national poetry month: washington irving

Washington Irving didn't write much poetry, but I discovered this lighthearted and seasonally appropriate offering from The Poems of Washington Irving, brought together from various sources by William R. Langfeld.

"The Lay of the Sunnyside Ducks" by Washington Irving

By Sunnyside bower runs a little Indian Brook,
As wild as wild can be;
It flow down from hills where Indians lived of old
To the might Tappan Sea.

And this little brook supplies a goodly little pond
Where the Sunnyside ducks do play,
Snowy white little ducks with topknots of their heads
And merry little ducks are they.

And high up the hill stands fair Jaffray Hall
Where a might chief doth dwell
And this little Indian brook flows through his lands
And its own little rugged dell.

And the Laird of Jaffray arose in his might
And he said to his wife one day,
“This little Indian brook, is an idle little brook
And shall no longer have its way.

No longer shall it run down to Sunnyside pond
Nor eke to the Tappan Sea.
I’ll stop it, with a dam, and pump it up hill with a ram
And make it work for a living,” said he.

“It shall run in pipes about of garden and lawn
Making jets and fountains clear.
It shall run upstairs and downstairs of Jaffray Hall,
And into your bathroom, my dear.”

Then the Sunnyside ducks they quaked with fear
And dolefully they did cry,
“Oh Laird of Jaffray pare our little brook,
Or we shall be left high and dry!”

But soon it appeared that his brave little brook
Defied the Laird of Jaffray’s skill;
For though he dammed the little brook, and rammed the little brook
The little brook still ran down hill.

Then the Sunnyside ducks again plucked up heart,
And got over their quanda –ry,
And the little brook still runs on to the Sunnyside pond
And the mighty Tappan Sea!

Per Langfeld, it was first published in From Pinafores to Politics by Mrs. J. Borden Harriman (aka Daisy Hurst Harriman). I haven't read From Pinafores to Politics, which I understand is an autobiography of the social reformer. It seems odd that this particular poem would be included in such a work, but I'll err on the side of trusting the reference since Langfeld is an Irving scholar (and bibliographer) and From Pinafores to Politics was published by New York Public Library, which has one of the most substantive Irving collections in the world.

national poetry month: charles simic

While searching for a poem to feature this week I came across "In the Library" by Charles Simic (Dušan "Charles" Simić) and it was love at first run-through.  As I began to read more about Simic (a Pulitzer Prize-winner and onetime Poet Laureate), I grew increasingly embarrassed about the fact that I wasn't familiar with him and his work before.  All I can say in my defense is that poetry is not my bailiwick.¹

The text of the poem is below, but I recommend popping over to The Poetry Archive and listening to the recording they have made available of Simic reading "In the Library" (direct link to poem page).

"In the Library" by Charles Simic
for Octavio

There's a book called
"A Dictionary of Angels."
No one has opened it in fifty years,
I know, because when I did,
The covers creaked, the pages
Crumbled. There I discovered

The angels were once as plentiful
As species of flies.
The sky at dusk
Used to be thick with them.
You had to wave both arms
Just to keep them away.

Now the sun is shining
Through the tall windows.
The library is a quiet place.
Angels and gods huddled
In dark unopened books.
The great secret lies
On some shelf Miss Jones
Passes every day on her rounds.

She's very tall, so she keeps
Her head tipped as if listening.
The books are whispering.
I hear nothing, but she does.

"In the Library" is included in The Book of Gods and Devils and Sixty Poems (published on the occasion of Simic's appointment as Poet Laureate of the United States) and possibly in other collections of Simic's work.

1. bailiwick: area of interest, skill, or authority; jurisdiction.
   One of the higher-ups at work has a great affection for the word bailiwick and hearing him use it on a number of different occaions has sealed its meaning into my brain more successfully than the standard rule about using a new word in a sentence x-many times.

national poetry month: marie howe

Once again it's April and National Poetry Month.  I tend to need prodding toward toward poetry-reading so National Poetry Month is a good reminder that I need to get out of my (primarily fiction) prose reading rut.  While I don't read much poetry on a regular basis, I welcome April and its "required" reading. 

My first offering for 2013 is a poem from New York State's current poet laureate,¹ Marie Howe.
What a killer first line.

"What Angels Left" by Marie Howe

At first, the scissors seemed perfectly harmless.
They lay on the kitchen table in the blue light.

Then I began to notice them all over the house,
at night in the pantry, or filling up bowls in the cellar

where there should have been apples. They appeared under rugs,
lumpy places where one would usually settle before the fire,

or suddenly shining in the sink at the bottom of soupy water.
Once, I found a pair in the garden, stuck in turned dirt

among the new bulbs, and one night, under my pillow,
I felt something like a cool long tooth and pulled them out

to lie next to me in the dark. Soon after that I began
to collect them, filling boxes, old shopping bags,

every suitcase I owned. I grew slightly uncomfortable
when company came. What if someone noticed them

when looking for forks or replacing dried dishes? I longed
to throw them out, but how could I get rid of something

that felt oddly like grace? It occurred to me finally
that I was meant to use them, and I resisted a growing compulsion

to cut my hair, although in moments of great distraction,
I thought it was my eyes they wanted, or my soft belly

—exhausted, in winter, I laid them out on the lawn.
The snow fell quite as usual, without any apparent hesitation

or discomfort. In spring, as expected, they were gone.
In their place, a slight metallic smell, and the dear muddy earth.

"What the Angels Left" was published in The Good Thief, a collection that was selected by Margaret Atwood as a winner in the 1987 Open Competition of the National Poetry Series.

1. Previous holders of this post are Stanley Kunitz (1987-1989), Robert Creeley (1989-1991), Audre Lorde (1991-1993), Richard Howard (1993-1995), Jane Cooper (1995-1997), Sharon Olds (1998-2000), John Ashbery (2001-2003), Billy Collins (2004-2006), Jean Valentine (2008-2010).

serenity

This week I had one of those exceedingly frustrating days that make you want to pull all your hair out.  On days like those, I'm in desperate need of some serenity.¹ Last year I bought myself this ring² from Etsy seller donnaOdesigns. For me it is a perfect reminder to breathe and to focus on what I actually can control.

My hand, my photo.
There are much better images available if you follow the links above.

It features the Serenity Prayer:

God, grant me the serenity to
Accept the things I cannot change,
Courage to change the things I can, and
Wisdom to know the difference.

While the prayer is often misattributed to St. Francis of Assisi, I understand that is was actually written by an early 20th century theologian named Reinhold Niebuhr though the current, popular formula deviates from the original.³

1. Serenity: the state or quality of being serene, calm, or tranquil; not agitated.
2. The price has gone up about $15 since then, but I love it so much that I'd still buy it at the current price.
   If you want one for yourself, I'd recommend ordering a full size larger than the size you'd normally wear on your preferred finger. I had to send mine back to get resized because it didn't occur to me that I needed to size the finger near the first joint rather than at its base.  In any case, the donnaOdesigns was very accommodating.
3. "Father, give us courage to change what must be altered, serenity to accept what cannot be helped, and the insight to know the one from the other."

Tigers in Red Weather by Liza Klaussmann

Tigers in Red Weather by Liza Klaussmann

Like Wish You Were Here by Stewart O'Nan, which I posted about earlier this month (see post), Tigers in Red Weather concerns itself with an extended family and their interpersonal relationships using time spent together at a summer cottage (this time on Martha's Vineyard) as a catalyst.  The novel is also told variously from the perspectives of the individual family members, but Tigers in Red Weather has a series of first-person narrators rather than one third person omniscient.

While Wish You Were Here takes place over a single week, Tigers in Red Weather unfolds over twenty-plus years. From the end of World War through the late 1960s (with a bit of a flashback to the war years), Tigers in Red Weather follows first (female) cousins Nick and Helena (and Nick's husband Hugh) as they adjust to post-war and married life. Their children Ed and Daisy join the narrative as they reach the age of reason, spending their summers at Tiger House.

Throughout the novel there's an air of mystery and deep-seated secrets. One summer there's a murder on the Vineyard, and while that adds to the intrigue, it's never really a question of whodunnit. Rather the focus of Tigers in Red Weather is on interfamilial deceptions, the lies individual characters tell themselves and each other.

Unfortunately, it was difficult to connect with any of the central characters. Two of them were repugnant the majority of the time. The others ranged from generally likeable to vaguely incomprehensible, but all suffered from some level of inconsistency within their characters that made them at best unsympathetic, but at worst unbelievable.

I will say that the novel's ending is unexpected and quite well done.

The poem that no doubt inspired the novel's title, and which appears in part at the very end of the narrative: "Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock" by Wallace Stevens (1915)

The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns.
None are green,
Or purple with green rings,
Or green with yellow rings,
Or yellow with blue rings.
None of them are strange,
With socks of lace
And beaded ceintures.
People are not going
To dream of baboons and periwinkles.
Only, here and there, an old sailor,
Drunk and asleep in his boots,
Catches tigers
In red weather.

"Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock" was first published in the collection, Harmonium.

disclosure: I received a review copy of Tigers in Red Weather from Little Brown & Co. via NetGalley.

Emily Dickinson, 254

It's been a few months since National Poetry Month (see posts) and this blog is in need of a bit of verse. Yesterday, while watching reruns of Criminal Minds,¹ I was reminded of this gem.

Emily Dickinson, Untitled Poem 254:

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.

Read more Dickinson:
The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson, edited by Thomas H. Johnson.

1. One of the quotations featured in Mosley Lane (season 5) was the first stanza of this poem.

national poetry month: dylan thomas

I mentioned before that Dylan Thomas' "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night" (first published in 1951 the journal Botteghe Oscure and then in the collection In Country Sleep, now available in Collected Poems) plays a significant role in YA novel Matched and that Ally Condie's use of poetry in the Matched Trilogy inspired me to reconsider my stance on the poetic form.

Rhythmic and compelling, "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night" is a poem that gets into one's head and takes up residence.

"Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night" by Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

The Academy of American Poets page on the poem includes the full text as well as an audio clip of someone (I presume Thomas himself) reading the poem.

national poetry month: emily dickinson

For some unknown reason I've had the first lines of this poem--"Because I could not stop for Death –  / He kindly stopped for me – "--stuck in my head for the past few days (maybe because I've been reading Silent in the Grave by Deanna Raybourn).

I've always been curious about Emily Dickinson and her life and I've been meaning to read a good biography of her since my reading of the disappointment that was The Poet and the Murderer (see post). Any suggestions?

Untitled poem 712 by Emily Dickinson (1890)

Because I could not stop for Death – 
He kindly stopped for me – 
The Carriage held but just Ourselves – 
And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility –

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess – in the Ring – 
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain – 
We passed the Setting Sun –

Or rather – He passed us –
The Dews drew quivering and chill –
For only Gossamer, my Gown –
My Tippet – only Tulle –

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground –
The Roof was scarcely visible –
The Cornice – in the Ground –

Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads
Were toward Eternity –

national poetry month: ravi shankar (and czeslaw milosz)

The falls of the Sawkill River as seen from a trail at Montgomery Place

Yesterday I spent the day at Montgomery Place, a historic site with gorgeous and diverse landscapes. My day of soaking up the natural environment (shaped to various degrees by human hands) and contemplating our changing relationship with nature over time seemed to call for a poem on the topic.

My first instinct was to grab Second Space by Czeslaw Milosz, a title that survived my vicious weeding in spite of (or rather: because of) the fact that I'd never spent any time reading it. I'm sure three things contributed to this book's entrance into my book collection:  author is a Nobel Laureate, the cover is gorgeous and evocative, and it was free/cheap. My memory of the cover (which features an illustration by Monika Klimowska) is what made me seek out Second Space. I did not find what I wanted within the volume and I'll admit that in my disappointment I contemplated including Second Space in our next donation to the Field Library Bookstore. I'm going to give Second Space a second chance, hoping that I'll be less impatient with it next time I decide to go through it.

My next course of action was to search the offerings on the Academy of American Poets website. This site is a wonderful resource. In addition to searching by title, author, and keyword, visitors can search the site's featured poems by theme, movement, and form. I came across this poem by Ravi Shankar¹ (see him reading the poem), which fit the bill perfectly.

"Crossings" by Ravi Shankar

Between forest and field, a threshold
like stepping from a cathedral into the street—
the quality of air alters, an eclipse lifts,

boundlessness opens, earth itself retextured
into weeds where woods once were.
Even planes of motion shift from vertical

navigation to horizontal quiescence:
there’s a standing invitation to lie back
as sky’s unpredictable theater proceeds.

Suspended in this ephemeral moment
after leaving a forest, before entering
a field, the nature of reality is revealed.

"Crossings" was published in the chapbook Seamless Matter: Thirty Stills (2010).

1. The American poet, not the famous Indian sitar player (and father of Norah Jones).

national poetry month: baudelaire

One of the few poetry books I own is Invitation to the Voyage: A Poem Illustrated, a gorgeous presentation of Charles Baudelaire's "Invitation to the Voyage" (from Les Fleurs du Mal, originally published in 1857).

I treasure this book.  It is a feast for the eyes and the mind.  The designer and editors set the poem--presented both in the original French and in translation by Richard Wilbur--alongside wonderfully evocative 19th century photographs.  Also included in the volume is a related prose poem of the same title (published posthumously in Le Spleen de Paris, 1869) with a translation by Carol Cosman. 

The image below is one that I took of my copy of the book. The image (Seville, Salon de Marie de Padilla, L'Alcazar, c. 1870-1880, photographer unknown) illustrates the following segment:

Furniture that wears
The lustre of the years
Softly would glow within our glowing chamber

There are other photograph/phrase combinations that I like better, but I had some difficulty getting clear shots and this is one that came out decently.

Even if you can't get your hands on a copy of Invitation to the Voyage: A Poem Illustrated, I'd definitely recommend reading "Invitation to the Voyage." Over the years a number of different translators tackled "Invitation to the Voyage" and each has his/her own take on the poem. FleursDuMal.org, a site dedicated to Baudelaire's poetry in general and Les Fleurs du Mal in particular, shares the translations done by William Aggeler, Roy Campbell, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Will Schmitz on its Invitation-to-the-voyage page. The Academy of American Poets features Keith Waldrop's translation and Richard Wilbur's translation can be read in this MoMA lesson plan (apparently Matisse's Luxe, calme et volupté was inspired by "Invitation to the Voyage").

national poetry month: William Carlos Williams

Williams' "The Red Wheelbarrow" is one of the only poems I can recite by rote. If I remember correctly, I memorized it when I was in the 6th grade. Compelling and deceptively simple, it could very well be my favorite poem.

"The Red Wheelbarrow" -

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

April is National Poetry Month

 

As one can tell from my tag cloud,¹ I don't write about much about poetry.  While I do enjoy and appreciate the occasional poem, I generally find poetry less accessible (to me personally) than prose. But, April is National Poetry Month (gorgeous poster,² no?) and I've been thinking about poetry quite a bit lately (thanks to Ally Condie's Matched trilogy),³ so the time is ripe.

I'll share a poem tomorrow and at least one other every week for the rest of the month. And, maybe this focus will encourage me to read more poetry going forward.  We shall see.

1. Before this post, only 7 were tagged "poetry." Of course there may be more poetry references than I've actually tagged, but it's still quite a small percentage.
2. Designed by Chin-Yee Lai for the Academy of American Poets' National Poetry Month and featuring lines from "Our Valley" by Philip Levine.
3. The Society, the group that governs the repressive future society depicted in the series, decided to "eliminate distractions such as excess poetry and music while retaining an optimal amount to enhance culture and satiate the desire for experiencing art" (Crossed, 107). Committees were formed, one for each area of the arts, and directed to choose the one hundred examples of each art that would be saved. The series takes place decades after this selection (the teenage protagonist's grandmother was a member of the Hundred Poems committee) and two of the discarded (banned) poems are integral to the plots of Matched and Crossed, Dylan Thomas' "Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night" and Tennyson's "Crossing the Bar" respectively.

Sync: Revenge of the Witch + Beowulf

I hope you all don't mind these reminder posts. I have to admit that doing them is a bit self-serving as it has helped me to remember to download the books.

Today's the beginning of the fourth week of Sync's summer free audiobook extravaganza.

The offerings this week are
Revenge of the Witch by Joseph Delaney and
Beowulf, translated by Francis B. Gummere.

Revenge of the Witch is the first book in Delaney's Wardstone Chronicles / Last Apprentice series. It has also been published under the title The Spook's Apprentice.
For years, Old Gregory has been the Spook for the county, ridding the local villages of evil. Now his time is coming to an end. But who will take over for him? Twenty-nine apprentices have tried — some floundered, some fled, some failed to stay alive.
Only Thomas Ward is left. He's the last hope — the last apprentice.
Can Thomas succeed? Will he learn the difference between a benign witch and a malevolent one? Does the Spook's warning against girls with pointy shoes include Alice? And what will happen if Thomas accidentally frees Mother Malkin, the most evil witch in the county?

The first true masterpiece of English literature, Beowulf depicts the thrilling adventures of a Scandinavian warrior of the sixth century. Part history and part mythology, Beowulf begins in the court of the Danish king, where a demon named Grendel devours men in their sleep. The mighty warrior Beowulf kills the monster, but rejoicing turns to terror when Grendel's mother attacks the hall to avenge the death of her child. After slaying the mighty beast, Beowulf becomes king, ruling peacefully for fifty years. But the day comes when he must confront a foe more powerful than any he has yet faced--an ancient dragon who guards a horde of treasure. Once again Beowulf must gather his strength and courage to defeat the monster, but this time victory exacts a terrible price.

Note: these books don't expire like the e-audiobooks you get from the library. So, be sure to download the books even if you don't think you'll get around to listening to them right away.

More information about Sync is available in this post.

my life is cold and dark and dreary

"The Rainy" Day by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
from Ballads and Other Poems

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.

The Book of Beginnings and Endings

I had a hard time coming up with a book to feature as the book of the month for the student services blog this month. Because I used The Storyteller by Mario Vargas Llosa last month (see post) I couldn't justify fiction for November. I had two books checked out because they sounded interesting (one was a comparative cultural history of dreams, another about women in the Middle East), but when I started reading them I found them less than compelling. The newer nonfiction titles I thought would be perfect (like The Emperor of All Maladies) weren't (yet) part of the libraries' collections.

I had another idea. I wanted to feature The Book of Beginnings and Endings, but I couldn't find the book on the shelf. Now I can't recall how I came across The Book of Beginnings and Endings, but the description I read somewhere was compelling enough to make me dig around in the stacks on numerous occasions over the course of the month searching all the logical places the book could have been misfiled. Eventually I admitted defeat and brought a print-out of the book's catalog record over to those more familiar with the collection than myself. Guess what? The book was in the stacks on the shelf where it belonged, it had just slipped behind the other books housed on the shelf.

The Book of Beginnings and Endings: Essays
by Jenny Boully

Poet and essayist Jenny Boully is known for her eloquent and innovative writing. Her 2002 The Body: An Essay, for example, consists only of footnotes, leaving the body of the text to the reader's imagination.

The Book of Beginnings and Endings is compromised of twenty-six essays. Each is two pages long: the first page is a beginning and the second, an ending (the final page of the narrative), the middle (the bulk of the text), left out. The beginnings, however, don't always seem to match the endings leaving the reader to wonder whether they are the first and last pages of two different works.

This all sounds quite complicated, but in practice it is both strange and beautiful much like the image on the book's cover (a photograph of White Cabinet and White Table a sculpture by Belgian artist Marcel Broodthaers, held by MoMA). While the book can be seen as an author's exploration of form and of what it means for something to be complete, reading The Book of Beginnings and Endings is a very personal experience. The beginnings and endings highlight the missing middles and the reader doesn't interpret the text so much as imagine it.

dandelions

Earlier this week I heard a segment on NPR about the New York Botanical Garden's new exhibition, Emily Dickinson's Garden: The Poetry of Flowers. (the story)

The man who designed the garden for the exhibit spoke about including dandelions, something that they'd never done before. Apparently dandelions were among Dickinson's favorite flowers and the bloom to which she most likened herself.

The Poetry of Rilke

For one human being to love another: that is perhaps the most difficult task that has been entrusted to us, the ultimate task, the final test and proof, the work for which all other work is merely preparation.¹

The above is one of my favorite quotes. It's from Rainer Maire Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet.

I wasn't sure what book to use for the student services blog's book of the month for May, but my decision was made for me when a second review of the new Rilke collection showed up in my inbox.

The Poetry of Rilke, translated and edited by Edward Snow

One of the 20th century's most significant lyric poets, Rainer Marie Rilke was a modernist who never abandoned traditional modes. "Though Rilke was marginal in his own time, his lyrical waywardness is prized in our post-Romantic one; praised by only a small group of connoisseurs when he was writing, his poetry is now beloved" (Ange Mlinko, The Nation).

With The Poetry of Rilke Edward Snow offers a wonderfully substantive bilingual edition of Rilke's poetry to American audiences.

Snow is described by Craig Morgan Teicher (Virginia Quarterly Review) as "Rilke's best and most important ambassador to American readers." I think it quite possible, though, that Lady Gaga, with her Rilke-quote tattoo, may take over this role at least with regard to American youth.

Including more than two hundred and fifty poems, The Poetry of Rilke provides a thorough overview of the poet's oeuvre. It also contains complete translations of Sonnets to Orpheus and the Duino Elegies, Rilke's most significant work. The translations are printed side by side with the German originals for easy reference.

Regular readers of this blog will have probably surmised that I'm not a huge fan of poetry. I rarely post about it. It's not that I dislike poetry, but more that I'm not drawn to it the way I'm drawn to fiction. For me individual poems can be revelatory, but in many cases they feel like too much work.

In any case, I thought it might be nice to share one of the poems from The Poetry of Rilke. I didn't want to chose anything from the Duino Elegies or Sonnets to Orpheus, but rather a stand-alone poem.

Blue Hydrangea

These leaves are like the last green
in the paint pots—dried up, dull, and rough,
behind the flowered umbels² whose blue
is not their own, but mirrored from afar.

They reflect it tear-stained, vaguely,
as if deep down they hoped to lose it;
and as with old blue writing paper
there’s yellow in them, violet and gray;

Washed out as on a child’s pinafore,
things that are finished with, no longer worn:
the way one feels a small life’s brevity.

But suddenly emotion seems to flare
In one of the umbels, and one sees
A moving blue as it takes joy in green. (171)

I love hydrangeas (Hortensie in German, isn't that pretty?). Reading this I'm reminded of hydrangeas at the end of the summer.

1. The translation above is one I got online and tweaked a bit. "Liebhaben von Mensch zu Mensch: das is vielleicht das Schwerste, was uns aufgegeben ist, das Aeusserste, die letze Probe und Pruefung, die Arbeit, fuer die alle andere Arbeit nur Vorberietung ist" (14 May 1904 letter to Kappus).
2. umbel: a cluster of flowers with stalks of nearly equal length that spring from about the same point, like the ribs of an umbrella (umbel, umbrella: same root word)

To Night

Indie dyer Rainy Days & Wooly Dogs (etsy shop) has a line of sock yarns that I love called "goth socks." She recently did a small series of colorways inspired by dead poets. I was able to snag this skein, inspired by Percy Shelley's "To night" in a trade. I just had to share.

Swiftly walk o'er the western wave,
Spirit of Night!
Out of the misty eastern cave,--
Where, all the long and lone daylight,
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear
Which make thee terrible and dear,--
Swift be thy flight!

Wrap thy form in a mantle grey,
Star-inwrought!
Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day;
Kiss her until she be wearied out.
Then wander o'er city and sea and land,
Touching all with thine opiate wand--
Come, long sought!

When I arose and saw the dawn
I sigh'd for thee;
When light rode high, and the dew was gone,
And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,
And the weary Day turn'd to her rest,
Lingering like an unloved guest,
I sigh'd for thee.

Thy brother Death came, and cried,
'Wouldst thou me?'
Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,
Murmur'd like a noontide bee,
'Shall I nestle near thy side?
Wouldst thou me?'--and I replied,
'No, not thee!'

Death will come when thou art dead,
Soon, too soon--
Sleep will come when thou art fled.
Of neither would I ask the boon
I ask of thee, belovèd Night--
Swift be thine approaching flight,
Come soon, soon!
-- Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)

Starting a book blog - my favs

I thought I'd start out by sharing
a few of my all-time favorite books...

The Storyteller by Mario Vargas Llosa

At a small gallery in Florence, a Peruvian writer happens upon a photograph of a tribal storyteller deep in the jungles of the Amazon. He is overcome with the eerie sense that he knows this man...that the storyteller is not an Indian at all but an old school friend, Saul Zuratas. As recollections of Zuratas flow through his mind, the writer begins to imagine Zuratas's transformation from a modern to a central member of the unacculturated Machiguenga tribe. Weaving the mysteries of identity, storytelling, and truth, Vargas Llosa has created a spellbinding tale of one man's journey from the modern world to our origins, abandoning one in order to find meaning in both.

I haven't read this one in a while, but I still consider it my favorite book.

The Book of Laughter and Forgetting by Milan Kundera

Rich in its stories, characters, and imaginative range, The Book of Laughter and Forgetting is the novel that brought Milan Kundera his first big international success in the late 1970s. Like all his work, it is valuable for far more than its historical implications. In seven wonderfully integrated parts, different aspects of human existence are magnified and reduced, reordered and emphasized, newly examined, analyzed, and experienced.

Ok, I'm a bit of a Kundera junkie. I've read every book the man has written, but this one is my favorite (though Immortality is a close second... and his nonfiction books are superb!).

Some quotes from the novel.

All We Know of Love by Katie Schneider

Jo Shepherd grew up on a farm in the Pacific Northwest under the loving care of her grandfather, Frank. After spending months nursing him through his final painful illness, Jo receives a vision of the Virgin Mary, who sends her to Italy to live out her dream of becoming an artist. In doing so, Jo must leave behind her home and her best friend Jack, and risk losing him forever.

This is the debut novel from an unknown author.

I thought it was wonderful and I've read it at least three times. What can I say? This book just spoke to me on so many different levels.

I'm eagerly awaiting Schneider's next book, though I'm a little worried that I won't like it as much as this one.

The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood

Margaret Atwood's dystopian, futuristic novel.

This is one of those books that people either love or they hate. I'm one of those who loves it. It's different than alot of Atwood's other books, but in the same vein as Oryx and Crake.

In an interview about The Handmaid's Tale, Atwood said: "I believe as the Victorian novelists did, that a novel isn't simply a vehicle for private expression, but that it also exists for social examination."

The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy

The story of the tragic decline of an Indian family whose members suffer the terrible consequences of forbidden love, The God of Small Things is set in the state of Kerala, on the southernmost tip of India.

A beautiful and brilliant book, richly deserving of the Booker Prize that it won in 1997.

I will say that I'm pretty disappointed that we haven't seen more fiction from Roy... I know she wants to do the politics thing, but she has such a talent for fiction that it seems a waste to push it aside.

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by JK Rowlings

The forth book of the Harry Potter series is my favorite so far.

Fourteen-year-old Harry Potter joins the Weasleys at the Quidditch World Cup, then enters his fourth year at Hogwarts Academy where he is mysteriously entered in an unusual contest that challenges his wizarding skills, friendships and character, amid signs that an old enemy is growing stronger.

If you like audio books, Jim Dale's narration of the books from this series is wonderful.

Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

Jane Austen's perfect comedy of manners--one of the most popular novels of all time--features splendidly civilized sparring between the proud Mr. Darcy and the prejudiced Elizabeth Bennet as they play out their spirited courtship in a series of eighteenth-century drawing-room intrigues.

A classic that's not to be missed, but *PLEASE* steer clear of the latest printings, which include introductions by chick-lit authors... ugh!
See my friend Antheras' blog for more details.

The Big Book of Martyrs: Amazing but True Tales of Faith in the Face of Certain Death!, published by Factoid Books

by John Wagner and over 50 of the world's top comic book artists.

Taken directly from Church-sanctioned sources, these short bios retell the incredible lives of the saints.

This is really just one of the coolest books... the lives of various martyrs are told through comics. And, amazingly enough, the book is not irreverent.

Invitation to the Voyage: An illustrated poem, published by Bulfinch Press (bi-lingual edition)

Charles Baudelaire's masterpiece is brought to life with mood-laden 19th century photographs in this wonderful new presentation of a classic.

Another book that is just a wonderful experience to read.

The Thurday Next books by Jasper Fforde

Books in the series so far: The Eyre Affair, Lost in a Good Book, The Well of Lost Plots, and Something Rotten

This series is simply wonderful. I love Fforde's literary references (they make you want to read the classics all over again!), his fabulous sense of humor, and his awe-inspiring imagination.