Peaches

Today I ate my first peach of the season which I purchased on Saturday at the foodie mecca, Dean and DeLuca (Madison and 85th). It wasn't that "drip down your chin" kind of peach, but almost, with just enough juice and fragrance to bring thoughts of days at the beach, backyard barbeques, and peach pie. I was ostensibly in the city to go to the exhibit at the Whitney, but after an hour, my friend and I left the museum to browse Madison Avenue. Of course, it wasn't long before I was buying bread, fruit and pastries to bring home!

The peach reminded me, too, of a favorite poem, "From Blossoms", by Li-Young Lee. It was the first poem of his that I ever read, and for years (until my wallet was stolen on a crowded subway in Brussels) I carried a verse with me.

"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."

Here's the link for the entire poem. To hear Lee read the poem, is joy itself.
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=171754

The Poetry of Flowers

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886): gardener, poet, correspondent, recluse, "Belle of Amherst".

Sometime before June 13, 2010, I plan to see the exhibit "Emily Dickinson's Garden" at the New York Botanical Garden. The exhibit has two components: inside the Enid A. Haupt Conservatory and a "poetry walk" on the grounds surrounding the conservatory. Inside the conservatory you'll see typical garden flowers such as foxglove, delphinium, hollyhocks (could they be seven feet tall?), roses, daisies, hydrangea and more. (I use the word "typical" with more than a hint of envy since the flowers on display look nothing like the flowers I try to grow! Seriously, the foxglove must be four feet tall, ditto on the delphinium. If I only had a gardening crew...) Additionally there is a facade of the Homestead (her home) joined by a short path through a garden to the facade of her brother's home. Apparently she spent a great deal of time going back and forth. Outside the conservatory, there are shade gardens, herbs, and the most spectacular row of peonies. Nested in between all of these flowers and plants are placards with poems by Dickinson. Some are small so they fit in with low growing flowers, while the ones outside are like the oversized cards in Alice in Wonderland. I took the time to read most of the poems, though my companions were not that interested. Either way, it's all lovely.

After all that walking and Victorian culture, we drove the short distance to Arthur Avenue for a totally different cultural experience: Little Italy of the Bronx. Since we were there Sunday around 5pm, many of the shops were closed. However, several bakeries were open, including my friend's favorite- Madonia Brothers Bakery (2348 Arthur Avenue/ 718-295-5573). There I bought a puffy loaf of onion bread, ciabatta, and a variety of biscotti. When we walked out of the bakery, we must have had the look of "Where should we go for dinner?" since a couple crossing the street asked us if we would like a dinner recommendation. They raved about Enzo's, a local favorite across the street from where we stood. So, that's where we went.


http://www.nybg.org/

What the Living Do

The poet, Marie Howe, has a book entitled What the Living Do. The title poem is about daily life, and written as if she is speaking to her brother, who died from AIDS. I reread this poem often, both for the beauty of the language and for the reminder of the struggles, monotony and glory of each day.

In mid-August, I attended a week long session of the Reading and Writing Project at Teacher's College at Columbia University. This "project" is under the direction of Lucy Calkins, a major researcher and educator in literacy for the last 30 years. Each of the five days began with a keynote speaker, with Lucy Calkins the first speaker. Toward the end of her talk, she quoted concluding lines from the above poem: "But there are moments...I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep..."

When I awoke on my birthday a couple of days ago, my first thought was the word "cherish". I don't think about that word, or write it, or even read it very often. In her poem, Marie Howe is cherishing her own life and the memory of her brother. Lucy Calkins urged the educators in the audience to cherish their own stories and the stories of their students. To cherish is "To hold or treat as dear; to care for tenderly; to nurture." 
 
Here's a bit more of Howe's poem:
"We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss-- we want more and more and then more of it. But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass, say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless: I am living, I remember you."

"The Time" - a poem by Naomi Shihab Nye

I read this poem shortly after my day on the river. While there is a brief mention of a river, the quote in the last stanza stayed in my mind. "It gets late so early."

THE TIME

Summer is the time to write, I tell myself this
in winter especially. Summer comes,
I want to tumble with the river
over rocks and mossy dams.

A fish drifting upside down.
Slow accordions sweeten the breeze.

The Sanitary Mattress Factory says,
"Sleep is Life."
Why do I think of forty ways to spend an afternoon?

Yesterday someone said, "It gets late so early."
I wrote it down. I was going to do something with it.
Maybe it is a title and this life is the poem.

From FUEL - by Naomi Shihab Nye