All this week the unexpected death of Prince dominated the news, especially here in his home town of Minneapolis. It made me pause, consider what I knew of him, of his music. Not much, I'm embarrassed to admit. His crossover genres were not mine, but still I can appreciate his creativity, his musical genius. At the very least, I know "Purple Rain" and "When Doves Cry," and probably a few more that I didn't realize were his creations.
In any case it started me thinking about music in general and the first concert I ever attended with an internationally recognized headliner. It's probably not what you're thinking.
Performance on the Prairie
At nine my very first concert.
Cellos, flutes and fancy fiddles heard
on the Dakota plains.
Yehudi Menuhin soloed on his violin.
A New Yorker performing there, a maestro
trailing bright lights and Carnegie Hall cache
alongside pastures and cow pies.
Why this journey to a sea of grass
labeled "Empty Lands" by mapmakers?
A son's sense of duty to the underserved?
A chance for prairie winds to catch classical scores?
A desire to trade big city clamor for the music
of meadow larks?
A child doesn't care.
My body hushed as a pianissimo,
my mind cartwheeling through wildflower notes.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, April 24, 2016
Sunday, April 17, 2016
London to Minneapolis: Economy
In a few hours I'm off to Heathrow and then home. Of course, my last morning in London dawned bright and sunny without a single cloud to be seen, unlike the usual rainy days that marked most of my stay in the city. But so it goes.
If my upcoming flight holds true to form, it will be comparable to past travels back to the States. Simply replace London and/or Minneapolis with the names of any other long-haul destination cities and the journey is easily recognizable.
London to Minneapolis: Economy
Hours e x p a n d, wArP
A robin-egg sky too big for any nest
A monotony of mallow-cream clouds below
Time butts the jet stream to a tidal crawl
Once, a contrail starboard:
And I watch as we pull ourselves
Hand over hand on its fraying lanyard
Until the distance closes, the connection drops
And Virgin Atlantic slips beneath us
No sleep
Wadded pillow jammed against the fuselage
No sleep
Attendants hawking, "Duty free, shop duty free"
No sleep
A cackling movie watcher close enough to smack
And how do people two sizes too big shoehorn into the loo?
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
If my upcoming flight holds true to form, it will be comparable to past travels back to the States. Simply replace London and/or Minneapolis with the names of any other long-haul destination cities and the journey is easily recognizable.
London to Minneapolis: Economy
Hours e x p a n d, wArP
A robin-egg sky too big for any nest
A monotony of mallow-cream clouds below
Time butts the jet stream to a tidal crawl
Once, a contrail starboard:
And I watch as we pull ourselves
Hand over hand on its fraying lanyard
Until the distance closes, the connection drops
And Virgin Atlantic slips beneath us
No sleep
Wadded pillow jammed against the fuselage
No sleep
Attendants hawking, "Duty free, shop duty free"
No sleep
A cackling movie watcher close enough to smack
And how do people two sizes too big shoehorn into the loo?
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, April 10, 2016
London Gallery
April in London resembles springtime anywhere - warm, sunny days interspersed between rain showers and gloomy clouds. Eager trees already leafed-out stand alongside reluctant neighbors still bare and boney-branched. Daffodils everywhere, tulips ready to bloom, but also winter's detritus occasionally visible in back gardens.
New to the city a few April's ago I visited those places newbies need to see, including St Paul's Cathedral. Outside its massive front doors we sat on the broad stairs leading up to the church, the sunshine more than welcome. Our ten minute break proved a great place to watch the individuals that call London home.
On a wider format than this blogs permits the very last word of the poem would extend the last line making a sideview of a grand staircase. In this instance you will have to use your imagination.
London Gallery
The stone steps of St Paul's:
a casual gathering place for foot sore
tourists seated by Gothic clad youth adjacent
to missing office workers relaxing with others fed up
with heavy metal skies, reveling in sunshine, people watching.
Curbside a bridal couple bubbles up. She wobbly in heels, white fur
stole over gooseflesh arms, holds her groom, smile fixed. Whistles, claps
bounce off the great oak doors, a lone camera-toting friend scattering the pigeons.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
New to the city a few April's ago I visited those places newbies need to see, including St Paul's Cathedral. Outside its massive front doors we sat on the broad stairs leading up to the church, the sunshine more than welcome. Our ten minute break proved a great place to watch the individuals that call London home.
On a wider format than this blogs permits the very last word of the poem would extend the last line making a sideview of a grand staircase. In this instance you will have to use your imagination.
London Gallery
The stone steps of St Paul's:
a casual gathering place for foot sore
tourists seated by Gothic clad youth adjacent
to missing office workers relaxing with others fed up
with heavy metal skies, reveling in sunshine, people watching.
Curbside a bridal couple bubbles up. She wobbly in heels, white fur
stole over gooseflesh arms, holds her groom, smile fixed. Whistles, claps
bounce off the great oak doors, a lone camera-toting friend scattering the pigeons.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, April 3, 2016
Commuter
Transportation in London is a story unto itself. First of all, there are the iconic double-decker red buses found everywhere in the city. This time here I noticed new ones in service, an updated design, actually sleek in appearance given their behemoth size. How they manage to maneuver through warrens of narrow streets crammed with cars both parked and moving is a testament to the patience and abilities of the coachmen, themselves.
Then there are the Underground, the Overground, and the Thames Link systems, all various forms of rail transportation. These trains carry the bulk of the commuters. Any of them provide fascinating people watching on a regular basis. One morning on the Overground a particular rider held not only my attention but also the notice of others in the carriage. And it was obvious to us all that he hadn't expended any money for a ticket.
Commuter
Late morning, sparse crowds
and a pigeon
hops on the train
confident as any habitué
strutting the speckled floor,
checking for stray crumbs,
dodging a well aimed foot.
One round of the carriage
and flawless timing
makes him first off
come the next stop,
squawking to his buddies
already arrived at Gospel Oak
the old fashioned way - by flying.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Then there are the Underground, the Overground, and the Thames Link systems, all various forms of rail transportation. These trains carry the bulk of the commuters. Any of them provide fascinating people watching on a regular basis. One morning on the Overground a particular rider held not only my attention but also the notice of others in the carriage. And it was obvious to us all that he hadn't expended any money for a ticket.
Commuter
Late morning, sparse crowds
and a pigeon
hops on the train
confident as any habitué
strutting the speckled floor,
checking for stray crumbs,
dodging a well aimed foot.
One round of the carriage
and flawless timing
makes him first off
come the next stop,
squawking to his buddies
already arrived at Gospel Oak
the old fashioned way - by flying.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, March 27, 2016
The Underground
I am in London visiting my daughter and her family for the next three weeks, and my posts will reflect that. On the flight here I couldn't help but mull over the recent events in Brussels, and lest we forget, England has also been a target of the terrorists in the past.
The Tower of London has fascinated my grandson ever since they moved here. When he was younger he overheard a discussion about bombings at the affected Underground Station and the double decker bus on the street above. Over the course of a few days he processed this information in reference to the things he knew, one of them being the Tower of London. Now a tourist mecca and no longer the formidable prison of earlier centuries. This poem is a result of one of his thoughts.
The Underground
we are going to take
this train this train
to visit
the fabled
Tower of London
my grandson guide
face pressed against pane
watching the platforms
checking graffiti framed posters
a pony-tailed man limping
away the Jubilee Line down
change at Baker Street
thirteen color coded lines
crossing, adjoining, diverging
tunneled like the ant farm
in his room plumbed through history
we pull out, plunge deep
into darkness the window
reflects his trusting eyes every
route burned into his brain
he counts the stops from here to Aldgate
bombings
"Did Bobbies take
the terrorists
to the Tower of London
on this train?"
this train this train
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
The Tower of London has fascinated my grandson ever since they moved here. When he was younger he overheard a discussion about bombings at the affected Underground Station and the double decker bus on the street above. Over the course of a few days he processed this information in reference to the things he knew, one of them being the Tower of London. Now a tourist mecca and no longer the formidable prison of earlier centuries. This poem is a result of one of his thoughts.
The Underground
we are going to take
this train this train
to visit
the fabled
Tower of London
my grandson guide
face pressed against pane
watching the platforms
checking graffiti framed posters
a pony-tailed man limping
away the Jubilee Line down
change at Baker Street
thirteen color coded lines
crossing, adjoining, diverging
tunneled like the ant farm
in his room plumbed through history
we pull out, plunge deep
into darkness the window
reflects his trusting eyes every
route burned into his brain
he counts the stops from here to Aldgate
bombings
"Did Bobbies take
the terrorists
to the Tower of London
on this train?"
this train this train
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, March 20, 2016
Salty Language
Once a week I consider two or three options for stay-at-home dinners. A seafood choice is always a given since Andrew comes from Singapore, an island surrounded by oceanic waters and abundant crustaceans, his favorite type of food. It doesn't help that we live 1500 miles from the nearest coastline. But this is America and most everything is available, even shellfish flown in daily.
Apparently, I'm enough of a regular at the seafood counter that I was once asked how I fix the mussels I routinely buy. When I mentioned steaming them in wine, the fish-monger/meat-butcher nodded knowingly. Perhaps he hoped for a different take. Maybe a recipe for combining them with scallops in a black bean sauce which is equally tasty but much more complicated. Me? I'll stick with delicious and easy every time, if I'm the one in the kitchen.
Salty Language
The mollusks were talking last night. They remained mum in their mesh bag on the trip back from the market but started a sotto voce chatter in the 'frig. They clammed up tight when I rinsed them and scrubbed them and put them in a strainer. Restless, the pile shifted, squeaked, and caught the smells of a wine laced broth drifting overhead. Lulled by the warmth as if on a beach, they relaxed their jaw-clenched shells. And, I swear, one stared me in the eye, accusingly, as I upended them all into the boiling pot.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Apparently, I'm enough of a regular at the seafood counter that I was once asked how I fix the mussels I routinely buy. When I mentioned steaming them in wine, the fish-monger/meat-butcher nodded knowingly. Perhaps he hoped for a different take. Maybe a recipe for combining them with scallops in a black bean sauce which is equally tasty but much more complicated. Me? I'll stick with delicious and easy every time, if I'm the one in the kitchen.
Salty Language
The mollusks were talking last night. They remained mum in their mesh bag on the trip back from the market but started a sotto voce chatter in the 'frig. They clammed up tight when I rinsed them and scrubbed them and put them in a strainer. Restless, the pile shifted, squeaked, and caught the smells of a wine laced broth drifting overhead. Lulled by the warmth as if on a beach, they relaxed their jaw-clenched shells. And, I swear, one stared me in the eye, accusingly, as I upended them all into the boiling pot.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, March 13, 2016
Morning Rituals
Up to the cabin this weekend, and a day spent reading outside in balmy sunshine. The weather warm enough to ignore stubborn patches of snow still clinging to low lying areas. Moderate temps and clear skies meant reveling in midnight's star filled heaven, undiminished by city lights. It's so easy to forget what incredible beauty hovers above us nightly. That alone was worth the journey.
Morning Rituals
Coffee black, muffins steaming.
Disagreements and stubborn streaks
with cream and sugar.
Conversation drifts
like a lily pad unmoored:
neighbor's politics but not our own,
the lake level and loons, weather a given,
comments on food from yesterday's gathering
called pot luck for a reason,
opinions about chancing a second bird feeder
versus tempting another bear.
Breakfast at home - hit or miss
but at the cabin - sacrosanct.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Morning Rituals
Coffee black, muffins steaming.
Disagreements and stubborn streaks
with cream and sugar.
Conversation drifts
like a lily pad unmoored:
neighbor's politics but not our own,
the lake level and loons, weather a given,
comments on food from yesterday's gathering
called pot luck for a reason,
opinions about chancing a second bird feeder
versus tempting another bear.
Breakfast at home - hit or miss
but at the cabin - sacrosanct.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, March 6, 2016
Growing Pains
Many years ago a cousin of mine who lives in Zurich suggested that he would like to visit Minnesota on his down-time in March. And I dissuaded him.
Of all the months to choose from he picked the one with mounds of dirty snow melting in mall lots, with trees still bare-boned and without buds, with wild weather swings from days in the 60s to plowable snowstorms, with winter's detritus of food wrappers and cups and cigarettes freshly exposed and not yet swept away.
In my opinion Minnesota is an incredibly beautiful state 11/12 of the year. And then there is March.
Growing Pains
March in Minnesota:
a junior high collection
of bad haircuts, forgettable
photos, and unhappy skin.
Hedging toward change,
it wears a winter coat
two sizes too small,
knobby wrists exposed.
New growth stumbles in boots
suddenly grown tight.
One ear flinches from winter,
fearing another swipe
but the other strains to catch
summertime blues playing
around the corner.
A time of brooding, a month of angst.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Of all the months to choose from he picked the one with mounds of dirty snow melting in mall lots, with trees still bare-boned and without buds, with wild weather swings from days in the 60s to plowable snowstorms, with winter's detritus of food wrappers and cups and cigarettes freshly exposed and not yet swept away.
In my opinion Minnesota is an incredibly beautiful state 11/12 of the year. And then there is March.
Growing Pains
March in Minnesota:
a junior high collection
of bad haircuts, forgettable
photos, and unhappy skin.
Hedging toward change,
it wears a winter coat
two sizes too small,
knobby wrists exposed.
New growth stumbles in boots
suddenly grown tight.
One ear flinches from winter,
fearing another swipe
but the other strains to catch
summertime blues playing
around the corner.
A time of brooding, a month of angst.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, February 28, 2016
The Problem with Bananas
I have long complained about "fresh" fruits and vegetables found in grocery stores with the onset of shortened days and frigid weather. Most of the produce trucked or flown a thousand miles and more to local stores. Strawberries come to mind, grapes, green beans, tomatoes, too. The list gets long.
Winter drags its feet at this time of year, making it difficult to visualize farmer's markets emerging on concrete still suffused with February cold. Meanwhile, I will have to rely on the consistency of bananas. With a caveat.
The Problem with Bananas
No matter how fresh
or firm they feel
as soon as I turn my back
brown spots pop up
on the sunny yellow fruit.
Before you know it
the guilty decision
not to bake banana bread
once again
dooms an entire bunch.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Winter drags its feet at this time of year, making it difficult to visualize farmer's markets emerging on concrete still suffused with February cold. Meanwhile, I will have to rely on the consistency of bananas. With a caveat.
The Problem with Bananas
No matter how fresh
or firm they feel
as soon as I turn my back
brown spots pop up
on the sunny yellow fruit.
Before you know it
the guilty decision
not to bake banana bread
once again
dooms an entire bunch.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, February 21, 2016
Out for a Walk
A water pipe broke in the ceiling of the condo's gym, causing major damage to many of the machines, and a month long closure of the facility. An inconvenience in the middle of February when indoor treadmills are more appealing than a hike in the elements. But I have convinced myself that a windchill above zero remains acceptable to brave a walk as long as I'm wearing the right clothes.
A lesson learned years ago when I moved to Minnesota for my Pediatric Residency. Early on, one of the docs informed us there were only two reasons to be cold in winter. "Either a person is too poor to dress correctly or they are too dumb." Then he looked at us pointedly and said, "I know none of you are penniless." With that he effectively dismissed our complaints about the morning's glacial weather. More temperate conditions can be found in the poem below.
Out for a Walk
I turn north and neglect the known.
Stumble upon a neighborhood
of tear-downs and rebuilds:
Gullivers on Lilliputian lots
shoulder to shoulder, brooding
over holdouts stubborn as native grasses.
On the street thirty-somethings
jog to a pace pulsed by earbuds;
afghans and labradoodles
fresh from obedience school, trotting in sync.
I picture my dog, if I owned one,
bounding as a springer, curly as a terrier,
schnoz like a hound's,
dragging me to Instant Messages at tree bases,
sleuthing the scents of entitlement,
straining to stay while I attempt to double back
and search for the lone road out.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
A lesson learned years ago when I moved to Minnesota for my Pediatric Residency. Early on, one of the docs informed us there were only two reasons to be cold in winter. "Either a person is too poor to dress correctly or they are too dumb." Then he looked at us pointedly and said, "I know none of you are penniless." With that he effectively dismissed our complaints about the morning's glacial weather. More temperate conditions can be found in the poem below.
Out for a Walk
I turn north and neglect the known.
Stumble upon a neighborhood
of tear-downs and rebuilds:
Gullivers on Lilliputian lots
shoulder to shoulder, brooding
over holdouts stubborn as native grasses.
On the street thirty-somethings
jog to a pace pulsed by earbuds;
afghans and labradoodles
fresh from obedience school, trotting in sync.
I picture my dog, if I owned one,
bounding as a springer, curly as a terrier,
schnoz like a hound's,
dragging me to Instant Messages at tree bases,
sleuthing the scents of entitlement,
straining to stay while I attempt to double back
and search for the lone road out.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, February 14, 2016
Squatters
Just returned from a weekend up North. The thermometer registered -16 degrees yesterday morning, and during the night the bedroom's baseboard heating conked out. Snuggling becomes imperative in situations like that even with heat in the rest of the cabin.
Out on the lake hardy souls went ice-fishing all day. Not for me, thank you, nor the snowmobiles. Who knows how low the windchill when flying on one of them. A warm fire and steaming cup of coffee, books and writing material held me captive and content. And now I'm back in the city, looking forward to next month's trip without the teeth chattering cold.
Squatters
On the unsullied banner of winter's lake
two forms hunker down: vagrants?
No, not human but animal.
Bodies rounded like rolled bales of hay
and dark as mama bear's fur.
Too small for Big Foot progeny.
Diminutive, milk-jug heads
tucked against the wind. Aberrant wolves?
Before I can raise my eye-piece
they unfold, shape-shift:
a duo of bald eagles free-riding an updraft.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Out on the lake hardy souls went ice-fishing all day. Not for me, thank you, nor the snowmobiles. Who knows how low the windchill when flying on one of them. A warm fire and steaming cup of coffee, books and writing material held me captive and content. And now I'm back in the city, looking forward to next month's trip without the teeth chattering cold.
Squatters
On the unsullied banner of winter's lake
two forms hunker down: vagrants?
No, not human but animal.
Bodies rounded like rolled bales of hay
and dark as mama bear's fur.
Too small for Big Foot progeny.
Diminutive, milk-jug heads
tucked against the wind. Aberrant wolves?
Before I can raise my eye-piece
they unfold, shape-shift:
a duo of bald eagles free-riding an updraft.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, February 7, 2016
On Loan
It pains me to show my ignorance but sometimes it's unavoidable. All along I assumed that both my musings and my poetry would stay in cyberspace in perpetuity. This week I realized my error. Hence, the change in format.
We finally received a typical Minnesota snowfall a few days back. Seven to twelve inches depending on where you were in the metro area. The kind of snow that quiets everything, slows people down, leaves a breathtaking landscape. Too soon the swath of white is sullied by snowplows and shovels and everyday life. If we're lucky, the magic lasts a few hours, sometimes overnight.
On Loan
Snowfall
satin-glossed, pristine gesso
overlays town and drive alike
My footprints
reveal the rube trashing a Rauschenberg
left at the doorstep
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
We finally received a typical Minnesota snowfall a few days back. Seven to twelve inches depending on where you were in the metro area. The kind of snow that quiets everything, slows people down, leaves a breathtaking landscape. Too soon the swath of white is sullied by snowplows and shovels and everyday life. If we're lucky, the magic lasts a few hours, sometimes overnight.
On Loan
Snowfall
satin-glossed, pristine gesso
overlays town and drive alike
My footprints
reveal the rube trashing a Rauschenberg
left at the doorstep
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, January 31, 2016
The Spider (After Calder's sculpture of the same name)
Suspended in space
dangles
a
daddy
long legs
of fairy wing grace,
black dancing shoes splayed
ready to jive
and
sway
on its fine metal lace.
Lean closer and see
some feet oddly shaped,
a thorax, a head
not really there.
An
idea
stirring the air.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
dangles
a
daddy
long legs
of fairy wing grace,
black dancing shoes splayed
ready to jive
and
sway
on its fine metal lace.
Lean closer and see
some feet oddly shaped,
a thorax, a head
not really there.
An
idea
stirring the air.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Sunday, January 24, 2016
Star Wars Defense
There is a black and white photo
of my fourth grade class with me,
hands folded politely as directed,
sitting in a coveted front seat. I count
five rows lined straight for fifty-two
students. These were days of ducking
under furniture when air-raid sirens
sounded. But our school was ancient
and we only had old-fashioned desks
connected to each other like rigid
railroad tracks: cast iron and wood.
They were so cramped that precious
time would have been lost attempting
the impossible. Instead, we were shielded
by the heavens above. Even God wouldn't
dare defy Sister Mary Joseph as she led us
in prayer for protection from our enemies,
yardstick propped against the wall.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
of my fourth grade class with me,
hands folded politely as directed,
sitting in a coveted front seat. I count
five rows lined straight for fifty-two
students. These were days of ducking
under furniture when air-raid sirens
sounded. But our school was ancient
and we only had old-fashioned desks
connected to each other like rigid
railroad tracks: cast iron and wood.
They were so cramped that precious
time would have been lost attempting
the impossible. Instead, we were shielded
by the heavens above. Even God wouldn't
dare defy Sister Mary Joseph as she led us
in prayer for protection from our enemies,
yardstick propped against the wall.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
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