It has been a while since the last poem of the month, and I am thrilled to be back on the POM cadence.

Where to begin… From the moment Summer hit, everything seemed to just accelerate. The summer was filled with all manner of excitement for the Todds: a trip to California to visit the Bay Area contingent of Jody’s family; camping for a week with the Kealy Clan on Orcas Islands; a new position for me at T-Mobile that continues to keep me busy and happy; Emma performing as Portia, one of the wicked step-sisters in the Broadway Bound production of “Cinderella”; the disappearance – and surprising reappearance – of our 18 year old cat, Emily; a summer of soccer and fly-fishing for Alex; and my parents coming to visit us from Alabama. An active summer filled with some really wonderful memories.

Our most recent adventure was the trip Jody and I took to Portugal about four weeks ago, and which served as inspiration for this month’s poem.  As most of you know, Since 2006, I have been traveling to Portugal every fall during the Port wine harvest on my friend Roy’s “For The Love of Port” Harvest Tour. However, this year I decided to give his other tour (the For The Love of Port “Fortification” Tour in May) a try, as it combined northern Portugal’s Port wine region with a visit to the island of Madeira – famous for that “other” type Portuguese dessert wine.

A few days before I left on the May trip, I received notice that I’d won a sweepstakes sponsored by the Portuguese National Tourism Board and (of all things) the Sports Illustrated 2010 Swimsuit edition. Apparently Lisbon was one of the cities that SI chose to shoot their 2010 Swimsuit edition. And apparently, at some point I registered for the sweepstakes on the visitportugal.com web site. And apparently, I (who rarely wins anything) won the grand prize of a trip for two to Lisbon, Portugal.

So at the beginning of October, Jody and I set out for Portugal – my second trip of 2010 and Jody’s first trip to Portugal. We spend a few days in Lisbon – wandering it’s amazing neighborhoods and reveling in all of the sights and sounds of such an amazing city. We then took the train up to Porto in Northern Portugal, where we visited with old friends in the Port industry, and spent a wonderful night at the Yeatman, a brand new hotel and spa with views that rival any other hotel in the region. We then took the train East up the Douro River Valley into the heart of Port wine country. We met up with my friend Roy and the Fall Harvest Tour, visiting some historic and legendary wineries – Quinta do Vesuvio, Quinta de Vargellas and Quinta do Crasto. These were properties that I visited on my first trip to Portugal in 2006, and seeing Miguel, Alistair, Gilly, and Dominic was like visiting with old friends after a long absence.

There were so many memorable parts to our trip, but one quote in particular really resonated with me, and it typifies the passion that so many Port winemakers in the Douro share. At a tasting at Ramos-Pinto, Winemaker João Nicolau de Almeida described the process of blending various years of tawny Ports into a perfect blend as “being like a conductor of an orchestra. You have all the instruments at your disposal, but it’s up to the conductor to bring them all together to make beautiful music.”

We drank in our time in Portugal. It was a feast for the senses, and a deep appreciation for the passion, the wines, and the spirit of the people of Portugal.

This month’s poem is “I’m A Keep of Sheep” by Alberto Caeiro (also known as Fernando Pessoa, one of Portugal’s most famous poets, and beloved sons).

Wishing you all the best,

Stewart

Stewart & Fernando Pessoa – Lisbon, Portugal

Fernando Pessoa
1888 – 1935

Alberto Caeiro
(pseudonym for Fernando Pessoa)

I’m A Keeper of Sheep

I’m a keeper of sheep.
The sheep are my thoughts
And my thoughts are all sensations.
I think with my eyes and ears.
And with my hands and feet
And with my nose and mouth.

To think a flower is to see it and smell it
And to eat a fruit is to taste its meaning.

That’s why on a hot day
When I ache from enjoying it so much,
And stretch out on the grass
Closing my warm eyes,
I feel my whole body lying full length in reality,
I know the truth and I’m happy.

As always, previous poems of the month can be found at:
http://www.stewarttodd.com

Photos from our Portugal adventure can be found HERE.

Miller Williams
(1925 -  )

Of History and Hope

We have memorized America,
how it was born and who we have been and where.
In ceremonies and silence we say the words,
telling the stories, singing the old songs.
We like the places they take us. Mostly we do.
The great and all the anonymous dead are there.
We know the sound of all the sounds we brought.
The rich taste of it is on our tongues.
But where are we going to be, and why, and who?
The disenfranchised dead want to know.
We mean to be the people we meant to be,
to keep on going where we meant to go.
But how do we fashion the future? Who can say how
except in the minds of those who will call it Now?
The children. The children. And how does our garden grow?
With waving hands—oh, rarely in a row—
and flowering faces. And brambles, that we can no longer allow.
Who were many people coming together
cannot become one people falling apart.
Who dreamed for every child an even chance
cannot let luck alone turn doorknobs or not.
Whose law was never so much of the hand as the head
cannot let chaos make its way to the heart.
Who have seen learning struggle from teacher to child
cannot let ignorance spread itself like rot.
We know what we have done and what we have said,
and how we have grown, degree by slow degree,
believing ourselves toward all we have tried to become—
just and compassionate, equal, able, and free.
All this in the hands of children, eyes already set
on a land we never can visit—it isn’t there yet—
but looking through their eyes, we can see
what our long gift to them may come to be.
If we can truly remember, they will not forget.

April is National Poetry Month, so you get bonus a bonus poem this month (which is particularly warranted since I’ve been remiss in sending out the Poem of the Month on a regular basis lately).

It has been a very busy month for us, and we have had the joy of celebrating, among other things, my parent’s anniversary and 7 family birthdays (including my daughters, and my own today).

I’ve begun reminiscing a lot about what birthdays meant to me as a child, but also thinking about what they mean to me now as my own children grow older. My daughter Emma just turned 9 last week (with my son Alex reaching the “13” milestone a month ago), and it is cliché but so very true for every parent out there that in the blink of an eye, it seems, our small infants have grown up overnight, developed personalities, quirks, and lovely natures that we don’t seem to have much control over any more. We raise them in the best possible way we know how, and then comes the moment when they cross that invisible threshold and cease to be a little “us” and are suddenly their own little “them.” It is a brilliant, humbling moment, and is usually only recognized in hindsight. I can only imagine that it must have been exactly like this for our own parents years and years ago…

Yet that moment also holds hope – hope for their future – a future (as Miller Williams’ poem points out) that we as adults will never be able to fully see. It doesn’t exist yet, but is the expression of everything we hope and dream our children’s world will be one day.

I thought I’d turn to two poems this month to celebrate the dichotomy of birthdays – the helplessness of watching our children grow older, and the possibilities embodied in the year(s) ahead.

Gerald Stein
(1925 -  )

Waving Goodbye

I wanted to know what it was like before we
had voices and before we had bare fingers and before we
had minds to move us through our actions
and tears to help us over our feelings,
so I drove my daughter through the snow to meet her friend
and filled her car with suitcases and hugged her
as an animal would, pressing my forehead against her,
walking in circles, moaning, touching her cheek,
and turned my head after them as an animal would,
watching helplessly as they drove over the ruts,
her smiling face and her small hand just visible
over the giant pillows and coat hangers
as they made their turn into the empty highway.