Red Flash, Green Flash

Missouri photographer Jay Beets says,
"The crazy color of Fall!
. . . I saw a tree face this morning."
Could it be Abraham Lincoln? Or the Man in the Moon?"

I posted this painting early last autumn . . .

First sign of fall: the rogue / rouge tree!

In the Bois du Boulogne, 1933
by Camille Bombois, 1883 - 1970

and just knew that I was going to have to repost
when I saw these photographs that my friend Jay took
at the end of last season ~ 2 November 2013:

Life Imitates Art!
Jay's photos are also a perfect match for this poem by Derek Walcott:

The Green Flash

le rayon vert

And the sea’s skin heaves, saurian,
and the spikes of the agave bristle
like a tusked beast bowing to charge
tonight the full moon will soar floating
without any moral or simile
the wind will bend the longbows of the arching casuarinas
the lizard will still scuttle
and the sun will sink silently with a stake in its eye
bleeding behind the shrouding sail
of a skeletal schooner.
You can feel the earth cooling,
you can feel its myth cooling
and watch your own heart go out like the red throbbing dot
of a hospital machine, with a green flash
next to Pigeon Island.

by Derek Walcott, b. 1930
Saint Lucian poet and playwright; professor at the University of Essex
1992 Nobel Prize Recipient
author, most recently, of White Egrets
[see also "Love After Love"]

Thanks again to Jay
for these amazing flashes of red and green!

Dream House

814: Dream House
Certainly in my life, there are a couple of old houses that I would like to re-visit, to be greeted with open arms by the current resident and welcomed inside to relive my past. Houses that come back to me in dreams. Looking for poems that capture those mixed feelinsg of inaccessibility and familiarity, I came across this website of the best old house poems ever:

Love After Love
The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

by Derek Walcott, b. 1930
Saint Lucian poet and playwright; professor at the University of Essex
1992 Nobel Prize Recipient

To My Old Addresses
. . . O
My old addresses! O my addresses! Are you addresses still?
Or has the hand of Time roughed over you
And buffered and stuffed you with peels of lemons, limes, and shells
From old institutes? If I address you
It is mostly to know if you are well.
I am all right but I think I will never find
Sustenance as I found in you, oh old addresses
Numbers that sink into my soul
Forty-eight, nineteen, twenty-three, O worlds in which I was alive!

by Kenneth Koch, 1925 - 2002 [pronounced "coke"]
American poet, playwright, professor
(see previously posted poem by Koch & another by Larkin)

These poems and more can be found on my
NEW FORTNIGHTLY BLOG POST
~ House Sisters ~

The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker:
A Fortnightly [every 14th & 28th] Literary Blog of
Connection & Coincidence; Custom & Ceremony

P.S.
You'll notice that this week, I posted early -- on March 12th --
in celebration of my friend Vicky's birthday!
Happy Birthday to my House Sister!

Parable for Daylight Time & Lent

First Sunset of Daylight Savings Time
" . . . traveling from day to night only, neither forward nor sideward . . . "
Parable
First divesting ourselves of worldly goods, as St. Francis teaches,
in order that our souls not be distracted
by gain and loss, and in order also
that our bodies be free to move
easily at the mountain passes, we had then to discuss
whither or where we might travel, with the second question being
should we have a purpose, against which
many of us argued fiercely that such purpose
corresponded to worldly goods, meaning a limitation or constriction,
whereas others said it was by this word we were consecrated
pilgrims rather than wanderers: in our minds, the word translated as
a dream, a something-sought, so that by concentrating we might see it
glimmering among the stones, and not
pass blindly by; each
further issue we debated equally fully, the arguments going back and forth,
so that we grew, some said, less flexible and more resigned,
like soldiers in a useless war. And snow fell upon us, and wind blew,
which in time abated — where the snow had been, many flowers appeared,
and where the stars had shone, the sun rose over the tree line
so that we had shadows again; many times this happened.
Also rain, also flooding sometimes, also avalanches, in which
some of us were lost, and periodically we would seem
to have achieved an agreement; our canteens
hoisted upon our shoulders, but always that moment passed, so
(after many years) we were still at that first stage, still
preparing to begin a journey, but we were changed nevertheless;
we could see this in one another; we had changed although
we never moved, and one said, ah, behold how we have aged, traveling
from day to night only, neither forward nor sideward, and this seemed
in a strange way miraculous.
And those who believed we should have a purpose
believed this was the purpose, and those who felt we must remain free
in order to encounter truth, felt it had been revealed.

By Louise Glück, winner of the Pulitzer Prize
and author, most recently, of A Village Life

This poem appears on the New York Times list of six poems for the end of daylight savings time, along with others by W. S. Merwin and Vijay Seshadri; Mary Oliver, James Tate, and Derek Walcott. It is a fascinating assortment of poetry that I have already referred to a few times, all just right for the shift in time and light that occurs each November. I think, however, that Gluck's "Parable" is, if anything, even more perfect for the beginning of daylight time, as well as the beginning of Lent.

Daniel Bosch at Arts Fuse comments on Gluck's poem (and the other five) without even grasping the connection that "falling back" refers to the annual conclusion of daylight savings time and the reversion to standard time. Duh! He wonders if he missed "some sort of equinox" or "sunspots." No! You just missed re - setting your clock to match the season!

Rather unkindly, Bosch suspects that admirers of Gluck's "Parable" "do not know as many poets as I do." Yet I wonder if perhaps he does not follow the passing seasons with the same verve and precision as Gluck, Merwin, Oliver, and I do.

P.S. Some closing thoughts
from Leonard Orr & Nova Languages
9 November 2010
Len: You are right; I read it in the times and thought it was great to find such a grouping of poems in the major newspaper. Now if only they did this regularly not only for seasons but for each month, major events, solstices and equinoxes, the start and end of Daylight Savings Time, elections, New Year's, the release of the new press of Beaujolais, TuBishvat, and dozens of other occasions.

Nova Languages: I completely agree. I especially like the idea of a group of poems celebrating solstices and equinoxes; but also for many other astronomical events, not to mention planetary events. What a great way to learn about these things! This brings to mind these often quoted lines from William Carlos Williams: "It is difficult to get the news from poems, yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there."

Len: That sounds much better than the Times motto "All the News that's fit to print." Even there they would have been improved by consulting poets.

Click for
additional comments
from facebook post.

And
another sunset poem: "The Evening Star"
also "Iris" & "Penelope"