Birthday Festivities

Petit cupcakes. . .I, as adopted aunt, indulge in ze frufru of pink icing and the yum-yum of seven-minute frosting and raspberries from our garden.



Thought I'd post a quick log on my adopted niece Cat's birthday. My friend Nancy Greenthumb did me the honor of letting me throw a turning-seven festival. The day was so hot that the backpack (and baby inside) became very sticky. . .but I got my baking done early. I covered the tables in white butcher paper so we could write notes to the birthday girl.

After cake, when we were opening presents, Hurricane Ike's winds finally got to us and blew mightily. Martin's newspapers and hay he had laid earlier on the garden beds scattered wildly all over our yard (and they are still there on this day).

Happy eighth year, my dear! Live it well!

Cat's kind, classy Aunt M.J.--always with a dry sense of humor and kind observation.
More adopted family. . .

Birthday Mama (this shot, from Martin's shindig, is too perfect not to include here, though it's out of place).
The Birthday Papa, (and brother),

And oldest brother, with dear Grandma in the background.

And Baby's awake! Again!

Anna Swir, Birthdays, Life

Martin read aloud to us from a book of Anna Swir's poems (translated from the Polish by Csezlaw Milosz and some other chap) last night as I did up the supper dishes. He swung Baby Beatrix from one arm and read her short, simple, stunning lines. A breeze came in through the kitchen window--was it Anna Swir's images, Milosz's adept translation, or the warm dishwater mingling with the autumn wind that sent chills through my rib cage?

Or was it the children? Was it Elspeth and Merry fretting over something or maybe the book of stamps I saw--all that money, ready to be plastered all over the walls, the table, Elspeth's dress--that made me interject in the middle of one haunting poem: WHO LEFT THESE HERE???

I'll just read this later, Martin said, putting away the book.

No, I was really enjoying them, I said. And this is life right now. Moments of beauty and great love punctuated by chaos. Sometimes I can't even weigh the preciousness, the heft, of one moment until much later, filled as we are with the constant interruptions of baby crying, Elspeth painting herself, or Merry who wants JUST ONE MORE CHAPTER.

Sounds a lot like poetry, anyway. Why stop speaking poetry when our life is one long poem, unwritten? Just raise your voice higher, darlin', read louder. Or stop at the end of that line, continue it later. I think Anna Swir would agree, even though she was an only child.

Well, the Birthdays part will have to wait until later.

Speaking of crying babies. . . .I am in demand.

Reading Anna Swir Aloud

The poem starts
a line about her father’s
crummy art studio
I pinch the book open
with my left thumb
and jog the baby
slung over my right arm
as I read
and there was no bread for tomorrow

The poem stops
the belly of our house upset
by a two-year-old
forking butter
the whole butter stick
into her mouth
the clang of dirty dishes
a badass jetting down the road
he would take up his pallet and start

the poem this poem
meant something to me I say
and our oldest is
telling then singing a story
about “Laura pioneer”
and Pa
and wheat fields
I give the baby a clean spoon
to fondle
his pallet and start

to sing
The poem stops
My wife raises her voice
inviting divine wrath and fire
to consume the children
for their headlong lack of respect
and trail of toys
Maybe now is not a good time to do this
I moan
but she’s not having it
Don’t you start

the poem start the poem
again but I am out of focus
Who turned the radio up
What is that grinding sound
in my leg
Will someone please take
the kettle off
The children are destroying each other
in a distant corner
Father I begin
from the top
sang all his life

--Martin Cockroft