Saturday, February 25, 2012

Bond, James Bond

In honor of our awesome friends, Brittany and I threw our second annual Valentine's bash. (You might recall the first).

This year's theme was James Bond, if for no other reason than I was determined to wear a swanky dress and wanted another excuse to make our friends take ridiculous photos.

We were not disappointed.

Luckily our friends enjoy both dressing up, and taking an obscene number of pictures of themselves. I also appreciated the loose interpretation of the Bond theme. We were well represented with Bond girls, James Bond in tuxedo, James Bond in wet-suit, Jaws, LeChiffre, Emilio Largo, Pussy Galore, and even a little Goldmember action.

If you're planning to throw your own James Bond party, in addition to our DIY photo booth, we also had James Bond movies projected onto the wall, 007 on Nintendo 64, a poker room, darts, cigars, and a well-stocked martini bar. Good times. I'm already thinking up themes for next year...

Friday, February 17, 2012

Friday Poem

Yes, I realize the last Friday poem was also by Jack Gilbert, but given the recent love smothered holiday, I decided this poem will create a perfect love sandwich. So Happy Friday.

The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart

How astonishing it is that language can almost mean,
and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say,
God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words
get it all wrong. We say bread and it means according
to which nation. French has no word for home,
and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people
in northern India is dying out because their ancient
tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost
vocabularies that might express some of what
we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would
finally explain why the couples on their tombs
are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands
of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated,
they seemed to be business records. But what if they
are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve
Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light.
O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper,
as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind's labor.
Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts
of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred
pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what
my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this
desire in the dark. Perhaps the spiral Minoan script
is not a language but a map. What we feel most has
no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses and birds.

Copyright © 2001 Jack Gilbert. From The Great Fires: Poems 1982-1992, 2001, Alfred A. Knopf.

Tuesday, February 14, 2012


"At one glance, I love you with a thousand hearts"
(Mihri Hatun)

Friday, February 3, 2012

Friday Poem

A little passion for your Friday...

Tear It Down

We find out the heart only by dismantling what
the heart knows. By redefining the morning,
we find a morning that comes just after darkness.
We can break through marriage into marriage.
By insisting on love we spoil it, get beyond
affection and wade mouth-deep into love.
We must unlearn the constellations to see the stars.
But going back toward childhood will not help.
The village is not better than Pittsburgh.
Only Pittsburgh is better than Pittsburgh.
Rome is better than Rome in the same way the sound
of raccoon tongues licking the inside walls
of the garbage tub is more than the stir
of them in the muck of the garbage. Love is not
enough. We die and are put into the earth forever.
We should insist while there is still time. We must
eat through the wildness of her sweet body already
in our bed to reach the body within the body.

Copyright © 2001 Jack Gilbert. From The Great Fires: Poems 1982-1992, 2001, Alfred A. Knopf.