Santa Claus

Red-suited men sporting long white beards are everywhere:

 in stores,

 on TV,

at parties.

There is no one who doesnt recognize these fellows.






As a youngster, I was afraid of him.  As I got older, I figured him out, but kept the information to myself.  Later, when I had my own children, we gave them gifts from Santa Claus on Christmas morning, but never took them to visit him or sit in his lap.

Now I continue to believe in the gift of giving .

So, I embrace the symbol and prefer to be positive about *him*.

Any one who says *there's no such thing as Santa Claus* looses credibility.

Clearly, he exists.

One of my favorite poets explains ~

Nicholas, Bishop of Myra's See,

Was holy a saint

As a saint could be;

Saved not a bit

Of his worldly wealth

And loved to commit

Good deeds by stealth.

Was there a poor man,

Wanting a roof?

Nicholas sheltered him weatherproof.

Who lacked a morsel

Had but to ask it

And at his doorsill

Was Nicholas' basket.

0, many a basket did he carry.

Penniless girls

Whom none would marry

Used to discover to their delight,

Into their windows

Tossed at night

(When the moon was old

And the dark was showry),

Bags of gold

Enough for a dowry.

People, I read,

Grew slightly lyrical,

Calling each deed

He did, a miracle.

Told how he calmed the sea for sailors

And rescued children

From awful jailors

Who, drawing lots

For the foul design,

Liked pickling tots

In pickle brine.

Nicholas, circa

Fourth cent. A.D.,

Died in the odor of sanctity.

But fortune changes,

Blessings pass,

And look what's happened to Nicholas.

He who had feared

The world's applause,

Now, with a beard,

Is Santa Claus.

A multiplied elf, he struts and poses,

Ringing up sales

In putty noses;

With Comet and Cupid

His constant partners,

Telling tall tales to kindergart'ners,

His halo fickle as

Wind and wave.

While dizzily Nicholas

Spins in his grave.

"Origin of Species"
 from TIMES THREE
 by Phyllis McGinley

A Woman's Answer to a Man's Question

Do you know you have asked for the costliest thing
Ever made by the hand above—
A woman's heart, and a woman's life
And a woman's wonderful love?

Do you know you have asked for this priceless thing
As a child might ask for a toy,
Demanding what others have died to win,
With the reckless dash of a boy?

You have written my lesson of duty out,
Man-like you have questioned me;
Now stand at the bar of my woman's soul
Until I shall question thee.

You require your mutton shall always be hot,
Your socks and your shirt be whole;
I require your heart to be true as God's stars,
And as pure as heaven your soul.

You require a cook for your mutton and beef;
I require a far better thing.
A seamstress you're wanting for socks and shirts;
I look for a man and a king.

A king for the beautiful realm called home,
And a man that the maker, God,
Shall look upon as he did the first
And say, "It is very good."

I am fair and young, but the rose will fade
From my soft, young cheek one day,
Will you love me then 'mid the falling leaves,
As you did 'mid the bloom of May?

Is your heart an ocean so strong and deep,
I may launch my all on its tide?
A loving woman finds heaven or hell
On the day she is made a bride.

I require all things that are grand and true,
All things that a man should be;
If you give all this, I would stake my life
To be all you demand of me.

If you cannot do this — a laundress and cook
You can hire, with little to pay,
But a woman's heart and a woman's life
Are not to be won that way.


Mary T. Lathrap
1838 - 1895

[Written in reply to a man's poetic unfolding of what he conceived to be a woman's duty.]


Photo taken Fall 1977
Hillsdale, Michigan

Final Summer Roses

WHEN roses cease to bloom, dear,

And violets are done,

When bumble-bees in solemn flight

Have passed beyond the sun,



The hand that paused to gather 

Upon this summer’s day

Will idle lie, in Auburn,—

Then take my flower, pray!

 
 
 
 
 
Thinking of those we lost over the summer.....

Miss Dickinson supplies the words.

Here's a link to Emily's lexicon where I learned that Auburn is the name of a cemetery which boasts an impressive list of residents.

Summer Supper

Chicken Salad-stuffed Tomato
Fruit 'n Nut Bread
Fresh Pineapple Chunks

Pinot Grigio


Home-grown tomatoes are prized possessions in the South and I dont pretend that I can grow them.  I do, however, gladly receive them from friends and give them their place of honor at mealtime.

Just because we'd already enjoyed BLTs earlier this week did not mean that we couldnt have tomatoes once again. 

Tomatoes inspire not only new menus (chicken salad creation by DD#3), but also gastronomic verse in the style of Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

Here's some tomato love poetry which I copied from a 2006 Washington Post article.

 Sonnet #43, Kitchen Style.

How do I love thee, tomato? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and might
My palate can reach, when remembering out of sight
Your peak month of August, when you bear fruits of juicy Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most urgent need for a BLT, by sun or moon-light.
I love thee with abandon, as Venus might her Mars or Vulcan
I love thee purely, as surely as the summer wanes
I love thee with the passion of my appetite
Above all fruits, and with my childhood's eye of Georgia tomatoes
As if they were falling from the sky.
I love thee with a hunger I seemed to lose
With my lost innocence (and the icky mealy tomatoes of January)! I love thee with the smell,
Unlike no other in the garden, and your vine-ripened sweetness
That bring me smiles, tears, only at this time of year! -- and if the farmers choose
I shall but love thee better after many bowls of gazpacho.



What your favorite summer garden vegetable or fruit?

Quarrelling

Let dogs delight to bark and bite,
For God hath made them so;
Let bears and lions growl and fight,
For 'tis their nature too.

But, children, you should never let
Your angry passions rise;


Your little hands were never made
To tear each other's eyes.







Isaac Watts
1674 - 1748
English poet, hymnwriter

SUSSEX

This poem is posted as a complement to my book review of Helen Simonson's Major Pettigrew's Last Stand. The painting is W. A. Bouguereau's Childhood Idyll, also mentioned in the book.




God gave all men all earth to love,
But, since our hearts are small
Ordained for each one spot should prove
Beloved over all;
That, as He watched Creation's birth,
So we, in godlike mood,
May of our love create our earth
And see that it is good.

So one shall Baltic pines content,
As one some Surrey glade,
Or one the palm-grove's droned lament
Before Levuka's Trade.
Each to his choice, and I rejoice
The lot has fallen to me
In a fair ground-in a fair ground --
Yea, Sussex by the sea!

No tender-hearted garden crowns,
No bosonied woods adorn
Our blunt, bow-headed, whale-backed Downs,
But gnarled and writhen thorn --
Bare slopes where chasing shadows skim,
And, through the gaps revealed,
Belt upon belt, the wooded, dim,
Blue goodness of the Weald.

Clean of officious fence or hedge,
Half-wild and wholly tame,
The wise turf cloaks the white cliff-edge
As when the Romans came.
What sign of those that fought and died
At shift of sword and sword?
The barrow and the camp abide,
The sunlight and the sward.

Here leaps ashore the full Sou'west
All heavy-winged with brine,
Here lies above the folded crest
The Channel's leaden line,
And here the sea-fogs lap and cling,
And here, each warning each,
The sheep-bells and the ship-bells ring
Along the hidden beach.


We have no waters to delight
Our broad and brookless vales --
Only the dewpond on the height
Unfed, that never fails --
Whereby no tattered herbage tells
Which way the season flies --
Only our close-bit thyme that smells
Like dawn in Paradise.


Here through the strong and shadeless days
The tinkling silence thrills;
Or little, lost, Down churches praise
The Lord who made the hills:
But here the Old Gods guard their round,
And, in her secret heart,
The heathen kingdom Wilfrid found
Dreams, as she dwells, apart.


Though all the rest were all my share,
With equal soul I'd see
Her nine-and-thirty sisters fair,
Yet none more fair than she.
Choose ye your need from Thames to Tweed,
And I will choose instead
Such lands as lie 'twixt Rake and Rye,
Black Down and Beachy Head.


I will go out against the sun
Where the rolled scarp retires,
And the Long Man of Wilmington
Looks naked toward the shires;
And east till doubling Rother crawls
To find the fickle tide,
By dry and sea-forgotten walls,
Our ports of stranded pride.


I will go north about the shaws
And the deep ghylls that breed
Huge oaks and old, the which we hold
No more than Sussex weed;
Or south where windy Piddinghoe's
Begilded dolphin veers,
And red beside wide-banked Ouse
Lie down our Sussex steers.


So to the land our hearts we give
Til the sure magic strike,
And Memory, Use, and Love make live
Us and our fields alike --
That deeper than our speech and thought,
Beyond our reason's sway,
Clay of the pit whence we were wrought
Yearns to its fellow-clay.


God gives all men all earth to love,
But, since man's heart is smal,
Ordains for each one spot shal prove
Beloved over all.
Each to his choice, and I rejoice
The lot has fallen to me
In a fair ground-in a fair ground --
Yea, Sussex by the sea!

by Rudyard Kipling

The Primrose

Upon this Primrose hill,
Where, if Heav'n would distil
A shower of rain, each several drop might go
To his own primrose, and grow manna so;
And where their form and their infinity
Make a terrestrial Galaxy,
As the small stars do in the sky:
I walk to find a true Love; and I see
That 'tis not a mere woman that is she,
But must or more or less than woman be.


Yet know I not which flower
I wish; a six, or four;
For should my true-Love less than woman be
She were scarce any thing; and then, should she
Be more than woman she would get above
All thought of sex, and think to move
My heart to study her, and not to love;
Both these were monsters; since there must reside
Falsehood in woman, I could more abide
She were by art than Nature falsified.


Live primrose then, and thrive
With thy true number five;
And woman, whom this flower doth represent,
With this mysterious number be content;
Ten is the farthest number; if half ten
Belong unto each woman, then
Each woman may take half us men;
Or if this will not serve their turn, since all
Numbers are odd or even, and they fall
First into this, five, woman may take us all.


John Donne
English Jacobean Poet
1572 - 1631


Centuries later, primroses continue to enchant humans.

Read my short review of Frances Hodgson Burnett's classic
 The Spring Cleaning.

Teacher

Child, though I tell you in this sunlit cove

This cup of captive sea is ever blue,

For you it may be equally as true


That it is nacre, emerald, taupe or mauve.



Youth, though I say to you our days are scrolled
In hues allied to charcoal, chalk or steel,
For you it may be equally as real
To name them carmine, coral, or yet gold.

Experience and age have tossed a bone:
The right to paint life as it seems to me,
And you may heed the colors that I see,
But never let them blind you to your own.



Ethel Barnett de Vito
McCalls Magazine, September 1960


This poem caught my eye as I was perusing my personal anthology and think that it's a nice compliment to Dominion Family's ongoing examination of schooling.  Specifically, here's a link to one didactic post describing two types of teachers.

What kind are you?

Poetical Musings

Three cheers for Cady, Harrison
ensconsed in his beautiful garrison,


with a smile on his face
as he ages with grace;


a man to whom there is no comparison.


He sits in his Ivory Tower
and reflects on the bird and the flower,
and the animals, too,
for he drew quite a few
as they placed in their deep woodland bower.

When young he acquired the good habit
of drawing the hare, Peter Rabbit
and it brought to his name
quite some measure of fame,
that equaled Bugs Bunny & Br'er Rabbit.

Illustrations he drew
one a day,
fifteen thousand in all,
so they say.


W. Harrison Cady
American Illustrator
1877 - 1970

Here's a link to the Smithsonian's Archives of American Art which hosts an online exhibit of his work.

Do The Next Thing

"From an old climbing rosebush, right next to me,
there came in the twilight a message for thee.
Its quaint Southern legend deeply engraven
hath, as it seems to me, teaching from heaven.
And all through the hours the quiet words ring,
like a low inspiration
 'Do the next thing.'




Many a questioning, many a fear,
many a doubt hath its quieting here.
Moment by moment, let down from heaven,
time, opportunity, guidance are given.
Fear not tomorrow, child of the King,
Trust them with Jesus,
Do the next thing.

Do it immediately, do it with prayer,
do it reliantly, casting all care.
Do it with reverence, tracing His hand,
who placed it before thee with earnest command.
Stayed on omnipotence, safe 'neath His wing,
leave all resultings,
Do the next thing.

Looking to Jesus, ever serener,
working or suffering be thy demeanor,
in His dear presence, the rest of His calm,
the light of His countenance, be thy psalm.
Strong in His faithfulness, praise and sing,
Then as He beckons thee
Do the next thing."


Author Unknown

Yellow

Today I'm thinking about the Glyman family, extended. They lost a sister (Sue) over the weekend. And while I never had the opportunity to meet her in real life, I do know one of her sisters, Donna at Quiet Life. So, in this very small way, I honor their grief by highlighting the strength of sisters in this colorful poem.

You were yellow,

I was red, including pink and some

lavenders.  If the lavenders

got too bluish, they were Tita's, our

blue sister, who could also have

green if she wanted.  Our baby sister

wasn't even born yet, and

then she was mostly in white for a few

years until she stared learning

her colors and wanted all of them for

herself.  We were ingrained in

our colors; to this day, almost thirty

years later, I see a sunset,

and I think, yours.

Julia Alvarez

Dominican-American

 poet, novelist, and essayist

1950 -      

Sunset
John Constable
British Oil Painting, 1828

Constable's Clouds
for Fred H Stocking
by Peter Filkins

I

Scudding through distances, hovering in blue
vacuities of a summer's day, cumuli
float upon the surface of a ranging eye
that studies their shape, analyzes their hue



in pigments now aswirl upon the palette,
soft collisions of white and red and grey
soon weathering the canvas, capturing a day
whose transience we know because he saw it


there in the changeable sky he stood beneath,
stratus and nimbus, thunderhead and puff
fixed in their currency, the consequence of
the raw prevailing wind on Hampstead Heath.


There are three more chapters to this memorial poem which I will post after my short explanation.  It appears that Filkins wrote this poem to honor a colleague who was fond of Constable and Clouds, both of which interest me.

Last year I visited the Frick and gazed at one rendition of Salisbury Cathedral, which rekindled my interest in Constable.  If I were re-doing college at this stage of the game, I might very well choose some sort of blended major that would allow me to combine subjects.

Art, science, geography, history, et cetera are all subjects easily covered by studying Constable.  I wish I'd been able to see the National Gallery exhibit of 2007.  The next best thing is reading all about it here.

Now for the rest of the story.

II

"no two days are alike, nor even two hours,"
and so his brush keeps on the move while he
does not, despising those who continually
ignore their craft by "running after pictures."

Weymouth, Harrow, Flatford, Dedham Vale,
ephemera beneath the sky's broad radius
casting England's neutral light on all that is
and eludes him, be it fame, or more so the pale

evening light off a dark grey effect-looking
eastwards" toward a drifting back of cloud
that's there, then gone, someone in the crowd
later calling his picture "a nasty green thing."

III

Maria coughs again, the taste of blood
causing a cloud of fear to pass across
her feverish bright-eyed gaze.  Soon loss
will fell him. "Every gleam of sunshine blighted,

can it be wondered I paint continual storms?"
Each gathering front, each rising eastern gale
turbid now with grief, as wind and hail
consume a placid landscape, unleashing forms

that build and threaten, yet do not release
him from the sadness planted in his heart,
the demands of composition, the rigor of art
as equal to rain as sun, misery as peace.

IV

"I shall never feel again as I have felt,
the face of the world is totally changed to me."
And yet the sketches continue, originality
hard won upon the back of a life that's deal

with setback by studying atmospheric effect.
"Clouds, Moving very fast. With occasional
very bright openings to blue," the residual
of an autocumulus inhabiting the flex

of a brushstroke, "wind after rain in the morning"
the note he jots to catalogue the weather
he'll use, if not survive, observing much later,
"in truth, my art is another word for feeling."


I hope reading this poem inspires you as it does me on several levels.

But first, let me give credit where credit is due.

I learned about this poem from American Arts Quarterly, where it was published in the Spring 2009 edition.
They are a rich resource.

And last, but not least, the details about the painting in my FineArtFriday entry here.



Happy Friday!

The Homeward Leading Lane

Today would have been Grandpa Jago's 84th birthday and I know we family members are thinking about him.


What follows is a memorial poem composed and delivered by the pastor who conducted the funeral on November 13, 2001.


He took the homeward leading lane,
While still lingered summer's day,
Then slowly walked 'neath autumn's sun,
As we shared with him the homeward way.

We sat together in quiet thought,
As we did his life and love recall,
And thus we shared the homeward lane,
As autumn leaves from the trees did fall.

Then as the days took on a morning chill,
'Neath autumn skies so clear and bright,
We reached the gate in the homeward lane,
Where he bid each of us good night.

He then walked on beyond our view
To climb heaven's front porch step,
As we lingered by the homeward gate,
And held each other as we wept.

Yet in our tears there is no despair,
For Jesus was his homeward way and gate.
So when we take the homeward lane we know,
He will for us on heaven's front porch wait.


C.R. Hill, Jr.
In Memory of Norman S. Jago
Copyright 11/11/01

Death at Suppertime

Phyllis McGinley, author and poet, penned the following verse in 1948, decrying the media's encroachment upon that crucial hour once reserved for family meals.

Time and time again we wonder why the world is in such a sad state of affairs.

My personal solution is the maintenance of the dinner hour (free of television, telephone, and teleprompter) ....each.and.every.day.


Between the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupation,
That is known as the Children's Hour.


That endeth the skipping and skating,
The giggles, the tantrums, and tears,
When, the innocent voices abating,
Alert grow the innocent ears.


The little boys leap from the stairways,
Girls lay down their dolls on the dot,
For promptly at five o'er the airways
Comes violence geared to the tot.


Comes murder, comes arson, come G-men
Pursuing unspeakable spies;
Come gangsters and tough-talking he-men
With six-shooters strapped to their thighs;
Comes the corpse in the dust, comes the dictum
"Ya' better start singin', ya' rat!"
While the torturer leers at his victim,
The killer unleashes his gat.


With mayhem the twilight is reeling.
Blood spatters, the tommy guns bark.
Hands reach for the sky or the ceiling
As the dagger strikes home in the dark.

And lo! with what rapturous wonder
The little ones hark to each tale
Of gambler shot down with his plunder
Or outlaw abducting the mail.


Between the news and the tireless
Commercials, while tempers turn sour,
Comes a season of horror by wireless,
That is known as the Children's Hour.


I have been known to refer to this *Children's Hour* (say 5p - 7p) as the *Witching Hour* - that time of day in which all hell can break loose, if one is in charge .... of young children especially.  It can also refer to Longfellow's charming poem about his family.  I posted it last year.  

But after living through a few such bewitchings, I determined to avoid them.  I learned that my entire day would go more smoothly, if I knew what we were having for dinner and took at least a couple of steps early in the day to get that meal under control.  Thank goodness for freezers, crockpots, oven-timers, and dishwashers. 

Unfortunately, I discovered Mrs. McGinley after learning to cope without the benefit of her wise words.

But I continue to read her essays and poems because after all....

A woman's mind needs to be well-furnished.

She spends a lot of time there.

The Butterfly That Stamped

There was never a Queen like Balkis,

From here to the wide world's end;

But Balkis talked to a butterfly

As you would talk to a friend.

There was never a King like Solomon

Not since the world began;

But Solomon talked to a butterfly

As a man would talk to a man.

She was Queen of Sabea--

And he was Asia's Lord--

But they both of 'em talked to butterflies

When they took their walks abroad!

Rudyard Kipling
English Poet/Author
1865 - 1936

Here's a link to the entire short story of the same title.

Two additional Kipling poems that rate very high on my list of favorites:

The Female of the Species
The Betrothed


What about you?

What's your favorite Kipling verse?

The Owl and the Pussy-cat

In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
"O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are, you are, you are,
What a beautiful Pussy you are."


Pussy said to the Owl "You elegant fowl,
How charmingly sweet you sing.
O let us be married, too long we have tarried;
But what shall we do for a ring?"
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the Bong-tree grows,
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
With a ring at the end of his nose, his nose, his nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.




"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling your ring?"
Said the Piggy, "I will"
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon.
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand.
They danced by the light of the moon, the moon, the moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.


So, Edward Lear's nonsense poetry wins the day because I wanted to highlight this delightful collection of beautifully illustrated poems and his Owl and the Pussy Cat graces the cover.  Neil Philip is the editor, and Isabelle Brent, the illustrator.

Here's my FAF (fineartfriday) post.   I'm adding their books to my Amazon Wish List.

Best-Loved Poems is a common title for anthologies, this one being first published in 2000.   I give it five stars because 1) I like most of the poems; 2) I like the illustrations; and 3) I like its layout.

Two other oft-referenced anthologies on my bookshelf are The Best-Loved Poems of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis and The Best-Loved Poems of the American People.

Do you have a favorite anthology?

Who Is This That Comes From Edom

This is a favorite hymn (228 Blue Trinity) of mine.  We sang it in church today, probably selected because the sermon covered Isaiah 62-64.  The message was so *meaty* that I listened to it again.

Who is this that comes from Edom,
All His garments stained with blood;
To the slave proclaiming freedom;
Bringing and bestowing good;
Glorious in the garb He wears,
Glorious in the spoils He bears?


’Tis the Savior, now victorious
Traveling onward in His might;
’Tis the Savior, O how glorious
To His people is the sight!
Jesus now is strong to save,
Mighty to redeem the slave.


Why that blood His raiment staining?
’Tis the blood of many slain;
Of His foes there’s none remaining,
None the contest to maintain:
Fallen they are, no more to rise,
All their glory prostrate lies.


This the Savior has effected
By His mighty arm alone;
See the throne for Him erected;
’Tis an everlasting throne:
’Tis the great reward He gains,
Glorious fruit of all His pains.


Mighty Victor, reign forever,
Wear the crown so dearly won;
Never shall thy people, never
Cease to sing what Thou hast done;
Thou hast fought Thy people’s foes;
Thou wilt heal Thy people’s woes.

 
Lyrics by Thomas Kelly
Irish Hymnodist
1769 - 1855
 
Music by Albert Lister Peace
English Musician (Organist)
1844 - 1912

This Is Just to Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold




William Carlos Williams
American Poet
1883 - 1963

List Poetry

Dressing appropriately

Greeting patients

Answering phones

Listening to requests

Fielding questions

Making appointments

Writing messages

Typing data

Editing claims

Creating reports

Mailing letters

Observing the flow

Learning new things

Solving problems

Serving others

Working creatively

Understanding why God made me.

Here's a link to another such poem. 

It addresses the other side of my coin.

That round tuit.

The Quadrivium

Last year when I was reading Josef Pieper's Leisure:  The Basis of Culture with an online book club, I ran across the following poem and saved it for sharing during National Poetry Month.

Currently, the group is hashing out their
philosoph(ies) of education as they read Norms and Nobility by David Hicks.

While I havent made it much past reading the acknowledgements and perusing the bibliography of the paperback edition, I have found this poem to be a propos.  the discussion.

I also appreciate its logic.


Science begins in brain;
Philosophy begins in mind;
Poetry begins in ear and mouth;
Religion begins in breath.

For science to say anything about life, it must experiment;
for philosophy to say anything about life, it must exhaust words;
for poetry to say anything about life, it must listen;
for religion to say anything about life, it must fall on its face.

Where science ends, philosophy begins;
where philosophy ends, poetry begins;
where poetry ends, death begins;
where death ends, religion begins.


By Allan Roy Andrews

Here's a link to the poet's blog.

The poem appeared originally in Voice, a newsletter of St. Martin's-in-the-Field Episcopal Church, Severna Park, MD, February 2002.


Definition/Etymology of Quadrivium:

The higher division of the seven liberal arts in the Middle Ages, composed of geometry, astronomy, arithmetic, and music.

[Late Latin, from Latin, place where four roads meet : quadri-, quadri- + via, road; see via.]