
in her spot in the Laurel highlands.
She looks so much like her mother
who died when Eleanor was just a girl.
As they click their teeth
and dispense firmly loving hugs,
I see them
now, but then too,
as the younger women they once were.
I imagine my grandmother Agnes on the couch there too--
a woman I never knew--
between them
in age, appearance, views--
The lovely Robertson girls
still
ready to take their town by storm.
**************************************
I wrote the first draft of this almost ten years ago, so not surprisingly both of these women have since died. This poem is part of a family album of sorts that I have worked at, on and off, over my adulthood. I've decided it is time to resume it and polish it up. I am frustrated, though, that I can't make the tabbing for some of the lines work. But at least the content is there.
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