Don’t know about Jade Jackson?
Well now ya do.
Loving this lil’ lassie.
Lord, I want to be on a big, old, rickety porch, sipping some spiked Sweet Tea with the cicadas making a ruckus and the scent of honeysuckle perfuming my hair just listening to this singing along, swaying back and forth in a double swing.
Don’t mind if I do.
My favorite flower (along with peonies).
Closed up. Tight as fist. Inside lies the true nature of the fragrant beauty that is secreted away until it has decided you are worth of seeing it.
Sometimes they never open at all.
DAY 5 OF NATIONAL POETRY MONTH
CROSSING BROOKLYN FERRY
Flood-tide below me! I watch you face to face; Clouds of the west! sun there half an hour high! I see you also face to face. Crowds of men and women attired in the usual costumes! how curious you are to me! On the ferry-boats, the hundreds and hundreds that cross, returning home, are more curious to me than you suppose; And you that shall cross from shore to shore years hence, are more to me, and more in my meditations, than you might suppose.
The impalpable sustenance of me from all things, at all hours of the day; The simple, compact, well-join’d scheme—myself disintegrated, every one disintegrated, yet part of the scheme: The similitudes of the past, and those of the future; The glories strung like beads on my smallest sights and hearings— on the walk in the street, and the passage over the river; The current rushing so swiftly, and swimming with me far away; The others that are to follow me, the ties between me and them; The certainty of others—the life, love, sight, hearing of others. Others will enter the gates of the ferry, and cross from shore to shore; Others will watch the run of the flood-tide; Others will see the shipping of Manhattan north and west, and the heights of Brooklyn to the south and east; Others will see the islands large and small; Fifty years hence, others will see them as they cross, the sun half an hour high; A hundred years hence, or ever so many hundred years hence, others will see them, Will enjoy the sunset, the pouring in of the flood-tide, the falling back to the sea of the ebb-tide.
It avails not, neither time or place—distance avails not; I am with you, you men and women of a generation, or ever so many generations hence; I project myself—also I return—I am with you, and know how it is. Just as you feel when you look on the river and sky, so I felt; Just as any of you is one of a living crowd, I was one of a crowd; Just as you are refresh’d by the gladness of the river and the bright flow, I was refresh’d; Just as you stand and lean on the rail, yet hurry with the swift current, I stood, yet was hurried; Just as you look on the numberless masts of ships, and the thick-stem’d pipes of steamboats, I look’d. I too many and many a time cross’d the river, the sun half an hour high; I watched the Twelfth-month sea-gulls—I saw them high in the air, floating with motionless wings, oscillating their bodies, I saw how the glistening yellow lit up parts of their bodies, and left the rest in strong shadow, I saw the slow-wheeling circles, and the gradual edging toward the south. I too saw the reflection of the summer sky in the water, Had my eyes dazzled by the shimmering track of beams, Look’d at the fine centrifugal spokes of light around the shape of my head in the sun-lit water, Look’d on the haze on the hills southward and southwestward, Look’d on the vapor as it flew in fleeces tinged with violet, Look’d toward the lower bay to notice the arriving ships, Saw their approach, saw aboard those that were near me, Saw the white sails of schooners and sloops—saw the ships at anchor, The sailors at work in the rigging, or out astride the spars, The round masts, the swinging motion of the hulls, the slender serpentine pennants, The large and small steamers in motion, the pilots in their pilot-houses, The white wake left by the passage, the quick tremulous whirl of the wheels, The flags of all nations, the falling of them at sun-set, The scallop-edged waves in the twilight, the ladled cups, the frolicsome crests and glistening, The stretch afar growing dimmer and dimmer, the gray walls of the granite store-houses by the docks, On the river the shadowy group, the big steam-tug closely flank’d on each side by the barges—the hay-boat, the belated lighter, On the neighboring shore, the fires from the foundry chimneys burning high and glaringly into the night, Casting their flicker of black, contrasted with wild red and yellow light, over the tops of houses, and down into the clefts of streets.
These, and all else, were to me the same as they are to you; I project myself a moment to tell you—also I return. I loved well those cities; I loved well the stately and rapid river; The men and women I saw were all near to me; Others the same—others who look back on me, because I look’d forward to them; (The time will come, though I stop here to-day and to-night.)
What is it, then, between us? What is the count of the scores or hundreds of years between us? Whatever it is, it avails not—distance avails not, and place avails not.
I too lived—Brooklyn, of ample hills, was mine; I too walk’d the streets of Manhattan Island, and bathed in the waters around it; I too felt the curious abrupt questionings stir within me, In the day, among crowds of people, sometimes they came upon me, In my walks home late at night, or as I lay in my bed, they came upon me. I too had been struck from the float forever held in solution; I too had receiv’d identity by my Body; That I was, I knew was of my body—and what I should be, I knew I should be of my body.
It is not upon you alone the dark patches fall, The dark threw patches down upon me also; The best I had done seem’d to me blank and suspicious; My great thoughts, as I supposed them, were they not in reality meagre? would not people laugh at me? It is not you alone who know what it is to be evil; I am he who knew what it was to be evil; I too knitted the old knot of contrariety, Blabb’d, blush’d, resented, lied, stole, grudg’d, Had guile, anger, lust, hot wishes I dared not speak, Was wayward, vain, greedy, shallow, sly, cowardly, malignant; The wolf, the snake, the hog, not wanting in me, The cheating look, the frivolous word, the adulterous wish, not wanting, Refusals, hates, postponements, meanness, laziness, none of these wanting.
But I was Manhattanese, friendly and proud! I was call’d by my nighest name by clear loud voices of young men as they saw me approaching or passing, Felt their arms on my neck as I stood, or the negligent leaning of their flesh against me as I sat, Saw many I loved in the street, or ferry-boat, or public assembly, yet never told them a word, Lived the same life with the rest, the same old laughing, gnawing, sleeping, Play’d the part that still looks back on the actor or actress, The same old role, the role that is what we make it, as great as we like, Or as small as we like, or both great and small.
Closer yet I approach you; What thought you have of me, I had as much of you—I laid in my stores in advance; I consider’d long and seriously of you before you were born. Who was to know what should come home to me? Who knows but I am enjoying this? Who knows but I am as good as looking at you now, for all you cannot see me? It is not you alone, nor I alone; Not a few races, nor a few generations, nor a few centuries; It is that each came, or comes, or shall come, from its due emission, From the general centre of all, and forming a part of all: Everything indicates—the smallest does, and the largest does; A necessary film envelopes all, and envelopes the Soul for a proper time.
Now I am curious what sight can ever be more stately and admirable to me than my mast-hemm’d Manhattan, My river and sun-set, and my scallop-edg’d waves of flood-tide, The sea-gulls oscillating their bodies, the hay-boat in the twilight, and the belated lighter; Curious what Gods can exceed these that clasp me by the hand, and with voices I love call me promptly and loudly by my nighest name as I approach; Curious what is more subtle than this which ties me to the woman or man that looks in my face, Which fuses me into you now, and pours my meaning into you. We understand, then, do we not? What I promis’d without mentioning it, have you not accepted? What the study could not teach—what the preaching could not accomplish, is accomplish’d, is it not? What the push of reading could not start, is started by me personally, is it not?
Flow on, river! flow with the flood-tide, and ebb with the ebb-tide! Frolic on, crested and scallop-edg’d waves! Gorgeous clouds of the sun-set! drench with your splendor me, or the men and women generations after me; Cross from shore to shore, countless crowds of passengers! Stand up, tall masts of Mannahatta!—stand up, beautiful hills of Brooklyn! Throb, baffled and curious brain! throw out questions and answers! Suspend here and everywhere, eternal float of solution! Gaze, loving and thirsting eyes, in the house, or street, or public assembly! Sound out, voices of young men! loudly and musically call me by my nighest name! Live, old life! play the part that looks back on the actor or actress! Play the old role, the role that is great or small, according as one makes it! Consider, you who peruse me, whether I may not in unknown ways be looking upon you; Be firm, rail over the river, to support those who lean idly, yet haste with the hasting current; Fly on, sea-birds! fly sideways, or wheel in large circles high in the air; Receive the summer sky, you water! and faithfully hold it, till all downcast eyes have time to take it from you; Diverge, fine spokes of light, from the shape of my head, or any one’s head, in the sun-lit water; Come on, ships from the lower bay! pass up or down, white-sail’d schooners sloops, lighters! Flaunt away, flags of all nations! be duly lower’d at sunset; Burn high your fires, foundry chimneys! cast black shadows at nightfall! cast red and yellow light over the tops of the houses; Appearances, now or henceforth, indicate what you are; You necessary film, continue to envelop the soul; About my body for me, and your body for you, be hung our divinest aromas; Thrive, cities! bring your freight, bring your shows, ample and sufficient rivers; Expand, being than which none else is perhaps more spiritual; Keep your places, objects than which none else is more lasting.
We descend upon you and all things—we arrest you all; We realize the soul only by you, you faithful solids and fluids; Through you color, form, location, sublimity, ideality; Through you every proof, comparison, and all the suggestions and determinations of ourselves. You have waited, you always wait, you dumb, beautiful ministers! you novices! We receive you with free sense at last, and are insatiate henceforward; Not you any more shall be able to foil us, or withhold yourselves from us; We use you, and do not cast you aside—we plant you permanently within us; We fathom you not—we love you—there is perfection in you also; You furnish your parts toward eternity; Great or small, you furnish your parts toward the soul.
Garden of Bees
The narcissus grows past the towers. Eight gypsy sisters spread their wings in the garden. Their gold teeth are unnerving. Every single baby is asleep. They want a little money and I give them less. I'm charming and handsome. They take my pen. I buy the poem from the garden of bees for one euro. A touch on the arm. A mystery word. The sky has two faces. For reasons unaccountable my hand trembles. In Roman times if they were horrified of bees they kept it secret
Where else would I start but my beloved Hart Crane?
To Brooklyn Bridge
by Hart Crane
How many dawns, chill from his rippling rest The seagull's wings shall dip and pivot him, Shedding white rings of tumult, building high Over the chained bay waters Liberty-- Then, with inviolate curve, forsake our eyes As apparitional as sails that cross Some page of figures to be filed away; --Till elevators drop us from our day . . . I think of cinemas, panoramic sleights With multitudes bent toward some flashing scene Never disclosed, but hastened to again, Foretold to other eyes on the same screen; And Thee, across the harbor, silver-paced As though the sun took step of thee, yet left Some motion ever unspent in thy stride,-- Implicitly thy freedom staying thee! Out of some subway scuttle, cell or loft A bedlamite speeds to thy parapets, Tilting there momently, shrill shirt ballooning, A jest falls from the speechless caravan. Down Wall, from girder into street noon leaks, A rip-tooth of the sky's acetylene; All afternoon the cloud-flown derricks turn . . . Thy cables breathe the North Atlantic still. And obscure as that heaven of the Jews, Thy guerdon . . . Accolade thou dost bestow Of anonymity time cannot raise: Vibrant reprieve and pardon thou dost show. O harp and altar, of the fury fused, (How could mere toil align thy choiring strings!) Terrific threshold of the prophet's pledge, Prayer of pariah, and the lover's cry,-- Again the traffic lights that skim thy swift Unfractioned idiom, immaculate sigh of stars, Beading thy path--condense eternity: And we have seen night lifted in thine arms. Under thy shadow by the piers I waited; Only in darkness is thy shadow clear. The City's fiery parcels all undone, Already snow submerges an iron year . . . O Sleepless as the river under thee, Vaulting the sea, the prairies' dreaming sod, Unto us lowliest sometime sweep, descend And of the curveship lend a myth to God.
Photo: Hart Crane with the Brooklyn Bridge in the background
For national poetry month I am going to post a poem a day.
Since this IS Breukelen Mama the criteria will be that the poem be by a Brookyn author (born or transplant), set in Brooklyn, inspired by Brooklyn or mentions Brooklyn.
I reserve the right to TOTALLY NOT follow these rules.
HAPPY NATIONAL POETRY MONTH!
The Academy of American Poets launched National Poetry Month in 1996, and today it is the largest literary celebration in the world! Join the fun this April by participating in the our special projects and initiatives, like Poet-to-Poet, Poem in Your Pocket Day, and more!
Children’s bedrooms around the world.
Eye opening and moving.
Where our little ones rest their heads, is it as important as the love we pour into their hearts?
In this country, we are so focused on material things we forget that in other parts of the world these are NOT “necessities,” but luxuries unimaginable. And maybe, even essentially, entirely unnecessary to be happy.
Some may look at these photos and feel pity but I feel more interest in what the rest of their lives look like…and how fulfilled they are in their souls.
Getting “older” has been easier for me because I’ve never been a great beauty, so I don’t feel the loss or sting of my looks changing so profoundly. Whatever changes happen to my face, I don’t seem to notice the way one might if… you’d spent a lot of time looking in the mirror.
I’ve never had a smokin’ body or was a skinny bird, I always thought I was “fat” and that was some dementia because a girl who is 5 foot 10 has no business wondering why she doesn’t fit into her 5 foot nothing roomate’s size 26 jeans!
I learned to love my body as it was, so being pregnant wasn’t upsetting, I loved my pregnant body, but my skinny friends all had hard times with gaining weight and getting stretch marks. I felt sexier than ever and after pregnancy had a peace talk with the marks left behind. They gave me so much for such a small price, and who would be so vain as to care about a stretch mark or two?
I think often of my beloved Marilyn, who WAS smart, and emotional and had so many layers no one EVER bothered to peel, she is still just an “icon,” a face on a water bottle, a trademark, still the most beautiful woman in the world… but she was also one of the saddest women in the world.