Wednesday, October 31, 2012

And a Happy Meowloween to You!



Antigonish [I met a man who wasn't there]

old black and white photo of stairs with translucent figure
- Hughes Mearns

Yesterday, upon the stair,
I met a man who wasn't there
He wasn't there again today
I wish, I wish he'd go away...

When I came home last night at three
The man was waiting there for me
But when I looked around the hall
I couldn't see him there at all!
Go away, go away, don't you come back any more!
Go away, go away, and please don't slam the door... (slam!)

Last night I saw upon the stair
A little man who wasn't there
He wasn't there again today
Oh, how I wish he'd go away...

Please, If You Are Safe and Dry, Think of Those Who are Less Fortunate Right Now.

. . . Stolen, shamelessly, from Jezebel.

How to Donate and Volunteer Responsibly

From FEMA:
  • Cash is the most efficient method of donating – Cash offers voluntary agencies the most flexibility in obtaining the most-needed resources and pumps money into the local economy to help businesses recover. Remember, unsolicited donated goods such as used clothing, miscellaneous household items, and mixed or perishable foodstuffs require helping agencies to redirect valuable resources away from providing services to sort, package, transport, warehouse, and distribute items that may not meet the needs of disaster survivors.
If you need help in determining who to give to, National Voluntary Organization Active in Disaster website has a list of major non-profits that are active in disaster work or you can make your offer through the National Donations Management Network.
  • Donate through a trusted organization – At the national level, many voluntary-, faith- and community-based organizations are active in disasters, and are trusted ways to donate to disaster survivors. In addition to the national members, each state has its own list of voluntary organizations active in disasters. If you’d like to donate or volunteer to assist those affected by Isaac, these organizations are the best place to start.
  • Affiliate with existing non-profit organizations before coming to the disaster area. Immediately following a disaster, a community can become easily overwhelmed by the amount of generous people who want to help. Contacting and affiliating with an established organization will help to ensure that you are appropriately trained to respond in the most effective way.
Here are some volunteer groups FEMA recommends:
www.nvoad.org, www.serve.gov, www.citizencorps.gov, www.networkforgood.org. You can also donate directly via Amazon.





There is also more useful information at the top of the page, under the tab "REACH OUT," and my previous posts with information that might prove helpful are linked here & here.


Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Donal Óg

- Isabella Augusta, Lady Gregory
Translated from an anonymous eighth-century Irish poem


hollow base of very old tree
It is late last night the dog was speaking of you;
the snipe was speaking of you in her deep marsh.
It is you are the lonely bird through the woods;
and that you may be without a mate until you find me.

You promised me, and you said a lie to me,
that you would be before me where the sheep are flocked;
I gave a whistle and three hundred cries to you,
and I found nothing there but a bleating lamb.

You promised me a thing that was hard for you,
a ship of gold under a silver mast;
twelve towns with a market in all of them,
and a fine white court by the side of the sea.

You promised me a thing that is not possible,
that you would give me gloves of the skin of a fish;
that you would give me shoes of the skin of a bird;
and a suit of the dearest silk in Ireland.

When I go by myself to the Well of Loneliness,
I sit down and I go through my trouble;
when I see the world and do not see my boy,
he that has an amber shade in his hair.

It was on that Sunday I gave my love to you;
the Sunday that is last before Easter Sunday.
And myself on my knees reading the Passion;
and my two eyes giving love to you for ever.

My mother said to me not to be talking with you today,
or tomorrow, or on the Sunday;
it was a bad time she took for telling me that;
it was shutting the door after the house was robbed.

My heart is as black as the blackness of the sloe,
or as the black coal that is on the smith's forge;
or as the sole of a shoe left in white halls;
it was you that put that darkness over my life.

You have taken the east from me; you have taken the west from me;
you have taken what is before me and what is behind me;
you have taken the moon, you have taken the sun from me;
and my fear is great that you have taken God from me!

Monday, October 29, 2012

Kilt Monday!

Because let's face it, Mondays are hard rough difficult. 


The Traveling Onion

- Naomi Shihab Nye

“It is believed that the onion originally came from India. In Egypt it was an object of worship — why I haven’t been able to find out. From Egypt the onion entered Greece and on to Italy, thence into all of Europe.” — Better Living Cookbook

When I think how far the onion has traveled
just to enter my stew today, I could kneel and praise
all small forgotten miracles,
crackly paper peeling on the drainboard,
pearly layers in smooth agreement,
the way the knife enters onion
and onion falls apart on the chopping block,
a history revealed.
And I would never scold the onion
smiling onions and a mandolinfor causing tears.
It is right that tears fall
for something small and forgotten.
How at meal, we sit to eat,
commenting on texture of meat or herbal aroma
but never on the translucence of onion,
now limp, now divided,
or it’s traditionally honorable career:
For the sake of others,
disappear.


Sunday, October 28, 2012

Last

- Maxine Scates

street light in snow silhouetted against pink and blue sunset
At dusk the streetlights
stand like beacons to the underworld,
a girl runs toward me beaded with rain
and sweat. I think husk, wheels
seeds rattle, shake loose and a candle
is held to the egg's red mass she is
too young to see. In Pompeii those bodies
are not bodies but plaster poured
into the cavity where a body once lay,
no less a hand pushing back ash,
no less a woman with her unborn child
twisting for a pocket of air,
the forge, the fire, the glimpsed blade,
a door we close quickly, just as my brother
said Now I know I will die, and I thought
of course and not me in the same second.
We kept driving, arrived at the airport
and the next day our father did die—
aria, the birds rising at the sound
of the explosion and plums, succulent
ashy, burnished. Walking down the Spanish
Steps on a Sunday morning in October,
no one there yet, Keats' window open,
you said Ten or fifteen years from now
when I am gone, come back
. You touched
our absence from each other,
the fifteen years ahead you've always had—
when in dreams I am older and you
remain as you were when we first met,
before devotion was returned,
or was it that I let it be—our lives together
suddenly recognizable as if seared pages
fallen from a larger book.

Saturday, October 27, 2012

Dirge

- Thomas Lovell Beddoes 

drawing of two hands crossed upon the spine of an old book





We do lie beneath the grass
In the moonlight, in the shade
Of the yew-tree. They that pass
Hear us not. We are afraid
They would envy our delight,
In our graves by glow-worm night.
Come follow us, and smile as we;
We sail to the rock in the ancient waves,
Where the snow falls by thousands into the sea,
And the drown'd and the shipwreck'd have happy graves.

Friday, October 26, 2012

His Heart

- Caroline Knox

His heart keeps him awake while he's asleep.
He listens to his heart while he falls asleep in bed.
His artificial heart gives him insomnia.
As long as I can hear the sound, I know I'm here.

His heart keeps him alive while he's asleep.
My heart helps me to sleep while I'm alive.
Oh, patient, this Valentine is for you.

I had no choice, I knew that I was dying.
We are trying to survive. We are standing on the shoulders
of the makers of the heart while we lie on our back in bed.
They walk with their hearts on their sleeves and their noses to the grindstone.
He listens to his heart while he falls asleep at night.

Oh, Valentine, this contraption is for you,
device of the sacred, the sacred heart.
It feels heavy to me--it makes a constant whir
which keeps me awake when I'm trying to get to sleep.
It has no heartbeat, only this constant whir.



from: He Paves the Road With Iron Bars. Copyright 2004.


Thursday, October 25, 2012

A Clear Midnight

- Walt Whitman

This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless,
Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done,
Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best,
Night, sleep, death and the stars.

NASA photo of star field at night

Wednesday, October 24, 2012

Perfect for the Season!!!



 The Imperial Fruit-Sucking Moth.

The Hand of Glory: The Nurse's Story

the hand of glory, gold hand on black background
- Richard Harris Barham

On the lone bleak moor,
At the midnight hour,
Beneath the Gallows Tree,
Hand in hand
The Murderers stand
By one, by two, by three!
And the Moon that night
With a grey, cold light
Each baleful object tips;
One half of her form
Is seen through the storm,
The other half 's hid in Eclipse!
And the cold Wind howls,
And the Thunder growls,
And the Lightning is broad and bright;
And altogether
It 's very bad weather,
And an unpleasant sort of a night!
'Now mount who list,
And close by the wrist
Sever me quickly the Dead Man's fist!—
Now climb who dare
Where he swings in air,
And pluck me five locks of the Dead Man's hair!'


There 's an old woman dwells upon Tappington Moor,
She hath years on her back at the least fourscore,
And some people fancy a great many more;
Her nose it is hook'd,
Her back it is crook'd,
Her eyes blear and red:
On the top of her head
Is a mutch, and on that
A shocking bad hat,
Extinguisher-shaped, the brim narrow and flat!
Then,— My Gracious!— her beard!— it would sadly perplex
A spectator at first to distinguish her sex;
Nor, I'll venture to say, without scrutiny could be
Pronounce her, off-handed, a Punch or a Judy.
Did you see her, in short, that mud-hovel within,
With her knees to her nose, and her nose to her chin,
Leering up with that queer, indescribable grin,
You'd lift up your hands in amazement, and cry,
'— Well!— I never did see such a regular Guy!'

And now before
That old Woman's door,
Where nought that 's good may be,
Hand in hand
The Murderers stand
By one, by two, by three!

Oh! 'tis a horrible sight to view,
In that horrible hovel, that horrible crew,
By the pale blue glare of that flickering flame,
Doing the deed that hath never a name!
'Tis awful to hear
Those words of fear!
The prayer mutter'd backwards, and said with a sneer!
(Matthew Hopkins himself has assured us that when
A witch says her prayers, she begins with 'Amen.') —
—' Tis awful to see
On that Old Woman's knee
The dead, shrivell'd hand, as she clasps it with glee!—

And now, with care,
The five locks of hair
From the skull of the Gentleman dangling up there,
With the grease and the fat
Of a black Tom Cat
She hastens to mix,
And to twist into wicks,
And one on the thumb, and each finger to fix.—
(For another receipt the same charm to prepare,
Consult Mr Ainsworth and Petit Albert.)

'Now open lock
To the Dead Man's knock!
Fly bolt, and bar, and band!
— Nor move, nor swerve
Joint, muscle, or nerve,
At the spell of the Dead Man's hand!
Sleep all who sleep!— Wake all who wake!—
But be as the Dead for the Dead Man's sake!!'


All is silent! all is still,
Save the ceaseless moan of the bubbling rill
As it wells from the bosom of Tappington Hill.
And in Tappington Hall
Great and Small,
Gentle and Simple, Squire and Groom,
Each one hath sought his separate room,
And sleep her dark mantle hath o'er them cast,
For the midnight hour hath long been past!

All is darksome in earth and sky,
Save, from yon casement, narrow and high,
A quivering beam
On the tiny stream
Plays, like some taper's fitful gleam
By one that is watching wearily.

Within that casement, narrow and high,
In his secret lair, where none may spy,
Sits one whose brow is wrinkled with care,
And the thin grey locks of his failing hair
Have left his little bald pate all bare;
For his full-bottom'd wig
Hangs, bushy and big,
On the top of his old-fashion'd, high-back'd chair.
Unbraced are his clothes,
Ungarter'd his hose,
His gown is bedizen'd with tulip and rose,
Flowers of remarkable size and hue,
Flowers such as Eden never knew;
— And there, by many a sparkling heap
Of the good red gold,
The tale is told
What powerful spell avails to keep
That careworn man from his needful sleep!

Haply, he deems no eye can see
As he gloats on his treasure greedily,—
The shining store
Of glittering ore,
The fair Rose-Noble, the bright Moidore,
And the broad Double-Joe from beyond the sea,—
But there's one that watches as well as he;
For, wakeful and sly,
In a closet hard by
On his truckle bed lieth a little Foot-page,
A boy who 's uncommonly sharp of his age,
Like young Master Horner,
Who erst in a corner
Sat eating a Christmas pie:
And, while that Old Gentleman's counting his hoards,
Little Hugh peeps through a crack in the boards!


There 's a voice in the air,
There 's a step on the stair,
The old man starts in his cane-back'd chair;
At the first faint sound
He gazes around,
And holds up his dip of sixteen to the pound.
Then half arose
From beside his toes
His little pug-dog with his little pug nose,
But, ere he can vent one inquisitive sniff,
That little pug-dog stands stark and stiff,
For low, yet clear,
Now fall on the ear,
— Where once pronounced for ever they dwell,—
The unholy words of the Dead Man's spell!
'Open lock
To the Dead Man's knock!
Fly bolt, and bar, and band!—
Nor move, nor swerve,
Joint, muscle, or nerve,
At the spell of the Dead Man's hand!
Sleep all who sleep!— Wake all who wake!—
But be as the Dead for the Dead Man's sake!'Now lock, nor bolt, nor bar avails,
Nor stout oak panel thick-studded with nails.
Heavy and harsh the hinges creak,
Though they had been oil'd in the course of the week,
The door opens wide as wide may be,
And there they stand,
That murderous band,
Lit by the light of the GLORIOUS HAND,
By one!— by two!— by three!

They have pass'd through the porch, they have pass'd through the hall,
Where the Porter sat snoring against the wall;
The very snore froze,
In his very snub nose,
You'd have verily deem'd he had snored his last
When the Glorious HAND by the side of him pass'd!
E'en the little wee mouse, as it ran o'er the mat
At the top of its speed to escape from the cat,
Though half dead with affright,
Paused in its flight;
And the cat that was chasing that little wee thing
Lay crouch'd as a statue in act to spring!
And now they are there,
On the head of the stair,
And the long crooked whittle is gleaming and bare,
— I really don't think any money would bribe
Me the horrible scene that ensued to describe,
Or the wild, wild glare
Of that old man's eye,
His dumb despair,
And deep agony.
The kid from the pen, and the lamb from the fold,
Unmoved may the blade of the butcher behold;
They dream not — ah, happier they!— that the knife,
Though uplifted, can menace their innocent life;
It falls;— the frail thread of their being is riven,
They dread not, suspect not, the blow till 'tis given.—
But, oh! what a thing 'tis to see and to know
That the bare knife is raised in the hand of the foe,
Without hope to repel, or to ward off the blow!—
— Enough!— let 's pass over as fast as we can
The fate of that grey, that unhappy old man!

But fancy poor Hugh,
Aghast at the view,
Powerless alike to speak or to do!
In vain doth be try
To open the eye
That is shut, or close that which is clapt to the chink,
Though he'd give all the world to be able to wink!—
No!— for all that this world can give or refuse,
I would not be now in that little boy's shoes,
Or indeed any garment at all that is Hugh's!
—' Tis lucky for him that the chink in the wall
He has peep'd through so long, is so narrow and small.

Wailing voices, sounds of woe
Such as follow departing friends,
That fatal night round Tappington go,
Its long-drawn roofs and its gable ends:
Ethereal Spirits, gentle and good,
Aye weep and lament o'er a deed of blood.


'Tis early dawn — the morn is grey,
And the clouds and the tempest have pass'd away,
And all things betoken a very fine day;

But, while the lark her carol is singing,
Shrieks and screams are through Tappington ringing!
Upstarting all,
Great and small
Each one who 's found within Tappington Hall,
Gentle and Simple, Squire or Groom,
All seek at once that old Gentleman's room;
And there, on the floor,
Drench'd in its gore,
A ghastly corpse lies exposed to the view,
Carotid and jugular both cut through!
And there, by its side,
'Mid the crimson tide,
Kneels a little Foot-page of tenderest years;
Adown his pale cheek the fast-falling tears
Are coursing each other round and big,
And he 's staunching the blood with a full-bottom'd wig!
Alas! and alack for his staunching!—'tis plain,
As anatomists tell us, that never again
Shall life revisit the foully slain,
When once they've been cut through the jugular vein.


There's a hue and a cry through the County of Kent,
And in chase of the cut-throats a Constable's sent,
But no one can tell the man which way they went:
There's a little Foot-page with that Constable goes,
And a little pug-dog with a little pug nose.

In Rochester town,
At the sign of the Crown,
Three shabby-genteel men are just sitting down
To a fat stubble-goose, with potatoes done brown;
When a little Foot-page
Rushes in, in a rage,
Upsetting the apple-sauce, onions, and sage.
That little Foot-page takes the first by the throat,
And a little pug-dog takes the next by the coat,
And a Constable seizes the one more remote;
And fair rose-nobles and broad moidores,
The Waiter pulls out of their pockets by scores,
And the Boots and the Chambermaids run in and stare;
And the Constable says, with a dignified air,
'You're wanted, Gen'lemen, one and all,
For that 'ere precious lark at Tappington Hall!'

There 'a a black gibbet frowns upon Tappington Moor,
Where a former black gibbet has frown'd before:
It is as black as black may be,
And murderers there
Are dangling in air,
By one!— by two!— by three!

There 's a horrid old hag in a steeple-crown'd hat,
Round her neck they have tied to a hempen cravat
A Dead Man's hand, and a dead Tom Cat!
They have tied up her thumbs, they have tied up her toes,
They have tied up her eyes, they have tied up her limbs!
Into Tappington mill-dam souse she goes,
With a whoop and a halloo!—'She swims!— She swims!'
They have dragg'd her to land,
And every one's hand
Is grasping a faggot, a billet, or brand,
When a queer-looking horseman, drest all in black,
Snatches up that old harridan just like a sack
To the crupper behind him, puts spurs to his hack,
Makes a dash through the crowd, and is off in a crack!
No one can tell,
Though they guess pretty well,
Which way that grim rider and old woman go,
For all see he 's a sort of infernal Ducrow;
And she scream'd so, and cried,
We may fairly decide
That the old woman did not much relish her ride!

Photo source: Haunted America Tours.

Tuesday, October 23, 2012

Japanese Lullaby

- Eugene Field

Sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings,—
Little blue pigeon with velvet eyes;
Sleep to the singing of mother-bird swinging—
Swinging the nest where her little one lies.

Away out yonder I see a star,—
Silvery star with a tinkling song;
To the soft dew falling I hear it calling—
close up of blue bar pigeonCalling and tinkling the night along.

In through the window a moonbeam comes,—
Little gold moonbeam with misty wings;
All silently creeping, it asks, "Is he sleeping—
Sleeping and dreaming while mother sings?"

Up from the sea there floats the sob
Of the waves that are breaking upon the shore,
As though they were groaning in anguish, and moaning—
Bemoaning the ship that shall come no more.

But sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings,—
Little blue pigeon with mournful eyes;
Am I not singing?—see, I am swinging—
Swinging the nest where my darling lies.


      Photo Source.

Monday, October 22, 2012

Kilt Monday!

Because let's face it, Mondays are hard rough difficult. 


Quote of the Day


. . . it is better to do good to the undeserving for the sake of the deserving, than by guarding against those that are less good to fail to meet in with the good.

- Clement of Alexandria, John Chrysostom and the 47 Percent


Sunday, October 21, 2012

We never know how high we are (1176)

- Emily Dickinson 

 
red balloon
We never know how high we are
Till we are called to rise;
And then, if we are true to plan,
Our statures touch the skies—

The Heroism we recite
Would be a daily thing,
Did not ourselves the Cubits warp
For fear to be a King—


Saturday, October 20, 2012

Theme in Yellow

- Carl Sandburg    

jack o lanternI spot the hills
With yellow balls in autumn.
I light the prairie cornfields
Orange and tawny gold clusters
And I am called pumpkins.
On the last of October
When dusk is fallen
Children join hands
And circle round me
Singing ghost songs
And love to the harvest moon;
I am a jack-o'-lantern
With terrible teeth
And the children know
I am fooling.


Friday, October 19, 2012

Ode to the West Wind

- Percy Bysshe Shelley  

I

O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed

The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave,until
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odours plain and hill:

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and Preserver; hear, O hear!

II

Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,
Loose clouds like Earth's decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,

Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread
On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head

Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith's height,
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge

Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre
Vaulted with all thy congregated might

Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: O hear!

III

Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams,

Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave's intenser day,

All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
For whose path the Atlantic's level powers

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know

Thy voice, and suddenly grow grey with fear,
And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear!

IV

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share

The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O Uncontrollable! If even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be

The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have striven

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!

A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed
One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.


V

Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own!
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies

Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth!
And, by the incantation of this verse,

Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawakened Earth

The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind.


Thursday, October 18, 2012

That time of year thou mayst in me behold (Sonnet 73)

trees with autumn leaves near a lake
- William Shakespeare  

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west;
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the deathbed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.


Wednesday, October 17, 2012

Why Buy Local . . .


A lot of wonderful books have come to me via Amazon third party vendors. Often it was the only way I could even find a particular book, let alone afford it. But just as often, as I'm searching for something hard to find, I run across a book that looks good, at a reasonable price, and just pop it into my cart as well.

Then a few weeks ago, I had the chance to chat with the proprietor of a new (to me) used book store. The subject of online book buying with the major retailers came up, and started me thinking about my own book buying habits. 

If a book is one she doesn't have or can't get a hold of, a buyer's purchase from Amazon (or wherever) isn't a hit to her business. But customers are creatures of habit and they like convenience. Once they start buying on line, like me, they tend to continue. Buying on line is fast. It's easy. The selection is nearly unlimited.

 . . . "I'll just pick this up while I'm at it. . . . "

It's no secret that they have been hit hard and most are struggling to survive. When it's time to browse for new purchases do we check the brick and mortar stores first, or just head on line? I've decided to make some changes to my book buying habits.

I plan to do my best to support local, independent, brick and mortar stores as much as I possibly can. I had been doing this in other areas of my life already, It's about time I brought my book buying into line. To help with this goal I found IndieBound. A permanent link to their their Indie Store Finder is now on my sidebar. Read about IndieBound and then maybe you will join me.

Or perhaps you're way ahead of me. If you have any other tips on ways to support our friendly neighborhood booksellers, please share.

What is IndieBound? 

IndieBound is a community-oriented movement, bringing together booksellers, readers, indie retailers, local business alliances, and anyone else with a passionate belief that healthy local economies help communities thrive. ...

Why support independents?
When you shop at an independently-owned business, your entire community benefits:
- Spend $100 at a local and $68 of that stays in your community. Spend the same $100 at a national chain, and your community only sees $43.
- Local businesses create higher-paying jobs for our neighbors.
- More of your taxes are reinvested in your community--where they belong.
- Buying local means less packaging, less transportation, and a smaller carbon footprint.
- Shopping in a local business district means less infrastructure, less maintenance, and more money to beautify your community.
- Local retailers are your friends and neighbors—support them and they’ll support you.
- Local businesses donate to charities at more than twice the rate of national chains.
- More independents means more choice, more diversity, and a truly unique community. ...


Can I buy books on IndieBound.org? 
While we’re not an e-commerce site, we link to hundreds of independent bookstore websites all across the country. Click the red "Buy online from an indie bookstore" button on any book's info page, enter your zip code, and we'll transfer you to a local bookstore's website. You can even ask IndieBound to remember your choice for repeat shopping.


Tuesday, October 16, 2012

Spirits of the Dead

- Edgar Allan Poe

Thy soul shall find itself alone
'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone;
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.

Be silent in that solitude,
Which is not loneliness — for then
The spirits of the dead, who stood
In life before thee, are again
In death around thee, and their will
silhouette of a grave stone with a raven on topShall overshadow thee; be still.

The night, though clear, shall frown,
And the stars shall not look down
From their high thrones in the Heaven
With light like hope to mortals given,
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever
Which would cling to thee for ever.

Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish,
Now are visions ne'er to vanish;
From thy spirit shall they pass
No more, like dew-drop from the grass.

The breeze, the breath of God, is still,
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy, shadowy, yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token.
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!


Monday, October 15, 2012

Kilt Monday!

Because let's face it, Mondays are hard rough difficult. 


BOOK REVIEWS. Sort Of.



Well, this is the final Inspector Morse novel and like the rest, it was an intriguing and eventful ride.

The Inspector, himself, was a complex and at times irritating man, a thought often voiced by those who worked with him and knew him best. And the loyal Sergeant Lewis never failed to have his boss' back. Even when Morse was wrong, Lewis knew he'd figure it out.

My husband gifted me with the complete BBC Inspector Morse series for my birthday, and I watched it as I worked my way through the books. (novel, episode, repeat)

All the novels were part of the series, spread out through the seasons, and this last one ended the series. Although there were definite changes between page and screen, they didn't compromise the integrity of the story or feel arbitrary.

I enjoyed the entire series, but complex murder mysteries are my 'drug' of choice.  So I might be a bit biased.

Also, you might be interested to know that Sergeant Lewis gets promoted and continues on in his mentor's footsteps in the BBC series Inspector Lewis.


Sunday, October 14, 2012

The Creation

     - James Weldon Johnson 

And God stepped out on space,
And He looked around and said,
"I'm lonely —
I'll make me a world."

And far as the eye of God could see
Darkness covered everything,
Blacker than a hundred midnights
Down in a cypress swamp.

Then God smiled,
And the light broke,
And the darkness rolled up on one side,
And the light stood shining on the other,
And God said, "That's good!"

Then God reached out and took the light in His hands,
And God rolled the light around in His hands
Until He made the sun;
And He set that sun a-blazing in the heavens.
And the light that was left from making the sun
God gathered it up in a shining ball
And flung it against the darkness,
Spangling the night with the moon and stars.
Then down between
The darkness and the light
He hurled the world;
And God said, "That's good!"

Then God himself stepped down —
And the sun was on His right hand,
And the moon was on His left;
The stars were clustered about His head,
And the earth was under His feet.
And God walked, and where He trod
His footsteps hollowed the valleys out
And bulged the mountains up.

Then He stopped and looked and saw
That the earth was hot and barren.
So God stepped over to the edge of the world
And He spat out the seven seas;
He batted His eyes, and the lightnings flashed;
He clapped His hands, and the thunders rolled;
And the waters above the earth came down,
The cooling waters came down.

Then the green grass sprouted,
And the little red flowers blossomed,
The pine tree pointed his finger to the sky,
And the oak spread out his arms,
The lakes cuddled down in the hollows of the ground,
And the rivers ran down to the sea;
And God smiled again,
And the rainbow appeared,
And curled itself around His shoulder.

Then God raised His arm and He waved His hand
Over the sea and over the land,
And He said, "Bring forth! Bring forth!"
And quicker than God could drop His hand.
Fishes and fowls
And beasts and birds
Swam the rivers and the seas,
Roamed the forests and the woods,
And split the air with their wings.
And God said, "That's good!"

Then God walked around,
And God looked around
On all that He had made.
He looked at His sun,
And He looked at His moon,
And He looked at His little stars;
He looked on His world
With all its living things,
And God said, "I'm lonely still."

Then God sat down
On the side of a hill where He could think;
By a deep, wide river He sat down;
With His head in His hands,
God thought and thought,
Till He thought, "I'll make me a man!"

Up from the bed of the river
God scooped the clay;
And by the bank of the river
He kneeled Him down;
And there the great God Almighty
Who lit the sun and fixed it in the sky,
Who flung the stars to the most far corner of the night,
Who rounded the earth in the middle of His hand;
This Great God,
Like a mammy bending over her baby,
Kneeled down in the dust
Toiling over a lump of clay
Till He shaped it in His own image;

Then into it He blew the breath of life,
And man became a living soul.
Amen. Amen.

Saturday, October 13, 2012

BOOK REVIEWS. Sort Of.



This was the book I should have had for August, a Pulitzer Prize Winner.

This is also the type of book that I tend to devour at once in one sitting, then go back to again and again.

The thing that amazes me is how, since this is an autobiographical work, it takes the poet's life and makes it something so much bigger. As we read about the struggles of one person, we feel that they are so much more.

                    Have a taste:

MY MOTHER DREAMS ANOTHER COUNTRY 

Already the words are changing. She is changing
    from colored to negro, black stilly ears ahead.
This is 1966 -she is married to a white man -
    and there are more names for what grows inside her.
It is enough to worry about words like mongrel
    and the infertility of mules and mulattoes
while flipping through a book of baby names.
    She has come home to wait out the long months,
her room unchanged since she's been gone:
    dolls winking down from every shelf all of them
white. Every day she is flanked by the rituals of superstition,
    and there is a name she will learn for this too:
maternal impression -the shape, like an unknown
    country, marking the back of the newborn's thigh.
For now, women tell her to clear her head, to steady her hands
    or she'll gray a lock of the child's hair wherever
she worries her own, imprint somewhere the outline
    of a thing she craves too much. They tell her
to stanch her cravings by eating dirt. All spring
    she has sat on her hands, her fingers numb. For a while
each day, she can't feel an1'thing she touches: the arbor
    out back -the landscape's green tangle; the molehill
of her own swelling. Here -outside the city limits_
    cars speed by, clouds of red dust in their wake.
She breathes it in -Mississippi -then drifts toward sleep,
    thinking of someplace she’s never been. Late,
Mississippi is a dark backdrop bearing down
    on the windows of her room. On the TV in the corner,
the station signs off broadcasting its nightly salutation:
    the waving Stars and Stripes, our national anthem.

Friday, October 12, 2012

Fragment

- Angelina Weld Grimke 

I am the woman with the black black skin
I am the laughing woman with the black black face  
I am living in the cellars and in every crowded place
     I am toiling just to eat
     In the cold and in the heat
           And I laugh
I am the laughing woman who's forgotten how to weep
I am the laughing woman who's afraid to go to sleep

Quoth the Raven, . . .



Thursday, October 11, 2012

How About a Challenge . . .

I've included a few links if you need a little help.

r-p-o-p-h-e-s-s-a-g-r
  -  E. E. Cummings
                             r-p-o-p-h-e-s-s-a-g-r
                      who
  a)s w(e loo)k
  upnowgath
                  PPEGORHRASS
                                        eringint(o-
  aThe):l
             eA
                 !p:
S                                                         a
                          (r
  rIvInG                         .gRrEaPsPhOs)
                                                         to
  rea(be)rran(com)gi(e)ngly
  ,grasshopper;


Wednesday, October 10, 2012

Visits to St. Elizabeths

 - Elizabeth Bishop   

This is the house of Bedlam.

This is the man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is the time
of the tragic man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is a wristwatch
telling the time
of the talkative man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is a sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the honored man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is the roadstead all of board
reached by the sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the old, brave man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

These are the years and the walls of the ward,
the winds and clouds of the sea of board
sailed by the sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the cranky man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
over the creaking sea of board
beyond the sailor
winding his watch
that tells the time
of the cruel man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is a world of books gone flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
over the creaking sea of board
of the batty sailor
that winds his watch
that tells the time
of the busy man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is a boy that pats the floor
to see if the world is there, is flat,
for the widowed Jew in the newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
waltzing the length of a weaving board
by the silent sailor
that hears his watch
that ticks the time
of the tedious man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

These are the years and the walls and the door
that shut on a boy that pats the floor
to feel if the world is there and flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances joyfully down the ward
into the parting seas of board
past the staring sailor
that shakes his watch
that tells the time
of the poet, the man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

daisy patch This is the soldier home from the war.
These are the years and the walls and the door
that shut on a boy that pats the floor
to see if the world is round or flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances carefully down the ward,
walking the plank of a coffin board
with the crazy sailor
that shows his watch
that tells the time
of the wretched man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.



from: The Penguin Anthology of 20th Century American Poetry.


NOTE: It is said that daisies, steeped in wine and drunk over 15 days, will cure insanity. 


BOOK REVIEWS. Sort Of.


Death is Now My Neighbor - Colin Dexter   

As always, Inspector Morse unravels the tangled threads of blackmail and murder, with the steadfast Sergeant Lewis by his side.

Our Morse's health seems to have taken a few hits from his lifestyle choices over the years - but whose hasn't.


I've only one novel left to read in this series, The Remorseful Day.


Tuesday, October 9, 2012

Just Because . . .


a spotlight on a red rose in an old book with a black background

[UPDATE] Poetry, Good For What Ails you . . .

In August I posted on William Sieghart and his anthology, Winning Words, Inspiring Poems for Everyday Life. I spoke of his poetry pharmacy and the prescriptions he dispensed.

Well . . . It seems the doctor is still practicing.

For National Poetry Day (UK), The Guardian had people write in (online) with their issues, and Seighart gave his prescriptions.



Here are a few:


DanHolloway; Man whose heart belongs to the neon and smog and broken streetlamps of the city finds himself stuck in the unending green of the country and needs a fix of home.

Dr Sieghart's remedy:

I feel for you, stuck in the miserable and boring countryside. I prescribe Sheenagh Pugh's What is This Road? It reminds you that your story never ends, that familiar and unfamiliar landscapes can always deliver new chapters. Keep in mind that the journey is irresistible.

What if this road, that has held no surprises
these many years, decided not to go
home after all…

Who wants to know
a story's end, or where a road will go?



Fixitgirl: I'm writing the dissertation for my Masters (on Foucault) while working a full-time job and it's driving me mad. Please prescribe me a poem to soothe me.

Dr Sieghart's remedy:
You need to pause. And breathe...deeply.
Try Leisure by William Henry Davies

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughts
And stare as long as sheep or cows.



DavidBench: I'm really tired this week and it's affecting my work. I just want to sleep...

Dr Sieghart's remedy:
Wendell Berry's The Peace of Wild Things will transport you to a tranquil place. Recite it slowly before bed.

I go and lie down where the wood drake
Rests in his beauty on the water…
I come into the presence of still water…
You can find it on page 168 of the Winning Words anthology.

Monday, October 8, 2012

Kilt Monday!

Because let's face it, Mondays are hard rough difficult. 


Safe Sex

by Donald Hall


If he and she do not know each other, and feel confident
they will not meet again; if he avoids affectionate words;

if she has grown insensible skin under skin; if they desire
only the tribute of another’s cry; if they employ each other

as revenge on old lovers or families of entitlement and steel—
then there will be no betrayals, no letters returned unread,

no frenzy, no hurled words of permanent humiliation,
no trembling days, no vomit at midnight, no repeated

apparition of a body floating face-down at the pond’s edge


from: White Apples and the Taste of Stone. Copyright 2006.

Sunday, October 7, 2012

I realize That BANNED BOOK WEEK is Over, but the Dialogue never ends . . .


Censorship is not just a phenomenon which occurs by one group against "others." It is also one which occurs within groups, vastly controlling and curtailing their own expression and understanding.

Since a lot of you have asked, (and in the spirit of Banned Books Week,) I thought I’d let you know that I recently received word that Lifeway has decided not to carry A Year of Biblical Womanhood in stores, presumably in the wake of the “vagina” controversy over the summer. ...

... I think the notion that Christians should dance carefully around reality, that we should speak in euphemisms and only tell comfortable, sanitized stories, is a destructive one that has profoundly affected the evangelical culture as a whole. ...

- Rachel Held Evans. 
Please take a moment and READ the STORY . . .



Great Advice


Always be on the lookout for the presence of wonder. E.B. White

It Looks Like this Post is Becoming a yearly Tradition: BEWARE THE PINK RIBBON

                                                                                       I think it bears repeating.


I know. I know. You think I am a horrible person. But before you throw rotten eggs at my blog, please listen. I have something that I need to get off my chest.

I am a woman who lost her mother to breast cancer. My mom had buried her own mother after a similar battle. That puts me next in line. Who knows, maybe I'll get lucky. But I have a sister, I have a daughter, and I have two granddaughters. That is what haunts me.

I don't mean to offend, but I look in their beautiful faces and my thoughts echo Jeanne Sather*, cancer survivor and blogger, who says:

t shirt slogan; f awareness, find a cure. with pink ribbon as the U.(From a T-shirt)


I felt guilty when I was rankled by the pink Stepford like haze that surrounds cancer patients, including my mother. Sometimes it threatened to suffocate her and silence her real voice, and she felt it keenly. When she spoke about her anger and frustration she was treated like a pariah by those who should have understood her feelings best. She nursed her mother then later set about nursing herself - without peer support. I read Welcome to Cancerland by Barbara Ehrenreich, and shared it with her. We found we both agreed with her, and understood that we weren't crazy - or alone.

Think Before You Pink details the many ways "supporting breast cancer awareness" can turn out to be an illusion, or worse. There are many good people and trustworthy companies, but when advertising and capital loom large in the picture, it is important to be aware and educated.

Here is a link with some important questions you should ask before buying a pink ribbon product to 'support the fight against breast cancer.' It leads to a pdf file.

Don't get me wrong, I don't begrudge anyone any thing that comforts and supports them in such a time of need. But, by the same token, those who don't share the same ways should never be made to feel wrong, as they often are, as my mother was.


My mother found comfort in the words of 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. . . .

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.



Although she bought every colored ribbon produced for a disease or cause, she found the idea of a pink teddy bear, or many of the other pink offerings for 'survivors,' demoralizing. She was a grown woman, proud of the experience and scars accumulated along the way, and she refused to accept the submissive role of child - even symbolically.  And she hated pink; blue was her favorite color.

She never met her grandbabies, she died peacefully in her sleep after having fought to retain her independence, identity, and sense of humor. I miss her terribly. And my favorite color is red.




multiple strand neclace in earth tome varied beads with pewter elephant charm.

*Jeanne Sather has two blogs, The Assertive Cancer Patient, where she continues her work as an outspoken advocate for the cancer patient’s point of view, and Charmed Bracelets, a new blog launched in May of 2009 to sell her handmade jewelry. An example of her beautiful work is pictured above.




If You Would Like to Support Breast Cancer Research,


without supporting Komen . . . try:


Breast Cancer Action - "We demand accountability.

See also: 'Think before you pink' campaign, demanding transparency in pink-washed product marketing.

"A cure is not enough. We have to prevent it." - Executive Director Karuna Jaggar.

 

American Cancer Society - Donations intended for breast cancer research and screening can be earmarked to support NBCCEDP (the National Breast and Cervical Cancer Early Detection Program). 

They have focused heavily on social disparities as they relate to cancer diagnosis and treatment, and have awarded more than $113 million in grants to researchers looking into social disparity as it relates to cancer.

 

The National Breast Cancer Coalition - They aim to promote research into causes of breast cancer and the best possible treatment for the disease, access to treatment for all women, and encourage breast cancer advocates to speak up and stand up against the disease.

While the Susan G. Komen foundation has raised about $1.9 billion for breast cancer over the course of the organization's 30-year existence, last year the NBCC convinced Congress to award more than $2.1 billion to breast cancer research. And they did it without the middleman.

 

The Breast Cancer Research Foundation - Ninety cents of every dollar donated to the Breast Cancer Research Foundation goes to supporting breast cancer research. (Komen only gives about 20 cents per dollar to research) 
 

Unite For Her - Unite For Her aims to help breast cancer patients integrate other therapies that would complement the care they're being given by their doctors. Think acupuncture, massage, yoga, counseling, and other treatments that address a woman's spiritual and emotional needs during what could be a long and difficult fight against cancer.

The organization's aim is to "educate, empower, and restore."



According to Breast Cancer Action's Executive Director Karuna Jaggar, breast cancer isn't overfunded; its funding is poorly allocated, being spent on organizational bloat. ...
Source: Erin Gloria Ryan, Jezebel.


[UPDATED 10/1/12 to add links and smooth prose.]

Saturday, October 6, 2012

If the Owl Calls Again


white owl on a bare branch against a grey sky

by John Haines

at dusk from the island in the river, and it's not too cold, I'll wait for the moon to rise, then take wing and glide to meet him. We will not speak, but hooded against the frost soar above the alder flats, searching with tawny eyes. And then we'll sit in the shadowy spruce and pick the bones of careless mice, while the long moon drifts toward Asia and the river mutters in its icy bed. And when the morning climbs the limbs we'll part without a sound, fulfilled, floating homeward as the cold world awakens.






from The Owl in the Mask of the Dreamer: Collected Poems. Copyright 1993.

For More Information on Censorship and Book Banning


Banned Books and Censorhip






Friday, October 5, 2012

Daily Life

 by Susan Wood
close up of a blue parrot
A parrot of irritation sits
on my shoulder, pecks
at my head, ruffling his feathers
in my ear. He repeats
everything I say, like a child
trying to irritate the parent.
Too much to do today: the dracena
that's outgrown its pot, a mountain
of bills to pay and nothing in the house
to eat. Too many clothes need washing
and the dog needs his shots.
It just goes on and on, I say
to myself, no one around, and catch
myself saying it, a ball hit so straight
to your glove you'd have to be
blind not to catch it. And of course
I hope it does go on and on
forever, the little pain,
the little pleasure, the sun
a blood orange in the sky, the sky
parrot blue and the day
unfolding like a bird slowly
spreading its wings, though I know,
saying it, that it won't.

    
from: The Book of Ten. Copyright 2011.