What I Was Thinking.

Tennessee Williams.

I haven't read or seen much of Tennessee Williams' work, but I'm hoping to change that soon.  His work is fascinating, and he was pretty interesting as well.

While in London, we bought tickets to see Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.  I wasn't drawn to the play itself when I passed the advert on  wall of the escalator leading down to the tube.  Here's what drew me in:

See those two on the right?  Perhaps you recognize them?  That would be Mr. James Earl Jones and the gorgeous, poised, and talented Phylicia Rashad.

The show was incredible.  Mr. Jones is 79 years old, but on the stage he's so full of life you'd never know it.  

Phylicia Rashad played Clare Huxtable on The Cosby Show.  She sang on the show, she recited poetry, she was poised and graceful.  She was my TV mom.

After the show I went to the stage door to get autographs.  Mom reminded me to ask James Earl Jones if he remembered being honored at a benefit in Boston for the Anti-Defamation League.  Mr.  Jones received an award with my grandfather at that event.

About a half hour later, Phylicia Rashad came out.  I was so excited I was shaking as I handed her my program.  I congratulated her, told her how wonderful I thought she was, and then cried in front of her.  It was a little embarrassing.

By the time we had lined up at Mr. Jones's car, there were only ten or 15 people in line.  A few clutched photos of Darth Vader.  As he trudged over to the car he said in his booming voice, "Ah, the few. The happy few."  We all laughed nervously.

When it was my turn, I saw Mr. Jones looked very tired.  The heart he puts into his characters takes a lot of energy.

He asked what other shows we'd be seeing while in London.  We told him we were going to see "War Horse," and he commented that it's a very unique show.  I think he fibbed when he said he remembered the ADL conference in Boston, but it was still incredible to meet him.

Oh! Right...

A Calling.

so you want to be a writer? By Charles Bukowski.

if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.


if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.

don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

This poem can only be followed by a quote from Rainier Marie Rilke from his Letters to a Young Poet.

"Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple "I must," then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your while life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse."

I must.  It doesn't consume my existence, it isn't my only love, but it is something I must do.

Sure on this Shining Night

I sang this song when I was a junior in Vocal Ensemble.  The lyrics are hauntingly beautiful; my concert was a week after my grandpa died, and the concert happened to include this song, which was a poem first. 

Sure on this Shining Night by James Agee, 1909-1955

Sure on this shining night
Of star made shadows round,
Kindness must watch for me
This side the ground. 
The late year lies down the north.
All is healed, all is health.
High summer holds the earth. 
Hearts all whole.
Sure on this shining night    I weep for wonder wand'ring far alone

Of shadows on the stars.

(1935)

And here is the song - if you hold the "ctrl" key and click the link it'll open in a new window will begin to play. Download 13 Sure On This Shining Night

I guess this is a "quick compose" thanks to typepad. An untitled poem by Margaret Atwood:

"you fit into me

like a hook into an eye

a fish hook

an open eye"

-strange; it came to mind while I was watching Love Actually.

Africa.

This is something I'd normally post on my blog, but I'm guessing It'll get more attention here.  I hope you like it.  If you do and you want to read more poetry and responses (or you wanna read some of what I wrote, both poetry and journal entries about Africa), check out the blog at

http://maddiefireman.typepad.com/maddie

Africa by Maya Angelou.

Africa.
Thus she had lain
sugercane sweet
deserts her hair
golden her feet
mountains her breasts
two Niles her tears.
Thus she has lain
Black through the years.

Over the white seas
rime white and cold
brigands ungentled
icicle bold
took her young daughters
sold her strong sons
churched her with Jesus
bled her with guns.
Thus she has lain.

Now she is rising
remember her pain
remember the losses
her screams loud and vain
remember her riches
her history slain
now she is striding
although she has lain.

I love this poem.  I loved it the first time I read it in Mr. Verde's class.  I loved it even more when I found it the day after I returned from my life-changing visit to Uganda.  It is so beautiful and true .  It spoke to me the way Uganda itself spoke to me.

I hope this makes a little sense - my rambling, I mean.  Africa means so much to me.  I feel so very connected to it, and I want to go back.  I need to go back.  Africa is standing, speaking, crying, screaming, singing.  She wants to be heard.  Listen to her.  Visit her.  Help mend her and preserve her ancient culture.  She is a beautiful woman.

In Remembrance

    Do not stand at my grave and weep;
    I am not there. I do not sleep.
    I am a thousand winds that blow.
    I am the diamond glints on snow.
    I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
    I am the gentle morning rain.
    When you awaken in the morning's hush
    I am the swift uplifting rush
    Of quiet birds in circled flight.
    I am the soft stars that shine at night.
    Do not stand at my grave and cry;
    I am not there. I did not die.

Mary Frye

To His Coy Mistress

"To his Coy Mistress" by Andrew Marvell

Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love's day;
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood;
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow.
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.

        But at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long preserv'd virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust.
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none I think do there embrace.

        Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like am'rous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power.
Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball;
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

To the Audience

"To the Audience" by Edward Bond (1971)

You sit and watch the stage
Your back is turned -
To what?

The firing squad
Shoots in the back of the neck
Whole nations have been caught
Looking the wrong way

I want to remind you
Of what you forgot to see
On the way here
To listen to what
You were too busy to hear
To ask you to believe
What you were too ashamed to admit

If what you see on the stage displeases
You run away
Lucky audience!
Is there no innocence in chains
In the world you run to?
No child starving
Because your world's too weak
And all the rich too poor
To feed it?

On the stage actors talk of life and imitate death
You must solve their problems in your life
I remind you
They show future deaths

The One.

I read this poem aloud from a youth high holy days siddur during what used to be my synagogue's high holiday youth service. The inspiring poetry is the main reason that I am furious that the program no longer exists.  People need to read this poem.  People need to feel this poem. You want the youth to feel like an involved Jewish member of the temple? Inspire them. That's what this poem (and the service) did for me.  I'll rant no longer.

Afternoon in March

I run,
not to anywhere,
not away from anybody.
I run just to run.

To make my heart wham,
my eyes blur,
my side pain sharply,

I slow down at last,
gulping the sweet air,
almost crying...

I'm crazy.

But there is nobody ahead of me,
down that whole, long, waiting stretch of
sun-bare sidewalk!

Oh, it was like a bird flying,
Like a song,
Like a shout!

I was freedom.

[anonymous]

This poem has always inspired me and returned me to creativity and to a purer self. I have memorized it, and I write it in the back of every journal and notebook I've ever owned so I'll always have it with me.

It talks about returning to the "March" of life, that early, carefree time where you did what you wanted to do as soon as it popped into your head. When you had no obligations and our every emotion was celebrated by those who are older than we are.

Somebody once commented to me that they thought the poem described a "runner's high," but I don't want to ever take this poem to literally or read it too closely.  I read it when I feel uninspired, when I'm exhausted, and when I'm feeling defeated.  It awakens every fiber of my being.  This poem is my mental yoga.