First Attempt at Combining FB Posts into One Substack Post
Bear with me, but you needn't bare with me....
So here’s my general plan, such as it may be: I’ll see if Substack can support my combining three or four FB posts of these First-of-the-Month Poems & Songs / Friday Favorites into a single post here. I’ll work forward from March, 2019, until I get ‘em all Substacked through whatever the “now” is when I finish. I think I’ll try to go by month, especially later in the game when I’ve solidified the format. At first, they’ll be multi-monthed, cuz I wasn’t as - how shall we say? - regimented back then. Also, since everytime I post on Substack, you subscribers / Gentle Readers get an email informing of said post, and I don’t want to jam your email boxes with rounds and rounds of Substack posts. So, this process of transporting my FB posts over to Substack may take a while. And, also, and IMPORTANTLY, I am NOT MONETIZING THIS SUBSTACK ACCOUNT - IT’S FREE TO MY SUBSCRIBERS!
OK, OK, ALL-CAPS are done. But this is a labor of love, and although I’m working hard, it’s not for the money - it’s for YOU, GRs / Subscribers. So, here we go!
March 9, 2018
And in today's Poet's Corner (I wanted a title for these occasional postings, and PC sounded just pun-able), I've juxtaposed Mary Oliver's "Blue Horses" with the (missing) painting that inspired it. If you have the time, read the wikipedia article about Marc's "The Tower of Blue Horses." It makes the poem all that more powerful. And what better way to get at the meaning, the purpose, the power of a painting than to walk into it?
"Franz Marc's Blue Horses" by Mary Oliver
I step into the painting of the four blue horses.
I am not even surprised that I can do this.
One of the horses walks toward me.
His blue nose noses me lightly. I put my arm
over his blue mane, not holding on, just
commingling.
He allows me my pleasure.
Franz Marc died a young man, shrapnel in his brain.
I would rather die than explain to the blue horses
what war is.
They would either faint in horror, or simply
find it impossible to believe.
I do not know how to thank you, Franz Marc.
Maybe our world will grow kinder eventually.
Maybe the desire to make something beautiful
is the piece of God that is inside each of us.
Now all four horses have come closer,
are bending their faces toward me
as if they have secrets to tell.
I don’t expect them to speak, and they don’t.
If being so beautiful isn’t enough, what
could they possibly say?
The Tower of Blue Horses - Wikipedia
The Tower of Blue Horses (German: Der Turm der blauen Pferde) is a 1913 Expressionist oil painting by the German artist Franz Marc. It has been called one of his best works, but went missing in 1945.
April 2, 2018
So it's a new month, April I think, when it's supposed to be spring, but there's snow on the ground in Mini-sota. Nonetheless, Laura reminded me that it's time, therefore, to post a poem. So I shall. In hopes that balloons and puddles and mud will soon be available for play:
[in Just-]
BY E. E. CUMMINGS
in Just-
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman
whistles far and wee
and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's
spring
when the world is puddle-wonderful
the queer
old balloonman whistles
far and wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing
from hop-scotch and jump-rope and
it's
spring
and
the
goat-footed
balloonMan whistles
far
and
wee
June 1, 2018
Yes, Dear Reader(s), it is indeed June 1, a rabid rabbit kind of day, which means I get to post another favorite poem, before either Laura or Brenda remind me to do so. And so I shall. It's a longer one, taking over four minutes for Dylan Thomas to read, but, oh, is it worth it to get to the end. There are those of us, of a certain age, who wistfully, on occasion, recall the time in our lives called childhood, and perhaps some of those some of us-es actually had a farm in those childhoods. I did. My grandfather's "truck farm" near Northfield, with an old swallow-filled barn used for storage and play. If you didn't, I'll bet you can imagine one, one with horses and hay, an occasional fox, barking clear and cold. Ah, "the lamb white days" of then . . .