The Lost Words: A Spell Book by Robert McFarlane and Jackie Morris

“Once upon a time, words began to vanish from the language of children. They disappeared so quietly that at first almost no one noticed—fading away like water on a stone.”  (Quartzy)

I've been wondering how to describe this wonderful book, full of gorgeous art and lovely poems.  When I saw an article about it on Brain Pickings, I was enthralled--and ordered it immediately.   The Lost Words: A Spell Book by Robert McFarlane and Jackie Morris came about when the Oxford children's dictionary dropped words related to nature and replaced them with words like broadband, celebrity, chat room, blog, and bullet point.  Words like otter, dandelion, and wren were omitted.  The information below is from the Brain Pickings article.  

"In early 2015, when the 10,000-entry Oxford children’s dictionary dropped around fifty words related to nature — words like fern, willow, and starling — in favor of terms like broadband and cut and paste, some of the world’s most prominent authors composed an open letter of protest and alarm at this impoverishment of children’s vocabulary and its consequent diminishment of children’s belonging to and with the natural world."  
 

And now there is an album!

Rambling

The aphids are already a problem on my milkweed plants.  I'm not sure why the aphids love the milkweed, but I don't find them anywhere else. I really hate those tiny little buggers, but at least I'm getting a head start on them, and I've noticed some helpers in my war against aphids--ladybugs.   

I'm seeing a few bees in the garden, but wait until the mint blooms--then the bees will come in great numbers.  At least I hope they will, because every year I worry that there will be fewer bees or even none to pollinate the flowers, fruits, and vegetables of the world.  

I love the following poem by Carol Ann Duffy.

The Human Bee by Carol Ann Duffy

I became a human bee at twelve,
when they gave me my small wand,
my flask of pollen,
and I walked with the other bees
out to the orchards.
I worked first in apples,
                                  climbed the ladder
into the childless arms of a tree
and busied myself, dipping and tickling.
duping and tackling, tracing
the petal’s guidelines
down to the stigma.
                             Human, humming,
I knew my lessons by heart:
the ovary would become the fruit,
the ovule the seed,
fertilised by my golden touch,
my Midas touch.
I moved to lemons,
                            head and shoulders
lost in blossom; dawn till dusk,
my delicate blessing.
All must be docile, kind, unfraught
for one fruit –
                 pomegranate, lychee,
nectarine, peach, the rhymeless orange.
And if an opening bud
                                  was out of range,
I’d jump from my ladder onto a branch
and reach.
So that was my working life as a bee,
till my eyesight blurred,
my hand was a trembling bird
                                             in the leaves,
the bones of my fingers thinner than wands.
And when they retired me,
I had my wine from the silent vines,
and I’d known love,
and I’d saved some money –
but I could not fly and I made no honey.

In the way that synchronicity works, I've been reading R. Allen Chappell's mysteries set in the Four Corners region of the Southwest.  The characters are Navajo and the setting is mostly on the Navajo reservation.  The first two are Navajo Autumn and Boy Made of Dawn, which I've reviewed on my book blog.  I love a good mystery, and these are excellent, but they are also informative about the Navajo people, their history, traditions, and culture.

Navajo Views on NatureThe Navajo Way never viewed religion as the activity that must be separated from daily encounter in life. The livings things (animals, people and plants) have been a great portion of the religion and their life. Everything has a purpose and spirit in their own world. The main intention for Navajo people is maintaining balance and peace and stay in harmony with nature and the world.  (Source)

Balance, peace, and harmony--admirable goals.  So as I was thinking about bees and the pollination of plants, I thought about the importance of corn pollen to the Navajo.

The Navajo word tádídíín is the word for corn pollen.
Tádídíín is a fundamental aspect of Navajo traditional culture. It comes from the tassels of a mature corn plant, and can only be collected by a female.
It is then blessed and used by all as the primary means of communicating with the Navajo Holy People. It is a conduit through which safety and happiness are assured, especially when one travels beyond the Navajo homeland (Dinétah).
It is a sweet-tasting yellow-colored powder that is commonly kept in small leather pouches.  (Source)

Where else does all this lead me.  I've been curious about the WWII Navajo Code Talkers for years.  When I finish all of R. Allen Chappell's mysteries, I will look for nonfiction accounts of the Code Talkers.

Back to bees, the importance of bees and the pollinating of plants cannot be underestimated.
P.S.  My cousin is a beekeeper.  :)

National Poetry Month

Last year, I combined National Letter Writing Month with National Poetry Month.  It started out a bit accidentally when I found a copy of a poem I wanted to share with a friend, but it was great timing, because I could include little excerpts or entire poems, in letters or on postcards, that I wanted to share with other friends and with my grands.

My first items in the mail so far this April have not included poetry, but I've been dragging out some of my anthologies and looking through them for possibilities.

I have several books of children's poems as well, and this morning, I got stuck reading some of them.  You know how sometimes you are looking for one particular poem, but ended up reading one after another.  It can happen with recipe books, too!

Reading some favorite children's poems  reminded me of Natalie Merchant's CD Leave Your Sleep.  Merchant collected the poems she shared with her young daughter and put them to music.  It is a beautiful album, full of delightful poems and melodies from famous and not so famous poets.  

The King of China's Daughter
The King of China’s daughter,

She never would love me
Though I hung my cap and bells upon
Her nutmeg tree.

For oranges and lemons,
The stars in bright blue air,
(I stole them long ago, my dear)
Were dangling there.

The Moon did give me silver pence,
The sun did give me gold,
And both together softly blew
And made my porridge cold;

But the King of China’s daughter
Pretended not to see
When I hung my cap and bells upon
Her nutmeg tree.

The King of China’s daughter
So beautiful to see
With her face like yellow water, left
Her nutmeg tree.

Her little rope for skipping
She kissed and gave to me –
Made of painted notes of singing-birds
Among the fields of tea

I skipped across the nutmeg grove, –
I skipped across the sea;
But neither sun nor moon, my dear,
Has yet caught me.

-Edith Sitwell.

Another favorite is Bleezer's Ice-Cream by Jack Prelutsky.  Merchant put it to music as well, and back in 2010, I made a papier mache eccentric figure inspired by Prelutsky's poem.

It starts out:

I am Ebenezer Bleezer, I run BLEEZER’S ICE-CREAM STORE, there are flavors in my freezer you have never seen before, twenty-eight divine creations too delicious to resist, why not do yourself a favor, try the flavors on my list:

 I just included the 28 flavors on the list

Yep, it should be Prelutsky with a t

Don't get me wrong, I'm still excessively fond of John Donne and T.S. Eliot, and I have no problem switching from serious to playful, from scholarly to absurd, from William Butler Yeats to Shel Silverstein.  The difference is that Jack Prelutsky and Shel Silverstein make me smile in almost every case.  

Who are some of your favorite poets?  

Reading

Hag-Seed by Margaret Atwood.  A re-telling of Shakespeare's The Tempest, and I loved it!  The link is to my review on my book blog.

The Hogarth Shakespeare Project by Crown Publishing is publishing re-tellings of the bard by famous contemporary authors including Jeannette Winterson, Jo Nesbo, and Gillian Flynn.  I'm eager to read more, but don't think any will top Atwood's Hag-Seed.  


After reading it I kept thinking of one of my favorite poems:

When I Read Shakespeare--

When I read Shakespeare I am struck with wonder
that such trivial people should muse and thunder
in such lovely language.

Lear, the old buffer, you wonder his daughters
didn't treat him rougher,
the old chough, the old chuffer!

And Hamlet, how boring, how boring to live with,
so mean and self-conscious, blowing and snoring
his wonderful speeches, full of other folks' whoring!

And Macbeth and his Lady, who should have been choring,
such suburban ambition, so messily goring
old Duncan with daggers!

How boring, how small Shakespeare's people are!
Yet the language so lovely!  like the dyes from gas-tar.
                                                                    --D.H. Lawrence

Every few years, I return to this poem and feel the smile on my face as I read it.  Such a humorous, yet accurate, approach to characters often enshrined in a kind of literary Taj Mahal. 

Lawrence doesn't include Prospero in his poem, but Margaret Atwood (in modern language) gives you a new look at Prospero, Caliban, and Ariel in modern language as prison inmates undertake a production of Shakespeare's The Tempest.  Delightful!
------

The Olympics have kicked off in Rio.  I have not paid much attention this year, but there are a few events I enjoy watching.  I'm especially looking forward to watching Simone Biles in the women's gymnastics competition.  

Outgoing Mail

Mail Art

I had a dream shortly before Mila was born.

In the dream, she was about 4 years old

and we were holding hands.

She called me Jenny Claire,

which is what my father often called me.

Now, Jenny Claire = grandmother

to all the grands.

To Mila

I tried fusing fabric to cardstock.

It worked well, and I'll experiment some more.

The Blessing by James Wright is one of my favorite poems.

Wright stops by the side of the road to admire some ponies.

I included only the last lovely lines on the postcard.

To Max

Bryce Eleanor's drawing of a cat.

Since the pc is a cat,

I turned to T.S. Eliot's

wonderful cat poems from

Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats.

A letter to a stranger,

left in the library.

Night Journey by Theodore Roethke

This poem is so evocative of what it used to feel

like when riding a train.

:) And I included some book recommendations

for people who love epistolary novels.

I wonder if a library patron or a library worker

found this letter to a stranger...

To Bryce Eleanor

The next day, I used a copy of the cat again.

This time I wrote on both sides of the card!

To Murph's Stamps

an order for more stamps!

So far I've mailed 7 postcards or letters.

Still thinking 30/30 is daunting.

Letter Writing Month excused Sundays

and holidays, but no such benefit for Write-On.

Warhol on Art

“An artist is somebody who produces things that people don't need to have.” 
― Andy Warhol, Andy Warhol, Thirty Are Better Than One

I love that whimsical description of what being an artist requires--nothing more than producing things that people don't need.   Not that all of those useless "things" would qualify as art, perhaps, but that there is an artistic temperament required to steadily turn out things that no one needs.

In the physical sense, of course, we don't need art, but after the physical needs of food, shelter, safety, etc. are met, individuals begin to climb Maslow's pyramid.  At the top of the pyramid is not only creativity (morality, etc.), but a genuine appreciation and need for beautiful, creative, inspiring things.

One of my favorite poems comes to mind, Peter Meinke's Advice to My Son.  Meinke explains the need for balance in life in such visual ways.  We need roses and tomatoes; we need bread and wine.

S 5 10 15 20

Advice to My Son by Peter Meinke The trick is, to live your days as if each one may be your last (for they go fast, and young men lose their lives in strange and unimaginable ways) but at the same time, plan long range (for they go slow: if you survive the shattered windshield and the bursting shell you will arrive at our approximation here below of heaven or hell). To be specific, between the peony and the rose plant squash and spinach, turnips and tomatoes; beauty is nectar and nectar, in a desert, saves-- but the stomach craves stronger sustenance than the honied vine. Therefore, marry a pretty girl after seeing her mother; speak truth to one man, work with another; and always serve bread with your wine. But, son, always serve wine.

I have no idea what happened to one of my favorite tees, but two small holes appeared in it.  My solution, as it has frequently been before, was to embroider it.  The holes are still there, but at least They look deliberate.  I may make more holes to give it a more unified look.

Where is this one?  Haven't seen it for a while--my favorite color and favorite stitch.

Now, I'm going to have to do some serious searching.

Garden Gossip -- dug up two more boxwood yesterday.  Have a few more to go.


------------------
I paused in working on this post and browsed some of my favorite blogs.  As often happens, serendipity magically sends things my way, and I found this post by Peregrine Blue.

Oh, the wonderful quotes and photos she included in this post.  Please drop by and see them!

The other day, Connie mentioned trimming back her blog list, and all though I do this occasionally, it has been a long time.  I did begin purging the list and was making pretty good progress...but then, I found a new list of blogs that sounded interesting.  The upshot is that I probably added about half as many new blogs as I'd just finished deleting from Google Reader.

Ah, well.  One reason is that I'm quilting again and so enjoying the inspiration found all over the web on fiber art, quilting, embroidery, and mixed media proved too much of a temptation.

On the other hand, my little Eccentric dolls are taking a back seat.  Unable to work in clay and cloth at the same time, all my little trashy treasures picked up from flea markets and antique shop trawl just sit around waiting.  My little fisherman waits for his fishing pole, and yes, Mary, a fish.

I received my latest copy of Art Dolls yesterday, and one of the artists mentioned being inspired by the poem "Little Orphant Annie," a poem I loved as a child.

My mother taught me to love good poetry and bad.  She didn't exactly teach me, I guess; she let me in on the delightful secret.   She read to me from her poetry books, which eventually I commandeered as my own.  Her favorites were marked and became my favorites...from Shakespeare and Dylan Thomas to the sentimental poems of James Whitcomb Riley and Eugene Field.  From Greek myth to Book-of-the-Month club popular favorites, my mother introduced me to the remarkable pleasure of other people's words and stories.

LITTLE ORPHANT ANNIE
by: James Whitcomb Riley (1849-1916)

INSCRIBED WITH ALL FAITH AND AFFECTION

 

To all the little children: -- The happy ones; and sad ones;
The sober and the silent ones; the boisterous and glad ones;
The good ones -- Yes, the good ones, too; and all the lovely bad ones.

 

ITTLE Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay,

An' wash the cups an' saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away,

An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep,

An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-an'-keep;

An' all us other childern, when the supper-things is done,

We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun

A-list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about,

An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you

Ef you

Don't

Watch

Out!

 

Wunst they wuz a little boy wouldn't say his prayers,--

An' when he went to bed at night, away up-stairs,

His Mammy heerd him holler, an' his Daddy heerd him bawl,

An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wuzn't there at all!

An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby-hole, an' press,

An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'-wheres, I guess;

But all they ever found wuz thist his pants an' roundabout:--

An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you

Ef you

Don't

Watch

Out!

 

An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin,

An' make fun of ever' one, an' all her blood-an'-kin;

An' wunst, when they was "company," an' ole folks wuz there,

She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care!

An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide,

They wuz two great big Black Things a-standin' by her side,

An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she knowed what she's about!

An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you

Ef you

Don't

Watch

Out!

 

An' little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue,

An' the lamp-wick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo!

An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray,

An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all squenched away,--

You better mind yer parunts, an' yer teachurs fond an' dear,

An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear,

An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about,

Er the Gobble-uns 'll git you

Ef you

Don't

Watch

Out!

I have got to do some errands and cleaning house today, but I sure as heck don't feel like it.  I want to go up to my studio and play.

Tuesday's Visit

Bryce Eleanor kept me busy and laughing yesterday afternoon and last night.  She talks all the time!  We played in the back garden and took a short walk.

She occupies herself for a while, playing with the dolls in the "treasure chest," playing with the blocks, then she wants company, a companion to share her play.  As observer and participant, I'm busy and involved.

Our little Maytag repairman. 

Apple, half-eaten, in hand.

I'd put on an apron as I made black bean enchiladas to keep my clothes clean, and she wanted one, too.  I had to get this one for her to wear.  I was lucky enough to win the above apron from Running With Scissors a couple of years ago.  Really pretty, huh?

Early this morning, she commandeers the cat tower.

Off to school.

------------
 I've been working on a couple more pillows, finished the ottoman cover, and covered an old foot stool.  Will post those pics later, but I'm out of things to cover and still have some fabric left.

What next?

It is going to be another beautiful day.

The Sun Never Says


Even 
After 
All this time
The sun never says to the earth,


"You owe
Me."


Look
What happens
With a love like that,
It lightens the
Whole
Sky.

--Hafiz (translation Daniel Ladinsky)

Inspiration and Organization

Great places to visit:

The Crafty Nest....give-aways, links to give-aways, DIY tutorials--good stuff!
Just Something I Made....lots of crafty tutorials and great ideas!  Too many fun & useful projects to mention!
The Graphics Fairy...free images and crafty projects and links!  I'm working on a project using the Fairy's images right now.

I'm organizing and labeling bits & bobs!  No, I'm not neat in general or in specifics, and the labels are not always even, the handwriting is poor, etc.  But...this is going to be a lot more efficient when I finish categorizing and labeling.

 When I finish organizing the tiny things in this little storage bin, I'll move on to things in boxes that are still behind the attic door.  Dragged out one box yesterday, but many items won't fit in the storage bin because the majority of the drawers are so tiny, but I have other containers.  I will soldier on for a while, trying to organize so that I will spend less time searching (often fruitlessly) for an item, I'm pretty sure I have.

 

I bought the old cloth covered sewing box a couple of years ago and found some neat stuff in it.

I've downloaded labels from both The Graphics Fairy and Just Something I Made for organizing all sorts of things, but mostly the chaos in my studio.  I have tools, fabric, vintage items, embellishments, WIPs, scraps, embroidery floss, needles (for all purposes, including felting needles), rulers, pens, pencils, clay utensils, paints & paint brushes, chalk & oil pastels, old postage stamps, magazines from the late 1800's, etc., etc.

Here is a great way to organize fabric remnants over at Just Something I Made. I plan on using this idea in the future.

It wasn't always easy to find what I wanted even before we moved; now, it is almost impossible.  Thanks to The Graphics Fairy and Just Something I Made, perhaps the things will improve!
------------------
Today's Poem of the Day is by Gerard Manley Hopkins, one of my very favorite poets, and this is one of my favorite poems:  Spring and Fall.  So appropriate for this time of year.   And it makes me thinks of Shakespeare's Sonnet 73:

That time of year thou mayst in me behold (Sonnet 73)

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west;
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the deathbed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.
   This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
   To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

In one of the boxes in the attic, I found a bunch of handouts of some of my favorite poems that I used when teaching.   For many years, there were few days when I didn't read poetry, but lately that has not been the case, and it was fun to go through the handouts.

Let's Get Cracklin'

Experimenting with crackle finishes is more fun than I anticipated.  The results are not predictable, and I'm trying to determine a bit more about how to get what I want.  So even though each attempt is a crap shoot, I like the suspense!

I played with some little muslin pieces and this one reminded me of a Chinese painting.  It was just an serendipitous outcome because I was just layering the paint and glue to discover the effect of colors.

Decided to thicken let the glue dry a bit more and thicken the green paint for the birdie.

The finish on this figure also has a burnt umber stain over it.  The figure crackled/aged nicely, but the hearts in the center didn't crackle.  I had been thinking about e.e. cummings and the line "i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)"

i carry your heart with me

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)

i fear
no fate (for you are my fate,my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world,my true) 
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
ee cummings

and this one by Sidney:

My True Love Hath My Heart, And I Have His by Sir Philip Sidney

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his,
By just exchange, one for the other giv'n.
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss;
There never was a better bargain driv'n.
His heart in me keeps me and him in one,
My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides;
He loves my heart, for once it was his own;
I cherish his, because in me it bides.
His heart his wound received from my sight:
My heart was wounded with his wounded heart;
For as from me, on him his hurt did light,
So still me thought in me his hurt did smart:
Both equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss:
My true love hath my heart and I have his. 

Two of my very favorite companion poems -- same theme although Sidney was born in 1554 and ee cummings in 1894.

Now, back to the works in progress...

A Practical Project And More

Finally got to work on a carrier for my yoga mat. It will be more of a sling than a bag. Since the new mat didn't fit into the old bag, carrying it has been a bit awkward.
I'll put a pocket on it for keys or whatever.

Have begun working on another doll. I'm hooked on the sock/glove doll thing!

Poetry and UFOs

"We are here on earth to do good for others. What the others are here for I do not know." ~W.H. Auden

Auden is one of my favorite poets, even though his poems are usually about the flaws in humanity, they always offer a possibility of hope and emphasize the importance of love. One of my favorite poems is September 1, 1939, which he wrote in 1939 on the outbreak of WWII.

On to more mundane things...

These cuffs have been in progress for months. I found them in the little plastic box where I stored them with the beads, Dorset buttons, etc. I was using. It took a while to locate the box, but determination led me through the chaos.
I'm trying to identify as many WIPs and UFOs as I can, and then determine a way to order them so that at least they receive occasional work.

Finished Pillow

Here is my new little pillow with my strange little bird. I love it.
For some reason, I kept thinking of this poem by Emily Dickinson that Mother loved:

HOPE

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
As I worked on the pillow and decided to do a line form the poem on the back, I knew this little pillow was going to mean a lot to me. And it does carry a lot of meaning...it reminds me of Mother.

On PoeTrees and Spirit Books

The PoeTree Project appeals to almost every aspect of my varied interests! I love this project for the Newburyport Literary Festival, designed and coordinated by Susan Kapuscinski Gaylord (in good spirit). Isn't this poem terrific?

I want a PoeTree!

Ms. Gaylord also has a series of Spirit Books that are just lovely. She was generous enough to give me permission to use a couple of pictures .Coincidentally, the people from the tree service have just arrived to trim the limbs of the trees in the front yard. Getting the dead limbs out and trimming others from the roof is something that has long needed to be done.

funkey munkeys and a poem

I'm playing with some "onesies" -- these are the little shirts, 3 to a package. Since Bryce is due in December, maybe one should have a winter/Christmas theme. Sometimes I have no ideas at all, and sometimes more ideas than I have time for, but these little shirts are fun and well, there should be some burp cloths, too, I suppose.


Karoda and I share a love for this poet and here is one of her poems (via Foxy Art Studio) :

Truth Serum

by Naomi Shihab Nye

We made it from the ground-up corn in the old back pasture.

Pinched a scent of night jasmine billowing off the fence,

popped it right in.

That frog song wanting nothing but echo?

We used that.

Stirred it widely. Noticed the clouds while stirring.

Called upon our ancient great aunts and their long slow eyes

of summer. Dropped in their names.

Added a mint leaf now and then

to hearten the broth. Added a note of cheer and worry.

Orange butterfly between the claps of thunder?

Perfect. And once we had it,

had smelled and tasted the fragrant syrup,

placing the pan on a back burner for keeping,

the sorrow lifted in small ways.

We boiled down the lies in another pan till they disappeared.

We washed that pan.

on "dappled things" and "golden grove"

Kay sent me a link to this glorious quilt that is based on Gerard Manley Hopkins' "Pied Beauty." I've absolutely fallen in love with it.

Even as I was writing this, another email from Kay mentioning another favorite by Hopkins - Spring and Fall.

Another Color update

I've been absolutely overwhelmed with the responses on color. Thanks to all of you who have responded on the blog or sent private emails with your information.

Like most of you, I've been very busy over this Easter weekend, but I'm so appreciative of all of you who have responded and am busy trying to catch up with all of the emails.

A poem for National Poetry Month:

Pied Beauty

GLORY be to God for dappled things—
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough; 5
And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change: 10
Praise him.

Gerard Manley Hopkins

Tuesday Tidbits

A while back I posted (here) about Kris Delmhorst's interview on NPR where she discussed her CD Strange Conversations. Delmhorst used poems by Byron, Whitman, Millay and others as inspiration for her songs. Carla Bruni also uses the lyrics of poems by Yeats, Auden, Dickinson, and others on her new CD No Promises. This New York Sun article gives No Promises a glowing review.

I'm almost out of birdseed. My popularity will quickly diminish if I fail to provide sunflower seeds.

Here is a fun site to waste some time on.




I've finally begun working on a small project. It isn't working out very well, but is giving me some ideas. I'll take anything at this point! I worked on some handwork last night and enjoyed my Monday night television: Heroes and Studio 60.

Blast Blogger...

Fee got home last night, and we decorated the tree. I've been trying to post pictures, but having no luck. Wahhh!

I have done nothing further with the table topper and was going to post that as W.I.P. Wednesday, but can't do that either.

Maybe later.

I did post one of my favorite Christmas poems on A Garden Carried in the Pocket, my book blog.

Remember Oedipus?

I've neglected Poetry Thursday lately, but DebR posted a kind of companion poem to one she had posted earlier. The earlier poem was Eve and Medusa, this one is titled Love Letter and begins "Dear Samson..." Her choices reminded me of this one (I have several "myth" poems) by David Ignatow.

Oedipus

My hands shook as I bargained for passage,
my hands shook because by his face I could tell
he was not one I could bargain with; death only
was his price. And when he lashed out at me
from his preeminence, his chariot, my hand
leapt to my sword, my throat ached.
I had no head then to consider I was killing
one who like myself had not been brought up
to countenance such manners, as to bargain.
Only against my grain I had wanted to.
I killed him, I felt myself cut off;
I heard myself inwardly go mad,
I had destroyed an image I hated:
I was destroyed.

--David Ignatow

So Oedipus fulfilled the prophecy and unknowingly killed his own father. The prophecy that O. would kill his father led Laius (a man with a pretty creepy past to atone for even before attempting to kill his own son) to have the baby Oedipus left on a mountain top to die. But as Oedipus concludes in this poem, the destruction of his father is also self-destruction--and everyone knows the rest of the prophecy isn't too cheerful either. The sins of the fathers...