Poetry Friday

It is the Friday of Labor Day weekend. What better time to hear from a working man's poet, who understood the travails of hard labor, day in and day out.
Here is another poem by Joseph Kalar, International Falls' own poet from the depression era.

Testament

In the lean earth there is nothing,
Nothing by Life, a ball of horse's dung,
And I, a sparrow.

To my pecking and stratching here, leave me.
Leave me alone now.
Who can tell but that I will find
Some goodly oats to be uncovered here.

from "Papermill, poems, 1927-1935" edited by Ted Genoways

Poetry Friday

The Bass Tournament is in town this weekend but I'm not going to try and find a poem suitable for a fishing tournament. Last week I said I was going to tell you about another new poetry book in our collection.

This book is entitled "Papermill: poems, 1927-35" by Joseph Kalar, edited by Ted Genoways.
Joseph Kalar was International Falls own poet. He is most well-known for the title poem "Papermill".

"Resignation"


Let there be no weeping, friends,
when I return to the ground,
just the sound of church bells calling
and the thud of hard clods falling
on my wooden box, scented and sound.
Let there be no weeping, friends.

What I found most fascinating was the introduction that included biographical information about Mr. Kalar, including the fact that he taught in a one-room schoolhouse, grades K-8, for a year in Wayland, a small town accessible only by traversing into Ontario and back. He found it too isolated and lonely even for a boy who had grown up in the small town of International Falls.

Database Trial

The library is participating in a trial of four databases and we'd like your opinion. Take at look at the databases and stop by the library or make a comment here or email me and let us know what you think about these products. We need your input, if we don't here from people we will be assuming that no one is interested in these items.

Go to http://www.gale.com/PubLibtrial/confirm.htm?trial=PubLibtrial

to access Chilton Library, Thomson Gale legal forms, Thomson testing and education reference center and Price It! Antiques and Collectibles.

If you have trouble connecting to the database or it asks you for a password, please call the library and we will give you a password. We are having some trouble with the links and the company technicians aren't real sure why it isn't always working.

Poetry Friday

It's Friday again. It continues to amaze me both how quickly Friday rolls around and how slowly. But I am also amazed easily and find wonder in the little things of life. Here is a poem that resonated with me, again from "To Sing Along the Way: Minnesota women poets from Pre-Territorial days to the present." edited by Joyce Sutphen, Thom Tammaro & Connie Wanek.

The Scholar in the Playroom

My father's head was propped up in his hands.
Around him chaos swirled; the cello played
off-key in practice, someone vacuumed sand
we tracked in from the beach. I was amazed

that he could concentrate through all of this,
scoring Shakespeare's words with yellow pen
and calmly reading as I wrestled with Fergus
while the youngest blundered through the den.

For years I've carried my father's image around,
the flame in the storm who loved the crazy wind
his children were despite the din of sound
he sometimes wished he could rescind.

He proved the ivory tower a myth, this anti-Lear,
who kept his children, his Cordelias near.

by Ethna McKieran (b. 1951)

Next week we'll begin a look at another new regional poetry book. So come back again.

Poetry Friday

The Tire Swing

Winter-long against the snow
The black tire swing kept saying O.
Whenever you looked out over the sink,
there it hung like the missing link
from autumn past to spring ahead,
and O was all it said.

Sometimes motionless, hanging plumb,
sometimes blown like a pendulum,
ticking the days and months away
with "zero" registered every day -
till now the roots of the elm tree show,
and children run, and the big black O
has a pair of corduroy legs put through
and all the summer it's saying Q.

by Betty Bridgman (1915 - 1999)
from "To Sing Along the Way: Minnesota Women Poets from Pre-Territorial Days to the Present" edited by Joyce Sutphen, Thom Tammaro and Connie Wanek

Enjoy this Friday and may have tire swings in your life and may they say O to you.

Borderland Reads

Our first summer Borderland Reads discussion occurred on Tuesday evening, August 7th and although we only had a small group, we had a good discussion. The danger with holding a book discussion or other programming in the the summer is the weather. After a rainy, drizzly morning the sun came out and we had a perfect weather evening and I don't blame anyone for not wanting to come down in to the basement of the library.

But don't fear, you can still participate in Borderland Reads. If you read the book, I'd love it if you stopped in the library and filled out a very brief questionnaire to help us plan for the future and while you are in the library take a look at the ballot for the fall Borderland Reads title. We are looking at reading a classic in the fall with a discussion to occur in mid-November. Voting for the title will continue until the end of August.

Poetry Friday!

It is a gorgeous Friday afternoon and I find myself wishing to be outside and not in an air-conditioned building. But work must be done so here is an offering again from
To Sing Along the Way: Minnesota women poets from pre-territorial days to the present edited by Joyce Sutphen, Thom Tammaro and Connie Wanek.

Love

Some joys are soft as summer rain
And sift their sweetness
Through the silt
Of heavy days.

Other joy strikes hard
Till afterward...we ask
If it were joy...or pain.
And almost pray it may not come again.

by Mary Cummings Eudy (1874 - 1952)

Kind of makes you wonder what she experienced in her life in early Minnesota to bring about such words.