Sunset over Bodega Bay

This is beautiful Bodega Bay where the movie The Birds was filmed many years ago. It is not far from Petaluma where we have been staying with Heidi, Ken's former partner who is now like a daughter to us.
We are now on the home stretch. Left Petaluma yesterday for four nights in SanFrancisco then we drive through Big Sur, spend two nights on the cliff tops overlooking the Pacific Ocean at Ragged Point, four nights in Redondo Beach (20 minutes from downtown LA)then home, where hopefully all heatwaves will be over.
Rod has chosen another hotel with a literary theme here in Frisco, The Rex. We dined in the restaurant last night and the bill arrived poking out of the pages of a 1909 book on mathematics. Himself said he had probably studied this very text back in the dark ages when he was a student.
The bar has an old library setting, complete with musty smelling books and deep comfy chairs, with writers desks, complete with old typewriters, along one wall. They even serve literary themed cocktails which I intend to try while I am here. Cecilia the Poets cocktail has midori in it, so appropriate I thought. Was too tired after walking around Sausalito yesterday afternoon to take in the names and all the ingredients but I will do some research and get back to you.
Have not yet put pen to paper regarding train poem but promise to knuckle down when I return home (after completing the dreaded December BAS for Mr Taxman)
Hope you are all managing to keep cool.
Tricia

The poem again

The inauguration poem by Elicabeth Alexander that Geoffreyposted didn't come out quite right (the layout) so I thought I would try again. Here it is:


Each day we go about our business,
walking past each other, catching each other's
eyes or not, about to speak or speaking.

All about us is noise. All about us is
noise and bramble, thorn and din, each
one of our ancestors on our tongues.

Someone is stitching up a hem, darning
a hole in a uniform, patching a tire,
repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere,
with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum,
with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus.
A farmer considers the changing sky.
A teacher says, Take out your pencils. Begin.

We encounter each other in words, words
spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed,
words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark
the will of some one and then others, who said
I need to see what's on the other side.
I know there's something better down the road.
We need to find a place where we are safe.

We walk into that which we cannot yet see.
Say it plain: that many have died for this day.

Sing the names of the dead who brought us here,
who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges,
picked the cotton and the lettuce, built
brick by brick the glittering edifices
they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle, praise song for the day.
Praise song for every hand-lettered sign,
the figuring-it-out at kitchen tables.

Some live by love thy neighbor as thyself,
others by first do no harm or take no more
than you need. What if the mightiest word is love?

Love beyond marital, filial, national,
love that casts a widening pool of light,
love with no need to pre-empt grievance.

In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air,
any thing can be made, any sentence begun.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp,
praise song for walking forward in that light.

THAT poem

There's been a flury of critical comment (mostly very critical ) on Elizabeth Alexander's Inauguration poem "Praise Song for the Day"I thought that it might be worth discussing at our next meeting. Here is a transcript:

Praise song for the day.
Each day we go about our business, walking past each other, catching each others' eyes or not, about to speak or speaking. All about us is noise. All about us is noise and bramble, thorn and din, each one of our ancestors on our tongues. Someone is stitching up a hem, darning a hole in a uniform, patching a tire, repairing the things in need of repair.
Someone is trying to make music somewhere with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.
A woman and her son wait for the bus.
A farmer considers the changing sky; A teacher says, "Take out your pencils. Begin."
We encounter each other in words, words spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed; words to consider, reconsider.
We cross dirt roads and highways that mark the will of someone and then others who said, "I need to see what's on the other side; I know there's something better down the road."
We need to find a place where we are safe; We walk into that which we cannot yet see.
Say it plain, that many have died for this day. Sing the names of the dead who brought us here, who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges, picked the cotton and the lettuce, built brick by brick the glittering edifices they would then keep clean and work inside of.
Praise song for struggle; praise song for the day. Praise song for every hand-lettered sign; The figuring it out at kitchen tables.
Some live by "Love thy neighbor as thy self."
Others by first do no harm, or take no more than you need.
What if the mightiest word is love, love beyond marital, filial, national. Love that casts a widening pool of light. Love with no need to preempt grievance.
In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air, anything can be made, any sentence begun.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp -- praise song for walking forward in that light.
Elizabeth Alexander

Beautiful Boston

I took this photo from the back porch on Christmas morning.
We are into our last week in Boston. On Monday we leave for a few days in New York then fly to the West Coast to visit friends in Petaluma, California wine country. The snow is still falling every few days, it is beautiful and powdery, but very cold. I had my first snow ball fight with friends the other day, I felt as if I was 10 years old again, it was marvellous.
Saturday night we are going to a play based on a book written by Joan Didion, called The Year of Magical Thinking. I found the book very moving and am looking forward to seeing the play.
Rod and I are finally over all our bugs and flu type ickyness and are really enjoying this special time.
I have not been writing very much of late, too busy playing with my friends. I will have to apply myself when I return home.
Happy New Year to all

On that damned first letter capitalization

On my computer I have managed to stop the automatic capitalization of the first letter of a line, and since it was still bothering others I thought I would try to explain how to remedy it. I have Word 2007, which might work somewhat differently, but here is what I did. Go to the Word options (in the command menu) and find 'Proofing'. In Proofing select the 'Autocorrect Options'. There should be a ticked box for 'Captalize first letter of sentences'. Untick this box. Problem solved, I hope. If you can't find the autocorrect options menu ,as it may be in a different place in earlier word versions, try using the help function to tell you where to find it.

Good luck!

Correction to Train poem

I forgot to make the changes to the posted version of my train poem here. For Upfield and Hurstbridge read Frankston and Sandringham.

Train and Love Poems

Here are two of my train and love poems from the Xmas party - one of each.



Bow To Your Partner


will the passengers
in the train on
platform 2
please move
to the train on
platform 3
this is now the Upfield train

?

will the passengers
in the train on
platform 3
please move
to the train on
platform 2
this is now
the Hurstbridge train

?

thank god
we got that
sorted out
says one man
expressing
the general relief

everyone smiles

now at least
we won’t have to travel
among strangers




Economy


If sacrifice is slavery
I am enslaved, my mother
is enslaved; all mothers, and women
the whole world over,
and men, too, all who have learned
love’s secret: enslaved.

A man taught me: love
feeds on giving, grows
not from those gifts received
but from unsounded depths
of a self worn thin
with giving.

What strange economy
where conservation kills
and only spendthrifts thrive.
So much for reasoned laws.
If love is slavery
who’d opt for freedom?