Top Ten Lists
Top Ten List of Small Things Pt. 2
On January 31, 2021 by Speranza
4. Feeding the Birds: Many years ago, I was a well-intentioned novice, hanging out a puck of seedy suet which no bird was ever able to access due to its squirrel value. I also purchased jumbo bags of suspiciously cheap seed which produced the same experience. I now finally have a practice that works. We only buy Safflower and Niger seed which the squirrels have almost zero interest in and the feeders are always well attended. Mr.& Mrs. Cardinal arrive together, politely taking turns and transform the front window into a Victorian Christmas card. There are finches too and many others and I am always touched by their gentle, searching faces. I do feed the squirrels, separately, in the backyard and cannot dislike them as many people do; in fact, we now have three “regulars” that we have named: ‘Sid Vicious’ (arrogant-cool, often knocking at the window, smiling crookedly); ‘Elvis,’ black fur and ears slicked straight back and ‘The Friar,’ the largest of all and could easily pass for a groundhog as he teeters on the ledge, where I’ve left a few peanuts in the shell and apple cores. Yes, I’m aware how geriatric this all sounds but it adds another much needed strata of connection in these dark Covid days.
Tales from the Public Library
The Time Tunnel
On January 23, 2021 by Speranza
I’ve worked in public libraries both in Canada and the Isle of Man for more than half of my life – so needless to say, I have seen some … things. Working with the public in any capacity is often challenging but at the library, I believe the true stress comes with constantly having to alternate between positive and not so positive situations: helping two likeable, intellectual older women choose fiction titles; angry curmudgeons demanding addresses for subsequent angry letters they intend to write; a shy toddler sliding a drawing of a lovely pink dragon across the desk; and then a clearly agitated person demanding assistance in locating his brother who, he informs me is a headhunter now. And the crumpled magazine picture he shows me of his ‘brother’ holding a spear is clearly more of a, shall we say, traditional headhunter, and not the Human Resources type you may be thinking of.
And of course he doesn’t know his name.
Poetry . Writers
The Moon, Ten Times by Pat Schneider
On January 20, 2021 by Speranza
O round, cool face of forever
float free
for me
Saucer without a teacup
without the tyranny
of tea
Owl eye without a pupil
blind
to contradiction
My white balloon
has lost its string
and me
Round, open mouth
of the goddess
of light
The night sky’s
exclamation:
Oh!
Puppeteer
of tides,
rock the shore of the world
Bright Frisbee
the dog star lost
in the night
Perfect pearl
crown of cornfields
and night watchmen’s hair
Bellybutton
of God
Permission granted to post here by: Pat Schneider, Writing Alone and with others, Oxford Univ.Press, 2003.
I have truly adored this poem since the first time I read it – the descriptions are exquisite and everything about it is full of unselfconscious whimsy and joy. I’ve been a huge fan of Pat Schneider’s work for years now and when I originally emailed her directly to ask permission to eventually put this on the blog, she was supremely gracious and we began a brief bit of back and forth correspondence which was absolutely thrilling to me.
Covid Times . Introspection . My Brothers . Sadness
Happy New Year, try not to laugh …
On January 8, 2021 by Speranza
Hard to write about anything today without commenting on the endlessly distressing news (er, and Happy New Year everyone) but I will now try to do that very thing. Those who know me, will testify that I have always been about savouring and appreciating The Small Things (even before it became fashionable to do so and we all had to read about the technique in someone’s bestselling book).
But truly, it really is all that we have.
British Stuff . Covid Times . Hope . My Mother . Nostalgia . The General
A New November
On November 10, 2020 by Speranza
Each year I dread November. As well as unconsciously shuffling through tightly compressed memories of my mother’s death (43 years ago) and all the associated bleakness both outside and within, I can hardly bear the early darkness that creeps in after a five o’clock sky, flecked with pink. I am flooded with memories of living in Britain and that particular deep reaching dampness that can only really be remedied with a large Scotch in a steaming bath. (And at seventeen, as now, I don’t even drink Scotch …)