If only we could learn by example . . .

How happy is the little Stone 
- Emily Dickinson

How happy is the little Stone
That rambles in the Road alone,
And doesn't care about Careers
And Exigencies never fears -
Whose Coat of elemental Brown
A passing Universe put on,
And independent as the Sun
Associates or glows alone,
Fulfilling absolute Decree
In casual simplicity -

#670 (Ms Dickinson Always Chose Such Catchy Titles.)

- Emily Dickinson

One need not be a Chamber - to be Haunted -
One need not be a House -
The Brain has Corridors - surpassing
Material Place -

Far safer, of a Midnight Meeting
External Ghost
Than its interior Confronting -
That Cooler Host.

Far Safer, through an Abbey gallop,
The Stones a'chase -
Than Unarmed, one's a'self encounter -
In lonesome Place -

Ourself behind ourself, concealed -
Should startle most -
Assassin hid in our Apartment
Be Horror's least.

The Body - borrows a Revolver -
He bolts the Door -
O'erlooking a superior spectre -
Or More -

The Soul has Bandaged moments #360

- Emily Dickinson

The Soul has Bandaged moments –
When too appalled to stir –
She feels some ghastly Fright come up
And stop to look at her –
Salute her, with long fingers –
Caress her freezing hair –
Sip, Goblin, from the very lips
The Lover – hovered – o’er –
Unworthy, that a thought so mean
Accost a Theme – so – fair ­–
The soul has moments of escape –
When bursting all the doors –
She dances like a Bomb, abroad,
And swings opon the Hours,
As do the Bee – delirious borne –
Long Dungeoned from his Rose –
Touch Liberty – then know no more,
But Noon, and Paradise –
The Soul’s retaken moments –
When, Felon led along,
With shackles on the plumed feet,
And staples, in the song,
The Horror welcomes her, again,
These, are not brayed of Tongue –

from: The Poems of Emily Dickinson, Copyright 1998.

A Narrow Fellow In the Grass

- Emily Dickinson

 

A narrow fellow in the grass

Occasionally rides;

You may have met him—did you not

His notice sudden is,

The grass divides as with a comb,

A spotted shaft is seen,

And then it closes at your feet,

And opens further on.

He likes a boggy acre,  

A floor too cool for corn,

But when a boy and barefoot,

I more than once at noon

Have passed, I thought, a whip lash,

Unbraiding in the sun,

When stooping to secure it,

It wrinkled and was gone.

Several of nature’s people

I know, and they know me;

I feel for them a transport

Of cordiality.

But never met this fellow,

Attended or alone,

Without a tighter breathing,

And zero at the bone.

from: The Poems of Emily Dickinson. Copyright 1998.

Here's An Old Favorite . . .

Hope is the thing with feathers
- Emily Dickinson

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -

And sore must be the storm -

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -

And on the strangest Sea -

Yet - never - in Extremity,

It asked a crumb - of me.


from: The Poems of Emily Dickinson, Copyright 1999.

The Mushroom is the Elf of Plants #1350

- Emily Dickinson

The Mushroom is the Elf of Plants -

At Evening, it is not

At Morning, in a Truffled Hut

It stop opon a Spot

As if it tarried always

And yet it’s whole Career

Is shorter than a Snake’s Delay -

And fleeter than a Tare -

’Tis Vegetation’s Juggler -

The Germ of Alibi -

Doth like a Bubble antedate

And like a Bubble, hie -

I feel as if the Grass was pleased

To have it intermit -

This surreptitious Scion

Of Summer’s circumspect.

Had Nature any supple Face

Or could she one contemn -

Had Nature an Apostate -

That Mushroom - it is Him!

from: The Poems of Emily Dickinson. Copyright 1998.

Saturday Farmer's Market - Flowers & Rain & Stuff To Do

Created by Heather at Capricious Reader, and now hosted by Chris at Stuff as Dreams are Made on.

This is my baby Petunia on her favorite lookout perch. 

Unfortunately, just yesterday, a couple of days after we took this picture, an artist who carves beautiful pieces out of burl wood bought it, cut it up, and hauled it away. She just stands in the empty spot and looks at me balefully. Stories about beautiful artistic creations just don't seem to mollify her.

UPDATE from Last Week:      

We got started on a few projects just before some much needed rain moved in.

Here you can see my son-in-law starting work on the first of my cold frames.

I drew up the design, took the measurements, cut the wood, and was preparing to put it together when he saw what I was doing and wanted to do it for me.

Who am I to argue.

We didn't get very far before the rain started, and since it has been raining for over a week now, the unfinished projects are on hold, as I don't have an indoor workspace.

But I did get a few pictures.

The garden is soaking up the rain happily. As you probably know, we (CA) have been declared a disaster area because of drought. This year we may have to actually choose between giving water to our people or the crops that sustain our economy. Actually, the governor already made the choice to put people first, but that is only a short term solution. We are all going to have to return to the Yankee ingenuity that served us so well once upon a time.

My first blooming Iris this year.

This is one of the ones gifted from my neighbor across the street.

They were actually planted by the neighbor he bought the house from, who had lived in the house for over thirty years. (She's happily ensconced now in a little cottage near her grand kids.)

Beautiful flowers opening on the nectarine tree . . .

 . . . and the Pluots are filling out also . . .














 

. . . as are the Plums.












I haven't seen many bees yet though.



It has rained pretty steadily for most of the week, which is great. It doesn't make the drought go away. We're way too far into it for that, but every little bit helps. We even had a full fledged thunder storm night before last, and that is a rarity around here.

I was also sick most of the week so I didn't get many of the things I could do done. I hope to be transplanting seedlings and getting them ready to go into the cold frame (which I hope to also finish soon).

Take care all.

Come Slowly - Eden
- Emily Dickinson

Come slowly - Eden
Lips unused to Thee -
Bashful - sip thy Jessamines
As the fainting Bee -

Reaching late his flower,
Round her chamber hums -
Counts his nectars -
Enters - and is lost in Balms.

It's all I have to bring today (26)

- Emily Dickinson

It's all I have to bring today –

This, and my heart beside –

This, and my heart, and all the fields –

And all the meadows wide –

Be sure you count – should I forget

Some one the sum could tell –

This, and my heart, and all the Bees

Which in the Clover dwell.

There's Been a Death in the Opposite House

- Emily Dickinson
 
There's been a death in the opposite house
As lately as to-day.
I know it by the numb look
Such houses have alway.

The neighbors rustle in and out,
The doctor drives away.
A window opens like a pod,
Abrupt, mechanically;

Somebody flings a mattress out,--
The children hurry by;
They wonder if It died on that,--
I used to when a boy.

The minister goes stiffly in
As if the house were his,
And he owned all the mourners now,
And little boys besides;

And then the milliner, and the man
Of the appalling trade,
To take the measure of the house.
There'll be that dark parade

Of tassels and of coaches soon;
It's easy as a sign,--
The intuition of the news
In just a country town.

It Feels a Shame to Be Alive

- Emily Dickinson

It feels a Shame to be Alive -
When Men so brave - are dead -
One envies the Distinguished Dust -
Permitted - such a Head -

The Stone - that tells defending Whom
This Spartan put away
What little of Him we - possessed
In Pawn for Liberty -

The Price is great - Sublimely paid -
Do we deserve - a Thing -
That lives - like Dollars - must be piled
Before we may obtain?

Are we that wait - sufficient worth -
That such Enormous Pearl
As life - dissolved be - for Us -
In Battle's - horrid Bowl?

It may be - a Renown to live -
I think the Men who die -
Those unsustained - Saviors -
Present Divinity -

[To make a prairie] (1755)

- Emily Dickinson

 

  

To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee,

One clover, and a bee.

And revery.

The revery alone will do,

If bees are few. 

We never know how high we are (1176)

- Emily Dickinson 

 

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—

Wild Nights – Wild Nights!

by Emily Dickinson

Wild Nights – Wild Nights!
Were I with thee
Wild Nights should be
Our luxury!

Futile – the winds –
To a heart in port –
Done with the compass –
Done with the chart!

Rowing in Eden –
Ah, the sea!
Might I moor – Tonight –
In thee!

POETRY: Read More, Blog More #3

I've been thinking a lot about Virginia Woolf's "A Room of One's own." Yes, I realize that Virginia and her writing have nothing to do with poetry, but making a space 'your own' decidedly does.

My own "room" is about the size of a postage stamp. It is a functioning office for household management, a small business, and my career as a tutor, which makes me an independent contractor with its attendant paperwork. It also acts as nexus for my writing, and of course, this vital and terribly significant Blog, (averaging 150 hits a day!).
 
It may seem that squeezing that massive amount of function into such a tiny room would leave little space for comfort and warmth.

But Au contraire, mon ami. (That's French for nu uh)

When you're a bibliophile, my friends, decorating is not really that difficult. Book cases - bulging, surprise laden book cases - make any room.

"Still," I hear you saying, "Not. poetry."

We'll get there. I promise. But 'till then, stay close folks. Oh, and make a left here.

The anthologies on my shelves pay tribute to my days at university. (English teacher, here) They include the usual basic literary cannon fodder (see what I did there!?) but because of a wonderfully progressive and diverse faculty, my collection goes way beyond the basic OWM (old white men).

The jewel like seeds from my anthologies have, with the help of online used book "stores," germinated into fruit that spills abundantly from myriad countries, cultures, and times into all the rooms of my tiny home.

I've obviously found a way to survive the drought caused by the closing of our town's last book store.

OK. Here's the path again to your right.

My love of poetry has helped my collection to quietly overtake my office. One by one, authors slip out of tight fitting and restrictive anthologies to make themselves comfortable on the poetry book shelves. Greeting earlier arrivals and fitting in easily, they stake out their new territory.

And when I sit back in my reading chair in this sunny little room, I find myself surrounded by friends. Their easily accessible words comfort, admonish, amuse, and educate. They also help to make this space truly my own, a space to retreat, rewind, refill, and renew.

A room of my own.

My favorite wall decor? Book cases, overflowing and interspersed with treasured keepsakes gathered through the years.

Is there a poem that celebrates this love of books? Don't be silly. There's a poem for just about any occasion you could want.

Once again, Miss Emily Dickinson obliges us with a verse that captures the thought.

There is no frigate like a book

    - Emily Dickinson

There is no Frigate like a Book  
To take us Lands away,  
Nor any Coursers like a Page  
Of prancing Poetry –   
This Traverse may the poorest take         
Without oppress of Toll –   
How frugal is the Chariot  
That bears a Human soul.

A little library, growing larger every year, is an honorable part of a man's history. It is a man's duty to have books. A library is not a luxury, but one of the necessaries of life.

 - Henry Ward Beecher