The Thrilling Quotidian

Sunrise

Thinking back to the beginning of this blog,
exactly five years ago today!
Andy Warhol: “You need to let the little things that would ordinarily bore you suddenly thrill you.”

Bertrand Russell: "The time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time."

Brian Andreas: "It's hardest to love the ordinary things, she said, but you get lots of opportunities to practice."

Muriel Barbery: “When tea becomes ritual, it takes its place at the heart of our ability to see greatness in small things. Where is beauty to be found? In great things that, like everything else, are doomed to die, or in small things that aspire to nothing, yet know how to set a jewel of infinity in a single moment?”
~ from The Elegance of the Hedgehog, 91 [see also Bouquet, Go, Factotum & The Tree Wins]

Susan Cheever: Little Women, Louisa May "Alcott's greatest work was so powerful because it was about ordinary things -- I think that's why it felt ordinary even as she wrote it. She transformed the lives of women into something worthy of literature. Without even meaning to, Alcott exalted the everyday in women's lives and gave it greatness."
~ from American Bloomsbury, 192

Arundhati Roy: “Perhaps it's true that things can change in a day. That a few dozen hours can affect the outcome of whole lifetimes. And that when they do, those few dozen hours, like the salvaged remains of a burned house---the charred clock, the singed photograph, the scorched furniture---must be resurrected from the ruins and examined. Preserved. Accounted for. Little events, ordinary things, smashed and reconstitutred. Imbued with new meaning. Suddenly they become the bleached bones of a story.”
~ from The God of Small Things
[Thanks to my friend Sheri Reda for this one!]
Moonrise

“Do not ask your children
to strive for extraordinary lives.
Such striving may seem admirable,
but it is the way of foolishness.
Help them instead to find the wonder
and the marvel of an ordinary life.
Show them the joy of tasting
tomatoes, apples and pears.
Show them how to cry
when pets and people die.
Show them the infinite pleasure
in the touch of a hand.
And make the ordinary come alive for them.
The extraordinary will take care of itself.”

William Martin
The Parent's Tao Te Ching: Ancient Advice for Modern Parents
[Thanks to Jason Dufair & Malcolm Eastler for this one!]

Reduced Whitman

Whitman Lite

from Whitman's facebook page
Walt Whitman (1819–1892)
Whitman RegularOnce I pass’d through a populous city, imprinting my brain, for future use,
with its shows, architecture, customs, and traditions;
Yet now, of all that city, I remember only a woman I casually met there,
who detain’d me for love of me;
Day by day and night by night we were together,
-- All else has long been forgotten by me;
I remember, I say, only that woman who passionately clung to me;
Again we wander — we love — we separate again;
Again she holds me by the hand — I must not go!
I see her close beside me, with silent lips, sad and tremulous.

~ from "Children of Adam," in Leaves of Grass

Whitman HeavyThis is what you shall do: Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul; and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body.

~ Preface, 1855 edition of Leaves of Grass (see paragraph #7)

Bouquet on the Kitchen Counter

Birthday Flowers From Beata

Journal of the Movement of the World No. 7

This broken stem that for you I loved

from The Elegance of the Hedgehog
by Muriel Barbery
[more on my book blog & Fortnightly]

. . . I was having breakfast and looking at the bouquet on the kitchen counter. I don't believe I was thinking about anything. And that could be why I noticed the movement; maybe if I'd been preoccupied with something else, if the kitchen hadn't been quiet, if I hadn't been alone in there, I wouldn't have been attentive enough. But I was alone, and calm, and empty. So I was able to take it in.

There was a little sound, a sort of quivering in the air that went, "shhhh" very very very quietly: a tiny rosebud on a little broken stem that dropped onto the counter. The moment it touched the surface it went "puff," a "puff" of the ultrasonic variety, for the ears of mice alone, or for human ears when everything is very very very silent. I stopped there with my spoon in the air, totally transfixed. It was magnificent. But what was it that was so magnificent? I couldn't get over it: it was just a little rosebud at the end of a broken stem, dropping onto the counter. And so?

I understood when I went over and looked at the motionless rosebud where it had fallen. It's something to do with time, not space. Sure, a rosebud that has just gracefully dropped from the flower is always lovely to look at. It's so artistic: you could paint them over and over! But that doesn't explain the movement. The movement...and we think such things are spatial.

In the split second while I saw the stem and the bud drop to the counter I intuited the essence of Beauty. . . . I have been incredibly lucky because this morning all the conditions were ripe: an empty mind, a calm house, lovely roses, a rosebud dropping. . . . Because beauty consists of its own passing, just as we reach for it. It’s the ephemeral configuration of things in the moment, when you can see both their beauty and their death.

. . . does this mean that this is how we must live our lives? Constantly poised between beauty and death, between movement and its disappearance?

Maybe that’s what being alive is all about: so we can track down those moments that are dying. (pp 272 - 73)

Earth Angels

My sister Peg at age five, with her sweet dog Shep

This precious photograph reminded me of a poem that I copied down many years ago from The Christian Science Monitor:

Angels and Animals
Angels and animals like air and earth surround us,
the one above, the other (so we say) below.
The beasts we know: they flee or, captive, feed, befriend us;
but angles go their earthly way incognito.

The fierce intelligence, the singing shaft of light
the seers and shepherds knew, we muffle in gowns and wings,
preferring (so it seems) the tall, the cloven foot,
of Sir Mephisto and his impish underlings.

Yet angels exist, according to our three religions;
and if we find it hard to flurry a flame for them,
what of this animal - for - angel theorem?

When a stray dog is fed or crumbs are thrown to pigeons,
a chord in the heavenly choir rings out especially gala,
and someone is dear to the angels of Christ, Jehovah, Allah.

Francis Maguire
[I'm guessing that this link leads to the correct author; but I
have so little information to go on that I cannot be entirely sure.]
While Maguire equates animals with angels, the mystical Tukaram goes one step further, equating them with God. His proverb provides some food [make that dog food!] for thought:

"I could not lie anymore so I started to call my dog "God."
First he looked confused, then he started smiling,
then he even danced.
I kept at it: now he doesn't even bite.
I am wondering if this might work on people?"

Tukaram (1608 - 1649)
Mysterious Marathi Divine Poet

As with the proverbs posted on
April 7th & April 10th & April 13th,
these lines from Tukaram can be found in
Mala of the Heart: 108 Sacred Poems
edited by Ravi Nathwani & Kate Vogt
Thanks to my friend Lani for her
generous gift of this lovely inspirational book!

Climb the Limbs Like a Ladder

What's left of a once beautiful blue spruce.
We would climb the limbs like a ladder
and get on to the roof.
A great place to hide
and lay in wait during BB gun fights!!!

Photography by Aaron B. Carriker
Thanks to Clive James and Marguerite Chapman, I learned a new poem today and could not help thinking of these photographs that my brother Aaron took a few years ago. His captions read so nostalgically, they could well be lines straight from Hone Tuwhare's poetry!

Friend
Do you remember
that wild stretch of land
with the lone tree guarding the point
from the sharp-tongued sea?

The fort we built out of branches
wrenched from the tree
is dead wood now.
The air that was thick with the whirr of
toetoe spear succumbs at last to the grey gull's wheel.

Oyster-studded roots
of the mangrove yield no finer feast
of silver-bellied eels, and sea-snails
cooked in a rusty can.

Allow me to mend the broken ends
of shared days:
but I wanted to say
that the tree we climbed
that gave food and drink
to youthful dreams, is no more.
Pursed to the lips her fine-edged
leaves made whistle - now stamp
no silken tracery on the cracked
clay floor.

Friend,
in this drear
dreamless time I clasp
your hand if only to reassure
that all our jewelled fantasies were
real and wore splendid rags.

Perhaps the tree
will strike fresh roots again:
give soothing shade to a hurt and
troubled world.

by Hone Tuwhare, 1922 - 2008
New Zealand Maori Poet

Aaron writes:
I was more than a little surprised to
see that the pond still has water in it.
Really nasty water, but it's still holding water . . .

For more nostalgia
from Aaron, Hone, Marguerite, and others,
see my Fortnightly post: "Broken & Beautiful"

Sam McCartney: Reader / Writer

August 2007
Sam starting 9th grade ~ Ben starting 12th

Sam's generosity in allowing me to share his Mother's Day Character Sketch earlier this month reminded me that I had also saved this essay that he wrote at the beginning of highschool.

Sam McCartney
Period 7
Mrs. Warner
Reader/Writer
August 2007

As a writer I feel like my writing is very explosive. I always build a picture for the reader to visualize, but often my writing does not flow. I love to use vivid adjectives, but often the subject of my writing is lost. As a student I was continually told that a picture is worth a thousand words, and I fell into the trap of trying to use a thousand words. My real problem, I believe, as a writer is that I think faster than I type, which often fills me with a negative feeling about writing. Although writing and I don’t always get along, the feeling of finishing a paper and reading it, knowing that it is mine makes me feel much fulfilled. My favorite type of writing, and the best type of writing, is definitely persuasive writing. I am a talker and I love to convince, so any chance I get to persuade or debate a topic is a joy. Although persuasive writing is my favorite, the piece of writing that I wrote that makes me feel like a great writer was an analytical paper about Helen Keller. I had really thought about Mr. Keller and his son, and an idea just clicked. I felt great about myself.

Reading is very fulfilling task for me, but I really have to get inside the book. For example, when I read The Most Dangerous Game I really felt like I was in the story. Another hurdle that often makes reading a more difficult task for me than I like is that I have to read in silence. I have to really zone in and capture the essence of the story to understand it. I enjoy fiction more than non-fiction because I really jump into fiction and imagine myself in the made up world of the book, whereas in non-fiction I have trouble putting myself in the characters' shoes because they are real people. My favorite type of book, just like my favorite type of movie, would have to be a mystery book. The rush of excitement I feel when the unknown killer is revealed or the criminal is caught is like no other. The most unproductive assignment, or rather unit, I have ever had in English was my poetry unit in seventh grade. First of all I didn’t like any of the poems and second of all I don’t like poetry. My favorite part of reading is plot and how the plot develops. I never feel complete after reading a poem. However, my favorite assignment in English was definitely in eighth grade when I read the play about Helen Keller. I really learnt a lot about disabled people, as well as the fact that I loved the paper I wrote about that story.

I believe my weakness in English is definitely my writing. This year my main goal/expectation is to become a more fluid writer. Also I would like to become a more well-rounded reader by reading classics, such as Lord of the Flies, Great Expectations, and Animal Farm; I believe this is a very reasonable expectation. Of course I also expect to get an A in this class, but none of these goals/expectations can be accomplished without hard work. As a wise man by the name of Vince Lombardi once said, “The only place where success comes before work is in the dictionary.”

For Us To Remember

On Memorial Day

Lilies of the Valley, 1916 ~ Marc Chagall
Opening the Envelope of the World
by Alice Price

When it is dark, we return
to our young streets; birds
sleep in the branches
of our years; we follow

the road past our house;
the light is on; a dog
sleeps on the porch;
music plays inside us;

we pursue it across
summer and the the long
winter. The road is
there for us to follow,

and the light on
for us to remember.

In the next poem, when I read Price's description
of the escape through air, sun, cloud . . .
on toward the "lost island" and the "prairie sea"
I hear in my mind that tender tune sung by Peter, Paul, and Mary
(listen here, complete with Monet slideshow):

Somos el barco, somos el mar,
Yo navego en ti, tu navegas en mi
We are the boat, we are the sea,
I sail in you, you sail in me

The stream sings it to the river,
the river sings it to the sea
The sea sings it to the boat
that carries you and me

Chorus

The boat we are sailing in
was built by many hands
And the sea we are sailing on,
it touches every land

Chorus

So with our hopes we set the sails
And face the winds once more
And with our hearts we chart the waters
never sailed before

Somos el barco, somos el mar,
Yo navego en ti, tu navegas en mi
We are the boat, we are the sea,
I sail in you, you sail in me

Words & music by Lorre Wyatt
A Fable Bursts Free
by Alice Price

We return to our house; the Indian
sleeps in his grandfather's cradle;
there is the cadence of rock
rolling over the long hill;

a dog barks beneath the willow.
We unravel into a skein of geese
weaving above the land's parabola
of shore. Without artifice, our words

come, legacies of the South and North,
a construct of our generation.
We escape through a portal of air,
a gate of the sun. We go without

hesitation through brazen clouds
forming seasons; we sail, once
and for all, toward
the lost island and the prairie sea.

"Opening the Envelope" & "Fable" by Alice Price, 1927 - 2009
from her book Our Dismembered Shadow

Charlotte Stewart, Germaine Greer, Alice Price, Susan Hastings
~ eating cake and reading manuscripts ~
at the Tulsa Center for Women's Studies, 1982

Birthday Present

Tea for the Tillerman
My friend Etta got me this album for my 18th birthday.
(Just wish I could remember what I got her that year!)
We listened to it all summer long, especially this one:
"Father and Son"
Father: It's not time to make a change,
Just relax, take it easy.
You're still young, that's your fault,
There's so much you have to know.
Find a girl, settle down,
If you want you can marry.
Look at me, I am old, but I'm happy.

I was once like you are now, and I know that it's not easy,
To be calm when you've found something going on.
But take your time, think a lot,
Why, think of everything you've got.
For you will still be here tomorrow, but your dreams may not.

Son: How can I try to explain, when I do he turns away again.
It's always been the same, same old story.
From the moment I could talk I was ordered to listen.
Now there's a way and I know that I have to go away.
I know I have to go.

Father: It's not time to make a change,
Just sit down, take it slowly.
You're still young, that's your fault,
There's so much you have to go through.

[Insert Son: "Away, away, away
I know I have to make this decision / Alone / No]

Find a girl, settle down,
if you want you can marry.
Look at me, I am old, but I'm happy.

Son: All the times that I cried, keeping all the things I knew inside,
It's hard, but it's harder to ignore it.

[Insert Father: "Stay, stay, stay
Why must you go / And make this decision alone]

If they were right, I'd agree, but it's them you know not me.
Now there's a way and I know that I have to go away.
I know I have to go.

Music & lyrics by Cat Stevens (b 1948)

I know we're supposed to call him Yusuf Islam now, but I'm with Miss Manners on this one. She says that people "are allowed free play with their names, even to the point of changing [them] but they are not allowed to chastise relations and childhood friends for using the old one" (374 - 75).

Recent Wisdom from Yusuf Islam“Then it dawned on me: Even with the entire world sinking deeper into despair, we can still sing! The spirit of humanity can be subdued, but never vanquished. And nothing brings out that spirit like a good song. As a short film of Nelson Mandela I watched recently showed, he danced and smiled from East to West, saying, 'It is music and dancing that makes me at peace with the world and at peace with myself.' "
~ Cat / Yusuf, quoted in Rolling Stone

P.S.
I read a line the other day that took me right back to 1975:
". . . in some crevice of our souls, we are always seventeen."
Richard North Patterson
More Cat Stevens on my blogs:
"Super Moon"
"Moonshadow"
"Many, Many Moons"

P.P.S.
Birthday present from my friend Marilyn ~ 1975

Photographic Illustrations by Dr. John C. Weaver
Accompanying quotations edited by Ben W. Whitley

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".

Nightfall: The Moon of Late

The Moon of Late
I too beneath your moon, almighty Sex,
Go forth at nightfall crying like a cat,
Leaving the lofty tower I laboured at
For birds to foul and boys and girls to vex
With tittering chalk; and you, and the long necks
Of neighbours sitting where their mothers sat
Are well aware of shadowy this and that
In me, that’s neither noble nor complex.
Such as I am, however, I have brought
To what it is, this tower; it is my own;
Though it was reared To Beauty, it was wrought
From what I had to build with: honest bone
Is there, and anguish; pride; and burning thought;
And lust is there, and nights not spent alone.

Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892–1950)
from Huntsman, What Quarry? 1939

Don't miss Cristina Nehring's excellent article
on the life and work of this favorite poet:
"Last the Night: The Abiding Genius of Edna St. Vincent Millay"
Millay is undoubtedly one of the most-mentioned writers in my literary discussions and always one of my top choices for desert island reading, if I had to pick but one or two. Previously on the Quotidian:

1. Delicate Poison 5/17/14

2. Penelope, Who Really Cried 9/28/12
[more on the Fortnightly]

3. Love However Brief 3/1/12
[more on the Fortnightly]

4. Leap Day 2/29/12

5. The Full Truce Moon 12/10/11

6. Sad September 9/28/11
[more on the Fortnightly]

7. Moonrise, Sunset 9/13/11

8. Recuerdo: Apples and Pears 9/5/11
[more on the Fortnightly]

9. Gone On Ahead 3/10/11

10. Insidious Trauma 3/5/11

11. Philosophy of Fall 12/14/10
[more on the Fortnightly]

12. Scarred But Standing 10/13/10
[more on the Fortnightly]

13. The Little Door 7/28/10
[more on the Fortnightly]

14. Love In The Open Hand 5/28/10
[more on the Fortnightly]

15. Kiss Me 3/1/10

16. Thanksgiving Day Thoughts 11/26/09

17. The Spirit Grieves 10/12/09

18. I Do Not Approve, I Am Not Resigned 9/18/09

Delicate Poison

Thou art not lovelier than lilacs,—no,
Nor honeysuckle; thou art not more fair
Than small white single poppies,—I can bear
Thy beauty; though I bend before thee, though
From left to right, not knowing where to go,
I turn my troubled eyes, nor here nor there
Find any refuge from thee, yet I swear
So has it been with mist,—with moonlight so.

Like him who day by day unto his draught
Of delicate poison adds him one drop more
Till he may drink unharmed the death of ten,
Even so, inured to beauty, who have quaffed
Each hour more deeply than the hour before,
I drink—and live—what has destroyed some men.

by Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892–1950)
from Renascence and Other Poems, 1917

Wine I & Wine II
acrylics by Starlie Sokol - Hohne
Fruit

Post Mother's Day

Some New Love at Lovely Things

Posted previously, but nice to be reminded:

I wish for for you
some new love
at lovely things,
some new forgetfulness
at teasing things,
some higher pride
in the praising things,
some sweeter peace
from the hurrying things,
and some closer fence
from the worrying things."

~ John Ruskin ~

Along with this past Sunday's post "Picture of Home" (scroll down or click)
please enjoy additional selected readings in keeping with Mother's Day
from Billy Collins, Tina Fey, Naomi Shihab Nye,
and others on my

CURRENT FORTNIGHTLY BLOG POST:
~ Post Mother's Day ~

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

Picture of Home

A Picture of Home: Framed Plant Art
at the Bellagio Conservatory & Botanical Garden
If there is any other occasion besides Christmas that can fill one's heart with "divine homesickness," I'm guessing that it's Mother's Day. In the following short story, my friend Jan has captured the sensation so well that it brings the tears to my eyes:

Washington Street
You are eight years old and already lonely. You measure your walk home from school by sidewalk squares. Your feet have memorized the path. You are walking to the house on Washington Street where the steps to the porch are steep. Your mother greets you at the door, her face as familiar as wind.

Now, years later, you look at a photograph of her from that time; her brown eyes smile, her dark hair pulled back from her luminous face. You marvel at her beauty, showing the photograph to friends—anyone who will look: “See. See my mother. This is what she looked like then” — as if she is someone different, someone you don’t remember, someone you never saw before.

In the house on Washington Street, that same mother — the one in the photograph — does the dishes by hand. It is 1964. She gives you a towel. “Here. You dry.”

In her 80’s now, her hair gone gray, her shoulders stooped, her loneliness beats in rhythm with your own. You hear her voice over the miles, and you listen to her stories — endless stories of what ifs. You ask, “Do you remember the house on Washington Street?” And she answers, “Of course I do.”

If you go looking, you will find sidewalk squares to measure. You will find steep concrete steps leading to stoops and into houses. They are everywhere. But something about that house on Washington Street calls you, reminds you of something you just cannot name. You see it in her eyes when you look at the photo. You want someone to tell you the story of that house and her in it. You were there, yet you need someone to tell the story.

You stare a long time at the photo. Her beauty startles you.

by Jan Donley (b. 1956)
American artist, novelist, playwright, poet, teacher

Mosaic Floor in the Bellagio Conservatory, Las Vegas

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

Previous Jan Donley Posts on my blogs:
Lucky Rock
Lost & Found
9 / 11 Retrospective [also on Quotidian Kit]
Dagmar's Birthday [also on Quotidian Kit]
Everyone Loves Stories
There on the Edge of Autumn [also on Quotidian Kit]
"I Seen the Little Lamp" [also on Quotidian Kit]
The House You're Standing In . . . [also on Quotidian Kit]
The Inner World of the Dream Character

Scales
Sleight of Hand
The Little Door
Savor September!
Happy Birthday Coyote!
Copyright
Color Just Invented

Character Sketch

You just never know when you might see yourself in lights!
As an early Mother's Day present, my son Sam is allowing me to post this essay that he wrote a few years back in 6th grade English. Thanks Sam!

My Mother and How She Affects Me
My mother, Kitti Beth Carriker, was born in Coffeyville, Kansas, on May 24, 1957. She went to college at Northeast Missouri State University and then got her Ph.D. in English from the University of Notre Dame, 1984 - 1990. While at Notre Dame, my mom met my dad, William Gerard McCartney, in 1987, and then they moved to West Lafayette, Indiana, and got married in 1989. My mother worked at the Purdue English Department and at the Episcopal Campus Ministry, and in 1990 had her first child, my brother Ben.

In 1993, my mother had her second child, me, Samuel Jerome McCartney. Right before I was born, my mom, dad, and brother moved to Philadelphia. When my mother had her second child, she retired from working, and became a house mom. Many years went by in Philadelphia, and last year we moved to West Lafayette, where we currently live, and I think she likes it better here than in the highly populated and busy city.

My mother, although she isn't employed, is the keystone of our family. She keeps the whole house clean; this is because she is very neat and she probably passed the neat gene on to me. She is also a great cook, so she makes heart healthy food all the time, which is one of the reasons I am a good cook and very healthy and strong. My mother is very educated, very forgiving (but strict sometimes) and very charitable. What I admire her most for is never falling for any lousy scams on the internet or at the store. My mom's best virtue is perseverance. My mother is a very persevering woman and I am a very persevering boy. I thank my mom for everything she has done to help me become me.

Sam McCartney, age 11
March 9, 2005

This earlier present from Sam to me
is one of my all - time favorites:
posted previously with other examples of
"Ocean City Artwork"

Bunny Rabbit

In our backyard this morning!
I just hope he stays away from
Farmer ~ Gerry ~ McGregor's Garden!
~ More on Facebook ~

A favorite poem from childhood:

Meeting the Easter Bunny
On Easter morn at early dawn
before the cocks were crowing
I met a bob-tail bunnykin
and asked where he was going
"Tis in the house and out the house
a-tispy, tipsy-toeing,
Tis round the house and 'bout the house
a-lightly I am going."
"But what is that of every hue
you carry in your basket?"
"Tis eggs of gold and eggs of blue;
I wonder that you ask it.

"Tis chocolate eggs and bonbon eggs
and eggs of red and gray,
For every child in every house
on bonny Easter day."
He perked his ears and winked his eye
and twitched his little nose;
He shook his tail - what tail he had -
and stood up on his toes.
"I must be gone before the sun;
the east is growing gray;
Tis almost time for bells to chime." -
So he hippety-hopped away.

by Rowena Bennett, 1930
from her book:

I knew Bennett's poem
from this beautiful Ideals anthology:

May Day Birthday

Happy May Day to All!

Peonies, 1887
Charles Edward Perugini, 1839 - 1918
[Previous Peony Post]

&

Happy Birthday to Etta!

For my Christmas present this past December, my dear,
life - long friend Marietta gave me a big shopping bag
full of my old letters to her, thinking that I could use
them for my memoirs, and even better -- for blogging!
Thanks Et!

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

Thanks to my friend Mitzi
for sharing this photo from the Woodland Trust

Ah listen, for silence is not lonely!
Imitate the magnificent trees
That speak no word of their rapture, but only
Breathe largely the luminous breeze.

from the poem -- about the painter -- "Corot"
by D. H. Lawrence
Burnetta writes: "Oh what scene, from my childhood in west Kentucky! I have to share this. I just makes me long for the "olden days" at least in landscape.

Indeed! My friend Vickie Amador and I often reminisce about wandering down a lovely path such as this, gathering wildflowers in a basket as a May Day surprise for our elders!

Elizabeth Bishop: Painter & Poet

“If after I read a poem the world looks like that poem
for 24 hours or so I'm sure it's a good one —
and the same goes for paintings. ”
~ Elizabeth Bishop ~

Elizabeth Bishop was "aware of the
smallness and dignity of human observation."
[i.e., the quotidian!]
~ David Kalstone ~

Daisies in Paintbucket
Watercolor and gouache, 10½ x 9½ inches.
William Benton, editor of Exchanging Hats: Elizabeth Bishop Paintings observes that "The general rule of a Bishop picture is: If a table exists, put flowers on it. In this case, with the dramatic focus on the extension cord crossing the planes of the white room (to bring a lamp to the narrow working space), she simply opened the door to the garden instead."

Interior With Extension Cord
Watercolor, gouache, and ink, 6 x 6 inches.
both paintings by Elizabeth Bishop
from the Collection of Loren MacIver
concluding stanza from "A Summer's Dream"
We were awakened in the dark by
the somnambulist brook
nearing the sea,
still dreaming audibly.

concluding stanza from "Cirque D'Hiver" ("Winter Circus")
Facing each other rather desperately—
his eye is like a star—
we stare and say, "Well, we have come this far."

More about Elizabeth Bishop: Painter & Poet on my
CURRENT FORTNIGHTLY BLOG POST:
~ The Inner World
of the Dream Character ~

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

Birnam Wood

Never Fear!
It's just Gerry and Grandpa Ron
rearranging the trees in the yard!

"Who can impress the forest, bid the tree / Unfix his earthbound root?"
Gerry and Ron -- that's who!
************

Macbeth shall never vanquished be until
Great Birnam Wood to high Dunsinane Hill
Shall come against him.

That will never be.
Who can impress the forest, bid the tree
Unfix his earthbound root? Sweet bodements! Good!
Rebellious dead, rise never till the wood
Of Birnam rise . . .

IV, i, 96 - 103
************

Till Birnam wood remove to Dunsinane,
I cannot taint with fear. . . .

I will not be afraid of death and bane,
Till Birnam forest come to Dunsinane.

V, iii, 2 - 3, 59 - 60
************

As I did stand my watch upon the hill,
I look'd toward Birnam, and anon, methought,
The wood began to move. . . .

I pull in resolution, and begin
To doubt the equivocation of the fiend
That lies like truth: 'Fear not, till Birnam wood
Do come to Dunsinane:' and now a wood
Comes toward Dunsinane.

V, v, 35 - 36, 41 - 45
from Shakespeare's Macbeth
************

Look how beautiful the zinnias were in 2005!
I hope we'll have such good luck this year!
And see Josef, out enjoying the day -- to the right?
And to the left, a football!

I especially love this one of Josef and
Grandma Rosanne, out for a walk! ~ Fall 2006

And Dear Old Josef, Sunning Himself On the Deck ~ Fall 2006

Happy Arbor Day
& Belated Birthday to Shakespeare!

Earth Day at Stanford

I was lucky enough to be in California for Earth Day this year,
wandering around the campus of Stanford University.

Thank you Mr. Stanford (1824 - 1893)
for these words of wisdom:

More at BrainyQuote

Alas, Poor Rosenkrantz and Guildenstern! We Knew Them!

A couple of weeks ago, my friends Beata and Katie, and I attended a mini - theater festival at Purdue: Hamlet on the first night; Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead on Sunday afternoon. On Saturday, it seemed par for the course that Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were dead at the end, along with everyone else in Hamlet. But the next day, I felt so let down by the conclusion of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, even though Stoppard's play is jollier than Shakespeare's. Somehow it seemed that the final result for Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, after two hours of consternation and consciousness - raising, should be an awareness that would somehow save their lives, but no. Still dead.

I saw / read this play once years ago and have always remembered it as funny; but this time it made me sad. I was still dwelling on the gloomy after - effects a couple of days later and discussing them with Beata, when my friend Ann posted an article which seemed to totally explain our deflated mood:

Do You Owe The Reader A Happy Ending?
by Celest Ng
Ng points out that it's the sad stories that seem to stay with us not only the next day, but sometimes for years afterward:

Maybe that’s the best argument for allowing yourself to write an “unhappy” ending where justice is not done, for why it’s okay sometimes to leave readers dissatisfied, or yes, even to break their hearts. “Unhappy” endings—that irritate, that rankle, that perturb—keep the reader thinking about them long after the last page. Like a grain of sand against the skin, they rub at the reader’s sense of injustice, asking them to reflect and question. It’s okay to leave the reader satisfied, with a contented sigh, but you don’t have to. It’s okay to leave the reader provoked, too.

Examples from Ng's personal experience include, Bridge to Terabithia, Tuck Everlasting (both of which I read several years ago at the request of my son Ben) and Shabanu, Daughter of the Wind (a new title for me -- just added to my amazon shopping basket,) which Ng says, "upset me so much that . . . More than two decades later, I’m still thinking about that book."

As for Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, I'm still thinking about them.

While there is no obvious resurrection
in this play, there are still a lot of
great quotations to think about
over the Easter Weekend:

Favorite Passages

All your life you live so close
to truth, it becomes a permanent
blur in the corner of your eye,
and when something nudges it into
outline it is like being ambushed
by a grotesque.

"Doubt thou, the stars are fire."
"Doubt that the sun doth move,
but never doubt I love."

Happy in that we are not overhappy.

On Fortune's cap we are
not the very button.
Nor the soles of her shoes?
Neither, my lord.
Then you live about her waist,
or in the middIe of her favours?
Faith, her privates we.
In the secret parts of fortune?
O, most true!
She is a strumpet.

Half of what he said meant
something else, and the other
half didn't mean anything at all.

You understand,
we are tied down to a language
which makes up in obscurity
what it lacks in style.
There's a design at work in all
art surely you know that?

Events must play themselves
out to an aesthetic, moral
and logical conclusion.
And what's that in this case?
It never varies.

We aim for
the point where everyone
who is marked for death dies.
Marked?

Generally speaking things have
gone about as far as
they can possibly go
when things have got about as
bad as they can reasonably get.

Who decides?
Decides? It is written.
We're tragedians, you see.
We follow direction there
is no choice involved.
The bad end unhappily,
the good unluckily.
That is what tragedy means.

Dark, isn't it?
Not for night.
No, not for night.
It's dark for day.
Oh, yes, it's dark for day.

Do you think death
could possibly be a boat?

I don't believe in it anyway.
In what?
England.
Just a conspiracy of
cartographers, you mean?
I mean I don't believe it.
England.
England! I don't believe it!
Just a conspiracy
of cartographers you mean.
I mean I don't believe it and even
if it's true what do we say?

Was it all for this? Who are we
that so much should converge
on our little deaths?

You are Rosencrantz
and Guildenstern. That is enough.
No, it is not enough.

To be told so little to
such an end and still, finally,
to be denied an explanation.
In our experience,
almost everything ends in death.
Your experience! Actors!
You die a thousand casual deaths
and come back in a different hat.

But nobody gets up after death...
there's no applause only silence
and some secondhand
clothes, that's death!

If we have a destiny, then so
had he and this is ours,
then that was his
and if there are no explanations
for us, then let there
be none for him.

Oh, come, come gentlemen,
no flattery it was merely competent.
You see, it is the kind
you do believe in,
it's what is expected.
Deaths for all ages and occasions!
Deaths of king and princes
and nobodies...
That's it then, is it?

We've done nothing wrong.
We didn't harm anyone, did we?
I can't remember.
All right, then, I don't care.
I've had enough.
To tell you the truth,
I'm relieved.

There must have been
a moment at the beginning,
where we could have said no.
But somehow we missed it.
Well, we'll know better next time.

Till then.
The sight is dismal.
And our affairs from
England come too late.

The ears are senseless that should
give us hearing. To tell him his
commandment is fulfilled...
that Rosencratz
and Guildenstern are dead.

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

Additional Favorites from my friend Kathie:

“We cross our bridges when we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and a presumption that once our eyes watered. “

“[Y]ou can't act death. The fact of it is nothing to do with seeing it happen—it's not gasps and blood and falling about—that isn't what makes it death. It's just a man failing to reappear, that's all—now you see him, now you don't, that’s the only thing that's real: here one minute and gone the next and never coming back—an exit, unobtrusive and unannounced, a disappearance gathering weight as it goes on, until, finally, it is heavy with death.”