Christmas


The shepherds sing;
and shall I silent be?
My God, no hymn for Thee?

My soul's a shepherd too;
a flock it feeds
Of thoughts, and words, and deeds.

The pasture is Thy word:
the streams, Thy grace,
Enriching all the place.

Shepherd and flock shall sing,
and all my powers
Outsing the daylight hours.





Then will we chide the sun for letting night
Take up his place and right:
We sing one common Lord;
wherefore he should
Himself the candle hold.
I will go searching, till I find a sun
Shall stay, till we have done;
A willing shiner, that shall shine as gladly,
As frost-nipped suns look sadly.
Then will we sing, and shine all our own day,
And one another pay:
His beams shall cheer my breast, and both so twine,
Till ev'n His beams sing, and my music shine.



Poem by George Herbert


Art by W A Bouguereau
oil on canvas 165x88cm
Berkshire Museum



See previous entry for commentary on the painting.

The First Thanksgiving


When the Pilgrims
first gathered together to share

with their Indian friends
in the mid-autumn air,

they lifted their voices
in jublilant praise

for the bread on the table,
the berries and maize,

for fields and for forests,
for the turkey and the deer,

for bountiful crops
they were blessed with that year.


They were thankful for these
and they feasted away,
and as they were thankful,
we're thankful today.



by Jack Prelutsky



It's quieter than normal here today. We're headed to Grandmother's daughter's house. It is over the river and through the woods.

I'm in charge of two veggies: roasted cauliflower and green beans almondine.

Three of our daughters are gathering in Detroit, the fourth in Elkhart.

Looking forward to a louder Christmas.

Here's a link to this year's thankfulness.

HOW TO RECOGNIZE GRACE


It takes you by surprise
It comes in odd packages
It sometimes looks like loss
Or mistakes
It acts like rain
Or like a seed
It’s both reliable and unpredictable
It’s not what you were aiming at
Or what you thought you deserved
It supplies what you need
Not neccessarily what you want
It grows you up
And lets you be a child
It reminds you you’re not in control
And that not in control is a form of freedom.







by Marilyn Chandler McEntyre


Watercolor Rose
Vera Holcombe
1917

Leisure: The Basis of Culture
Chapter IV

Vocabulary appears to be the key to understanding this week's portion of Josef Pieper's essay decrying the validity of leisure when building or re-building culture.



Right at the beginning our philosopher/author wonders about the effect of accepting or refusing a word newly appearing in the German dictionary.


Redefining terms is a classic way of abusing power.



As in previous chapters, Pieper goes to great lengths to explain the meaning of the words that comprise this section, like proletarian and de-proletarianization, like honorarium and wage. These concepts are variables in the equation proposed by the socialist rebuilders, worthy of scrutiny.

He specifically identifies the binding of the worker caused by lack of private ownership, mandates from the State, and the inner poverty of persons. These are fighting words in Pieper's day when professorships at the universities are based on party-affiliation.

In the end, Pieper identifies the eventual failure of the statist solution even if the leaders make available for the working person a meaningful(restorative) kind of activity.

Political measures which expand life economically only are not sufficient to attain the goal. The project would only come to fruition if it were possible for the human being as such to "be at leisure."

HIStory has proved Pieper correct.

In October 1949, shortly after publishing this lecture, the GDR was established and the socialists embarked ever more fervently to develop their economy based on the fruits of the proletariat. A mere 41 years later (10/7/1990), the Berlin Wall came crumbling down, symbolically proving to the world that Western (Judeo-Christian) capitalism indeed undergirds leisure.

It is a worthy model.

Now how does that translate into family life?

Capitalize your time!

1) Schedule time for vocabulary.

Because Pieper tells us that leisure is a condition of the soul, begin now to teach vocabulary that defines this concept. From spelling to penmanship, from derivatives to calligraphy, the possibilties are endless. Denying access to this type of knowledge is tantamount to hiding the Gospel.

The next three tasks require talented juggling in order to determine the proper balance for your family. Note the delicacy of the instrument in the painting. Anything more specific than listing these would be meddlin'.



2) Schedule time to think.

3) Schedule time to listen.

4) Schedule time to be human.


These are all ways for a (wo)man to occupy leisure.




My newest favorite poet, Marilyn McEntyre has written an inspirational poem based on this Vermeer painting.

And of course, Scripture always guides us.

In Proverbs 31, King Lemuel's mother poetically describes the *woman of leisure*, especially verse 27:

She watches over the affairs of her household and does not eat the bread of idleness.

Insist that your leisure is that shield or preserve of freedom, of education and culture, and of undiminished humanity that views the world as a whole.

To Kosciusko

GOOD Kosciusko, thy great name alone
Is a full harvest whence to reap high feeling;
It comes upon us like the glorious pealing
Of the wide spheres - an everlasting tone.
And now it tells me, that in worlds unknown,
The names of heroes, burst from clouds concealing,
And changed to harmonies, for ever stealing
Through cloudless blue, and round each silver throne.
It tells me too, that on a happy day,
When some good spirit walks upon the earth,
Thy name with Alfred’s, and the great of yore
Gently commingling, gives tremendous birth
To a loud hymn, that sounds far, far away
To where the great God lives for evermore.



John Keats
English Poet
1795 - 1817


In keeping with my book club and Cindy's post promoting the memorization of poetry, especially for boys, I went in search of one to highlight.

While this particular verse heaps praises on the hero, it provides few details of the general's military prowess. I think just learning how to spell Thaddeus's last name would be a fine accomplishment. Then I could search for books about him.

I first learned of him because I have a friend from Koscuisko, Mississippi. Now I know his birthday is October 31st. And that President Obama recently received a copy of the book, The Peasant Prince, from the President of Poland.

What do you know about this Polish-born American patriot?




On a side note, anyone thinking of seeing the new movie (Bright Star) about John Keats?

Not What My Hands Have Done


Not what my hands have done can save my guilty soul;

Not what my toiling flesh has borne can make my spirit whole.

Not what I feel or do can give me peace with God;

Not all my prayers and sighs and tears can bear my awful load.



Your voice alone, O Lord, can speak to me of grace;
Your power alone, O Son of God, can all my sin erase.
No other work but Yours, no other blood will do;
No strength but that which is divine can bear me safely through.

Thy work alone, O Christ, can ease this weight of sin;
Thy blood alone, O Lamb of God, can give me peace within.
Thy love to me, O God, not mine, O Lord, to Thee,
Can rid me of this dark unrest, And set my spirit free.

I bless the Christ of God; I rest on love divine;
And with unfaltering lip and heart I call this Savior mine.
His cross dispels each doubt; I bury in His tomb
Each thought of unbelief and fear, each lingering shade of gloom.

I praise the God of grace; I trust His truth and might;
He calls me His, I call Him mine, My God, my joy and light.
’Tis He Who saveth me, and freely pardon gives;
I love because He loveth me, I live because He lives.

By Horatius Bonar
Scottish churchman and poet
1808 - 1889

Manahatta

(because I'll be there in a few days)

I was asking for something specific and perfect for my city,


Whereupon lo! upsprang the aboriginal name.








Now I see what there is in a name, a word, liquid, sane,
unruly, musical, self-sufficient,
I see that the word of my city is that word from of old,
Because I see that word nested in nests of water-bays,
superb,
Rich, hemm'd thick all around with sailships and
steamships, an island sixteen miles long, solid-founded,
Numberless crowded streets, high growths of iron, slender,
strong, light, splendidly uprising toward clear skies,
Tides swift and ample, well-loved by me, toward sundown,
The flowing sea-currents, the little islands, larger adjoining
islands, the heights, the villas,
The countless masts, the white shore-steamers, the lighters,
the ferry-boats, the black sea-steamers well-model'd,
The down-town streets, the jobbers' houses of business, the
houses of business of the ship-merchants and money-
brokers, the river-streets,
Immigrants arriving, fifteen or twenty thousand in a week,
The carts hauling goods, the manly race of drivers of horses,
the brown-faced sailors,
The summer air, the bright sun shining, and the sailing
clouds aloft,
The winter snows, the sleigh-bells, the broken ice in the
river, passing along up or down with the flood-tide or
ebb-tide,
The mechanics of the city, the masters, well-form'd,
beautiful-faced, looking you straight in the eyes,
Trottoirs throng'd, vehicles, Broadway, the women, the
shops and shows,
A million people--manners free and superb--open voices--
hospitality--the most courageous and friendly young
men,
City of hurried and sparkling waters! city of spires and masts!
City nested in bays! my city!

by Walt Whitman



Link to American Experience: Walt Whitman

Outwitted

For Poem-In-My-Pocket Day.

He drew a circle that shut me out --
Heretic, rebel, a thing to flout.
But Love and I had the wit to win:
We drew a circle that took him in!

Edwin Markham
American Poet
1852 - 1940



What's in your pocket?

Theme for English B

This poem is one of the one's recited by Poetry Out Loud Contestant, William Farley. He is from Arlington, Virginia and won first place. Here's a link to a newspaper article announcing the results. The other poem chosen by Farley was John Donne's, The Flea.

The instructor said,

Go home and write
a page tonight.
And let that page come out of you—
Then, it will be true.

I wonder if it’s that simple?
I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.
I went to school there, then Durham, then here
to this college on the hill above Harlem.
I am the only colored student in my class.
The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem,
through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,
Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,
the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator
up to my room, sit down, and write this page:

It’s not easy to know what is true for you or me
at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I’m what
I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you.
hear you, hear me—we two—you, me, talk on this page.
(I hear New York, too.) Me—who?

Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.
I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.
I like a pipe for a Christmas present,
or records—Bessie, bop, or Bach.
I guess being colored doesn’t make me not like
the same things other folks like who are other races.
So will my page be colored that I write?
Being me, it will not be white.
But it will be
a part of you, instructor.
You are white—
yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.
That’s American.
Sometimes perhaps you don’t want to be a part of me.
Nor do I often want to be a part of you.
But we are, that’s true!
As I learn from you,
I guess you learn from me—
although you’re older—and white—
and somewhat more free.

This is my page for English B.

By Langston Hughes


I have discovered that Kathleenaomi (like that name) Wooten was Georgia's state winner. She's from the Columbus area, but I dont know which poem she recited.

What can you find out about your State's contest?

Poetry Out Loud

Each day this month I've been posting a poem: one I like, want to remember, or has special meaning.

It's easy to read poetry.

Much more difficult to write.

But it's an exercise in discipline to memorize and recite.

It can even be a gift.





From Caroline Kennedy:

For each holiday or birthday, John and I would have to write or chose a poem for my mother. We had to copy it down and illustrate it, and she pasted them all in a special scrapbook.

In fourth grade, I remember struggling to memorize I Corinthians 13 or the Love Poem. The problem was not with the words, but the fact that I had waited until the night before to begin the process.


Today in Washington, DC, the finalists in the Poetry Out Loud contest are reciting their final selections and soon we will know the winner.

I'm curious to know who wins.

And what poem was recited.

In the meantime, for today?

Tell me about the first poem you had to memorize and recite.

In beauty may I walk

No, not Lord Byron, but an unknown Native American poet writing about Nature. These verses are quoted by Leslie Mass who wrote a charming memoir about her hiking of the Appalachian Trail. I read the book a couple of years ago and wanted to remember her mantra. I'm no through-hiker, or even a dedicated enthusiast, but I do enjoy walking - through the woods, along the beach, or in my own neighborhood. It's refreshing to revel in God's creation


In beauty may I walk
All day long may I walk.
Through the returning seasons may I walk
In beauty will I possess again
Beautifully birds
Beautifully joyful birds
On a trail marked with pollen may I walk
With wild flowers about my feet may I walk
With dew about my feet may I walk
With beauty may I walk
With beauty before me may I walk
With beauty behind me may I walk
With beauty above me may I walk
With beauty all around me may I walk.
In old age, wondering on a trail of beauty
Lively may I walk
In old age, wondering on a trail of beauty
Living again may I walk
It is finished in beauty.


Here's a link to my Xanga site where I've detailed my most recent hike.

Augustine of Hippo

Today is the anniverary of Augustine's baptism and his heart rested.

O God, by whose laws the poles revolve,
the stars follow their courses.
The sun rules the day
and the moon presides over the night;
And all the world maintains,
as far as this world of sense allows,
The wondrous stability of things
by means of the order and recurrences of seasons:
Through the days
by the changing of light and darkness.
Through the months
by the moon's progressions and declines,
Through the years
by the successions of

Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter,
Through the cycles
by the completion of the Sun's course,
Through the great eras of time
by the return of the stars to their starting points.

God of life,
There are days
when the burdens we carry
chafe our shoulders and wear us down;
When the road seems dreary and endless,
The skies grey and threatening;
When our lives have no music in them
and our hearts are lonely.
And our souls have lost their courage.

Flood the path with light,
We beseech you;
Turn our eyes
to where the skies are full of promise.

Our hearts are restless, O Lord,
until they rest in you.

Carmina Burana

At Hillsdale's Spring Choir Concert DD#3 and #4 will be singing this ancient collection of poems together with the 100-person choir. Since I cant attend in person I will be listening over the weekend to Atlanta's Robert Shaw rendition of this famous work. Here's a little taste - translated from the Latin:

Truly, in the season of spring
Stands above the withering tree
sweet Juliana with her sister.
Sweet love!
He who is without you in this season
Is worthless.
Behold the trees bloom,
Birds are singing lustily;
Among them, the girls are cooling off.
Sweet love!
He who is without you in this season
Is worthless.
Behold the lilies bloom,
And throngs of virgins give
songs to the highest of the gods.
Sweet love!
He who is without you in this season
Is worthless.
If I could hold the girl I love
In the forest under the leaves,
I would kiss her with joy.
Sweet love!
He who is without you in this season
Is worthless.


Conductor James Holleman chose the most famous version to perform, that by Carl Orff, but has made sure that the text is *PG-rataed* and least likely to offend anyone in the audience.

Here's a link to a short analysis.


I have never heard Carmina Burana.

Have you?

The Brown Thrush


There's a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree,
He's singing to me! He's singing to me!
And what does he say, little girl, little boy?
"Oh, the world's running over with joy!
Don't you hear? don't you see?
Hush! Look! In my tree,
I'm as happy as happy can be!"


And the brown thrush keeps singing, "A nest do you see,
And five eggs hid by me in the juniper tree?
Don't meddle! don't touch! little girl, little boy,
Or the world will lose some of its joy!
Now I'm glad! now I'm free!
And I always shall be,
If you never bring sorrow to me."

So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree,
To you and to me, to you and to me;
And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy,
"Oh, the world's running over with joy;
But long it won't be,
Don't you know? don't you see?
Unless we are as good as can be!"

by Lucy Larcom
American Poet
1924 - 1893

From 1865 to 1873, she was the editor of Our Young Folks, later renamed St. Nicholas Magazine.


Be sure and watch the video in this link. A poet, photographer, blogger in Pennsylvania has captured the early morning vocalizing of one of my favorite birds.

Here's another related link to my xanga site where I review a book about a wood thrush.

God's Grandeur

This is my comment on Earth Day....and I do have one question. What do you think the poet means by *shining from shook foil*? Surely not aluminum foil!

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs--
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.


Gerard Manley Hopkins
English Poet
1844 - 1889

Photo borrowed from ViaNegativa

Lilac (Syringa vulgaris) versus Wisteria (Hygrophila difformis)

Lavender-colored blossoms abound at this time of year. Between the azaleas, lilacs (trees and bushes) and the wisteria vines, it can be a little confusing. So, here are a couple of pictures (for my own edification) and an Emily Dickinson poem.

The Lilac is an ancient Shrub
But ancienter than that
The Firmamental Lilac
Upon the Hill tonight -
The Sun subsiding on his Course
Bequeaths this final plant
To Contemplation - not to Touch -
The Flower of Occident.

Of one Corolla is the West -
The Calyx is the Earth -
The Capsule's burnished Seeds the Stars -
The Scientist of Faith
His research has but just begun -
Above his Synthesis
The Flora unimpeachable
To Time's Analysis -
"Eye hath not seen" may possibly
Be current with the Blind
But let not Revelation
By Theses be detained -


The lilacs in Emily's garden were laden with perfumed panicles of bloom in May. Apparently it is impossible for people not to stick their noses in them :) They are long-lived and their purple flowers reminded Emily of the sunset and of her botanical glossary. I will have to consult the dictionary to understand some of her verse.

At present I dont have any lilac in my yard, but a tip in Marta McDowell's book Emily Dickinson's Gardens states that

lilacs are undemanding plants. They will grow in sunny spots in practically any soil, and once established, don't ask for any extra water or fertilizer, though they will reward you if you give them a dusting of lime near their roots in spring.

Sounds like something I might could grow.

Wisteria is also lavender-colored.


This vine is something I'd rather not have in my backyard.

It is almost as invasive as kudzu.

I dont want to confuse it with Lilac.












Now I think I know the difference.

Nonsensical Poems

We all enjoyed as children reciting tongue twisters and such. I remember laughing over How Much Wood Could a Woodchuck Chuck (if a woodchuck could chuck wood). So, today's selections cover that genre.

Practice these today.

The Tutor

A tutor who tooted a flute,
Tried to teach two young tooters to toot.
Said the two to the tutor,
"Is it harder to toot, or
To tutor two tooters to toot?"

by Carolyn Wells






The Fly and the Flea


A flea and a fly in a flue
Were imprisoned, so what could they do?
Said the fly, "Let us flee,"
Said the flea, "Let us fly,"
So they flew through a flaw in the flue.

By Anonymous





Cheerio!!

O Day of Rest and Gladness

O day of rest and gladness, O day of joy and light,
O balm of care and sadness, most beautiful, most bright:
On Thee, the high and lowly, through ages joined in tune,
Sing holy, holy, holy, to the great God Triune.

On Thee, at the creation, the light first had its birth;
On Thee, for our salvation, Christ rose from depths of earth;
On Thee, our Lord, victorious, the Spirit sent from heaven,
And thus on Thee, most glorious, a triple light was given.

Thou art a port, protected from storms that round us rise;
A garden, intersected with streams of paradise;
Thou art a cooling fountain in life’s dry, dreary sand;
From thee, like Pisgah’s mountain, we view our promised land.

Thou art a holy ladder, where angels go and come;
Each Sunday finds us gladder, nearer to heaven, our home;
A day of sweet refection, thou art a day of love,
A day of resurrection from earth to things above.

Today on weary nations the heavenly manna falls;
To holy convocations the silver trumpet calls,
Where Gospel light is glowing with pure and radiant beams,
And living water flowing, with soul refreshing streams.

New graces ever gaining from this our day of rest,
We reach the rest remaining to spirits of the blessed.
To Holy Ghost be praises, to Father, and to Son;
The church her voice upraises to Thee, blessed Three in One.


Words by Christopher Wordsworth
Tune Mendebras & Lowell Mason

Time Tested Beauty Tips

Instead of highlighting a piece of my *closet* today, I'm posting this well-known poem. It describes the most effective way of maintaining beauty, a fashion that never goes out of style. It was originally written for the poet's granddaughter, but popularized by actress Audrey Hepburn.


For attractive lips, speak words of kindness.

For lovely eyes, seek out the good in people.

For a slim figure, share your food with the hungry.

For beautiful hair, let a child run his or her fingers through it once a day.

For poise, walk with the knowledge you'll never walk alone.

People, even more than things, have to be restored, renewed, revived, reclaimed, and redeemed; Never throw out anybody.

Remember, If you ever need a helping hand, you'll find one at the end of your arm.

As you grow older, you will discover that you have two hands, one for helping yourself, the other for helping others.

The beauty of a woman is not in the clothes she wears, the figure that she carries, or the way she combs her hair. The beauty of a woman must be seen from in her eyes, because that is the doorway to her heart, the place where love resides.

The beauty of a woman is not in a facial mole, but true beauty in a woman is reflected in her soul. It is the caring that she lovingly gives, the passion that she shows, and the beauty of a woman with passing years only grows!

by Sam Levenson
American humorist, writer, journalist and television host
1911 - 1980

THE TAX POEM

Tax his land,
Tax his bed,
Tax the table
At which he's fed.
Tax his tractor,
Tax his mule,
Teach him taxes
Are the rule.
Tax his work,
Tax his pay,
He works for peanuts
Anyway!

Tax his cow,
Tax his goat ,
Tax his pants,
Tax his coat.
Tax his ties,
Tax his shirt,
Tax his work,
Tax his dirt.
Tax his tobacco,
Tax his drink,
Tax him if he
Tries to think.
Tax his cigars,
Tax his beers,
If he cries
Tax his tears.
Tax his car,
Tax his gas,
Find other ways
To tax his ass.
Tax all he has
Then let him know
That you won't be done
Till he has no dough.
When he screams and hollers,
Then tax him some more,
Tax him till
He's good and sore.
Then tax his coffin,
Tax his grave,
Tax the sod in
Which he's laid.

Put these words
Upon his tomb,
'Taxes drove me to my doom...'
When he's gone,
Do not relax,
Its time to apply
The inheritance tax.
Accounts Receivable Tax
Building Permit Tax
CDL license Tax
Cigarette Tax
Corporate Income Tax
Dog License Tax
Excise Taxes
Federal Income Tax
Federal Unemployment Tax (FUTA)
Fishing License Tax
Food License Tax
Fuel Permit Tax
Gasoline Tax (44.75 cents per gallon)
Gross Receipts Tax
Hunting License Tax
Inheritance Tax
Inventory Tax
IRS Interest Charges IRS Penalties (tax on top of tax)
Liquor Tax
Luxury Taxes
Marriage License Tax
Medicare Tax
Personal Property Tax
Property Tax
Real Estate Tax & lt; BRService Charge Tax
Social Security Tax
Road Usage Tax
Sales Tax
Recreational Vehicle Tax
School Tax
State Income Tax
State Unemployment Tax (SUTA)
Telephone Federal Excise Tax
Telephone Federal Universal Service Fee Tax
Telephone Federal, State and Local Surcharge Taxes
Telephone Minimum Usage Surcharge Tax
Telephone Recurring and Non-recurring Charges Tax
Telephone State and Local Tax
Telephone Usage Charge Tax
Utility Taxes
Vehicle License Registration Tax
Vehicle Sales Tax
Watercraft Registration Tax
Well Permit Tax
Workers Compensation Tax

Not really sure who wrote this ditty, but it hones in on a very real problem. I'm ready for forgo *government services* in exchange for lower taxes.

Consider reading about the Fair Tax in Neal Boortz's book by the same name.

We cant keep up this pace.

Here's a link to the AJC article about the Tea Party/Tax Protest that took place in downtown Atlanta Wednesday evening.