Magic of Music

Well, I just heard Billie Joe Armstrong and Green Day perform on the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Induction Ceremony. Singing along with Letterbomb from American Idiot, I'm reminded of how much these guys "saved" me as I was driving back and forth to a Wild Wood, during the years of my mother's illness. Singing songs with Billie Joe helped me process the myriad of emotions, driving alone most times, singing to mitigate the horrors and the heartfelt and troubling joys. Yes, Billie Joe behaved badly with his "f" bombs and throwing (can't believe it), throwing his guitar on to the stage, but the genuine smile he gave at the end, after forcing the tuxedo wearing and evening gown auditorium crowd to get up on their feet, makes me smile, too. How old will these guys be when they stop rocking? They will never stop rocking. It's not Billie Joe's fictional characters that especially get to me; it's the energy and the emotion and the deep seated love and the acceptance of flawed humanity... And as I'm writing and listening to the show, Donovan is being inducted, harking back to Catch the Wind, which is the early Donovan I love. His acceptance speech is a poem. Poet/Philosophers? Perhaps that is the appeal. And music, it makes you move.

Poem Reprise: Give a Thing

Give A Thing

Trust is a curious thing
You toss it forward
and it bounces back
in surprising trajectory,
knocking you backward
down a basement stair

You grab for the banister
Rearranging your outfit
you climb back up with
shaky steps, considering
the ways you may shorten
your skirt and disappear


© 2010 Annie Swann


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Give a Thing first appeared here. Thank you all, for your comments then, and any new comments, now.

Poem: Stillness

Stillness

I know why I am drawn
to statues formed of bronze,
or alabaster, marble white —

The wall plaque won at the age of ten
for a 4th grade spelling bee, an ivory Madonna,
calm child enfolded in soothing arms, the curve
of cheek, the fullness of lips that purse
to kiss, the contemplative love —

The coldness cloaks a warmth,
a figure cast or shaped from life —

Yet hollow are the sockets, with sight
beyond what eyes can see, an airy space
contained within that defies the solidity.

And when I see it, I am folded, too,
into that peace and formality, that death
in active sleep, a space for dreams.


© 2012 Annie Swann 4-7-12


When I wrote this poem, thinking of that little plaque, barely six inches tall, smooth and unseamed, with a hole in the back to place upon a nail, and the face of the Madonna and her young child with his bare arm, and the curve of the faces and the folds of her cloak and mantle, I think of how many times through the years, when I find it in a childhood box, I want to touch it, and how the same feeling is evoked when I see a statue, or even a photograph of one. There is something about an image captured in a tactile manner that differs from a painting. And yet, I do not touch it. I gaze upon it, like a piece in a museum, and cup it in the palm of my hand.

A Poem

One Year Anniversary


Hoarding, I suspect,
begins with a death- let’s
not call it that- an accumulation
of history we’ve conjured no energy
to address- It begins with a box
filled with photographs, black and white,
school papers marked with an “A,” a beanie cap,
a flag, a plastic poodle of unknown origin, clippings
from worn out papers from cities of origin, a circled name.
They begin to stack, the china cups called demitasse, and the
shelves they should sit on, wood framed, wall bracketed, neglected,
blocking access to the dresser drawers filled with scrapbooks, grandma’s
rosary, a locket.


© 2012 Annie Swann


Yesterday was the one year anniversary of a loss. Today, my house is taken over with the memories, the accumulation, the embodiment of a life, I shall never regret.

But, where to begin?

I am experiencing loss I can’t define. It’s not so simple as a name. Every day, I see and I hear more to remind me, not of the good times, but of the pain, and the slow winding, the susurration of breath, and the abrupt ending. In the mornings I help the dying, and in the afternoons I help the neglected.

The Stranger

The stranger made colors out of music, fire out of colors. She saw him. She recognized him. She asked him. The stranger went away, leaving the colors, igniting the fire, no longer a dying thing, but a living. Patricia A. McKillip’s short story, The Stranger, is masterfully written. Originally published in 1993, it is contained in McKillip’s short story collection, Harrowing the Dragon.

An interesting element, because of her humanity, Syl is called inhuman by the stranger, because she is not afraid of him, this man who makes dragons and burns home and field and sheep, with beauty so incredible even the victims are momentarily awed before they are horrified. Syl sees the consuming fire within him, and by her recognition- does she free him?

The understated relationship between Syl and Liel adds a quiet dignity to her attraction. One knows, while reading the story that Syl’s simple life with Liel is more fulfilling than any she could achieve with the stranger, despite his talents and his indifferent cruelty. She is attracted to the stranger, not for his potential for love, but for the mystery of his gift.

She will seek and weave beauty out of his colors, where the stranger has made only tragedy. A reader does not have to wonder where he has gone, but what Syl will make of all he’s left, worrying how the colors may consume her, reveling in her inner strength and believing with the steadying influence of Liel’s love, she will evoke the colors and share their startling beauty with her world.

The best way I can describe Harrowing the Dragon is a collection of stories evocative of myth and fable and fairytale, originating in Patricia A. McKillip’s discerning and complex imagination. Set in a nameless modern time or a timeless middle age, drawing upon the known and the unknown, from the opening lines, McKillip’s short stories captivate the reader with fully formed and functional characters set firmly in a convincing three dimensional world. They act, and we, the reader, are changed by what they see and what they do, and we decide how we feel.

The cover art is by Kinuko Y. Craft.

My Peace I Give to You

I heard this song, played and sung live last week, and the tune and the words, convey, with sincerity, a simple thought: All I have to give is peace, and I give that peace to you.

I heard this song with my family and my friends at an Arlo Guthrie concert. He told a wonderful story about his father, Woody Guthrie, as a preamble to one of the last songs Woody Guthrie ever wrote. It was the final song in the concert and we all sang along.

Arlo says it's about the peace we feel inside, that makes dogs lick us and babies like us, and that if we give that little peace, the big peace will start taking care of itself, and that singing together, we're fixing things we didn't even know was broke.

If you click into the YouTube video, you can hear the whole story preceding the song, for a total experience of over 8 minutes. Fast forward to 3:42 to hear only the song and just a snippet of Arlo's intentions in singing it, as a gift to you and to me and to all of the world. Fast forward to 5:10 to hear only the song, recorded lovingly, by Arlo's wife, Jackie.

My peace is worth
a thousand times more
than anything I own...

My peace, my peace
is all I've got, that
I can give to you.

I give my peace to you.

Little Girl Lost

The little girl showed me the Valentine Card she made in library story time today. She is six years old, and one of the sweetest, smartest little girls I've ever met. She especially wanted me to read the decorated note she'd added in thin line markers, her lettering bright and colorful, running in single words like a border to the left of the photocopied, well known verse: Roses are red... The note said: I love you, Mom, but not Dad, and that is the truth.

I asked her, in some general, blubbering way, What is wrong with Dad. "He is not very good," she said. "He is not nice to us." (What do you say to that?) I said, I would show your card to your Mom, but maybe not your Dad. Later, after the program, after 6:00pm, as I was leaving the Children's Reference desk, readying to go home, she was wearing the bright pink plastic necklace with birds and flowers I'd included in party favor Valentine bags for all of the children, and I helped her to find some of her favorite books to read in the library.

This little girl is in my library almost every day, after school. We are a conduit for many elementary schools and several middle schools, all within walking distance, and we see the same children. Today, there were two new ones: a little boy who said he was watching his sister. How old is she? I asked. Six. And how old are you? A half and eight, he said.

I have two brothers, one six and one eight, in every day after school, from 2:00 to sometimes 6:30. I have three siblings, seven, nine and ten, in every day, from 2:00 to 6:00. I could go on and on, and they would only be numbers to you, but they are little people. Though there are signs up everywhere, and brochures and handouts stating the library is not responsible for your children, and that the library is a public building, library rules do not prohibit unattended school age kids.

They come directly from school, without snacks, except for some little left over from lunch they might sneak. None of them look underfed or especially neglected. Most of them are polite, and with some guidance and nudging they make an effort to keep the noise levels down and they are starting to clean up their scraps from after school homework from the tables. We've added a second security guard just to keep control of these children, along with the middle schoolers ages 11 to 14 who arrive by 4:00, and often stay until closing at 8:00.

Though some homework is accomplished, there is mostly dead time and squabbles and reservations for the computer and one hour sessions playing computer games. The kids socialize, with constant monitoring and admonishments to keep down the noise. There is no one watching them, except for the roaving eye of the security guards and the overwhelmed and bewildered librarians whose job it is to help people find information in the library, to manage the library collections, to provide library programming, and not in any way, shape or form to provide "after care."

I'll be keeping my eyes on the little girl more closely now, with her knee high boots and pink canvas backpack she's learned to always wear so it won't get lost or messed with by mischievous kids. I've never seen any sign to make me think she is abused, but I did notice one day a couple of story time/craft sessions back, that she isolated herself from other kids to do her work, and it felt sad to me.

In my state, teachers are legally required to report any indications of abuse, so I have to hope her teacher who sees her every day and is responsible to monitor her, and knows her name, and knows who is listed as her parents, and has hopefully met them, and knows where she lives, will be cognizant of any signs.

During craft time, I always go around to everyone to encourage and to compliment and this little girl is no exception. She is creative and there is much love in her, and perhaps more sadness than I've wanted to acknowledge. She comes to the library with an older brother, but I've never seen them interact. When she showed me her card, and I mumbled about showing it to Mom, but maybe not to Dad, I gave her a hug. Somehow, I hope these little things like party bags, and fun stories, and encouragement, though they can't be enough, can be something.

Though I'm hoping, hoping for a transfer to another work location, maybe there is some reason for me to stay, and if that should happen, and I can't transfer, maybe I'll be able to come to better terms with it. Or, between the uber elderly when children's librarians work the adult Reference desk in the morning, and the latchkey kids in the afternoon, I will not survive this placement.

And that reminds me- there is a poem I have started about the 98 year old man who visits every few weeks when he is transported to the library with the group from his Assisted Living residence.

Working with the uber elderly, the many people over eighty-five years old who come to my library, reminds me daily of my recent loss, and seeing people who truly are in that last few months or last few years from death can be very difficult, though I do everything I can to make everyone's visit to the library bright. I have never before worked at a library location that felt like this, and there are reasons when I was thirty that I changed careers and left social services.

Life is Art and Financial Obligation: The Expense of College

I've just completed a FAFSA. It's been a long time since I've applied for financial aid for myself, and the first time for my child. With two professional level salaries, I'm sure we will not qualify, but it is a requirement for my state's scholarship program, which is actually based on academic excellence and not on need. It is also a requirement for the prestigious private university with the exorbitant tuition and a specialized program in medieval history my son was accepted into under early admission.

To go to that school, it will require a scholarship package covering full tuition; and our contribution would go toward living expenses, all of the incidentals, and frequent travel back and forth. It is not likely to happen, because even with the acceptance, and a financial package in place, it is a long distance away from home, and a long road to a PhD for a young man not fully committed, and why should he be, at seventeen? His alternate plan is to study mechanical engineering at an in-state school with an excellent program.

I went to college with federal grants, student loans, and social security as the child of a parent with a disability. I also worked every summer, winter break, spring break, and Thanksgiving, through my senior year of high school and the first three years of undergraduate college (luckily at Walt Disney World in the character department, related to my then goals and aspirations as a Theatre Major). When I went back to college as an undergrad I qualified for more grants and loans and work study. Without these programs, and the drive to work whenever I could to make it all happen, I would not have given back all of these years, first in social services, and then as a librarian. (As a library school student, I worked either part or full time for the three years it took to complete the program and earn my Master's Degree.)

All of this to say, it is hard to believe my son is at that age. Though he has half a year to go before high school graduation, he and I are about the exact same age I was when I started college at the age of seventeen, turning eighteen a month and a half later. I was independent enough to live on my own, yes- the first two years in the sheltered existence of a dorm, and in a city two and a half hours away from my home, infrequently traveled on a Greyhound bus. I was happy to get away, and though I made friends, it was never the same as all of the close friendships I had left behind in high school.

I worry about my son leaving home. One option we've discussed with a degree of optimism, is for him to commute to a university close by and continue to live at home; or to live in the dorms there, for the experience of independence, even though distance and time wise we could see him all the time, being only a half an hour to forty minutes away, depending on the time of day and rush hour traffic. We have a close relationship with our son, and many of our weekend activities revolve around shared interests, which could continue if he lived close to home. I also worry that we would be holding him back. Would he miss out on becoming his own person? Or would we be sparing him the agony of isolation and loneliness?

In The Coming Year...

Friendships May Blossom

When encountering a stranger
on the internet, approach with caution,
develop trust, and offer kindness.
Tell the truth, always. Hold out
your hand. Reserve your heart;
and when you are certain, give it
freely. Hope for the best.


I have met good people on the internet, women and men, young and old. I have also encountered a couple of strangers who proved to be strange. I am a gullible person, open and overly trusting, in my reserved kind of way. I prefer to reach out rather than to sever the possibilities.

It’s a good feeling to know there are other people out there open to the experience of a friendship established through air. It’s also good to know there are so many people with knowledge and experiences they wish to communicate, in a congenial atmosphere.

In the coming year, I hope to post again more poetry, and my observations about writers and books and the process of writing. I also hope to make the Art of Narrative a useful resource, and one day, to get back to posting at Once Upon a Button.

All of this, in addition, of course, to working full time , and being a wife, a parent, a relative, and a friend, with hopes for a new job and the best that life can bring. Wish me luck!

Poems: Domestic Fantasy

Domestic Fantasy I, or,
Lost the Core/Preamble/True Type

There are those
who find the center,
and those who’ve lost
the core, we’ve lost the core.
Where is the touchstone, where
is the love, where is the care?

Last night, I cried,
driving in my car, grieving
for my mother. I want to call
you, I said, over and over.

It’s the random thought,
driving, the nagging feeling
of something undone, is it
to call my Mom? I can’t
call my Mom.

And there is nothing,
now, to replace, augment,
or supplement my
mother’s love.

Only bold, bad
memories of how
you’ve failed me.

And how I find my center,
when I’m without you.

© Nov 2011 Annie Swann



Domestic Fantasy II

When a fight escalates
from zero to you can drop dead
in twenty seconds or less
with a few choice expletives
and it happens repeatedly,
you react. You order the man
out, but he calls your bluff
and he stays. Time doesn’t
make it go away, it accumulates,
a plaque in the arteries, while
he laughs and watches TV.

© Jan 2012 Annie Swann



To quote a writer friend of mine, “I make these things up.”

And so, judge these for their simplicity. Judge these as poetry. Distancing myself, I kind of like the second one, a touch of metaphor and imagery with my usual reflection. But is it successful?

Good Friends and Great Blogs

My friend, Thom, from The Pictorial Arts, dedicated a post to me, for my love of the book illustration he posts at his blog, and in particular, my love for the work of Beatrice Stevens, who I became aware of through this post and subsequent research.

Beatrice Stevens is an interesting woman, with an elusive background. At some point I will do a post at Art of Narrative with my findings about her life, her literary and artistic friends, and her illustrations for books and magazines. I've even found a rare photograph of her, and she looks very much as I might imagine.

Visit The Pictorial Arts for the best in quality "golden age" art and illustration, careful analysis, light hearted warmth and humor, personal reminiscence, discussions of art and technique, dialogue in the comments, and just a touch of the risque. Visit The Pictorial Arts Journal for a return to that golden age.

To brighten and enlighten your day, also enjoy visiting Hannah at The Storialist, Jack at A Warming Trend Post, Maggie at Flux Capacitor, Tom at This Is... The Life..., Tracy at dirt and rocks: words, and dirt and rocks: images, Joanne at A Certain Book, Ripley at Ripley Patton: Purveyor of Myth, and Sherry at too much august not enough snow.

I have other "bloggy" friends I recommend reading, but they haven't been posting much lately, so I hope they will be back to blogging again soon.

Happy New Year!

Happy New Year to all! I have a new post up at Art of Narrative! I spent many long hours working on it, never expecting it to be my next post. I had several others planned, and images copied, but I came across compelling images from Phantastes: A Faerie Romance I'd never seen before, and I couldn't stop myself from exploring them and the mystery artist. I enjoy their energy and playfulness. Here's the link at my companion blog, the Art of Narrative. I hope you enjoy them!

Holiday Wishes with Victorian Angels

Wishing You and Yours

a Merry Christmas,

Happy Holidays, and a Beautiful

New Year Filled with Peace,

Love, Happiness,

Adventure, and Discovery

~ Scroll Down for Beautiful Images ~

~ Click Many for Greater Detail ~

Postcard ~ Raphael Tuck

A Poem This, and a Poem That

A Poem This, and a Poem That


Today, At 4’9” tall, a former Minnie Mouse,
Demanded, no requested, no stated
To a 6’4” young mentally disturbed football
player sized man, You are banned from the library,
for the day, for your disruptive behavior
And profanity. On the computer screen,
after he was asked to leave, these are the words
she discovers typed into the search box:
Unable to complete it, he leaves behind:
“US Teen ******* ### ***** ** *** ******.”
She approached him calmly, drew him out
from the computer lab, and into the lobby.
God bless you, he said, as he leaves the building,
more or less pacific, after a roiling of vocalizing,
and a half heard bomb threat, reported.
Now, because those words are searchable
And no child/man/woman should look
for it, I have to scramble the awful search,
awful to look at, awful to think about,
awful in deed. It’s in the report, you see.
The security report, the evidence, in case
the deranged man comes back, for a second
warning, and a 30 day banishment. This
is not the work I was meant to do, when
I came here. This is not the work I meant
to do. Today, Minnie Mouse tells stories
in the afternoon. She reads The Little
Scarecrow Boy, his fierce faces, and his loving
Dad, and Mom. She helps with scarecrow crafts,
complimenting, encouraging, completing.
She nurtures, and she loves.

This is what a library is all about:
How You, Too, Can Become a Librarian, and Why It's a Good Thing.


----  Not this not work, this not fun, this god awful.
And you’d think she was expert at it, the way
she approached him, treated him with respect,
took away his audience. Worked like a charm.
Once.

Surfacing

When you've just finished a literary work, Margaret Atwood's Surfacing, and all you can think to say about it, is "It was good," you know your brain is tired and you have too much to do. It wouldn't earn you an "A" on a book report, and it doesn't make for a valuable blog post. I'm getting e-mails from people in "real" life, and I need to answer them. Next week is filled with visits with friends and family. Until after the Holidays, I need to take a break from posting for a while. Perhaps it's time to Surface.

In the meantime, here's a link to a New York Time's article by Joyce Carol Oates, Margaret Atwood's Tale, with an overview of Surfacing and other major works.

And here's a link to my latest post at Art of Narrative, with amazing and gorgeous illustrations by Maurice Lalau, The Romance of Tristram and Iseult.

Happy Thanksgiving to everyone!