{"id":4589,"date":"2024-03-21T14:28:56","date_gmt":"2024-03-21T18:28:56","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/?p=4589"},"modified":"2024-03-21T14:28:57","modified_gmt":"2024-03-21T18:28:57","slug":"a-poem-for-a-thursday-258","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/2024\/03\/21\/a-poem-for-a-thursday-258\/","title":{"rendered":"A Poem for a Thursday #258"},"content":{"rendered":"
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Photo by Nadya Spetnitskaya<\/a> on Unsplash<\/a><\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n
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Rhina Polonia Espaillat was born in Santo Domingo and grew up in New York after her family became refugees from the Dominican government. When she was 16 she became the youngest member ever of the Poetry Society of America. They altered their rules to allow her entry. Her poetry captures the beauty of daily routine and snapshots of family life. She also uses her poetry to retell stories from the Bible and mythology. As well, Espaillat is known for her extensive translation work. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

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My daughter-in-law is baking bread for dinner.\nThe smell of it arabesques through the house like music\nand out to the spring-damp lawn where crocuses rear\ntheir helmets of mauve steel from underground.\n\nShe wipes the dusting of flour from round arms speckled\nwith a faint mottling of freckles, peach-colored, rose,\nsmooths the silk of her auburn hair. We set the table:\nher grandmother's blueberry bowl, my mother's crystal.\n\nI picture, as in cartoons, our forbears, tense\non opposite sides of the Channel, fifteen eighty-eight,\nRenaissance script in bubbles above their heads:\nSpanish war-cries, English curses, the Great Armada.\n\nRemote in their rusty passions now as in armor,\nperhaps they dreamed us, but they were like us, living,\nafraid of the cannon, afraid the enemy's eyes\nwould follow them into death as deep as forever.\n\nBlessed be the time that closes all eyes, that rouses flowers;\nblessed be law that moulds the dust of soldiers\ninto the bones of daughters, that kneads old strangers\ninto the flesh of children like braided challah.\n\nBread\nRhina Polonia Espaillat<\/pre>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Rhina Polonia Espaillat was born in Santo Domingo and grew up in New York after her family became refugees from the Dominican government. When she was 16 she became the youngest member ever of the Poetry Society of America. They altered their rules to allow her entry. Her poetry captures the beauty of daily routine and snapshots of family life. She also uses her poetry to retell stories from the Bible and mythology. As well, Espaillat is known for her extensive translation work. My daughter-in-law is baking bread for dinner. The smell of it arabesques through the house like music and out to the spring-damp lawn where crocuses rear their helmets of mauve steel from underground. She wipes the dusting of flour from round arms speckled with a faint mottling of freckles, peach-colored, rose, smooths the silk of her auburn hair. We set the table: her grandmother’s blueberry bowl, my mother’s crystal. I picture, as in cartoons, our forbears, tense on opposite sides of the Channel, fifteen eighty-eight, Renaissance script in bubbles above their heads: Spanish war-cries, English curses, the Great Armada. Remote in their rusty passions now as in armor, perhaps they dreamed us, but they were like us, living, afraid of the cannon, afraid the enemy’s eyes would follow them into death as deep as forever. Blessed be the time that closes all eyes, that rouses flowers; blessed be law that moulds the dust of soldiers into the bones of daughters, that kneads old strangers into the flesh of children like braided challah. Bread Rhina Polonia Espaillat<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":4590,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_uf_show_specific_survey":0,"_uf_disable_surveys":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[2],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-4589","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-poem-for-a-thursday"],"aioseo_notices":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4589","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=4589"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4589\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":4592,"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4589\/revisions\/4592"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/4590"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=4589"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=4589"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=4589"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}