Undermining the Patriarchy Every Chance I Get -- And I Get a Lot of Chances
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Wednesday, March 15, 2006
One Week Old Grandson Blogging
I'm fifty years old as of one minute ago. I've done a lot of things in my fifty years, but the best thing I ever did was be a mom to my wonderful son. The reward is HIS wonderful son, my grandson.
The second fifty years are going to be SO much fun.
Hey, Hecate. Meant to give you this before. It's Seamus Heaney's "St Kevin and the Blackbird," and it is a gift to you and your grandchild, because we think it fits and because we love you:
St. Kevin and the Blackbird
And then there was St. Kevin and the blackbird. The saint is kneeling, arms stretched out, inside His cell, but the cell is narrow, so
One turned-up palm is out the window, stiff As a crossbeam, when a blackbird lands And lays in it and settles down to nest.
Kevin feels the warm eggs, the small breast, the tucked Neat head and claws and, finding himself linked Into the network of eternal life,
Is moved to pity: Now he must hold his hand Like a branch out in the sun and rain for weeks Until the young are hatched and fledged and flown.
And since the whole thing's imagined anyhow, Imagine being Kevin. Which is he? self-forgetful or in agony all the time
From the neck on out down through his hurting forearms? Are his fingers sleeping? Does he still feel his knees? Or has the shut-eyed blank of underearth
Crept up through him? Is there distance in his head? Alone and mirrored clear in love's deep river, 'To labour and not to seek reward,' he prays,
A prayer his body makes entirely For he has forgotten self, forgotten bird, And on the riverbank forgotten the river's name.
Happy, happy, happy birthday to the most fabulous witch I know!!
ReplyDeleteLion kitty loves you too.
Hey, Hecate. Meant to give you this before. It's Seamus Heaney's "St Kevin and the Blackbird," and it is a gift to you and your grandchild, because we think it fits and because we love you:
ReplyDeleteSt. Kevin and the Blackbird
And then there was St. Kevin and the blackbird.
The saint is kneeling, arms stretched out, inside
His cell, but the cell is narrow, so
One turned-up palm is out the window, stiff
As a crossbeam, when a blackbird lands
And lays in it and settles down to nest.
Kevin feels the warm eggs, the small breast, the tucked
Neat head and claws and, finding himself linked
Into the network of eternal life,
Is moved to pity: Now he must hold his hand
Like a branch out in the sun and rain for weeks
Until the young are hatched and fledged and flown.
And since the whole thing's imagined anyhow,
Imagine being Kevin. Which is he?
self-forgetful or in agony all the time
From the neck on out down through his hurting forearms?
Are his fingers sleeping? Does he still feel his knees?
Or has the shut-eyed blank of underearth
Crept up through him? Is there distance in his head?
Alone and mirrored clear in love's deep river,
'To labour and not to seek reward,' he prays,
A prayer his body makes entirely
For he has forgotten self, forgotten bird,
And on the riverbank forgotten the river's name.
Happy, happy, happy, happy, happy birthday to you, Hecate.
ReplyDeleteWe are all blessed by your presence.
Happy Birthday, Hecate! 50 is such a wonderful milestone. I just loved turning 50 and I'm so glad it's a happy occasion for you too.
ReplyDelete