Poem of the Day: Twas the diet after Christmas

In bottom of a drawer that used to be my drawer, in the the back of a desk that used to be my desk, in an office that used to be my office, was found a pile of random documents, including this funny poem on the back of a sheet from the fax machine ... from 1999.

[Yes, I cleaned out that desk before it wasn't mine anymore. Yes, other people had too. We just hadn't taken the drawer out of the desk, disassembled the desk, turned the desk literally upside down, and removed the desk parts from the office.]

"Hey wait!" she said, as the pile of random papers was about to be discarded or refiled, or shredded, "I think .... I think I typed that one sheet right there. It certainly looks like a font I would've used. Can I have it back?"

Please enjoy this blast from the past. Maybe it will resurface in another 15-20 years or so.

Twas the diet after Christmas

Twas the day after Christmas, and all through the house

Nothing would fit me, not even a blouse.

The cookies I'd nibbled, the eggnog I'd taste

At the holiday parties had gone to my waist.

When I got on the scales there arose such a number!

When I walked to the store (less a walk than a lumber.)

I'd remember the marvelous meals I'd prepared;

The gravies and sauces and beef nicely rared,

The wine and the rum balls, the bread and the cheese

And the way I'd never said, "No thank you, please."

As I dressed myself in my husband's old shirt

And prepared once again to do battle with dirt --

I said to myself, as I only can

"You can't spend the winter disguised as a man!"

So away with the last of the sour cream dip,

Get rid of the fruit cake, every cracker and chip

Every last bit of food that I like must be banished

'Til all the additional ounces have vanished.

I won't have a cookie - not even a lick.

I'll want only to chew on a long celery stick.

I won't have hot biscuits, or corn bread, or pie,

I'll munch on a carrot and quietly cry.

I'm hungry, I'm lonesome, and life is a bore --

But isn't that what January is for?

Unable to giggle, no longer a riot.

Happy New Year to all and to all a good diet!

How Can It Be? Birthday 43

This year that I turned forty 3

I think I feel now much more free

The threshold of forty was just so great

enriching my life, to so much

I could relate

But adding 3, has further added color to my tapestry

Looking forward to many more years

colors and hues to life's veneers 

yet to darn

there will be no tears

~ Nalini Jyotsana Chaturvedi

via Poem Hunter

We just realised it's Friday the 13th. Remember: hiding in a duvet and reading books is a safe place. Nothing will hurt you there.
— Orion Publishing (@orionbooks) February 13, 2015

Maybe I will skip plans today, realizing the temperature is in the single digits, order in birthday cake, &; just stay under duvet - reading.
— AuntieNettie'sAttic (@NettiesAttic) February 13, 2015

And that's pretty much what I did - except for the cake.
Cake came later.

43 Ideas for Birthday 43: Tyme to Reade

In a weird numerological phenomenon ... there are 43 days until my 43rd birthday. Just for kicks, I'm going to make a list of 43 random things that may or may not be appreciated for this natal milestone. 43 is a random one, so why not? No expectations. None. Just a way to make some notes and ease back into blogging. 

The beste gifte ys tyme to reade.
— Chaucer Doth Tweet (@LeVostreGC) December 25, 2014

This year that I turned forty 3

I think I feel now much more free

The threshold of forty was just so great

enriching my life, to so much

I could relate

But adding 3, has further added color to my tapestry

Looking forward to many more years

colors and hues to life's veneers 

yet to darn 

there will be no tears 

~ Nalini Jyotsana Chaturvedi

via Poem Hunter

Poem of the Day: Surviving Winter

Surviving Winter
It was a dandelion March
Guiltless as a new born child
Boundless as the infinite sky
Yet unfathomnable as the wild;
It was a buttercup April
With depths sweeping and wide
With many a naked flower
Having no need to hide;
It was a daffodil May
As planters come - as planters go
It was pure Springtime
In a brilliantly lit show;
It was the Vic in Victory
The overcoming of the frost
The marrying of a new season
With no seedlings lost.

By Theodora Onken
April 8, 2013

"The overcoming of the frost"

That's the mode we are in right now .. 
Trying to overcome and wait for the buttercup April and the daffodil May. 

Photo of the Day: Illuminating Island in the Sand

Cape Cod Beach, October 2013

A Tiny Grain of Sand

By Pearl Sturgis

I'm just a tiny grain of sand
upon the beach of life.
It's hard for me to understand
my part in peace or strife.

What service could I render
contributing my all?
How could I help or hinder,
for I am just so small?

Full poem can be found here.

May-be life will eventually slow down?

I keep thinking that eventually life would May-be slow down ... but no.

Last week was the last week of the academic year at the Big J, capped off by Commencement on Friday in Alice Tully Hall. What you can't see in this blurry photo from the balcony is the dignitaries that included Daniel Day-Lewis* (as himself) and my favorite work-study student. It's weird to think that almost 20 years ago there was a Development officer at my graduation being wistful that HER work-study student (me) was graduating after four years.

20 years ago that Development Officer didn't have wi-fi to entertain her during the loooooooonnnnng ceremony, or digital cameras to capture the action. She probably would have wanted to pay money, though, too, to bribe the organist to slip in a phrase or two from Phantom of the Opera into the recessional.

It was a happily sad day. I had to take the floral decorations from the fancy schmazy lunch home as a consolation. The hydrangeas promptly died the next day. What does that mean?

The whole week was sweet, somewhat spicy from the stress of getting everything done, but totally nuts.

I wouldn't be lying if I said that this was dinner one night, after 10 p.m. As was this fried egg sandwich. I've been told that meals after 9 at night that aren't a mid-night snack, are called the 22:00 breakfasts. That's just too late to be eating any kind of dinner. But that's what last week was.

After a busy week of work, late trains, rains, projects, and deadlines, this ad for Maine tourism really caught my eye.

Sounds about right, "write now."

Instead of a speech from the School president, "Dr." Day-Lewis read this poem to the graduates. If you need to know, Daniel Day-Lewis as Dr. Day-Lewis (Hon. Doctor of Fine Arts) is just as impressive as Daniel Day-Lewis as anyone else. 

Today

By Billy Collins

 

If ever there were a spring day so perfect,

so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze

that it made you want to throw

open all the windows in the house

and unlatch the door to the canary's cage,

indeed, rip the little door from its jamb,

a day when the cool brick paths

and the garden bursting with peonies

seemed so etched in sunlight

that you felt like taking

a hammer to the glass paperweight

on the living room end table,

releasing the inhabitants

from their snow-covered cottage

so they could walk out,

holding hands and squinting

into this larger dome of blue and white,

well, today is just that kind of day.

Source: Poetry (April 2000).

All these "quality" photos via iTouch.

Spring has sprung - and is Leaf-ing me behind

Despite the advertising, it would still take more than an hour here to change my mood. 

Happy hour? Ha! It's time for:

Sometimes life is sweet, sometimes life is the pits.

Flowers and herbs as far as the eye can see. 

It was a Farmers Market Thursday in the concrete jungle. 

 I am full of impatiens for the spring.

Just pretend that this is as sage as I am.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Azaleas

When you turn away from seeing me
and go,
gently, without a word, I shall send you away.

From Mount Yak in Yongbyon,
azaleas
I shall gather an armful and scatter them on your way.

Step after step away
on those flowers placed
before you, press deep, step lightly, and go

When you turn away from seeing me
and go,
thought I die, no, not a single tear shall fall.

from Korean poet Kim Sowol’s classic collection, Azaleas, translated by David R. McCann








all photos via the iTouch

Happy Mother's Day!

Q: Why did the cookie cry? A: Because his mother was a wafer so long!

Found in Cape Cod Life, July 2012, Words of Remembrance by Brain Shortsleeve

Best Loved Poems of the American People
My Mother's Prayer

As I wandered round the homestead,

  Many a dear, familiar spot

Brought within my recollection

  Scenes I'd semingly forgot.

There the orchard meadow yonder,

  Here the deep, old-fashioned well,

With its old moss-covered bucket,

  Sent a thrill no tongue can tell.

Though the house was held by strangers,

  All remained the same within,

Just as when a child I rambled

  Up and down and out and in.

To the garret dark, ascending,

  Once a source of childish dread,

Peering through the misty cobwebs,

  Lo, I saw my trundle bed.

Quick, I drew it from the rubbish,

  Covered o'er with dust so long,

When, behold, I heard, in fancy,

  Strains of one familiar song,

Often sung by dear mother

  To me in that trundle bed;

"Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber,

  Holy angels guard thy bed."

As I listened to the music,

  Stealing on in gentle strain,

I am carried back to childhood,

  I am now a child again.

'Tis the hour of my retiring,

  At the dusky eventide,

Near my trundle bed I'm kneeling,

  As of yore, by Mother's side.

Hands are on my head so loving,

  As they were in childhood's days;

I with weary tones am trying

  To repeat the words she says.

'Tis a prayer in language simple

  As a mother's lips can frame,

"Father, Thou who are in Heaven,

  Hallowed ever be Thy name."

Prayer is over, to my pillow,

  With a good-night kiss, I creep,

Scarcely waking while I whisper,

  "Now I lay me down to sleep."

Then my mother over me bending,

  Prays in earnest words but mild,

"Hear my prayer, O Heavenly Father,

  Bless, O bless, my precious child."

Yet I am but only dreaming,

  Ne'er I'll be a child again,

Many years has that dear mother

  In that quiet churchyard lain.

But the memory of her counsels

  O'er my path a light has spread,

Daily calling me to heaven,

  Even from my trundle bed.

~ T.C. O'Kane

Mothers' prayers never cease, despite age, distance, separation of realms of existence. Isn't that a reassuring thing to know on this Mother's Day.

Love you Mom. No cookie bouquet today - but will call you soon.

xo Auntie Nettie

Photo of the Day: When the Snow Flies

March Storm, Thursday, March 7, 2012

I was walking to the train late last night as the snows fell, the dark swallowing up my shadow, blurring me into one of the faceless mass of humanity in the City, being so grateful for this place - New York City - where you can blend into near invisibility. The March snow came down and the words swam up out of my subconscious. Better poets than me say it best.

A winter's day
In a deep and dark December*;
I am alone,
Gazing from my window to the streets below
On a freshly fallen silent shroud of snow.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

I've built walls,
A fortress deep and mighty,
That none may penetrate.
I have no need of friendship; friendship causes pain.
It's laughter and it's loving I disdain.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

Don't talk of love,
But I've heard the words before;
It's sleeping in my memory.
I won't disturb the slumber of feelings that have died.
If I never loved I never would have cried.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

I have my books
And my poetry to protect me;
I am shielded in my armor,
Hiding in my room, safe within my womb.
I touch no one and no one touches me.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

And a rock feels no pain;
And an island never cries.

~ Paul Simon

 *or March even

Poem of the Day

Stormy day

Train delay

No sun outside

Sunglasses inside

Pressure builds

Room not chilled

Head to explode

Giant workload

Oy to vey

Wednesday

Retroblogging: Favorite Childhood Poem about a Horse

After all this "poetry" from my childhood, we need a palate cleanser. I know I've mentioned a few times that I was horse crazy as a kid, but I was so horse crazy that I also collected equine-themed poetry and people created computer graphic equine art. (Look, it was the 1980s ... computer graphics and printers were limited to DOS programs and dot-matrix printers. Cut us a break!)

It was hard to keep dibs on this poem. Long narrative epic poems aren't always in fashion and I couldn't always find it in anthologies. I have a version I transcribed in pencil, the copy seen above typed into an early version of a word-processing document on the computer, and now this one - all saved for posterity.

The Arab to his Favorite Steed
By Caroline Norton

My Beautiful! My beautiful that standest meekly by,
With thy proudly arched and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye,
Fret not to roam the desert, with all thy winged speed;
I may not mount on thee again, - thou’rt sold, my Arab steed,
Fret not with impatient hooves – snuff not the breezy wind
The farther that thy fliest now, so far am I behind;
The stranger hath thy bridle-rein-thy master hath his gold,
Fleet-limbed and beautiful, farewell; thou’rt sold, my steed, thou’rt sold.

Farewell! Those free untried limbs full mile must roam.
To reach the chill and wintry sky which cloud the stranger’s home
Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bed prepare,
The silky mane, I braided once must be another’s care!
The morning’s sun shall down again, but never again with thee,
Shall I gallop through the desert path; where we wont to be;
Evening shall darken on the earth, and o’er the sandy plain,
Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home again.

Yes, thou must go! The wild, free breeze, the brilliant sun and sky,
Thy master’s house-from all of these my exiled one must fly,
Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become less fleet.
And vainly shall thou arch thy neck, thy master’s hand to meet,
Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye, glancing bright,
Only in sleep shall I hear thy step so firm and light.
And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or cheer thy speed,
Then must I, starting wake to feel, thou’rt sold my Arab steed,
Ah, rudely, then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide.
‘Til form-wreathes lie, like crested waves along thy panting side;
And the rich-blood that's in thee swells in thy indignant pain,
‘Til careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each starting vein
Will they ill-use thee, If I thought-but no, it can not be.
Thou art so swift, yet easily curbed, so gentle, yet so free.
And yet, if hap’ly, when thou’rt gone, my lonely heart should yearn,
Can the hand which casts thee from it, now command thee to return.

Return! Alas! My Arab steed, what shall thy master do,
When thou, who wast his all of joy, hast vanished from his view?
When the dim distance cheats thy eye, and though the gathering tears,
Thy bright form, for a moment, like eye false mirage appears;
Slow and unmounted shall I roam, with weary step alone,
Where, with fleet step and joyous bound thou oft hast borne me on,
And sitting down by that green well, I’ll pause and sadly think,
It was here he bowed his glossy neck when last I saw him drink,

When last I saw thee drink! – Away!- The fevered dream is o’er –
I could not live a day, and know that we should meet no more!
They tempted thee, my beautiful, for hunger’s powers strong,
Who said I have given thee up? Who said that thou wast sold?
‘Tis false! – ‘Tis false my Arab steed, I fling them back their gold,
Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back, and scout the distant plain,
Away, who over takes us now shall claim thee for his pains!

Retroblogging: Dubious Childhood Poetry III

Just when you thought it was bad before --- just wait ... and there's a bonus haiku! What really makes it, and you won't see it because I'm not posting a photo -- is that these are all written in turquoise ink -- and I got A+s for them ... Really? I didn't get comments like oh, "trite," "give it up," and "stop writing, for the Bard's sake!"

Friend

Friend, is all he thinks I am,
But, I think of him, more,

We've only known each other for a year,
But, boy, does it seem more.

I've seen him in all my classes,
Spanish, math, and more

Friend is all he thinks of me,
But, of him, I think of, more.

Rain

Rain, pouring down,
Upon the thirsty ground
Which drinks it up,
And make the flowers jump.

Why

Why do you like me?
Please tell me why,
If you don't I fear that I
will die.

You try to show you like me
And I still do not know why
And people look at me like,
"Do you like that guy?"

You seem to say you like me.
Please tell me
Why?

Haiku

Horses, red, brown, bay
black, white, dun, dapple, and grey
I love all horses.

Retroblogging: Dubious Childhood Poetry II

Ah, middle school ... The onset of adolescent angst, relationship roller-coasters, and pre-teen passions. Oh, woe was me.

Life

Life ain't bin no crystal stair,
That I'll admit.
Brothers
parents
moves
even friends.
Times when
I
don't think I'll make
it another day.
but
when I get up the next morning,
I think,
It ain't that bad at all.

Retroblogging: Dubious Childhood Poetry I

More entries from the "lost" archives of my youth. Not only did I think I could be an artist, but apparently, I thought I was a poet; though no good, and I just didn't know it.

I call these the Roses are Red series. I cannot claim that they are any good at all. In fact, they are pretty awful. Sadly, later odes don't get any better. Enjoy? (Don't say I didn't warn you...)

Poems c. December 1982

Roses are Red

1.
Roses are red.
Tree bark is brown
I just got slapped
For an improper noun.

2.
Roses are red
Pansies are purple
Drink too much pop
And you're liable to burble.

3.
Roses are red.
Violets are blue.
The chef caught his toe
And fell in the stew.

Photo of the Day: Photographic Personal Revelation

For all the Silver Girls, like me, who may need a Friend, or friend or two, to help ease a mind over some troubled waters.

I'm having a series of revelatory moments, which I'm now realizing started last week, of all things, on my morning commute. After a horrendous night with no sleep, due to construction and jack-hammering, and other urban disturbances, I decided to take a later train. Unfortunately, it was one of those commutes where I had to stand in the vestibule the whole way, due to crowding, which is murder on my feet and back, and I got overheated and nauseated. But that's not what was unusual. That morning, I did something seemingly uncharacteristic.

I had the urge to take a photo.

Last night, while flipping through folder of totally unrelated photos,
I had another important little personal revelation.

I realized that sometimes the answers you don't know you need,
come as mere whispers of thought ...
and trigger actions you can't explain.

Look up.
Look up now.

Get your camera out.
Get any camera out.

Look out the windows.
Now.

Really.

Yes.

Now.

Take pictures.

Just here.
Doesn't matter of what.
Doesn't matter if they come out.

Just do it.
That's it.
That's all.

Good girl.

It wasn't until last night that I got the message.

This picture.
Study it.
So you see it almost everyday;
What does it say to you ... today?

Yes.

Beauty can be all around.
In the things you see every day.
Through the grime,
through the routine,
through the drudgery...

LOOK.

Look up.

Fair skies are just on the horizon.

Perhaps the song that I've now triggered in your heart needs to be there for a reason.

Like a bridge over troubled water
I will ease your mind.

Write this down.
You'll need to remember.*

When you're weary, feeling small

When tears are in your eyes,
I will dry them all
I'm on your side
When times get rough
And friends just can't be found

Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down

When you're down and out
When you're on the street
When evening falls so hard
I will comfort you
I'll take your part
When darkness comes
And pain is all around

Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down

Sail on Silver Girl,
Sail on by
Your time has come to shine
All your dreams are on their way
See how they shine
If you need a friend
I'm sailing right behind

Like a bridge over troubled water
I will ease your mind
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will ease your mind

~P. Simon, 1969

*Post-script: Today I learned this message wasn't just for me.
Turns out, I may be just the messenger for a Friend.

National Poetry Month: The Highwayman

Any girl of a certain age who loved reading the Anne of Green Gables series by L.M. Montgomery also loved the Kevin Sullivan productions of the films based on those novels.

This poem was excerpted for the production and was the "gateway" through which many new narrative poem lovers were introduced to this epic poem by Albert Noyes.

(Purists, please note: I know the second to last line of each stanza should be indented. I just can't get it to format on this post!)

The Highwayman

Part One

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim, the ostler, listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like moldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter:
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light.
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though Hell should bar the way.”

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand;
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.

Part Two

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George's men came matching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead;
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest:
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though Hell should bar the way!

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years;
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her Love's refrain.

Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

He turned; he spurred him Westward; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, and slowly blanched to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her Love in the moonlight; and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat;
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

~Alfred Noyes

Pgs 96-100
Story Poems: An Anthology of Narrative Verse selected and edited by Louis Untermeyer, Washington Square Press, New York 1961

Excerpts as used in the Sullivan film Anne of Green Gables, as performed by Megan Follows.

If you can't see it, click here or cut and paste this into your browser: http://youtu.be/wcAzEea4j-w

It's also been put to music by Loreena McKennitt.

If you can't load the video, click here, or cut and paste this into your browser: http://youtu.be/teq2m0BN-Wo

Now, I bet you can't get this out of your head for the rest of the day!