Was such still dwelling there?

Here are a couple of favorites that Ellie and I
often stroll past on our autumnal peregrinations:

Situated just a few blocks apart, one always reminds me of the other. Not that I've ever lived in -- or even been inside of -- either place, yet the following poems from Emily Dickinson and Robert Frost capture my curiosity to know what these houses may have witnessed over the past century or so:

Emily Dickinson's Home Poem #440

Years I had been from home,
And now, before the door
I dared not open, lest a face
I never saw before

Stare vacant into mine
And ask my business there.
My business, - just a life I left,
Was such still dwelling there?

I fumbled at my nerve,
I scanned the windows near;
The silence like an ocean rolled,
And broke against my ear.

I laughed a wooden laugh
That I could fear a door,
Who danger and the dead had faced,
But never quaked before.

I fitted to the latch
My hand, with trembling care,
Lest back the awful door should spring,
And leave me standing there.

I moved my fingers off
As cautiously as glass,
And held my ears, and like a thief
Fled gasping from the house.

**************
Robert Frost's "Ghost House"

I dwell in a lonely house I know
That vanished many a summer ago,
And left no trace but the cellar walls,
And a cellar in which the daylight falls
And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.

O'er ruined fences the grape-vines shield
The woods come back to the mowing field;
The orchard tree has grown one copse
Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;
The footpath down to the well is healed.

I dwell with a strangely aching heart
In that vanished abode there far apart
On that disused and forgotten road
That has no dust-bath now for the toad.
Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;

The whippoorwill is coming to shout
And hush and cluck and flutter about:
I hear him begin far enough away
Full many a time to say his say
Before he arrives to say it out.

It is under the small, dim, summer star.
I know not who these mute folk are
Who share the unlit place with me—
Those stones out under the low-limbed tree
Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.

They are tireless folk, but slow and sad—
Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,—
With none among them that ever sings,
And yet, in view of how many things,
As sweet companions as might be had.

**************

As I mentioned a few days ago, here is the house
that represents my all - time fantasy renovation project:

It turns out, upon closer examination,
that several other houses in the vicinity
share a similar, angular, stately style:

The Falley Double

**************

And these two ~ ABOVE & BELOW ~
that I never fail to admire on the drive
between Lafayette and Indianapolis

**************

P.S.
These ones also
give me a strangely aching heart.

Current Events for Advent

Advent Calendar Cat

“Pardon my sanity in a world insane.”
Emily Dickinson

Some articles for each week of Advent,
preparing our hearts to make the world
a better place in the New Year:

The First Week ~ Hope

"The short history of global living conditions
and why it matters that we know it"
~ Updated in 2019 ~
by Max Roser

The Second Week ~ Peace

"The Enemy Within:
Our grasp on what it takes
to sustain a democracy is slipping"
~ December 2019 ~
by James Mattis

The Third Week ~ Love

"Feeding the Hungry
is Our Moral and Social Responsibility"
~ March 29, 2019 ~
by Monica Brown Moss

The Fourth Week ~ Joy

"A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood
Is More Than a Feel-Good Movie"
~ November 21, 2019 ~
by David Sims

P.S.

GIVE THEM SOMETHING TO EAT!

There is SO MUCH food in this country -- so much, in fact, that, for better or worse, we often throw away the excess without even flinching. Please GIVE IT AWAY and let people eat it -- not the trash food, but the good food. There's plenty of that too! This isn't about who "deserves" food -- there is no such thing. It is about distributing the bounty in a land of plenty.

As Richard Rohr says in Falling Upward: "There is no longer any question 'Does he or she deserve it [love, inclusion, acceptance, forgiveness, the loving gaze of God]?' What we received was totally undeserved itself" (160).

P.P.S.
Yes, we are all connected:
"The World as 100 People"

Haunted Head

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 an interior confronting
That whiter host.

Far safer through an Abbey gallop,
The stones achase,
Than, moonless, one’s own self encounter
In lonesome place.

Ourself, behind ourself concealed,
Should startle most;
Assassin, hid in our apartment,
Be horror’s least.

The prudent carries a revolver,
He bolts the door,
O’erlooking a superior spectre
More near.

********************

The brain is wider than the sky,
For, put them side by side,
The one the other will include
With ease, and you beside.

The brain is deeper than the sea,
For, hold them, blue to blue,
The one the other will absorb,
As sponges, buckets do.

The brain is just the weight of God,
For, lift them, pound for pound,
And they will differ, if they do,
As syllable from sound.

both poems
by Emily Dickinson (1830–86)

More Dickinson posts --
just right for Halloween!
~ also facebook ~

Best Birthday Book

Edited by Pamela Norris

The Best Thing in the World

What's the best thing in the world?
June-rose by May-dew impearled;
Sweet south-wind, that means no rain;
Truth, not cruel to a friend;
Pleasure, not in haste to end;
Beauty, not self-decked and curled
Till its pride is over-plain;
Light, that never makes you wink;
Memory, that gives no pain;
Love, when so you’re loved again.
What’s the best thing in the world?
—Something out of it, I think.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806 - 1861)

**************************

I Stepped from Plank to Plank

I stepped from Plank to Plank
A slow and cautious way
The Stars about my Head I felt
About my Feet the Sea.

I knew not but the next
Would be my final inch —
This gave me that precarious Gait
Some call Experience.

Emily Dickinson (1830 - 1886)

Back Cover

The Beloved (1865 - 66)
Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828 - 1882)

Thanks to my dear friend Jes for this lovely birthday present --
every painting is lush and every poem mystical!

But best of all is this poem to me composed by Jes herself:

Kitti

Rhymes with
Pretty
And Witty

And another word that does not apply.

Please accept this woeful
Ditty

Coming from my heart’s nitty gritty.

Much 💗 and thanks for my always-perfect card.

Jes

With a Lily of the Valley for a Bell

When I heard the church bells ring,
I thought I heard the voice of God.
Albert Schweitzer, 1875 - 1965

Lilies of the Valley
photographed by Mark Bass
Some keep the Sabbath going to Church -
I keep it, staying at Home –
With a Bobolink for a Chorister –
And an Orchard, for a Dome –

Some keep the Sabbath in Surplice –
I, just wear my Wings –
And instead of tolling the Bell, for Church,
Our little Sexton – sings.

God preaches, a noted Clergyman –
And the sermon is never long,
So instead of getting to Heaven, at last –
I’m going, all along.

~ Emily Dickinson

Gerry . . .

sorting out a batch of Lily of the Valley bulbs . . .

to plant alongside the driveway.

Previous Success on the Other Side of the HouseMay 2013

P.S.
Another picture to go with Emily Dickinson's poem:
Some keep the Sabbath by going for a walk in the woods!
Mark says:
"Walking through the woods is what we call True Religion."

Threescore and Ten Again*

Magnolia Blossoms & Panama Bag in Washington, DC,
Spring Break 2004
Thanks to my friend Elizabeth who shared with me her file of musical settings for a variety of poems, primarily 19th and 20th Century, and primarily about trees (e.g., "The Three Trees") -- a musical and literary theme so perfect for April, with all the flowering trees bursting forth, and Earth Day and Arbor Day soon approaching.

I particularly enjoyed selections by Emily Dickinson / Aaron Copeland, Robert Frost / Randall Thompson, and "Loveliest of Trees" by A. E. Houseman / John Duke.

More good news about this poem -- you can find these blossoms not only on the "woodland ride" but also along the city streets; not only when twenty years won't come again and you're left with a mere fifty or so springs, but also when the numbers are reversed. So, don't despair! The above photo, for example, was taken twelve springs ago! So many blooms we've seen since then!

Even if "of your threescore years and ten, fifty (or sixty!) will not come again," that still leaves you with ten or twenty springs (if you're lucky -- even more if you're luckier!) to go about the woodlands or the urban gardens and "see the cherry hung with snow."

In our case, that "snow" could be a metaphor for cherry blossoms, or it could be the real thing -- yes, even in April (right, Cate?!). Either way, get out and enjoy that walk . . . time's a - wastin'!

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.

A. E. Houseman (1859 - 1936)

Climbing the "Snowy" Hills of Seattle

* See also last week's post:
Threescore and Ten
"The days of our years are threescore years and ten;
and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years,
yet is their strength labour and sorrow;
for it is soon cut off, and we fly away."
~ Psalm 90:10 (KJV) ~

Reality Check: "ALL of us will still die."

Out for a Spin

"For when time takes you out for a spin in his car
You'll be hard-pressed to stop him from going too far
And be left by the roadside, for all your good deeds . . ."
~ X.J. Kennedy ~

Halloween Hearse

"I wonder if death will come like a faded star
wrapped in fur and heavily made up,
her skeletal driver silent by the car.
'Darling, get in, we just thought we'd stop -- "
she'll say as he is opening the door
and with a ghoulish grin she pats the seat --
Even though we haven't met before
I've always felt that someday we would meet" " . . .
~ Harold Witt ~
from "Sunset Boulevard"

Cartoon by Trashlands

"Because I could not stop for Death -
He kindly stopped for me . . . "
~ Emily Dickinson ~

MORE FROM THESE POEMS & POETS

on my current post

~ "Stopping For Death" ~

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

Gossamer!

Detail of photo by my friend Joni Menard:
"My house has all natural spookiness going on. I am so grateful.
All that fake cobweb stuff is for spook pretenders."
When we read Emily Dickinson back in college, the teacher had us look up gossamer as it appears in the fourth stanza of "Because I could not stop for Death." Of all the things that I've forgotten over the years, those lovely descriptors have stayed in my mind forever:

goose summer
summer thread
spider threads
summer - like weather in late autumn
light or flimsy or filmy.

Each fall, when the lawn and leaves are strewn with "spider threads," I think of Dickinson's delicately clad heroine, dressed for summer even as inevitable winter approaches. Headed toward Eternity, she shivers in her fine array:

Because I could not stop for Death –
He kindly stopped for me –
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility –

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess – in the Ring –
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –
We passed the Setting Sun –

Or rather – He passed Us –
The Dews drew quivering and Chill –
For only Gossamer, my Gown –
My Tippet – only Tulle –

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground –
The Roof was scarcely visible –
The Cornice – in the Ground –

Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads
Were toward Eternity – [emphasis added]

~ Emily Dickinson, 1830 - 86

Note from Joni:
"Not just one plant but two; pic is fuzzy."

P.S.
Click to see Summer Gossamer!

A Stemless Flower

Tonight's moon, viewed from my driveway
and looking as pink as the April Moon!

July Moon ~ Full Moon Calendar
#629 ~ I watched the Moon around the House

I watched the Moon around the House
Until upon a Pane—
She stopped—a Traveller’s privilege—for Rest—
And there upon

I gazed—as at a stranger—
The Lady in the Town
Doth think no incivility
To lift her Glass—upon—

But never Stranger justified
The Curiosity
Like Mine—for not a Foot—nor Hand—
Nor Formula—had she—

But like a Head—a Guillotine
Slid carelessly away—
Did independent, Amber—
Sustain her in the sky—

Or like a Stemless Flower—
Upheld in rolling Air
By finer Gravitations—
Than bind Philosopher—

No Hunger—had she—nor an Inn—
Her Toilette—to suffice—
Nor Avocation—nor Concern
For little Mysteries

As harass us—like Life—and Death—
And Afterwards—or Nay—
But seemed engrossed to Absolute—
With shining—and the Sky—

The privilege to scrutinize
Was scarce upon my Eyes
When, with a Silver practise—
She vaulted out of Gaze—

And next—I met her on a Cloud—
Myself too far below
To follow her superior Road—
Or its advantage—Blue—

Another mysterious moon poem by Emily Dickinson (1830 – 1886)
Reclusive, prolific American poet (see also)

The Moon Tonight

Nightfall: Bronze Goddess

Nightfall: Half Life
Bronze Sculpture by Richard MacDonald
Contemporary figurative artist (b 1946)
We grow accustomed to the Dark -
When light is put away -
As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp
To witness her Goodbye -

A Moment - We uncertain step
For newness of the night -
Then - fit our Vision to the Dark -
And meet the Road - erect -

And so of larger - Darknesses -
Those Evenings of the Brain -
When not a Moon disclose a sign -
Or Star - come out - within -

The Bravest - grope a little -
And sometimes hit a Tree
Directly in the Forehead -
But as they learn to see -

Either the Darkness alters -
Or something in the sight
Adjusts itself to Midnight -
And Life steps almost straight.

Emily Dickinson (1830 – 1886)
Reclusive, prolific American poet

Megan and I, posing with our favorites

I've been lucky enough to see this beautiful moon goddess twice recently, once with my friend Megan at the Dawson Cole Gallery in Laguna Beach (thanks Kayla Federline) and again at the Bellagio in Las Vegas with my husband Gerry. See how she is standing on the crescent moon? And the way she balances both the full moon and the dark moon in her two hands?

I'm reminded of one of my favorite typos ever -- the time when I accidentally began a note to my dear friend and pen pal Cate with "He Cate" instead of "Hey Cate." But on second thought, I decided that, instead of an error, it must have been a Freudian slip in reference to "Hecate, the Goddess of the Dark of the Moon".

Burning Bush

First Snow Flakes, 11 November 2013

"Earth's crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God . . . "

from the poem "Aurora Lee"
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

"So the poet's habit of living should be set
on a key so low and plain,
that the common influences should delight . . . "

from the essay "The Poet"
Ralph Waldo Emerson

***************

I also like the way that in this photograph
the entire heavens are afire with God!

Photo of Dickinson's House by Stan Lichens
In honor of Emily Dickinson's birthday:
Born this day in 1830
[died May 15, 1886]

I posted a few days early this week on
The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker
A fortnightly [every 14th & 28th]
literary blog of connection & coincidence; custom & ceremony

Hope you will enjoy my essay
"Hopefully"

Imperceptibly

Poem for the Autumnal Equinox

XLV

As imperceptibly as grief
The summer lapsed away,—
Too imperceptible, at last,
To seem like perfidy.

A quietness distilled,
As twilight long begun,
Or Nature, spending with herself
Sequestered afternoon.

The dusk drew earlier in,
The morning foreign shone,—
A courteous, yet harrowing grace,
As guest who would be gone.

And thus, without a wing,
Or service of a keel,
Our summer made her light escape
Into the beautiful.

by Emily Dickinson
from Complete Poems, Part Two: Nature (1924)

Favorite Hats

"I tie my Hat — I crease my Shawl—
Life's little duties do — precisely —
As the very least
Were infinite — to me —"

I'm pretty sure that — Emily Dickinson
is saying something here about the — Quotidian

February 2012
My mom crocheted this little turquoise blue hat for me 40 years ago! Remember when we all wore crocheted sweater vests? My grandmother made a bunch for my sisters and me, complete with pom - poms on the tie - strings. And then Mom made us many more, with hats and scarves to match. I have saved them all. Now if only I knew a way to join them into an afghan, it would be incredibly spacious, colorful, and snuggly!

Jumping to the present, I bought the above sweater recently from Coldwater Creek and suddenly realized that somewhere in the depths of my hats ~ scarves ~ gloves basket, I had precisely the right hat to go along with the bright crocheted motif of my new sweater.

So, I suggest that you follow my advice and do not go by that old rule that you should give away anything that may have been lurking unworn for a year or more in your clothes closet! In fact, I say, feel free to save for decades! You just never know when a perfect match might present itself!

Sam donned the turquoise hat for added warmth
a few snow storms ago (2007)
Another old favorite:
Sam in the Joni Hat, February 2007
The fluffy white Joni Hat was a Christmas present to me from my dear friend Joni, back in 1974, when we were Seniors in High School. Unlike the turquoise hat, this old classic has been in perpetual use, easily claiming the status of longest - running fully functioning item in my wardrobe!Christmas 2009

Though certainly I have worn it consistently winter after winter, I don't seem to have any pictures of myself in the Joni Hat during the 1970s or '80s, but here I am with little Ben, in 1992. Of course, it would be much cuter if Ben was the one wearing the Joni Hat; but he seems to have picked out another favorite!
Even Gerry has been known to wear the Joni Hat upon occasion!

A Certain Slant of Light

Thanks to Brent Green for this incredibly
stunning Missouri winter photograph
There’s a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons —
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes —

Heavenly Hurt, it gives us —
We can find no scar,
But internal difference,
Where the Meanings, are —

None may teach it — Any —
’Tis the Seal Despair —
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the Air —

When it comes, the Landscape listens —
Shadows — hold their breath —
When it goes, ’tis like the Distance
On the look of Death —

Emily Dickinson, 1830 - 86
found in The Complete Poems

Experiments of Green

Fig Plant in Our Sun Room

A little Madness in the Spring
Is wholesome even for the King,
But God be with the Clown —
Who ponders this tremendous scene —
This whole Experiment of Green —
As if it were his own!

~ Emily Dickinson ~
As Czeslaw Milosz says in his poem "Esse," we strive to name the world, the spring landscape, the green experiment: "repeating only: is! . . . I was left behind with the immensity of existing things. A sponge, suffering because it cannot saturate itself; a river, suffering because reflections of clouds and trees are not clouds and trees."

Dickinson, Milosz, and more ~ currently on
The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker:
Like a Spinning Top, Like a Sponge

I LOVE PHOTOGRAPHING THE FIG!