Seemingly Made of Light

image courtesy of

image courtesy of

This week’s been spent remembering what it means to have a job: live by a schedule, learn MANY names, new systems and most challenging for me—being social.

I prepared this video before I left home, though I knew I’d be in Nicaragua soon, it didn’t occur to me I would actually be standing on the beach, watching it behave abdominally when I posted it.

I continue to memorize poems, and will post them on my Ytube channel, which I now refer to as my “random recitations” project.

This is my latest video, Undertow, by Dean Young.

If I were somewhere I could go to a bookstore and buy one his books, I would.  Immediately.


Poetry is many things: the meaning within the words, the meaning below, or above. A poem is an object, a form, with negative space and silence as important as the black marks and the telepathy that occurs when we interpret them.

Poetry is breath, the only thing we cannot survive more than a few minutes without. And sound: one of life’s grand gifts.

Something I have come to love during this project is the way a poem feels in my mouth, the way it tastes. That is why, in part, today’s poem is important to me.

If You’re Crowish, by Jane Videlock. Enjoy: )


Our Lost Feelings

Walking Chicago streets is not as conducive to internalizing poems as a walk in the mountains. It’s been a good lesson adapting. The city light in the videos recorded irk me, highlighting my waddle, there are people everywhere, talking and traffic and sirens and no birdsong. Still it’s good to step outside perceived requirements for accomplishing a task, and do it anyway.

It’s been amusing turning heads as I stroll alleys, picking up garbage, reciting; I truly look like a crazy person.

The poem may sound cynical, but I don’t think that’s Merwin’s intent. I think he hears and honors the thank you in each moment. This week’s recitation, Thanks, by W.S. Merwin speaks more eloquently than I can these days of where my head is at.

Happy hump day; remain grateful.

The Bliss of Solitude


This post is a riddle; can you guess what poem I recite before you view the link? No fair reading the tags!  Hint: Don’t forget the title and the image.

I’ve stayed away from “best loved poems” in this project,  but when I saw this title, which is also the first line, in my Poetry Magazine App , though I knew the line well, as likely you do too, I’d never actually read it.

I’ve had difficulty warming to poems from previous centuries  and verse is not my favorite form. To me, sometimes the metaphors sound trite, the message overly sentimental. But when I read this week’s poem, an experience I had while on my poet’s walk flashed on that inward eye and inspired me to memorize it. I wrote the following, a homage, to recall my experience and give you a final clue.


I left the house a little low to walk away my mood

When round the curve that brilliant morn, scores

of angelic butterflies emerged

They flew around me tickertaped, like all of life

was made for me, and when I need their remedy

I close my eyes and fly away.


Hear the mystery poem here!

Did you guess correctly?