Monday, June 26, 2023
Update on my book: A Town and A Valley--Growing Up in Tarrytown and the Hudson Valley
Tuesday, April 25, 2023
Goodreads Book Giveaway: The Gifts of a Garden
The giveaway starts on April 28th!
Goodreads Book Giveaway
The Gifts of a Garden
by Paula Mary De Angelis
Giveaway ends May 05, 2023.
See the giveaway details at Goodreads.
Sunday, March 26, 2023
ChatGPT's rewriting of two of my poems
I glimpse with clarity,
the fleetingness of life.
Aware that every breath,
brings us closer to our demise.
Each season, every sunset,
a reminder of time's flight.
Even the moments we cherish,
eventually fade from sight.
Sorting through the moments,
like wheat from chaff we sift.
Holding onto wisdom,
while memories fade and drift.
I see with clarity,
yet darkness lurks behind.
For even visions transient,
will vanish from the mind.
------------------------
Transience (my poem)
The transience of life.
I am aware of life ending,
In every season and every evening.
Even the moments of the day
Fade to dusk and then into oblivion.
One separates the wheat from the chaff
And stores away those memories and thoughts
That are to be used in the making of wisdom;
Not all can be retained, possessed or hoarded.
I see with vision clearer, and then with vision darkened,
For not even the vision remains
For more than just a moment.
---------------------------------------------------------------
2. The Pull Towards Disorder (ChatGPT's rewriting of my poem Entropy)
Towards chaos and disorder,
Without great effort and care
To resist the pull towards disorder.
In life, in love, we find
Our choices are like crossroads,
One path leads towards order,
While the other descends into chaos.
Love, at its best, brings order
Elevating our spirits and nature.
But when love is lost, entropy reigns
Disorder triumphs, and limits vanish.
Truth is a beacon of order,
Guiding us towards holy life.
Evil, on the other hand, leads to entropy
The road paved with choices that defy order.
All things, it seems
Tend to disorder
Without massive efforts
To prevent this.
In life, in love
The tendencies, the choices,
All are crossroads, forked paths--
One to order, one to entropy.
Love, it will be said, promotes order,
Elevates man's nature and his spirit.
But love destroyed is entropy defined--
Where limits cease existence; disorder thrives.
Truth is order, and a life defined thereby
Is holy and promotes the same in others.
Evil is the path to entropy, the road
Paved with choices that defy order.
Asking an AI chatbot to rewrite two of my poems
Like sand slipping through our fingers,
Remind us of our mortality,
And how we're just mere mortals.
The memories we hold dear,
Are like precious gems in our hearts,
That we cherish and hold onto,
As we journey through life's paths.
But even these memories fade,
As time marches on relentlessly,
And we're left with nothing but echoes,
Of what once was and what could be.
So let us live in the present moment,
And make the most of every day,
For life is but a fleeting moment,
That can slip away in the blink of an eye.
Monday, March 20, 2023
A beautiful poem by Nicolette Sowder
I loved this poem from the first moment I read it. It has so much to say, so much that is important for all the life around us, plant, animal, and human. Yes, let us raise children this way........
Thursday, March 16, 2023
An update--more generosity of spirit
I wrote a post on March 3 about generosity of spirit (A New Yorker in Oslo: Generosity of spirit (paulamdeangelis.blogspot.com). I had experienced that in connection with my book about growing up in Tarrytown New York--A Town and A Valley: Growing Up in Tarrytown and the Hudson Valley. The administrator of the Tarrytown and Sleepy Hollow: We've Lived and Loved There Facebook page where a notice had been posted about my book praised the book as great and meant that I was a fabulous author. It's nice to hear that as I wrote in my post from March 3rd, because if you think a writer hears that a lot, you'd be wrong. His generosity of spirit gave me a real boost in spirit (self-confidence, motivation, perseverance). Writers need that from time to time. Heck, everyone needs a mental boost from others from time to time. We're human after all. It keeps us going.
Since that time, I've heard from other people who've bought the book; one man wrote that he 'devoured it' and that the book contained wonderful memories. I've heard from a man who works at the Warner Library in Tarrytown that the library has purchased a copy and will make it available for loan to library users. And someone associated with The Tarrytown Historical Society told me that they will buy a copy of the book. All of this is wonderful news and makes me quite happy! I've also contacted several local bookstores in Tarrytown and Sleepy Hollow to hear if they will carry the book. We'll see what happens.
There is much to be grateful for in this life. I am grateful for this attention at present. I know it's likely to be my fifteen minutes of fame. I know it won't last. But it's a nice fifteen minutes. Writers don't get rich from writing books; very few do. That's not why most of them write. At least it's not why I write. But it's nice to know that something I wrote hit a nerve among folk who lived and grew up in the same town as I did. I thank them for the verbal support and for buying my book. I will pay it forward, that's for sure.
Wednesday, March 8, 2023
A book recommendation for my Norwegian readers
Saturday, March 4, 2023
Friday, March 3, 2023
Generosity of spirit
Tuesday, February 28, 2023
A Servant to Servants--a poem by Robert Frost
A Servant To Servants
To have you come and camp here on our land.
I promised myself to get down some day
And see the way you lived, but I don’t know!
With a houseful of hungry men to feed
I guess you’d find…. It seems to me
I can’t express my feelings any more
Than I can raise my voice or want to lift
My hand (oh, I can lift it when I have to).
Did ever you feel so? I hope you never.
It’s got so I don’t even know for sure
Whether I am glad, sorry, or anything.
There’s nothing but a voice-like left inside
That seems to tell me how I ought to feel,
And would feel if I wasn’t all gone wrong.
You take the lake. I look and look at it.
I see it’s a fair, pretty sheet of water.
I stand and make myself repeat out loud
The advantages it has, so long and narrow,
Like a deep piece of some old running river
Cut short off at both ends. It lies five miles
Straight away through the mountain notch
From the sink window where I wash the plates,
And all our storms come up toward the house,
Drawing the slow waves whiter and whiter and whiter.
It took my mind off doughnuts and soda biscuit
To step outdoors and take the water dazzle
A sunny morning, or take the rising wind
About my face and body and through my wrapper,
When a storm threatened from the Dragon’s Den,
And a cold chill shivered across the lake.
I see it’s a fair, pretty sheet of water,
Our Willoughby! How did you hear of it?
I expect, though, everyone’s heard of it.
In a book about ferns? Listen to that!
You let things more like feathers regulate
Your going and coming. And you like it here?
I can see how you might. But I don’t know!
It would be different if more people came,
For then there would be business. As it is,
The cottages Len built, sometimes we rent them,
Sometimes we don’t. We’ve a good piece of shore
That ought to be worth something, and may yet.
But I don’t count on it as much as Len.
He looks on the bright side of everything,
Including me. He thinks I’ll be all right
With doctoring. But it’s not medicine–
Lowe is the only doctor’s dared to say so–
It’s rest I want–there, I have said it out–
From cooking meals for hungry hired men
And washing dishes after them–from doing
Things over and over that just won’t stay done.
By good rights I ought not to have so much
Put on me, but there seems no other way.
Len says one steady pull more ought to do it.
He says the best way out is always through.
And I agree to that, or in so far
As that I can see no way out but through–
Leastways for me–and then they’ll be convinced.
It’s not that Len don’t want the best for me.
It was his plan our moving over in
Beside the lake from where that day I showed you
We used to live–ten miles from anywhere.
We didn’t change without some sacrifice,
But Len went at it to make up the loss.
His work’s a man’s, of course, from sun to sun,
But he works when he works as hard as I do–
Though there’s small profit in comparisons.
(Women and men will make them all the same.)
But work ain’t all. Len undertakes too much.
He’s into everything in town. This year
It’s highways, and he’s got too many men
Around him to look after that make waste.
They take advantage of him shamefully,
And proud, too, of themselves for doing so.
We have four here to board, great good-for-nothings,
Sprawling about the kitchen with their talk
While I fry their bacon. Much they care!
No more put out in what they do or say
Than if I wasn’t in the room at all.
Coming and going all the time, they are:
I don’t learn what their names are, let alone
Their characters, or whether they are safe
To have inside the house with doors unlocked.
I’m not afraid of them, though, if they’re not
Afraid of me. There’s two can play at that.
I have my fancies: it runs in the family.
My father’s brother wasn’t right. They kept him
Locked up for years back there at the old farm.
I’ve been away once–yes, I’ve been away.
The State Asylum. I was prejudiced;
I wouldn’t have sent anyone of mine there;
You know the old idea–the only asylum
Was the poorhouse, and those who could afford,
Rather than send their folks to such a place,
Kept them at home; and it does seem more human.
But it’s not so: the place is the asylum.
There they have every means proper to do with,
And you aren’t darkening other people’s lives–
Worse than no good to them, and they no good
To you in your condition; you can’t know
Affection or the want of it in that state.
I’ve heard too much of the old-fashioned way.
My father’s brother, he went mad quite young.
Some thought he had been bitten by a dog,
Because his violence took on the form
Of carrying his pillow in his teeth;
But it’s more likely he was crossed in love,
Or so the story goes. It was some girl.
Anyway all he talked about was love.
They soon saw he would do someone a mischief
If he wa’n’t kept strict watch of, and it ended
In father’s building him a sort of cage,
Or room within a room, of hickory poles,
Like stanchions in the barn, from floor to ceiling,–
A narrow passage all the way around.
Anything they put in for furniture
He’d tear to pieces, even a bed to lie on.
So they made the place comfortable with straw,
Like a beast’s stall, to ease their consciences.
Of course they had to feed him without dishes.
They tried to keep him clothed, but he paraded
With his clothes on his arm–all of his clothes.
Cruel–it sounds. I ‘spose they did the best
They knew. And just when he was at the height,
Father and mother married, and mother came,
A bride, to help take care of such a creature,
And accommodate her young life to his.
That was what marrying father meant to her.
She had to lie and hear love things made dreadful
By his shouts in the night. He’d shout and shout
Until the strength was shouted out of him,
And his voice died down slowly from exhaustion.
He’d pull his bars apart like bow and bow-string,
And let them go and make them twang until
His hands had worn them smooth as any ox-bow.
And then he’d crow as if he thought that child’s play–
The only fun he had. I’ve heard them say, though,
They found a way to put a stop to it.
He was before my time–I never saw him;
But the pen stayed exactly as it was
There in the upper chamber in the ell,
A sort of catch-all full of attic clutter.
I often think of the smooth hickory bars.
It got so I would say–you know, half fooling–
“It’s time I took my turn upstairs in jail”–
Just as you will till it becomes a habit.
No wonder I was glad to get away.
Mind you, I waited till Len said the word.
I didn’t want the blame if things went wrong.
I was glad though, no end, when we moved out,
And I looked to be happy, and I was,
As I said, for a while–but I don’t know!
Somehow the change wore out like a prescription.
And there’s more to it than just window-views
And living by a lake. I’m past such help–
Unless Len took the notion, which he won’t,
And I won’t ask him–it’s not sure enough.
I ‘spose I’ve got to go the road I’m going:
Other folks have to, and why shouldn’t I?
I almost think if I could do like you,
Drop everything and live out on the ground–
But it might be, come night, I shouldn’t like it,
Or a long rain. I should soon get enough,
And be glad of a good roof overhead.
I’ve lain awake thinking of you, I’ll warrant,
More than you have yourself, some of these nights.
The wonder was the tents weren’t snatched away
From over you as you lay in your beds.
I haven’t courage for a risk like that.
Bless you, of course, you’re keeping me from work,
But the thing of it is, I need to be kept.
There’s work enough to do–there’s always that;
But behind’s behind. The worst that you can do
Is set me back a little more behind.
I shan’t catch up in this world, anyway.
I’d rather you’d not go unless you must.
Tuesday, February 21, 2023
On writing and why I write
I've been writing this blog since 2010, and every once in a while I stop to reflect on writing it and on why I continue to write it. Those thoughts lead me down the path toward writing in general--why do I write poetry, short stories, and novels (both fictional and non-fictional)?
I've been writing since I was fourteen years old, inspired by my high school teacher Brendan who encouraged each of us in my sophomore year class to keep a creative writing journal. We did, and he was interested in reading what we wrote and critiquing it. That started the process for me, because prior to his class, the activity I hated the most was having to write short creative essays on exams, which was not uncommon practice in grammar school. Perhaps because we only had one hour to get it done. For the life of me I couldn't be creative on demand, nor could I write anything of interest in the space of one hour. Luckily the latter is no longer true; however, I find it impossible to be creative on demand, one of the reasons I have always hated brainstorming meetings of any kind together with colleagues. They became very popular during the last fifteen or so years. I'm simply not a team player in that respect, nor did I ever aspire to becoming one. I'd say one of the main reasons I enjoyed being a scientist was because I could retire to my office and think for myself. I could come up with experimental designs and plans on my own. At that point I could share them with others if I wanted to, but I had no desire to hash out experimental designs and plans at meetings. My brain simply could not tolerate the chaos associated with trying to take into account everyone's opinions. Some scientists enjoy that; I'm not one of them. That may have been detrimental to my scientific progression. No matter.
Writing is a solitary activity, and I enjoy it for exactly that reason. Now that I'm retired, I awake each day and look forward to my writing time in solitude. It may be one or two hours each day, but whatever time I manage, I'm grateful for it. It's time well-spent for the most part, especially when I complete a blog post or a poem and am happy with the result. Writing novels is more difficult, but when the words 'flow', the process is rewarding. I love reading about the creative process as described by other writers; I like knowing that they struggled with many of the same thoughts and feelings as I do when it comes to being creative.
Writing is a 'private room' that I choose to enter each day. There can be noise around me, people talking, or the tv, but I don't hear them in the same way when I am inside my room. It's about having a focus and staying focused. Do I get distracted? Yes, at times, especially if I end up on the internet for one thing and then lose track of time while I meander the internet universe. But as I write my blog posts, I'm grateful for what the internet has given me--information at my fingertips. If you use the internet wisely, you won't lose your focus.
I write because I feel that I have something to say and writing is the best way I know how to express it. I've never been very good at verbally commanding attention from others in a roomful of people. I'm not an extrovert; I feel more comfortable away from the crowd. I find that creativity manifests itself best when I am alone, unencumbered by the demands of daily life. The latter will always be there, but they can be put on hold for a few hours. I write in order to learn about the world but mostly about myself. The unconscious is a large part of our brain, but mostly unreachable/untapped. I believe that writing allows me to access my unconscious mind, which houses forgotten memories and repressed feelings, among other things. Or perhaps better put, my unconscious mind sometimes provides my conscious mind with a thought or feeling that I end up writing about. The unconscious mind tosses up tidbits of interest that I can write about if I so choose.
Interestingly, the existence of a 'collective unconscious' has also been postulated. The term was coined by Carl Gustav Jung, who theorized that the unconscious mind consists of two layers--the personal unconscious and the collective unconscious. The latter according to Jung is 'the deepest level of our psyche', and is 'the whole spiritual heritage of mankind's evolution, born anew in the brain structure of every individual'. In other words, it is inherited through the generations (see Wikipedia for more complete information). I find this idea very appealing; it means that the collective unconscious can also influence us creatively. When I was younger I used to envision the collective unconscious as a 'ring' (not unlike the ring(s) around Saturn) swirling about above my head, containing the knowledge, thoughts and feelings of all of humanity. Sometimes I saw the faces of poets and literary figures swirling above me. I thought that if I reached my hand upward, I could pluck some of the knowledge from that ring. I knew the ring would go on forever and that it would grow ever larger the longer mankind lived.
I've kept a dream journal for years. Some of my dreams have been quite startling and have become poems. I'd never really had what one could call nightmares until recently. I cannot shake some of the images from those dreams, so perhaps they will find their way into new poems or short stories. The following poem started life as a dream; when I remember writing this poem, I can see the images in the dream very clearly:
Seated at a table on a grassy knoll
Odd people milling about me
Talking frenetically the clocks toll
Standing then upon the table
Large coyotes all around me
Marvel at the deception they enable
He loves you he loves you she whispers in my ear
But he does not oh this I know
She may be sure of it but no
How many times I’ve wandered
From this battered table to the door
Of this old house abandoned
Once inside, light all around me, glass doors
Between the rooms, large windows
Unencumbered views of crocodile-infested shores
Turn to face the crocodiles and coyotes
Tracking me at all turns
Turn away unsure of what they want from me
Appease the predators take them on
Make peace with treachery and move on
Saturday, February 18, 2023
The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald by Gordon Lightfoot
I grew up listening to this heartbreaking (and fantastic) song and never knew at the time it came out that it was based on a true event. Or if I heard about it, it didn't make the same impression as it did now. On November 10, 1975 the SS Edmund Fitzgerald sank in Lake Superior, and all 29 crew members died. Lake Superior is one of the Great Lakes, known for their storms. Lake Superior has been the site of many shipwrecks over the years; according to one website more than 550 ships lie on the bottom of this lake. Gordon Lightfoot released this incredible ballad in 1976 as a tribute to the shipwrecked crew of the Edmund Fitzgerald. It's a beautiful and haunting song. Here are the lyrics:
The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald · Gordon Lightfoot
℗ 1976 Reprise Records, a division of Warner Records Inc.
Writer: Gordon Lightfoot
Of the big lake they called Gitche Gumee
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead
When the skies of November turn gloomy
With a load of iron ore twenty-six thousand tons more
Than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty
That good ship and true was a bone to be chewed
When the gales of November came early
The ship was the pride of the American side
Coming back from some mill in Wisconsin
As the big freighters go, it was bigger than most
With a crew and good captain well seasoned
Concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms
When they left fully loaded for Cleveland
And later that night when the ship's bell rang
Could it be the north wind they'd been feelin'?
The wind in the wires made a tattle-tale sound
And a wave broke over the railing
And every man knew, as the captain did too
T'was the witch of November come stealin'
The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait
When the gales of November came slashin'
When afternoon came it was freezin' rain
In the face of a hurricane west wind
When suppertime came, the old cook came on deck sayin'
"Fellas, it's too rough to feed ya"
At seven PM, a main hatchway caved in, he said
"Fellas, it's been good to know ya"
The captain wired in he had water comin' in
And the good ship and crew was in peril
And later that night when his lights went outta sight
Came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald
Does any one know where the love of God goes
When the waves turn the minutes to hours?
The searchers all say they'd have made Whitefish Bay
If they'd put fifteen more miles behind her
They might have split up or they might have capsized
They may have broke deep and took water
And all that remains is the faces and the names
Of the wives and the sons and the daughters
Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings
In the rooms of her ice-water mansion
Old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams
The islands and bays are for sportsmen
And farther below Lake Ontario
Takes in what Lake Erie can send her
And the iron boats go as the mariners all know
With the gales of November remembered
In a musty old hall in Detroit they prayed
In the maritime sailors' cathedral
The church bell chimed 'til it rang twenty-nine times
For each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald
The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
Of the big lake they called Gitche Gumee
Superior, they said, never gives up her dead
When the gales of November come early
Songwriters: Gordon Lightfoot
The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald lyrics © Warner Chappell Music, Inc.
Monday, February 13, 2023
The miserable lives of the literati
Thursday, January 12, 2023
Wednesday, January 11, 2023
Roadside Picnic by Arkady and Boris Strugatsky
The Soviet-Russian Strugatsky brothers Arkady and Boris wrote a brilliant book in 1971 that I have finally gotten around to reading--Roadside Picnic. I took the long way around to arriving at this book; as I've written in previous posts, I first watched the film Annihilation, which led to the film Stalker, which led to my reading the Southern Reach book trilogy (Annihilation, Authority, Acceptance). Book I-Annihilation--is the book on which the film Annihilation is based. After reading the trilogy, I read Roadside Picnic on which Stalker is based. I love when one book or film suggests another; that is the moment when everything around me feels expansive, limitless, full of possibility. A wonderful feeling of freedom, the freedom to move in any direction and to explore boundlessly......
I gave Roadside Picnic five stars on Goodreads, and wrote a review of it that I am posting here:
The Strugatsky brothers' sci-fi novel draws you into the world of the Zone and the Stalkers immediately. An alien visit to Earth (was it an alien roadside picnic) results in their leaving behind litter and artifacts that are localized to specific areas called Zones. One of these is located in the fictional town of Harmont in an unnamed English-speaking country. The Zone is not a safe area for human beings, rather, it is a minefield of dangers lurking almost at every turn. Few people who venture into the Zone return alive. But there are some few who do--the Stalkers. Redrick Schuhart is a Stalker, a man who leads others into the Zone so that they can explore/ retrieve items left by the aliens, as there is a black market for such items. He is married to Guta, and they have a little girl (nicknamed Monkey) who was born with a mutation (excessive body hair, almost like fur) like most of the children of stalkers. Normal life in Harmont is interspersed with descriptions of the Zone and the oddities/dangers that exist within it: hell slime, spacells, bug traps, the meatgrinder, vibrating 'ghosts', and a Golden Sphere that grants one's innermost wishes. The latter has legendary status, having only been seen (not experienced) by one old stalker named Vulture, who has lost his legs after contact with hell slime. He had wanted to retrieve the sphere for his own purposes, but ends up giving the map showing its whereabouts to Red. Red and the Vulture's son (Arthur) venture into the Zone in order to find the sphere, and their trek is the subject of the latter part of the novel. The novel is a phenomenal read from start to finish.
The novel truly is an incredible read, and I will likely reread it at some point. The film Stalker by Andrei Tarkovsky really did not do it complete justice, even though it was a good film. The book is better. Tarkovsky's film ultimately became too philosophical; I would have preferred that he focus on the alien and hellish aspects of the Zone much more, e.g., hell slime, the meatgrinder, and so on. Essentially I wish he had made a more sci-fi-oriented film. He did manage to impart an eerie feeling when the Stalker and the men he was guiding enter the Zone and must take care not to 'disturb' it in any way. But in my online research about the movie, I discovered that the screenplay was written by the Strugatsky brothers and was loosely based on their novel. So Tarkovsky's movie is really the movie that the Strugatsky brothers wanted made. Both the book and the movie are considered to be sci-fi classics.
Victorian Vampire Stories
It's rare to come across a collection of short stories that is so engaging as the collection I am reading now. Of course one must be an aficionado of vampire and horror stories to truly appreciate them, and I am. The only other collection of short stories in the horror genre that I feel the same way about was the one I read back in 2020--H.P. Lovecraft's horror stories. They were individual masterpieces for the most part and I wrote a post at that time about his stories and how much I enjoyed them: A New Yorker in Oslo: The creepy and engrossing stories of H.P. Lovecraft (paulamdeangelis.blogspot.com)
The collection of vampire stories I am currently reading is entitled Dracula's Guest: A Connoisseur's Collection of Victorian Vampire Stories, edited by Michael Sims (available on Amazon at Dracula's Guest (Connoisseur's Collections): Sims, Michael: 9781408809969: Amazon.com: Books ). The Victorian Era extended from 1837 to 1901 and was an era filled with social change and political reforms, despite being described as a repressive era, especially sexually. The stories in this collection were written/published during this time. You might think that the Victorians, being the straight-laced repressed people they are often described as, would not be writing (or reading) these types of stories. You'd be wrong. The writing styles are at times verbose and overly-descriptive, but the plots are engrossing, strange, and often creepy. There are stories about entire families that become vampires (The Family of the Vourdalak--quite scary if you can visualize it as an eventual movie, as I could), one about an invisible vampire (What Was It?), one about a very old woman whose younger companion, a male doctor, supplies her with young blood to keep her alive (Good Lady Ducayne), and one about a man who remarries after his first wife dies but who wishes that his first wife could live again (Wake Not the Dead). There are many others that are similarly strange and engrossing, so I recommend buying the book to read them all.
I found reading the short descriptions about the authors almost as interesting as the stories themselves. Leo Tolstoy's brother, Aleksei, wrote The Family of the Vourdalak; he was a talented writer in his own right. Good Lady Ducayne was written by Mary Elizabeth Braddon, considered to be a premier sensation novelist (one who wrote nerve-wracking and thrilling, sometimes titillating novels). Other stories were written by the romantic poet Lord Byron, and Anne Crawford (who came from a family of artists and writers). These writers may not have described everything in explicit detail, but there was no need to. Readers understand what is said and what is implied, and that is sufficient. These writers were in no way repressed; far from it.
Tuesday, January 3, 2023
Train from Michigan--one of my early poems
I wrote this poem in 1988, three years after my father died, and published it in my first-ever collection of poems--Parables and Voices. I've decided to share some of my early poetry with you, as an introduction to my poetry writing. I've been writing for years, ever since I was fourteen years old. Poetry is a wonderful way to express one's feelings, and oftentimes one ends up with a poem that one could never have predicted from the outset. Train from Michigan is one of those poems.
Train from Michigan
I dreamed then of my father, I was
On the train; outside a yellow moon
Full-light circle against the blue-black sky.
His face came into memory
As I drifted in the sleep of transit,
That is uneasy and unsettled.
We crossed, from Michigan into Ohio,
The train's whistle blowing lonely
As though miles ahead of us--
Yet ever with us through the night.
I thought the thoughts of transit--
My father, dead these three years,
Perhaps traveled this same train
Bound from Michigan to New York.
He knew people in the north of Michigan,
Farmers and ultimately life-long friends.
I see his face, with me always.
My head rests lightly against the train window--
When I awake it is because my head has banged
And fallen against the window, jarring me.
I visit friends, they live in Michigan now
Having moved there from New York; hence my trip's purpose.
I meet new people on the way to visit old friends,
And think about old friendships as I make my way home.
New people I am always letting in; they find me or
We find each other--one in particular spoke of kindred spirits
On our way out to Michigan; his words surprised me.
Do they, these spirits, find each other?
Are we all in search of one?
About trains, I know they draw me so,
Luring me with the call to adventure,
Like a call to arms.
I boarded one, bound for Michigan,
And then one back, to New York.
Time spread out over hours of track--
Moving me, my life, along,
From one point to another.
Spreading me out, thin, fluid,
Over time which is suddenly the merger
Of past, present, future.
Like liquid spreading I see my life
Moving over these tracks, out and beyond,
Expanding to assimilate Michigan
As I have before incorporated other states
And other countries, American and European.
A fear that I can never belong to someone--
How could one keep me from flooding
Past the walls and out into the open spaces?
It is an abstract love of world I feel,
A pull to know what is unknown, but knowable.
To care for it, about it, accept it for itself,
The planet, the globe, its rivers and its land,
The farms and their greenness in the summer--
The land you pass through while travelling on a train.
Small towns and the people in them, suburbs and large cities,
Unknown, but knowable.
I look out, I know this river--
I grew up along it, knowing it stretched
For miles, out of my reach--I see it now
In places I never knew before
And feel the vastness of its beauty.
Back in New York, I grew up here,
But I have grown beyond it.
Copyright Paula Mary De Angelis, from Parables and Voices, published in 2011 and available on Amazon: Parables and Voices: A Collection of Poems 1973-2009: De Angelis, Paula Mary: 9781452838762: Amazon.com: Books
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