Quote of the Day

“I wish it need not have happened in my time,” said Frodo. “So do I,” said Gandalf, “and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us.”

- J.R.R. Tolkien, 

The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring

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A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning

- John Donne

As virtuous men pass mildly away,
And whisper to their souls to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say,
“The breath goes now," and some say, “No,"

So let us melt, and make no noise,
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move;
‘Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity our love.

Moving of the earth brings harms and fears,
Men reckon what it did and meant;
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far, is innocent.

Dull sublunary lovers’ love
(Whose soul is sense) cannot admit
Absence, because it doth remove
Those things which elemented it.

But we, by a love so much refined
That our selves know not what it is,
Inter-assured of the mind,
Care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss.

Our two souls therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion.
Like gold to airy thinness beat.

If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two:
Thy soul, the fixed foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if the other do;

And though it in the center sit,
Yet when the other far doth roam,
It leans, and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.

Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Like the other foot, obliquely run;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end where I begun.

There’s Only One Natural Death, and Even That’s Bedcide:

            For the post-mortem amusement of Richard Brigantine

- Edward Dorn

A B H O R E N C E S
November 10, 1984

Death by over-seasoning: Herbicide

Death by annoyance: Pesticide

Death by suffocation: Carbon monoxide

Death by burning: Firecide

Death by falling: Cliffcide

Death by hiking: Trailcide

Death by camping: Campcide

Death by drowning:       Rivercide

                                  Lakecide

                                  Oceancide

Death from puking: Curbcide

Death from boredom: Hearthcide

Death at the hands of the medical profession: Dockcide

Death from an overnight stay: Inncide

Death by suprise: Backcide

Death by blow to the head: Upcide

Death from delirious voting: Rightcide

Death from hounding: Leftcide

Death through war: Theircide & Ourcide

Death by penalty: Offcide

Death following a decision: Decide

from: Abhorrences, Copyright 1980.

Quote of the Day

It is no coincidence that the growth of modern tyrants has in every case been heralded by the growth of prejudice. It may be shocking to some people in this country to realize that, without meaning to do so, they hold views in common with Hitler when they preach discrimination against other religious, racial or economic groups. …. 

The American fascists are most easily recognized by their deliberate perversion of truth and fact. Their newspapers and propaganda carefully cultivate every fissure of disunity …. 

They claim to be super-patriots, but they would destroy every liberty guaranteed by the Constitution. They demand free enterprise, but are the spokesmen for monopoly and vested interest. Their final objective toward which all their deceit is directed is to capture political power so that, using the power of the state and the power of the market simultaneously, they may keep the common man in eternal subjection.

- Vice President Henry A. Wallace, 

“The Danger of American Fascism,” April 1944

Election Day

- J. D. McClatchy

The older couples had voted just after dawn,
And by noon the exit polls are underway.
Some talking head opines in San Jose.
My poster is mute and silent on the lawn.

“As the wind blows, so the flag will wave,”
Says a cynic who is nevertheless waiting in line.
The woman in front of him has been assigned
The nearest booth where she plans, again, to save

The Republic from itself — the drama played out
In this miniature theater, with its curtain and cast.
Today will be a performance of the past,
Its fortunes and flaws, its certainty and doubt.

The pencil has no eraser. She makes her choice,
Determined but still uncertain how it will end,
As the Founders were as well who thought to lend
So much importance to each small impassioned voice.

But will the cynic’s vote now cancel hers?
She stays behind to watch him enter the booth.
(In our democracy, we think “the truth”
Is what everyone, regardless, secretly prefers.)

She won’t know anything but threats and trends
Until, again in the dark, but midnight’s now,
She can sense what hope the numbers will allow,
And what you get when you smear or overspend.

She will sit and stare at charts on CNN.
(But aren’t we redeemed by what they cannot show?
The struggle in each restless heart to know
The terms on which the nation’s fate depends.)

She will think how, at last, millions have spoken as one,
That freedom requires an open mind and hand,
And the strength to be forgiven and understand,
And that tomorrow morning it has all just begun.


from: page A35 of the Nov. 4, 2008 New York Times.

VOTE! vote! VOTE! vote! VOTE! vote! VOTE!

Kilt Monday!

'Cause let's face it,

Mondays can be so rough, hard, difficult.

My Mother Goes to Vote

- Judith Harris

We walked five blocks

to the elementary school,

my mother’s high heels

crunching through playground gravel.

We entered through a side door.

Down the long corridor,

decorated with Halloween masks,

health department safety posters—

we followed the arrows

to the third grade classroom.

My mother stepped alone

into the booth, pulling the curtain behind her.

I could see only the backs of her

calves in crinkled nylons.

A partial vanishing, then reappearing

pocketbook crooked on her elbow,

our mayor’s button pinned to her lapel.

Even then I could see—to choose

is to follow what has already

been decided.

We marched back out

finding a new way back down streets

named for flowers

and accomplished men.

I said their names out loud, as we found

our way home, to the cramped house,

the devoted porch light left on,

the customary meatloaf.

I remember, in the classroom converted

into a voting place—

there were two mothers, conversing,

squeezed into the children’s desk chairs.

from: Night Garden, Copyright 2013.

It's A Garden Party! -

This feature, originally known as Saturday Farmer's Market, was created by Heather at Capricious Reader, and was then hosted by Chris at Stuff as Dreams are Made on.

If anyone would like to share their own gardening adventures with me

- large or small, inside or out -

I would love to see them.

Just leave a link to your post in the comments.

~

How much longer will the garden stand fast against the coming winter?

The rain started early this year, which is a good thing, but the cold, wet winter that is forecast for this year could bring its own difficulties.

I'm happy to enjoy the continuing blooms as long as they last and deal any other issues as they make themselves known.

The Fact of the Garden

- Minnie Bruce Pratt

 

With this rain I am satisfied we will be together

in the spring. Seeds of water on my window glass,

transparent sprouts and rootlets. In your backyard

steady rain through the heavy dirt we dug in,

our shovels excavating some history of the tiny garden.

Our blades cut through the design of a previous digger:

rotting boards, rocks, earthworms big as young snakes;

a tarnished spoon, pink champagne foil from a party;

a palmful of blue feathers from a dead jay.

We dug and planted. We intend to have a history here

behind this rented house. Despite the owner there is a secret

between us and the ground. In the wet dirt, our fleshy bulbs

and the pink cloves of garlic are making nests of roots.

The fact of the garden has satisfied me all morning:

that we worked side by side, your name round

when I spoke it: that my fingers worked in the dirt like rain,

the ground like a made bed with its mulch of leaves,

orderly, full of possibilities, acts of love

not yet performed.

Now the water’s slap on my window

has made me think of something else, suddenly,

what I don’t want to, the way I wake up in the night,

think I’ve heard a gun shot.

The memory, news story

you told me a week ago: the farmers south,

far south, El Salvador, afraid to go into their fields.

What does their dirt look like? I don’t know.

Instead I see that some thing is being planted:

U.S. soldiers watching as others bury a dead

hand, arm, head, torso.

To be afraid

to put your hand into the dirt. To be afraid to go

look at your ground: that it has been cut like skin,

will bulge out like cut muscle: that on a fair day

there will be subterranean thunder, then a loud, continuous

hiss of blood.

I wish I could see only the flowering

bulbs voluptuous in the spring.

But what is planted is

what comes. In the fall, plant stones: in the winter,

the ground gapes with stones like teeth.

I hold to the plan we thought of: small: full of

possibilities against despair:

us handing out

sheets of paper, thousands, the list of crimes:

sharp thin papers delving up something in people

in parking lots, shopping malls.

What will come of this?

Perhaps people to stand with us outside the buildings,

to say again: Not in my name. Words adamant as rock,

and actions, here, in the coldest months, before

soldiers move again in the fields to the south.

from: The Dirt She Ate: New and Selected Poems, Copyright 2003. 

 

I'm Working On This One . . .

Inspiring Wonder . . . Bettering the World

Quote of the Day

I try to keep things positive on this blog, but this election has me thinking that maybe Jean-Paul Sartre was right.

L'enfer, c'est les autres.

Hell is other people.

Great Literature Is Always In Style