St. Patrick’s Day

17 Mar 2013 Leave a Comment

by Cocktails With Hemingway in College, Friends, Holidays, Poetry, University of Memphis

Lads and lassies, it’s St. Patrick’s Day. Make shamrock cookies for the kids [or yourself]. Drink something festive, whether it’s a mint milkshake or green beer. Kiss an Irish person. Pinch lousy leprechauns who aren’t wearing the right color. Discover a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. Or whatever it is your supposed to do to mark the occasion.

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A special shout out to my very Irish mate, Anne! Thank you so much for your message. You should definitely go see my parents. ‘Mum’ would be delighted. Speaking of family, yours is beautiful. Once I’m away from these bloody wankers we’ll have to get together and read Yeats as we catch up while washing down a pint of Guinness. ;)

May the saddest day of your future be no worse than the happiest day of your past. ~ Irish blessing

With infinite love, gratitude, and respect,
Sloane

Doomsday

21 Nov 2011 1 Comment

by Cocktails With Hemingway in Poetry, Sylvia Plath

The idiot bird leaps out and drunken leans
Atop the broken universal clock:
The hour is crowed in lunatic thirteens.

Out painted stages fall apart by scenes
While all the actors halt in mortal shock:
The idiot bird leaps out and drunken leans.
Streets crack through in havoc-split ravines
As the doomstruck city crumbles block by block:
The hour is crowed in lunatic thirteens.

Fractured glass flies down in smithereens;
Our lucky relics have been put in hock:
The idiot bird leaps out and drunken leans.
The monkey’s wrench has blasted all machines;
We never thought to hear the holy cock:
The hour is crowed in lunatic thirteens.

Too late to ask if end was worth the means,
Too late to calculate the toppling stock:
The idiot bird leaps out and drunken leans,
The hour is crowded in lunatic thirteens.

~ Sylvia

With infinite love, gratitude, and respect,
Sloane

And the names are……

18 Jul 2011 3 Comments

by Cocktails With Hemingway in * R. i. P. *, Adam, Adam Sontag, Family, Music, Poetry, The Wee One

If it’s a GIRL:  Tatum Marisann Reed
If it’s a BOY:  Dylan Andrew Reed

Neither one of us believes in names without significant meaning.  We chose Adam as a tribute to Adam Sontag and his middle name, Harrison, is the first name of Will’s deceased father.  Tatum is a moniker that Will and I have always loved.  Bonus points for the fact that Tatum O’Neal is someone whom I admire greatly.  Marisann is a combination of my best friend– my soul sister– Maris [who also named her daughter after me!] and Ann, a maternal family name from Will’s side.  Doesn’t it sound so unique and French-y?  ;)

Everyone knows I’m a lover of the written word.  I am also passionate about music.  So Dylan serves as a perfect way to fuse my penchant for the poet Dylan Thomas with the timeless songs of musician Bob Dylan.  Andrew was Will’s original middle name– it was changed from William Andrew Elder to William Anthony Reed for reasons too complex to discuss here– and we believe it’s important to recognize that a change of name on a piece of paper doesn’t change who you are.

Tatum Marisann or Dylan Andrew…..we can’t wait to meet you!  Mommy, Daddy, and Adam already love you so very much.  <3

With infinite love, gratitude, and respect,
Sloane

Happy birthday, Sean….we miss you!

13 Jul 2011 Leave a Comment

by Cocktails With Hemingway in * R. i. P. *, Dr. Krause, Poetry

I know recent events have infuriated you....but I take comfort in the fact that the demon won't be released on your birthday as originally scheduled. We think of you constantly.

“Do Not Stand At My Grave and Weep”
Mary Frye
I am not there, I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glint on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you wake in the morning hush,
I am the swift, uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starlight at night.

Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
Do not stand at my grave and cry.
I am not there, I did not die!

 

Chidiock Tichborne

08 Jul 2011 Leave a Comment

by Cocktails With Hemingway in Death, Poetry

Throughout my many years of blogging, I know I’ve shared this poem at least twice, possibly more. It falls in my ‘top ten’ list of poetry and sends chills down my spine whenever I read it. Emotionally I’m spent….I’m not even going to attempt to articulate why these words mean so much to me so I’m going to borrow from Slate writer Robert Pinsky:

“This poem was apparently written in the Tower of London by the imprisoned Chidiock Tichborne (1558-1586), a young Catholic conspirator against Queen Elizabeth, the night before he was executed. Whether this account is true or not, whoever wrote the poem achieved an amazing force of plainness. The poem shows how powerful unadorned language can be and what genius it takes to give such language emotional bite. Tremendous feeling is generated by the directness, the straightforward hammering of repeated formula and refrain, above all the plainness of language: Except for the contestable exception “fall’n,” the poem is written entirely in words of one syllable! It feels as if the poet has no time for anything but stark truth—and that feeling is attained by writing so artful that it seems nearly artless.”

“Tichborne’s Elegy”

Written with his own hand in the tower
before his execution

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,
My feast of joy is but a dish of pain,
My crop of corn is but a field of tares,
And all my good is but vain hope of gain;
The day is past, and yet I saw no sun,
And now I live, and now my life is done.

My tale was heard and yet it was not told,
My fruit is fallen and yet my leaves are green,
My youth is spent and yet I am not old,
I saw the world and yet I was not seen;
My thread is cut and yet it is not spun,
And now I live, and now my life is done.

I sought my death and found it in my womb,
I looked for life and saw it was a shade,
I trod the earth and knew it was my tomb,
And now I die, and now I was but made:
My glass is full, and now my glass is run,
And now I live, and now my life is done.

With infinite love, gratitude, and respect,
Sloane

“The Dead” & “Don’t Fear Death”

08 Jul 2011 Leave a Comment

by Cocktails With Hemingway in Authors, Death, Poetry, Sylvia Plath

Sylvia Plath

Revolving in oval loops of solar speed,
Couched in cauls of clay as in holy robes,
Dead men render love and war no heed,
Lulled in the ample womb of the full-tilt globe.

No spiritual Caesars are these dead;
They want no proud paternal kingdom come;
And when at last they blunder into bed
World-wrecked, they seek only oblivion.

Rolled round with goodly loam and cradled deep,
These bone shanks will not wake immaculate
To trumpet-toppling dawn of doomstruck day :
They loll forever in colossal sleep;
Nor can God’s stern, shocked angels cry them up
From their fond, final, infamous decay.

Aleksandr Blok

Don’t fear death in earthly travels.
Don’t fear enemies or friends.
Just listen to the words of prayers,
To pass the facets of the dreads.

Your death will come to you, and never
You shall be, else, a slave of life,
Just waiting for a dawn’s favor,
From nights of poverty and strife.

She’ll build with you a common law,
One will of the Eternal Reign.
And you are not condemned to slow
And everlasting deadly pain.

With infinite love, gratitude, and respect,

Sloane