November 10th

Sweet, deep, peaceful sleep
Apparently I was tired.

How has this culture so taught us not to know our bodies’ own sensations
that we eat on a schedule or a whim
and sleep as though it is an interruption
and are oblivious to danger
and are practical about love.

Mama Bear shakes her head in wonderment.
Eat salmon,
Eat blueberries,
Drink stream,
Sleep.

November 7

It’s coming apart in a very genteel way.
I’m happy.
I’m having a good life.
But I see the signs.

November, my old challenge…

Let’s begin again.

I am grateful for sunrise.
I am grateful for warm dogs.
I am grateful for this warm and cozy home.
I am grateful for extraordinary children.
I am grateful for my sweet, sweet loved one.

November Sixth

I gave myself homework,
To write out three different pieces of poetry which speak to me,
and to try to read them aloud to myself.

Naturally, this project took me to the Oxford English Dictionary.

desideratum, n.
Forms: Plural desiderata.
Something for which a desire or longing is felt; something wanting and required or desired.

“desideratum, n.” OED Online, Oxford University Press, September 2019, www.oed.com/view/Entry/50832. Accessed 6 November 2019.

Words save my soul.

October 27th

I can tell that it’s coming,
the dead make such a noise in my head.

In the end, though, they will hush and settle. Most of them only need to be told,
“Yes, someone will remember.”
“Yes, I will tell your story.”
“Yes, it will be all right, just you see!”

And then I’ll sit
out on the lawn
with a small cauldron fire
and have a beer with my dad and all the good dogs.

Saint Crispin’s Day

What’s he that wishes so?
My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin:
If we are mark’d to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires:
But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England:
God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour
As one man more, methinks, would share from me
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made
And crowns for convoy put into his purse:
We would not die in that man’s company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is called the feast of Crispian:
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say ‘To-morrow is Saint Crispian:’
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars.
And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’
Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
But he’ll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day: then shall our names.
Familiar in his mouth as household words
Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember’d;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.

Will Shaxper