Hilda and the Heat

It's supposed to hit 97 today here in Chicagoland. I did my painting early, but we have to run errands soon, and we'll venture into that hazy hotness that is crisping my lawn as I write.

I thought a poem about the heat was in order; here's one by H.D. (Hilda Doolittle) which I thought was nice.

HEAT

O wind, rend open the heat,
cut apart the heat,
rend it to tatters.

Fruit cannot drop
through this thick air--
fruit cannot fall into heat
that presses up and blunts
the points of pears
and rounds the grapes.

Cut the heat--
plough through it,
turning it on either side
of your path.

H. D.

Today's Thought: The Silver Swan

It is unknown who wrote the poem "The Silver Swan," although it's said to have been written around 1600. I love it, though, and it's one of a cluster of poems that I've memorized. It keeps things in perspective for me with its timeless (and ironic) theme.

THE SILVER SWAN

The silver swan, who living had no note,
When death approached, unlocked her silent throat;
Leaning her breast against the reedy shore,
Thus sung her first and last, and sung no more:
Farewell, all joys; O death, come close mine eyes;
More geese than swans today live, more fools than wise.

(Image:http://www.treknature.com/images/misc/)

Master of Winds, Marshal of Storms

Happy March, of which Swinburne wrote, "March, master of winds, bright minstrel and marshal of storms that enkindle the season they smite."

Bring on the winds.

And The Snow Keeps Falling in the Midwest . . .

Last night, as we watched the snow shawl down outside our window, a relief of white against the blackness, I was reminded of this poem:

Acquainted With The Night

by Robert Frost

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain--and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat,
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height
One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.

T.S. Eliot Reflects on The Day

There's a wonderful solemn contrast between Carnival and Ash Wednesday; I hope to work it into a novel some day. Human beings have a long history of acknowledging their own mortality. Once upon a time when a person received the ashes they were told "Remember, Man, that you are dust, and unto dust you shall return." The words have been softened considerably now, but the solemn implication is there, and it's ultimately rather satisfying. Here's a bit of Eliot's famous poem:

from ASH WEDNESDAY

by T.S. Eliot

This is the time of tension between dying and birth
The place of solitude where three dreams cross
Between blue rocks
But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away
Let the other yew be shaken and reply.

Blessèd sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit of the garden,
Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated

And let my cry come unto Thee.

Nothing that is Not There

The Snow Man

Wallace Stevens

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold a juniper shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any miseries in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.