Another new computer and a poem

The computer saga continues but one can't get two lemons in a row -- can one? I pray not. And I'm not going into the matter further. As noted a few days ago, my son-in-law challenged his wife [my daughter, Rachel] to write a poem a day during November. And she in turn pinged me. So, in fact, I have written something that purports to be a poem each day. All are in need of editing, which I hope to do as soon as I get Word installed on this machine. Meanwhile here is yesterday's poem because it's a subject I would write about if I hadn't turned the article in the Sunday N.Y. Times Week In Review section into a found poem -- the fist line begged to be part of a poem so I simply deleted the words that seemed extraneous. The subject deserves attention and thought, even by those on the lower side of, say, age fifty. I invite anyone who reads this and has thoughts about the subject [not the quality of the poem] to leave a comment.

FOUND POEM

So this, in the end, is what love is.
Justice O'Connor's husband
suffering fro Alzheimer's disease
has a romance with another woman...
the former justice is thrilled --
even visits the new couple
while they hold hands
on the porch swing.
It is a relief to see her husband
of fifty-five years so content ...
what cultre tells us about love
is generally young love,
rapture and betrayal, breathlessness and tears.
The O'Connor story opened a window
onto what might be called old love --
even when dementia steals so much else ...
Justice O'Connor's reaction revealed a poignancy
and richness to love in later years...
a rare model when people are living
and loving longer.

Valentine's Day Poem

Rather than write about the first -- yes, first -- storm of the winter which isn't nice, fluffy, pretty snow, or even a sparkling ice storm but just slushy. mushy, yucky, I'll observe Valentine's Day -- not a day I have ever taken very seriously. But I try to share poems every so often believing familiarity breeds, not contempt for heaven sakes, but tolerance that can become fondness for the many who are not poetry readers, having been thorouthly scared off by ignorant school teachers.

This poem by Pushkin. He's not in most of our anthologies because we like our Russian literature fraught with neuroses or full of political upheaval. At college I worked for a few weeks as secretary in the Russian department, most especially for a professor doing a transalton of Eugene Onegin. He tried and succeeded in convincing me Pushkin stands along side almost all English writers except maybe, Shakespeare. The following poem seems to me perhaps to better most of Shakespeare's love poetry because I find it more mature, and far more generous than all the summer days S. likened his love to. We do not think of love and generosity in the same instance except when the love is for our children, and then generosity is basic. But few poets celebrate generous towards their mates or lovers. What isn't sensuous is usally about ownership and possession.

I loved you, even now I may confess,
Some embers of my love their fire retain;
But do not let it cause you more distress,
I do no want to sadden you again.
Hopeless and tonguetied, yet I loved you dearly
With pangs the jealous and the timid know;
So tenderly I loved you, so sincerely,
I pray God grant another love you so.