“Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pads, But on the viewless wings of Poesy”–which is to say, nudged by John Keats, the sight of the Golden Crowned Kinglet resonated with me the other day, and I realized that it embodied an activity level I too could ratchet myself up and into; and thereby was set-up to juxtapose said bird and an earlier version of me. (A 420 character 9-line Poem)

Frenetic as in frenzied? What virtue lies in being frenzied–

a word from when I worked & cooked & had babies & worked & cooked;

well, you get the idea.

Back then it WAS a virtue that I could sustain a frenzy,

but now? Now I’d just as soon sit back

& watch the frenzied antics of the Golden Crowned Kinglet

as she flit-forages insects from clusters of pine needles

& hangs upside-down from twig tips.

Virtuous & frenetic.

PATTY

“Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pads, But on the viewless wings of Poesy”–which is to say, nudged by John Keats, the sight of the Golden Crowned Kinglet resonated with me the other day, and I realized that it embodied an activity level I too could ratchet myself up and into; and thereby was set-up to juxtapose said bird and an earlier version of me. (A 420 character 9-line Poem)

 

DID SOMEONE SAY #TBT?

Where do you come from? is WordPress Erica’s prompt for this week’s writing challenge, Digging For Roots. Scan 42 My grandmother, Maria Giovanna Colangelo, chases the fat brown hens

through dusty blue grass and scrub on the hillsides of Avigliano,

peels fresh figs and splits open their pulpy redness with her freckled hands,

carries water up steep hills, past tall cypresses, through iron gates

to the piazza where Mussolini exercised on Saturday mornings.

My grandmother prays to the Madonna as she polishes the altar rail,

strokes her father’s hand and whispers in dialect,

offers purple berries to her husband and sings lullabies to her children

behind the shutters until the day she sails on the Duca D’Aosta to Ellis Island,

registers the mole on her left cheek and scratches her mark on the paper.

My grandmother, Alien Number1051939.

Toni 12/4/14

#TBT Did someone say it’s THROWBACK THURSDAY again? This is my older self (as if ANY picture of myself wasn’t a picture of an older version of myself) and my older self’s writing at age 17. (Caveat: don’t be harsh; I hadn’t discovered the 420 character, 9-line poem and all our English teachers did back then was prep for the SATs which we aced but the result was we went to college illiterate.

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