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About

I'm pouring myself into trying to build a life worth living, one that I will be proud of, one that will impact others. Right now that means I'm spending a season of my life in Thailand, learning how to be a teacher, growing through new experiences, and loving my students in Bangkok, my church, friends, and family back home, and my life.

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One Art Friday, November 16, 2007 | 

by Elizabeth Bishop


The art of losing isn't hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their loss is no disaster.



Lose something every day. Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.

The art of losing isn't hard to master.



Then practice losing farther, losing faster:

places, and names, and where it was you meant

to travel. None of these will bring disaster.



I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or

next-to-last, of three loved houses went.

The art of losing isn't hard to master.



I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.

I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.





--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture

I love) I shan't have lied.  It's evident

the art of losing's not too hard to master

though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.


Elizabeth Bishop writes like a dream- I adore this poem! Eventually this blog will host all things Kelly-penned again, but for the moment, let's just enjoy the sentiments of such skilled wordsmiths as Bishop, shall we?

Spanish Poetry - ¡que bonita! Sunday, November 11, 2007 |

La Guitarra

Empieza el llanto
de la guitarra.
Se rompen las copas
de la madrugada.
Empieza el llanto
de la guitarra.
Es inútil
callarla.
Es imposible
callarla.
Llora monótona
como llora el agua,
como llora el viento
sobre la nevada.
Es imposible
callarla.
Llora por cosas
lejanas.
Arena del Sur caliente
que pide camelias blancas.
Llora flecha sin blanco,
la tarde sin mañana,
y el primer pájaro muerto
sobre la rama.
¡Oh guitarra!
Corazón malherido
por cinco espadas.


by Federico Garcia Lorca
1898-1936


In English:

The Guitar

The weeping of the guitar
begins.
The goblets of dawn
are smashed.
The weeping of the guitar
begins.
Useless
to silence it.
Impossible
to silence it.
It weeps monotonously
as water weeps,
as the wind weeps
over snowfields.
Impossible
to silence it.
It weeps for distant
things.
Hot southern sands
yearning for white camellias.
Weeps arrow without target,
evening without morning,
and the first dead bird
on the branch.
Oh, guitar!
Heart mortally wounded
by five swords.