My body kissed by
burning rays and chilling waves,
abrasive sand and
gentle breeze, in ecstasy,
I lick the salt from my lips.

In recognition of Global Darfur Day, I would direct you all to Tara Bradford’s post on Paris Parfait here. (Article from London’s Independent on Sunday)

My friend once told me a heartbreaking story.

As is typical of mothers with school-aged children, she had befriended the mother of one of her son’s classmates, a frail and innocent young girl. During a chance sighting on the street, her family doctor had noticed her paleness and had suggested that her mother bring her in for testing. The day after the results were received, she was admitted to the hospital with leukaemia, but the family, at first, tried to remain optimistic with a 75% positive prognosis.

Little by little, her health and hope for recovery dwindled, like wisps of smoke disappearing into thin air. No one who had volunteered samples for a bone marrow transplant was compatible with her, and her condition had deteriorated so much that the doctors refused to register her on the international list for bone marrow donors.

With summer came the girl’s sixth birthday. She was all skin and bones and had to wear diapers for lack of control over her bodily functions. The night she died, she called her father to come to her. She asked him to take off her diapers and bring her to the toilet because she didn’t want “to be a baby anymore.” While she was sitting there, held up by her dad, she said, “Daddy, do you know how much I love you?” and clung to his neck for strength and comfort. She died right there in his arms.

My friend’s son, who was only five, didn’t want to believe that she had really died, because she was just a kid and kids weren’t supposed to die. He needed to hear it directly from his friend’s Mom, and so he climbed in her lap and asked, “Is it really true? Did she really die?” Through the tears, she answered that it was true.

After thinking for a minute, he said, “You know those bones that stuck out of her back?”

In a simple, down to earth way, her mother answered, “Well, you know she was really thin and weak at the end, and you could see her shoulder blades.”

“No,” he insisted, “you know those bones, those were her wings that were growing, because now she’s an angel.”

*****

You could save a life through bone marrow donation to leukemia victims. Read more about it here.

“Tiré de l’Expérience: l’absurdité d’une chose n’est pas une raison contre son existence, c’en est plutôt une condition.”

-Nietzsche, Humain, trop humain

I couldn’t resist posting this very funny near-villanelle written by one of my friends in college. I have no idea where he is today, so, Steve, I hope you don’t mind me usurping your copyright here:

Why do you torture me, Treasured Villanelle
I can’t do this poem Justice (or Thomas anyhow)
Your deceptive form must surely have come from hell.

It’s twenty-three sheets of paper o’clock…Well.
Where is my imagery, my form, my rhyme scheme?
You really piss me off, Oh Prized Villanelle!

Even grammar (my Friend) doesn’t sound too good–
I can not guess what sadistic mind
Your deceptive form must surely have come from. Hell–

–O? Domino’s? Or tonight maybe Taco Bell–
Only seven hours pass and already I’m writing on Empty;
I feel myself getting weaker, Killer Villanelle…

John Hollander is taunting me, choking me, compelling
me to–Wake up! to a poem still a stanza too short.
I just can’t understand your form, Oh poem born in Hell.

My desk is now lit by sun power alone—
I really tried to avoid another poem clone. But,
Look at what I’ve done to you, Battered Villanelle,
Congratulations Beaten Poem, you’ve just experienced Hell.

-Steven Belkin, 2 February 1990

*****

And here is my own best effort to conform to the Poetry Thursday exercise this week (I remain thoroughly unsatisfied and you can just forget about iambic pentameter…)

Back and Forth

Walk away from the place you stood?
Of course not. A promise is forever.
Or then again, maybe I should.

Shaken to the core, petrified wood.
An affair! You know what I’d like to sever?
I walk away from the place you stood.

Seven years of sacrifices withstood
end in betrayal–no applauding the endeavour.
Or then again, maybe I should.

Living your adventure like Robin Hood,
you must have thought yourself so clever,
walking away from the place you stood.

I remember a time when we were so good.
You want forgiveness? Pfft, whatever.
Or then again, maybe I should.

Please, you must have misunderstood.
Hurt put aside, you know I could never
walk away from the place you stood.
(Or then again, maybe I should.)

“First Law of Petropolitics: The price of oil and the pace of freedom always move in opposite directions in states that are highly dependent on oil exports for their income and have weak institutions or outright authoritarian governments. And this is another reason that green has become geostrategic. Soaring oil prices are poisoning the international system by strengthening antidemocratic regimes around the globe.”

- From a NY Times article written by Thomas Friedman

earth
air
fire
and water
if love is the fifth
just maybe we still have a chance

***

tears fall from the sky
to grow crops and quench our thirst
a pure flowing gift

***

degree by degree
climate change? so what? why change?
no one’s left to say

Inspired by the words of Annie Dillard:
“If survival is an art, then mangroves are artists of the beautiful.”

tip-toe above seawater, mangrove
build new land with the silt you catch
diamond rain and wind play cover you crystalline
impermeable to adversity
against all odds

oysters hide treasure
in the tangle of your roots
your pungent leaves know to turn away
from midday sun for survival
against all odds

you set your baby afloat
only once it can fend for itself
like a fledgling leaving the nest
the seedling bobs along endlessly
against all odds

when the time comes–days, months, years–
the sapling reaches down to anchor in mud below
if it catches nothing, the journey continues
in search of a better place
against all odds

“When sleeping women wake, mountains move.”               - Chinese Proverb

GREAT STRIDES is the Cystic Fibrosis (CF) Foundation’s largest and most successful national fund-raising event. Cystic fibrosis is a devastating genetic disease that affects children and young adults. Advances continue to be made in finding a cure, but your help is needed now - more than ever - to help keep up the momentum of this life-saving research. Too many young lives depend on this vital research to let it go unfunded!

My friend’s son, Nathaniel Brancazio, has the disease, and his family will participate in the walk in West Haven CT- The Grove at Savin Rock site on 05/20/2007. His mom, Dina, would appreciate any support you could offer, and you’ll feel confident in knowing that your generous gift is used efficiently and effectively: nearly 90 cents out of every dollar you contribute goes directly toward supporting research and specialized care that improves the quality of life for those with CF. And, it’s tax-deductible. Her information is at this address:

link:http://www.cff.org/Great_Strides/DinaMoorerancazio

• Visit the CF Foundation Web Site