Happy 7TH Kirk & Nikki, “I Am Glad You’re Here”

Hello Bloginistas!

Two of my very close friends had their 7th wedding anniversary at the beginning of this month. I wrote a poem for them that I read at their wedding and realized that I had never posted it here. The previously posted “To My Child” is a sequel to this poem, about their first daughter.

So…Here it is!

I Am Glad You’re Here

Seventy-one years, three-hundred twenty-two days
After the dawn of the twentieth century,
A baby boy was born.

Seventy-eight years, three-hundred thirty-four days
After the dawn of the twentieth century,
A baby girl was born.

With less than fifteen miles and just seven years
Between these everyday epiphanies,
They were separated by nothing but geography and time.

Their Mothers looked at them;
Wrinkly, cottoned, brand new,
And said:
“I am glad you’re here”.

They were blessed with sturdy nests and loving hands.
They flourished in these nests,
Each milestone a spectacular first,

First Smile,
First Crawl,
First Steps,
First Word.

When the First Day of School came,
Their Mothers shuttling them off in tears and triumph,
They met their first best friend, this friend said:
“I am glad you’re here”.

When the First Best Teacher came along,
Some frustrated day in the past,
Lifting the veil away from

“Till We Have Faces” or
Sentence Structure or
“The Lord of the Flies” or
Prepositional Phrases,

Succeeding in bringing
Light to a
Child’s darkness,
The boy and girl both said:
“I am glad you’re here”.

In Adolescence,
That Whitewater,
Their river guides would come
In many forms,

Making their passages easier,
Cushioning the blows of
Young Adulthood,
Allowing them to
Breathe a sigh of relief,
Allowing them to say,

“I am glad you’re here”.

One fortunate Thursday in Early June,
Five years, one hundred fifty-three days
After the dawn of the twenty-first century,

At a library drenched
In chaos and song,
Would be the first time
They would say to each other:

“I am glad you’re here”.

Chronos marched on,
Leaving in his wake
The upstream and down,
The zenith and the nadir,
The positive and negative,
The black
The white.

The boy and the girl,
Having found each other,
Were able to balance these
Contradictions with

They had found

They could say to each other,
With even deeper meaning,

“I am glad you’re here”.

One day,
Six years, one hundred forty-eight days
After the dawn of the twenty-first century,
At a party steeped in mirth, tempered by memories,

The boy found himself on a carousel,
Surrounded by friends.

The girl had tried for her free ride
On this carousel before,
But this time, it was the boys turn.

He presented her with the captured amulet proudly,
A concrete promise of
The many free rides to come.

She took it, gently, with
“Yes” in her eyes and
Tears of joy in her heart.

Her soul running over,
She turned to the boy, then to all their friends
and said:

“I am glad you’re here”.

And on this day,
Seven years, two hundred seventy-three days
After the dawn of the twenty-first century,
Where Aphrodite’s Blessing
Makes their sterling
Past, present and future

The boy
The girl can

Declare to their Mothers,
Cry to the Heavens,
Say to their Friends,
Call out to God,
Sing to their loved ones,
Whisper to each other,

“I am glad you’re here”.

© Jamy Sweet 2007-10-06

Jamy :-D

My Latest New Favorite Poet: Faith Shearin

My latest new favorite poet is Faith Shearin. Ms. Shearin’s poem (from American Life in Poetry: Column 492), “Music at My Mother’s Funeral”, shows the unmistakable ability of a great poet to combine disparate, seemingly unrelated components (her mother’s imminent passing, music, the mundane sound of a car’s warning chime) into a single, cohesive, powerful image. It proves and cements the idea of poet as artist, beautifully.

Music at My Mother’s Funeral

During the weeks when we all believed my mother
was likely to die she began to plan
her funeral and she wanted us, her children,
to consider the music we would play there. We remembered
the soundtrack of my mother’s life: the years when she swept
the floors to the tunes of an eight track cassette called Feelings,
the Christmas when she bought a Bing Crosby album
about a Bright Hawaiian Christmas Day. She got Stravinsky’s
Rite of Spring stuck in the tape deck of her car and for months
each errand was accompanied by some kind
of dramatic movement. After my brother was born,
there was a period during which she wore a muumuu
and devoted herself to King Sunny Ade and his
African beats. She ironed and wept to Evita, painted
to Italian opera. Then, older and heavier, she refused
to fasten her seatbelt and there was the music
of an automated bell going off every few minutes,
which annoyed the rest of us but did not seem to matter
to my mother who ignored its relentless disapproval,
its insistence that someone was unsafe.

The last part, to me, is the most effective. One can hear the unfastened seat belt’s “music of an automated bell” so clearly (as most have heard it and can identify), and via this simple sound, Ms. Shearin ties it all together. We know more about her mother after reading the entire piece, but the end sharpens the edges of her portrait of her mother, bringing it all into pristine focus.

The full article can be found by clicking here.
Additionally, here is a small bio about her at the website for the National Endowment for the Arts: Faith Shearin (By the way, the poem at the end of this article is as powerful as the one above, so READ IT! ;-) )



A Rhythm Runs Through It has hit the 400 Follower Mark!

400 WordPress Followers!

I just wanted to take a moment to stop and smell the roses, 400 of them to be exact! A HUGE thanks to everyone who took a moment to click “Follow” after visiting (and thanks to ALL my Visitors and Likers as well, it is truly appreciated!).

Thank you all so much!

:-D ;-) :-D

Jamy (A Rhythm Runs Through It)

“Heat Wave”



Greetings Bloginistas!

As promised, an original work by yours truly! It has been SO HOT here in Southern California that I decided to write about it. I hope this poem gives a feel of what it’s been like these past weeks. Enjoy!

Heat Wave

in the hot, hot sun
heavy, solar

I half expect
to appear from
the next curtain;
a monster or
a man from Omaha –
a long-lost wallet or
missing set of keys –
but it’s just
more heat;

Heat rising off
pavement –
a dirty window,
a thought fully formed
but not communicated,
meditation, interrupted.

This much
is like fog, but
an oxymoron,
because fog requires
Nyx’s curtain
to first be
darkly drawn
across the evening sky,
but the way
my head feels and
eyes see,
fog makes
perfect sense.

But there is no
reason in
heat like this,
only absence and
an unending, relentless
a darkness
that can be felt
even when,
all around,
there’s light.

© Jamy Sweet 2014-09-22

Jamy :-D

A Quick Programming Note…

To All My Gorgeous Bloginistas,

arhythmrunsthroughit.wordpress.com is now simply http://www.arhythmrunsthroughit.com!

I have meant to register the domain for some time now, and finally took a moment to put thoughts in to action!

Do you want to know who you are? Don’t ask. Act! Action will delineate and define you.

–Thomas Jefferson

Jamy ;oD

p.s. Up Next: An original work by yours truly! (and no, “yours truly” is not a pseudonym of e e cummings…HA!)

My Latest New Favorite Poet: Roy Scheele

My latest new favorite poet is Roy Scheele. The below poem (from American Life in Poetry: Column 342) is spectacular. The words are woven together so beautifully and the result is a fine fabric of language. This sonnet does what many truly great poems do; take everyday experiences and make them somehow universal.

Woman Feeding Chickens

Her hand is at the feedbag at her waist,
sunk to the wrist in the rustling grain
that nuzzles her fingertips when laced
around a sifting handful. It’s like rain,
like cupping water in your hand, she thinks,
the cracks between the fingers like a sieve,
except that less escapes you through the chinks
when handling grain. She likes to feel it give
beneath her hand’s slow plummet, and the smell,
so rich a fragrance she has never quite
got used to it, under the seeming spell
of the charm of the commonplace. The white
hens bunch and strut, heads cocked, with tilted eyes,
till her hand sweeps out and the small grain flies.

My personal favorite lines:

“It’s like rain,
like cupping water in your hand, she thinks,
the cracks between the fingers like a sieve, …”

What a marvelous comparison!

The full article can be found by clicking here.

Enjoy! ;oD


A Little Bit about Frank O’Hara

I was reading an article today on The Poetry Foundation’s website about the 50th Anniversary of Frank O’Hara’s “Lunch Poems” and wanted to share it with all my fellow Bloginistas along with a poem of his of which I am rather fond. I have always loved Mr. O’Hara’s work, and after reading the article and the following poem, I hope you’ll see why.

Poem [Lana Turner has collapsed!]

Lana Turner has collapsed!
I was trotting along and suddenly
it started raining and snowing
and you said it was hailing
but hailing hits you on the head
hard so it was really snowing and
raining and I was in such a hurry
to meet you but the traffic
was acting exactly like the sky
and suddenly I see a headline
there is no snow in Hollywood
there is no rain in California
I have been to lots of parties
and acted perfectly disgraceful
but I never actually collapsed
oh Lana Turner we love you get up

© Frank O’Hara, Lunch Poems, 1964

My favorite line is the last line:
“oh Lana Turner we love you get up”

It evokes emotion, movement, and the sense of what happened in the poem and in real life.

Enjoy! :-D :-D