Today we remember American poet Marianne Moore (b. 1887) who died on this day in 1972. Moore was born in Kirkwood, Missouri in the manse of the Presbyterian Church where her maternal grandfather, John Riddle Warner, served as pastor. By the time of her death, she had received many honorary degrees and virtually every honor available to an American poet. She was nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature. The New York Times printed a full-page obituary.
Like her mother and her brother, Moore remained a devoted Presbyterian throughout her life. I spent a pleasant afternoon yesterday reading her poetry. Here’s one: The Past is the Present
So look up at the sky on this beautiful day, read a poem, embrace the silence.
*From the poem “Silence”–read the whole poem here.
Yesterday was a beautiful day–cold, but beautiful. Blue sky, untouched white snow reflecting the sunlight. Very nice. I sat in my office and watched a huge red-tailed hawk cruise around.
Here’s a poem, “Shovelling Snow” by Harry Edward Mills, written around 1901:
And Don shared this lovely Dan Fogelberg piece with me:
More cold weather coming up, so I’ll be sitting by my window for the foreseeable future.
“Every bit we eat, and every drop we drink is mercy; every step we take, and every breath we draw, mercy. [These are] what we have reason to acknowledge with thankfulness to God’s praise.” (Matthew Henry, 1662-1713)
Our week is turning out to be fair and mild–what a relief! Love those upper 50s temperatures. Isn’t it so much more pleasant to run errands around town when you don’t have to get all bundled up to go out?
In other news, my son-in-law gave me a book for Christmas, Jorge Luis Borges: Conversations, which I have been reading. It is from the Literary Conversation Series. It prompted me to read this poem by Borges: Another Poem of Gifts
We should all be writing our own poem on this subject every day.
(By the way, Frances Haslam was Borges’s English grandmother.)
It got very cold indeed here in flyover country. From 78 degrees on Sunday it dropped over 50 degrees! (A 70 degree change if you count the wind chill!) Yikes. We missed a new record by one degree! (Set in 1911.) I’m feeling a little jealous of the twins down in Florida!
Well, anyway, I am starting to get back on my feet, getting some things done around the house. And that’s a good thing.
Today we toast country singer Suzy Bogguss on her birthday. She was born in 1956 and grew up in Aledo, Illinois. We always liked Suzy back in the day–what a voice–and we are happy that she is finally being inducted as the next new member of the Grand Ole Opry on January 16, 2026.
Way to go, Suzy!
And here’s a poem by James Crews, “Winter Morning”:
I made it safely to the snow-covered prairie–a very windy trip, but uneventful. I controlled my 241 horses and raced north, arriving in good time. Praise the Lord.
All is well.
*And all shall be well and All manner of thing shall be well When the tongues of flames are in-folded Into the crowned knot of fire And the fire and the rose are one.
Well, we got more snow–how about that? Luckily I had gone out early in the morning to run errands, so I could just stay home and watch the snow fall. Thankfully, daughter #1 had cancelled her drive to Indiana for work, but she still had to drive home from downtown and that was moderately traumatizing.
The snow was really coming down when I took this picture, but the iPhone does not capture that adequately at all!
Both of my Christmas cactuses are budding, right on schedule! Isn’t that something? This made me think of Walt Whitman. I agree with him about miracles.
Why, who makes much of a miracle? As to me I know of nothing else but miracles, Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan, Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky, Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water, Or stand under trees in the woods, Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love, Or sit at table at dinner with the rest, Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car, Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon, Or animals feeding in the fields, Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air, Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet and bright, Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring; These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles, The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.
To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle, Every cubic inch of space is a miracle, Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same, Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.
To me the sea is a continual miracle, The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—the ships with men in them, What stranger miracles are there?
The other day I mentioned the story of Billy Graham going to see the dying Steve McQueen and that truly is a great story. But the even better part of all that was how the flight instructor over time converted the questioning Steve into a “born again” Christian. I know quite a few people like that flight instructor now–“ordinary” men who take Mark 16:15 very seriously in their daily lives. One such guy is Bill who was an executive at some big engineering firm. He is a piano-tuner now (in retirement) and he evangelizes quietly everywhere he goes, just talking to people. He is not ashamed of the Gospel. No sir. He sees it as his duty to spread the Word.
The Billy Grahams of this world are wonderful, but it is the Bills among us who do the real work where the rubber meets the actual road.
And here’s a song for Monday–the great Mark Knopfler singing the great Bob Dylan:
Oh, a false clock tries to tick out my time To disgrace, distract and bother me And the dirt of gossip blows into my face And the dust of rumors covers me
[Chorus] But if the arrow is straight and the point is slick It can pierce through dust no matter how thick So I’ll make my stand and remain as I am And bid farewell and not give a damn
(Meanwhile we made it to the prairie–where it has turned cold and even snowy!–and we went to church where daughter #2 and the girls became members along with a dozen others.)
We are surrounded by God’s benefits. The best use of these benefits is an unceasing expression of gratitude. –John Calvin
Well, as soon as I said the leaves had not changed much, they started turning! We are supposed to have a cold snap this weekend, so I finished cleaning out the Florida room and moved the rest of the plants. Sadly, we did not use it much this year.
Anyway, I was talking to the boy the other day and he reminded me that I left out two very significant scenes in famous rainy movies. I was semi-horrified that I had, indeed, forgotten:
John Wayne and Maureen O’Hara in The Quiet Man (1951)…
and Robert Redford knocking the cover off the ball in The Natural (1984)…
Wonderful. But what else did I forget?
Oh, here’s a poem by Don Paterson about rain in movies!
I love all films that start with rain: rain, braiding a windowpane or darkening a hung-out dress or streaming down her upturned face;
one long thundering downpour right through the empty script and score before the act, before the blame, before the lens pulls through the frame
to where the woman sits alone beside a silent telephone or the dress lies ruined on the grass or the girl walks off the overpass,
and all things flow out from that source along their fatal watercourse. However bad or overlong such a film can do no wrong,
so when his native twang shows through or when the boom dips into view or when her speech starts to betray its adaptation from the play,
forget the ink, the milk, the blood— all was washed clean with the flood we rose up from the falling waters the fallen rain’s own sons and daughters
Well, I had an easy trip up and back to outstate-Illinois in my Mini Countryman, which is a speed demon on the windy prairie highway and zooms across the cornfields like the Autobahn. I do love my car.
If I ever want to fly Mulholland Drive I am alive
Hollywood is under me I’m Martin Sheen I’m Steve McQueen I’m Jimmy Dean
DN went to his conference and I helped daughter #2, who is in the large basketball phase of her pregnancy, with the prairie girls. We went to Home Depot to buy paint for a bathroom update …
…they were into it. It was a whole scene.
Back home, I got up on Sunday and met the boy and the twins at church. I had missed the week before when I was in Virginia so it seemed like forever (two weeks)–how nice to be back! Our pastor gave a really good sermon on Philippians 3:1-11 (and even made an unusual, but appropriate, reference to Mike Wazowski, which made the bud perk right up.) Where does our confidence come from? The righteousness of God that depends on faith!
As Reformation Day approaches (October 31), we sang “A Mighty Fortress is Our God”, plus a selection of 19th century and 21st century hymns, plus a mighty solo rendition of the Fernando Ortega hymn, “Give Me Jesus”–perfect.
It was a gloomy and rainy Sunday afternoon, so I opted to stay home and not go to the bud’s soccer game(s). As Mamu I am allowed to do that.
Have a good week! Here’s a poem:
And maybe it was a bar tune, Maybe not, but there we were, hunched over too-small desks in History 101, all ninety-five freshmen humming— by need not desire—every note, every verse of Luther’s best-loved hymn, Our helper He… the right man on our side as we scribbled, hands almost numb, the body they may kill – his theology of lyrics, our theology – from age to age the same for the final question the spirit and the gifts are ours of the final exam, and we would win the battle, our hearts pumping with belief, our throats thumping with crescendo: one little word would never fell us.
dual personalities 