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T.S. Eliot

Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man’s gift and that man’s scope
I no longer strive to strive towards such things
(Why should the agèd eagle stretch its wings?)
Why should I mourn
The vanished power of the usual reign?

Because I do not hope to know
The infirm glory of the positive hour
Because I do not think
Because I know I shall not know
The one veritable transitory power
Because I cannot drink
There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is 
nothing again

Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessèd face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice

And pray to God to have mercy upon us
And pray that I may forget
These matters that with myself I too much discuss
Too much explain
Because I do not hope to turn again
Let these words answer
For what is done, not to be done again
May the judgement not be too heavy upon us

Because these wings are no longer wings to fly
But merely vans to beat the air
The air which is now thoroughly small and dry
Smaller and dryer than the will
Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still.

Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death
Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.


II 
Lady, three white leopards sat under a juniper-tree
In the cool of the day, having fed to sateity
On my legs my heart my liver and that which had been 
contained
In the hollow round of my skull. And God said
Shall these bones live? shall these
Bones live? And that which had been contained
In the bones (which were already dry) said chirping:
Because of the goodness of this Lady
And because of her loveliness, and because
She honours the Virgin in meditation,
We shine with brightness. And I who am here dissembled
Proffer my deeds to oblivion, and my love
To the posterity of the desert and the fruit of the gourd.
It is this which recovers
My guts the strings of my eyes and the indigestible portions
Which the leopards reject. The Lady is withdrawn
In a white gown, to contemplation, in a white gown.
Let the whiteness of bones atone to forgetfulness.
There is no life in them. As I am forgotten
And would be forgotten, so I would forget
Thus devoted, concentrated in purpose. And God said
Prophesy to the wind, to the wind only for only
The wind will listen. And the bones sang chirping
With the burden of the grasshopper, saying

Lady of silences
Calm and distressed
Torn and most whole
Rose of memory
Rose of forgetfulness
Exhausted and life-giving
Worried reposeful
The single Rose
Is now the Garden
Where all loves end
Terminate torment
Of love unsatisfied
The greater torment
Of love satisfied
End of the endless
Journey to no end
Conclusion of all that
Is inconclusible
Speech without word and
Word of no speech
Grace to the Mother
For the Garden
Where all love ends.

Under a juniper-tree the bones sang, scattered and shining
We are glad to be scattered, we did little good to each other,
Under a tree in the cool of day, with the blessing of sand,
Forgetting themselves and each other, united
In the quiet of the desert. This is the land which ye
Shall divide by lot. And neither division nor unity
Matters. This is the land. We have our inheritance.



III 

At the first turning of the second stair
I turned and saw below
The same shape twisted on the banister
Under the vapour in the fetid air
Struggling with the devil of the stairs who wears
The deceitul face of hope and of despair.

At the second turning of the second stair
I left them twisting, turning below;
There were no more faces and the stair was dark,
Damp, jaggèd, like an old man’s mouth drivelling, beyond 
repair,
Or the toothed gullet of an agèd shark.

At the first turning of the third stair
Was a slotted window bellied like the figs’s fruit
And beyond the hawthorn blossom and a pasture scene
The broadbacked figure drest in blue and green
Enchanted the maytime with an antique flute.
Blown hair is sweet, brown hair over the mouth blown,
Lilac and brown hair;
Distraction, music of the flute, stops and steps of the mind
over the third stair, 
Fading, fading; strength beyond hope and despair
Climbing the third stair.


Lord, I am not worthy
Lord, I am not worthy

but speak the word only. 

IV 
Who walked between the violet and the violet
Whe walked between
The various ranks of varied green
Going in white and blue, in Mary’s colour,
Talking of trivial things
In ignorance and knowledge of eternal dolour
Who moved among the others as they walked,
Who then made strong the fountains and made fresh the 
springs

Made cool the dry rock and made firm the sand
In blue of larkspur, blue of Mary’s colour,
Sovegna vos

Here are the years that walk between, bearing
Away the fiddles and the flutes, restoring
One who moves in the time between sleep and waking, 
wearing

White light folded, sheathing about her, folded.
The new years walk, restoring
Through a bright cloud of tears, the years, restoring
With a new verse the ancient rhyme. Redeem
The time. Redeem
The unread vision in the higher dream
While jewelled unicorns draw by the gilded hearse.

The silent sister veiled in white and blue
Between the yews, behind the garden god,
Whose flute is breathless, bent her head and signed but 
spoke no word

But the fountain sprang up and the bird sang down
Redeem the time, redeem the dream
The token of the word unheard, unspoken

Till the wind shake a thousand whispers from the yew

And after this our exile


V 
If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent
If the unheard, unspoken
Word is unspoken, unheard;
Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard,
The Word without a word, the Word within
The world and for the world;
And the light shone in darkness and
Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled
About the centre of the silent Word.



O my people, what have I done unto thee.


Where shall the word be found, where will the word
Resound? Not here, there is not enough silence
Not on the sea or on the islands, not
On the mainland, in the desert or the rain land,
For those who walk in darkness
Both in the day time and in the night time
The right time and the right place are not here
No place of grace for those who avoid the face
No time to rejoice for those who walk among noise and deny 
the voice

Will the veiled sister pray for
Those who walk in darkness, who chose thee and oppose 
thee,
Those who are torn on the horn between season and season, 
time and time, between
Hour and hour, word and word, power and power, those who 
wait
In darkness? Will the veiled sister pray
For children at the gate
Who will not go away and cannot pray:
Pray for those who chose and oppose


O my people, what have I done unto thee.


Will the veiled sister between the slender
Yew trees pray for those who offend her
And are terrified and cannot surrender
And affirm before the world and deny between the rocks
In the last desert before the last blue rocks
The desert in the garden the garden in the desert
Of drouth, spitting from the mouth the withered apple-seed.



O my people.



VI 
Although I do not hope to turn again
Although I do not hope
Although I do not hope to turn

Wavering between the profit and the loss
In this brief transit where the dreams cross
The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying
(Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things
From the wide window towards the granite shore
The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying
Unbroken wings

And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices
In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices
And the weak spirit quickens to rebel
For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell
Quickens to recover
The cry of quail and the whirling plover
And the blind eye creates
The empty forms between the ivory gates
And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth

This is the time of tension between dying and birth
The place of solitude where three dreams cross
Between blue rocks
But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away
Let the other yew be shaken and reply.

Blessèd sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit of the 
garden,
Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated

And let my cry come unto Thee.

Hello, blog readers!

My husband and I have some wonderful news, which I’ll be documenting on another blog: bables.tumblr.com. 

Won’t you come alongside us for this journey? How on Earth will two English teachers figure out how to make room for a crib in their book-laden apartment? 

I know you want the answer to that question.  We’re ridiculously excited to announce the next adventure in our lives: a little Ables baby.  A tiny bables. 

Bernard Levin

I got a text message from Matthew on Friday afternoon that read:

Tomorrow can we go for a nice walk downtown?  Like we used to. 

Yes.

Living in Charleston, as I’m sure it is anywhere, my wonderment and love of this city—my relationship with it—comes and goes.  Perhaps, living by the sea, it’s a tidal thing. 

Matthew and I are both admittedly mountain-people, and long for sharper seasons and crisper air (especially in July).  That doesn’t mean that we don’t drink deep of this lovely town that’s been our home for all of our (three) married years. We’ve been spoiled with our bike rides (to work, to eat, to nowhere and everywhere) and our long, rambling walks.  Each one, we discover something new. 

We love Charleston all over again.   Our story of unfolding and deepening love can be told over cracked slate sidewalks and under wavering live oak branches. 

Today was one of those walks, and I thought I’d take you all along…

We start by riding our bikes to the bank (maybe not the most thrilling way to begin a Saturday ramble, but we had checks to deposit and money IS a thrilling thing). 

(Matthew rides his old 70s bike that was his mom’s!)

Then we grab a quick drink at Starbucks…because we still get them for free. 

Passion tea lemonade…so good.

For the rest of these, I admit I felt like a tourist walking around snapping photos of things I pass by each day.  And on a warm day like today, the tourists were thick. 

Still…there was so much to take in, and so much I wanted to share:

(St. Philips Church)

(a favorite doorway on Queen Street)

(the theater where Stephen Colbert supposedly got his start)

Beside the Footlight Players is a narrow alley where people used to duel.  Back in Revolutionary times (and later), the buildings surrounding this alley were all warehouses, and not the type of places you’d want to be at any time of day.  You can still see bullet marks in the tattered brick walls surrounding this place. 

Then we walked over to Waterfront Park to see the…water.  Though we usually stay away from this area of town (LOTS of tourists and we like watching the sun set from a smaller, quieter park on the other side of the peninsula).  The biggest draw at Waterfront Park?  A giant fountain that’s overrun (in the best, happiest of ways) with kids in the summertime. 

(Ravenel Bridge from the park)

(Matthew points out where we live.  I always pretend to read the Braille on this plaque…why?)

(and then there’s this couple on their ukuleles…so great)

(Rainbow Row—named for their Art Deco paint colors…famous for being the oldest complete block of pre-Revolutionary houses in the country.  Subject of countless cheesy paintings and postcards…and now my blog) 

(on my coffee break/walk during school, I always peek in this garden…all the hidden gardens are my one of my favorite things about this city.  Each is like a jewelry box, tucked away only to be enjoyed by a few)

(even a door knocker invites you to take another look) 

I needed this today.  And, on a day like this, after losing a student, I know I’m not the only one.
We need to be vulnerable.  We need to love, we need to face it ALL head-on, and we must teach those we’re entrusted with to do the same.
Oh, and how difficult that is.

Bill Murray (that’s right) introduces Billy Collins. 

*and thus ends my Billy Collins blog-posting deluge.

*this will never end my Bill Murray musings, however.

Here, Billy Collins is asking about where I teach school.  He seems amused…or just tolerant.  Maybe he can sense that we only paid a buck at the Friends of the Library book sale for that first-edition we’re having him sign.

I did, however, get to meet him pre-reading when he was trying to find the restroom. That single event sealed our friendship and every other time he saw us that night, he’d say “you again!” 

I particularly liked when he read this poem:

OH, MY GOD

Not only in church
and nightly by their bedsides
do young girls pray these days

Wherever they go,
prayer is woven into their talk
like a bright thread of awe

Even at the pedestrian mall
outbursts of praise
spring unbidden from their glossy lips.

I'm looking forward to hearing Billy Collins read tonight at the South Carolina Poetry Society's 90th anniversary.   
My friend Helen had to have an emergency appendectomy and gave me her tickets...she's doing fine now, and
I'm going to go enjoy for her--she's a person who I want to be when I grow up: honest, creative, a little crass,
with amazing stories to tell.  Her life's been full and vivid and lived. 
I enjoy Billy Collins because he's the "class clown of American poetry."  It's true.  He has fun with words, and what 
else is poetry about than playing with words and meanings? I enjoy how this poem is lovely but is also how tongue-in-cheek
and snarky it is as well.  
I want to be a poet with snark and beauty all at once.  

Litany

You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine...
—Jacques Crickillon

You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.

You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and—somehow—the wine.

inspiration for a new semester