Each year (well, at least for the past several years) I’ve chosen a few year-long projects. The idea is to do a little something every day in order to make it through something big. In 2021 I read through War and Peace’s 361 chapters at a pace of one per day and I loved the concept — an exercise of patience and discipline, though not really, since often small things are very easy to do.
This year I am listening to all the works of Mozart, doing a Shakespeare’s “greatest hits” reading project, and continuing to write 2 lines in a sonnet each day, with the goal of producing 52 sonnets over the course of the year.
About a month in, I am settling into each of these. For Mozart, I am simply listening through the Wikipedia list of his works in sequence. I Google the KV number, and then generally listen to the first correct one that comes up (sometimes an obscure piece has some similar numbering to a well-known one, and the search engine will pull up the well known one). I can usually make it through several on a given day that I’m at my desk. Weekends I haven’t been trying as hard to make this happen but it’s OK — I’m more or less on pace to make it through by December 31st. I’ve really been enjoying this! Listening to great instrumental music (and even some of the operatic stuff) definitely upgrades email processing time. Am I responding more intelligently due to the Mozart effect? Probably not! But the time is more pleasant and that is still a win.
I was slightly concerned that my Shakespeare project was a little less fleshed out. Longtime readers will recall that in 2022 I read all the works of Shakespeare as my year-long project. This was a reasonably slow pace of reading but I felt like I still missed some things in terms of word play and nuance. So this time around I’m doing a “greatest hits” version where I (re-)read one play a month very very slowly (like 1-2 pages a day) along with some commentary. I read As You Like It in January and was reminded that it is a fun play. I decided to read Hamlet this month. I do not know what I will read in March yet. Maybe A Midsummer Night’s Dream, even if it is not mid-summer, just because it’s one of my favorites. Stacking favorites early in the year might be good for motivation.
As for sonnets, I continue apace. I have been going through and choosing favorites from the last three years. I have a few I really like. There are also a lot of mediocre ones, but I start to see what distinguishes the ones I like from the boring ones. Usually it’s because there’s movement of phrases across the couplets and stanzas, some interesting rhymes, and something more inventive in terms of subject matter.
I haven’t produced any greatest hits lately, alas, but here are a few from these last few weeks of winter — one about a sudden snow fall, one a little “The Raven” tribute, and one about the orchid in my office…
Night walk
The woods are mostly silent, here so late.
The cloudy sky obscures the winter moon.
Up overhead, the cold bare limbs create
a canopy that barely hints at June
when all of this was green. I huddle tight
inside my coat, except the leash in hand,
for little feet are pattering this night.
He sniffs — a deer was here, but now we stand
alone, and shiver. Suddenly, a flake
drifts down. The dog’s wet nose is in the air
to see what wonder nudges all awake.
The snow begins to swirl and coat his hair.
We wait, then trudge in all this winter white
to somewhere in the distance, glowing light.
For Edgar
Just so distinctly, I remember it
was in the bleak December when I saw
an ember cast its shadow — ghosts that flit
across the floor. Perhaps a raven’s caw
would pierce the gloominess? I chose a book
to take my mind off all these sorry thoughts
of bleak Decembers past, not worth a look
except to somehow untie all these knots
that tighten even now. Now in this room
perhaps some respite from all memories past,
or if not that, “nepenthe” – what might loom,
and can I quaff some kind relief at last?
Or fall asleep, and maybe dream — Lenore?
That figure nameless here forevermore.
Orchid
From dawn the flakes were falling. Now the drifts
are high against the walls. The wind-blown field
of white looks like the sky. A gust now lifts
a plume of powder. Barren branches yield
to all this bluster. But see, here inside
now perched against the pane, the petals, pink,
are bright against the morning, open wide,
and in the mottled yellow cups I think
I faintly sense a jungle somewhere. Steam
surrounds the vines. The sprawling green of tree
becomes the stage for blooms. The flowers seem
to glisten, epiphytes perhaps could be
a necklace, jewels so far away. I fear
my orchid shivers in the window, here.
