dual personalities

Category: Poetry

June 24, 2016

Keeping cool, flyover style

by chuckofish

wrc:mwc pool

Circa 1990

It is really hot here in flyover country–dog days hot–and it is only June! Time to break out the gin and tonics and read poetry!

Here is an appropriate poem by old William Cullen Bryant, who probably thought the temperature was roasting at 79-degrees. Try 99-degrees! Read the whole thing–it’s good!

It is a sultry day; the sun has drunk

The dew that lay upon the morning grass,

There is no rustling in the lofty elm

That canopies my dwelling, and its shade

Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint

And interrupted murmur of the bee,

Settling on the sick flowers, and then again

Instantly on the wing. The plants around

Feel the too potent fervors; the tall maize

Rolls up its long green leaves; the clover droops

Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms.

But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills,

With all their growth of woods, silent and stern,

As if the scorching heat and dazzling light

Were but an element they loved. Bright clouds,

Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven;–

Their bases on the mountains–their white tops

Shining in the far ether–fire the air

With a reflected radiance, and make turn

The gazer’s eye away. For me, I lie

Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf,

Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun,

Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind

That still delays its coming. Why so slow,

Gentle and voluble spirit of the air?

Oh, come and breathe upon the fainting earth

Coolness and life. Is it that in his caves

He hears me? See, on yonder woody ridge,

The pine is bending his proud top, and now,

Among the nearer groves, chestnut and oak

Are tossing their green boughs about. He comes!

Lo, where the grassy meadow runs in wives!

The deep distressful silence of the scene

Breaks up with mingling of unnumbered sounds

And universal motion. He is come,

Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs,

And bearing on the fragrance; and he brings

Music of birds, and rustling of young boughs,

And sound of swaying branches, and the voice

Of distant waterfalls. All the green herbs

Are stirring in his breath; a thousand flowers,

By the road-side and the borders of the brook,

Nod gaily to each other; glossy leaves

Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew

Were on them yet, and silver waters break

Into small waves and sparkle as he comes.

–William Cullen Bryant, “Summer Wind”

Have a good weekend–keep cool!

5 Comments
June 7, 2016

Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!*

by chuckofish

ee071ed4d461d3409d6a9ba8e31b5676

Some lovely lyrics for Tuesday:

Skylark
Have you anything to say to me
Won’t you tell me where my love can be
Is there a meadow in the mist
Where someone’s waiting to be kissed

Skylark
Have you seen a valley green with spring
Where my heart can go a-journeying
Over the shadows and the rain
To a blossom covered lane

And in your lonely flight
Haven’t you heard the music in the night
Wonderful music, faint as a will o’ the wisp
Crazy as a loon
Sad as a gypsy serenading the moon

Skylark
I don’t know if you can find these things
But my heart is riding on your wings
So if you see them anywhere
Won’t you lead me there

Skylark
I don’t know if you can find these things
But my heart is riding on your wings
So if you see them anywhere
Won’t you lead me there

“Skylark” –words by Johnny Mercer, music by Hoagy Carmichael, 1941

Skylark 08 (Shay Connolly)

Who knew skylarks are so cute!

*Percy Bysshe Shelley, “To a Skylark”

2 Comments
June 2, 2016

Tonight I long for rest

by chuckofish

Arthur_Hacker-Fire_Fancies__1865

Here’s a great poem, “The Day is Done,” from the forgotten Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Read the whole thing.

The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me
That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time,

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life’s endless toil and endeavor;
And tonight I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have a power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And comes like the benediction
That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

–Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882

The painting is “Fire Fancies” by Arthur Hacker, 1865

2 Comments
May 26, 2016

Happy belated birthday, Mr. Zimmerman

by chuckofish

As you probably already know, Tuesday was Bob Dylan’s 75th birthday.

bob-dylan-fallen-angels-2016

Thank goodness, he is still going strong and has just released Fallen Angels, his 37th LP and second straight album of American Songbook classics.

So in honor of his big day let’s listen to one of my favorites from 1981:

Dylan described “Every Grain of Sand” as “an inspired song that just came to me … I felt like I was just putting words down that were coming from somewhere else.”

In the time of my confession, in the hour of my deepest need
When the pool of tears beneath my feet flood every newborn seed
There’s a dyin’ voice within me reaching out somewhere
Toiling in the danger and in the morals of despair

Don’t have the inclination to look back on any mistake
Like Cain, I now behold this chain of events that I must break
In the fury of the moment I can see the Master’s hand
In every leaf that trembles, in every grain of sand

Oh, the flowers of indulgence and the weeds of yesteryear
Like criminals, they have choked the breath of conscience and good cheer
The sun beat down upon the steps of time to light the way
To ease the pain of idleness and the memory of decay

I gaze into the doorway of temptation’s angry flame
And every time I pass that way I always hear my name
Then onward in my journey I come to understand
That every hair is numbered like every grain of sand

I have gone from rags to riches in the sorrow of the night
In the violence of a summer’s dream, in the chill of a wintry light
In the bitter dance of loneliness fading into space
In the broken mirror of innocence on each forgotten face

I hear the ancient footsteps like the motion of the sea
Sometimes I turn, there’s someone there, other times it’s only me
I am hanging in the balance of the reality of man
Like every sparrow falling, like every grain of sand

Copyright © 1981 by Special Rider Music

Because we’re just pilgrims passing through after all.

3 Comments
May 24, 2016

He bids me sing

by chuckofish

I had a scratchy throat and was fighting a cold all last weekend, so flying on Sunday kind of did my ears in and I am feeling not-so-good now…So this is all I’ve got.

‘Winter Sunshine’ (1930s or 1940s) by English artist Frederick William Elwell (1870-1958).

‘Winter Sunshine’ (1930s or 1940s) by English artist Frederick William Elwell (1870-1958)

I

The irresponsive silence of the land,

The irresponsive sounding of the sea,

Speak both one message of one sense to me:–

Aloof, aloof, we stand aloof, so stand

Thou too aloof bound with the flawless band

Of inner solitude; we bind not thee;

But who from thy self-chain shall set thee free?

What heart shall touch thy heart? what hand thy hand?–

And I am sometimes proud and sometimes meek,

And sometimes I remember days of old

When fellowship seemed not so far to seek

And all the world and I seemed much less cold,

And at the rainbow’s foot lay surely gold,

And hope felt strong and life itself not weak.

 

II

Thus am I mine own prison.

Everything

Around me free and sunny and at ease:

Or if in shadow, in a shade of trees

Which the sun kisses, where the gay birds sing

And where all winds make various murmuring;

Where bees are found, with honey for the bees;

Where sounds are music, and where silences

Are music of an unlike fashioning.

Then gaze I at the merrymaking crew,

And smile a moment and a moment sigh

Thinking: Why can I not rejoice with you?

But soon I put the foolish fancy by:

I am not what I have nor what I do;

But what I was I am, I am even I.

 

 

III

Therefore myself is that one only thing

I hold to use or waste, to keep or give;

My sole possession every day I live,

And still mine own despite Time’s winnowing.

Ever mine own, while moons and seasons bring

From crudeness ripeness mellow and sanitive;

Ever mine own, till Death shall ply his sieve;

And still mine own, when saints break grave and sing.

And this myself as king unto my King

I give, to Him Who gave Himself for me;

Who gives Himself to me, and bids me sing

A sweet new song of His redeemed set free;

he bids me sing: O death, where is thy sting?

And sing: O grave, where is thy victory?

 

–Christina Rosetti, “The Thread of Life”

5 Comments
February 17, 2016

Pick a little, talk a little

by chuckofish

Is anyone else as tired as I am of headlines like this?

The (Secretly Filthy) Winter Wardrobe Staples You Need to Wash Right Now

I mean c’mon. It’s the “You Need” and the “Right Now,” you know?

Isn’t there enough stress and pressure on us without getting hit right and left on the internet with orders about stuff like that?

Well, I say you need to sit down right now

George_Willison_-_Nancy_Parsons_in_Turkish_dress_-_Google_Art_Project

George Willison, “Nancy Parsons in Turkish Dress”

and stare out the window.

WInslow Homer

Winslow Homer, “Looking Out the Window”

Eat some candy if you feel like it

James Peale, "Still Life With Fruit"

James Peale, “Still Life With Fruit”

and have a glass of wine.

Johannes Vermeer, "The Glass of Wine"

Johannes Vermeer, “The Glass of Wine”

Then watch some great old tv show without commercials.

NYPD-Blue

But under no circumstances plan

9 DIY Projects That Help You Stay Organized.

And P.S. I don’t care if they are secretly filthy. I am not going to hand wash my leather gloves.

But I might re-read this old poem by W. Wordsworth that daughter #2 emailed me yesterday.

SHE was a Phantom of delight

When first she gleamed upon my sight;

A lovely Apparition, sent

To be a moment’s ornament;

Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;

Like Twilight’s, too, her dusky hair;

But all things else about her drawn

From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;

A dancing Shape, an Image gay,

To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.

 

I saw her upon nearer view,

A Spirit, yet a Woman too!

Her household motions light and free,

And steps of virgin-liberty;

A countenance in which did meet

Sweet records, promises as sweet;

A Creature not too bright or good

For human nature’s daily food;

For transient sorrows, simple wiles,

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

 

And now I see with eye serene

The very pulse of the machine;

A Being breathing thoughtful breath,

A Traveller between life and death;

The reason firm, the temperate will,

Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;

A perfect Woman, nobly planned,

To warn, to comfort, and command;

And yet a Spirit still, and bright

With something of angelic light.

I’m just saying.

3 Comments
November 18, 2015

November rain

by chuckofish

Screen shot 2015-11-17 at 11.17.45 AM

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart, and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.

–Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

November rain, when it goes on for days, cannot help but bring a person’s spirits down. But I like old Longfellow’s thinking on this subject. When did we stop reading him? He’s kind of great.

Henry_Wadsworth_Longfellow_by_Southworth_&_Hawes_c1850_restored

Henry was one of those handsome mid-century American writers we are so fond of. Read more about this poet here.

Anyway, please note that there is a slight chance of snow on Saturday! It won’t be long until the weather media is whipping us up into a stock-up-on-bread-and-milk frenzy.

3 Comments
October 20, 2015

The sunshine of kind looks

by chuckofish

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SONNET–OCTOBER by William Cullen Bryant

Ay, thou art welcome, heaven’s delicious breath,

When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf,

And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief,

And the year smiles as it draws near its death.

Wind of the sunny south! oh still delay

In the gay woods and in the golden air,

Like to a good old age released from care,

Journeying, in long serenity, away.

In such a bright, late quiet, would that I

Might wear out life like thee, mid bowers and brooks,

And, dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks,

And music of kind voices ever nigh;

And when my last sand twinkled in the glass,

Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass.

The painting is “The Pumpkin Patch” by Winslow Homer.

2 Comments
October 7, 2015

An’ The Raggedy Man, he knows most rhymes, An’ tells ’em, ef I be good, sometimes

by chuckofish

Today is the birthday of James Whitcomb Riley (October 7, 1849 – July 22, 1916) who was an American writer, poet, and best-selling author, frequently referred to as the “Hoosier Poet.”

Statue in Greenfield, Indiana

Statue in Greenfield, Indiana

I suppose no one reads his poems anymore. (Although–surprise!– his books are still in print.)

I remember my mother reading them aloud to us with great gusto. There was Little Orphant Annie

Little 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-listenin’ to the witch-tales ‘at Annie tells about,
An’ the Gobble-uns ‘at gits you
Ef you
Don’t
Watch
Out!

and The Raggedy Man

O The Raggedy Man! He works fer Pa;
An’ he’s the goodest man ever you saw!
He comes to our house every day,
An’ waters the horses, an’ feeds ’em hay…

Indeed, they were fun to read and fun to listen to. That is no doubt why Riley was among the most popular writers of the late nineteenth and early twentieth century.

So join me in a toast to the forgotten Hoosier poet, James Whitcomb Riley. (Perhaps with one of these.)

I leave you with this picture of another famous Hoosier reading some JWR poetry for fun and personal enrichment.

dean riley

Enjoy your Wednesday–and don’t let the Gobble-uns git you!

2 Comments
October 6, 2015

A floating sense of doom

by chuckofish

107-Christ the Comforter

“God knows we have our own demons to be cast out, our own uncleanness to be cleansed. Neurotic anxiety happens to be my own particular demon, a floating sense of doom that has ruined many of what could have been, should have been, the happiest days of my life, and more than a few times in my life I have been raised from such ruins, which is another way of saying that more than a few times in my life I have been raised from death – death of the spirit anyway, death of the heart – by the healing power that Jesus calls us both to heal with and to be healed by.”

― Frederick Buechner, Secrets in the Dark: A Life in Sermons

I can surely relate to what Frederick Buechner is saying here, although I wouldn’t classify it as neurotic anxiety exactly. I just have always had a morbid imagination, always thinking about what might happen, especially concerning loved ones.

At the evensong service on Sunday the choir sang an anthem based on a poem by Robert Herrick (1591–1674):

In the hour of my distress,

When temptations me oppress,

And when I my sins confess,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

 

When I lie within my bed,

Sick in heart and sick in head,

And with doubts discomforted,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

 

When the house doth sigh and weep,

And the world is drown’d in sleep,

Yet mine eyes the watch do keep,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

I was reminded that people back in the seventeenth century lay in bed at night and obsessed over problems too. I must say that I do find comfort in that.

And as I always say to the boy after one of our overwrought discussions of current events, God is in control. It is good to remember that.

The evensong service ends with the wonderful prayer for mission:

Keep watch, dear Lord, with those who work, or watch, or weep this night, and give thine angels charge over those who sleep. Tend the sick, Lord Christ; give rest to the weary, bless the dying, soothe the suffering, pity the afflicted, shield the joyous; and all for thy love’s sake. Amen.

You can’t go wrong with this prayer at bedtime. Keep it on your bedside table. Envision those angels watching over you and your loved ones. It helps to dissipate that floating sense of doom.

2 Comments