"the green ivy and red holly made you feel so happy"

Christmas Plum Pudding
" . . . and the warm heavy smell of turkey and ham and celery rose from the plates and dishes and the great fire was banked high and red in the grate and the green ivy and red holly made you feel so happy and when dinner was ended the big plum pudding would be carried in, studded with peeled almonds and sprigs of holly, with bluish fire running around it and a little green flag flying from the top" (30).

from A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
by James Joyce

More Christmas Puddings by Mrs Beeton

"Hallo! A great deal of steam! The pudding was out of the copper. A smell like a washing-day! That was the cloth. A smell like an eating-house and a pastrycook’s next door to each other, with a laundress’s next door to that! That was the pudding. In half a minute Mrs Cratchit entered: flushed, but smiling proudly: with the pudding, like a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm, blazing in half of half-a-quartern of ignited brandy, and bedight with Christmas holly stuck into the top."

from A Christmas Carol
by Charles Dickens

More recipes and references @Food in Literature and The Study

Miniature Rosemary Wreath

Araby

Formerly The Jervis Street Hospital
How oddly fitting and ironic to visit Dublin the week before Thanksgiving and find the Jervis Street Hospital site transformed into a glittering urban mall, particular since the shopping bazaar, attended by Joyce's young narrator, was held in aid of this same hospital:

"She asked me if I was going to Araby. I forget whether I answered yes or no. It would be a splendid bazaar, she said; she would love to go. . . . If I go, I said, I will bring you something. . . . The syllables of the word Araby were called to me through the silence in which my soul luxuriated and cast an Eastern enchantment over me."

James Joyce ~"Araby" ~ Dubliners ~ 1914
Some sources even mention Jervis Street Hospital as the actual location of the bazaar, which makes a great story, though to be more accurate it was held in the Royal Dublin Society’s grounds in Ballsbridge.

Dublin ~ where the holiday decorations appear even earlier
than in the United States ~ 15 November 2015!

The Jervis Shopping Centre has everything:
Boots, Marks & Spencer, Tesco . . . even Burger King!

Magical!

"If I go, I will bring you something."

Jervis Street Skyline

A song to charm the toursits: "The Dublin Saunter"

Longly, Longingly

"His midriff yearned then upward, sank within him,
yearned more longly longingly."

~ James Joyce, Ulysses, 172 - 73
Coming across the above line in Ulysses in 1978, inspired me to attempt a poem on the same gut sensation:

The Ache You Wear

You fall into her arms like crying,
feel her lips in your hair,
soothing like a parent
and something else.

Wooden and broken,
you lean rigidly.
Your forehead rests against breasts
which must be like your own.

With each soft motion,
the ache you wear like a brace
begins to melt, drips
slowly down your back.

Like congestion, it seeps inside,
fills the space between every rib,
then tatters into loose bits
that choke upward and sink within you.

Yearning for a familiarity,
you move toward this woman
and this one comfort
after taking leave of him.

For this time you fall away
from any pain.
Thick rags are floating
now in your stomach.

More visceral imagery
on my current post

~ "Longly, Longingly" ~

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

Stephen's Dilemma

Seasoned Hacking Chesnut
or
Coffin - shaped Snuffbox?

Which would you pick?

You can read more about Stephen's Dilemma
on my recent posts

~ His Little Snuffbox ~
&
~ The Young Language of Stephen Dedalus ~

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

"Stephen Dedalus
Class of Elements
Clongowes Wood College
Sallins
County Kildare
Ireland
Europe
The World
The Universe
. . .

Stephen Dedalus is my name,
Ireland is my nation,
Clongowes is my dwellingplace,
And heaven my expectation"

from A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
by James Joyce

Behold the Boy

Mystical Groundhog Day photography by Nancy Allen

Happy Birthday James Joyce
2 February 1882 – 13 January 1941
James Joyce (and my brother Dave) both share the honor of arriving on the cross - quarter day known as Imbolc, the half - way point between the Winter Solstice and the Vernal Equinox (which accounts for cultural observations such as Groundhog Day and Candlemas).

So many poems and passages are appropriate for this day, but my favorite has to be the bittersweet poem that Joyce wrote in 1932, shortly after the death of his father, John Stanislaus Joyce, on 29 December 1931, and the birth of his grandson, Stephen James Joyce, on 16 February 1932:

Ecce Puer

Of the dark past
A child is born;
With joy and grief
My heart is torn.

Calm in his cradle
The living lies.
May love and mercy
Unclose his eyes!

Young life is breathed
On the glass;
The world that was not
Comes to pass.

A child is sleeping:
An old man gone.
O, father forsaken,
Forgive your son!

James Joyce

Happy Groundhog Day Birthday Greetings
to my brother Dave Carriker;
to the master, James Joyce; and belatedly to

Carl Sandburg, a child of Epiphany
6 January 1878 - 22 July 1967
Whereas James Joyce was born on Candlemas Day, Carl Sandburg had the distinction of arriving on the Epiphany (celebrating the Feast of the Three Kings, immediately following the Twelfth Day of Christmas).

Sandburg's birthday poem "Harsk, Harsk," captures the almost eerie joy of entering the world on an auspicious date in a whirl of snow. I nearly posted this poem last month, on Sandburg's actual birthday, along with his Epiphany poem "Star Silver," but in the spirit of a poem for every poem, I saved it for today.

Harsk, Harsk

1
Harsk, harsk, the wind blows tonight.
What a night for a baby to come into the world!
What a night for a melodrama baby to come
And the father wondering
And the mother wondering
What the years will bring on their stork feet
Till a year when this very baby might be saying
On some storm night when a melodrama baby is born:

"What a night
for a baby
to come into the world!!"
Harsk, harsk, the wind blows tonight.

2.
It is five months off.
Knit, stitch, and hemstitch.
Sheets, bags, towels, these are the offerings.
When he is older -- or she is a big girl --
There may be flowers or ribbons or money
For birthday offerings. Now, however,
We must remember it is a naked stranger
Coming to us, and the sheath of the arrival
Is so soft we must be ready, and soft too.
Knit, stitch, hemstitch, it is only five months.

3.
It would be easy to pick a lucky star for this baby
If a choice of two stars lay before our eyes,
One a pearl gold star and one pearl silver,
And the offer of a chance to pick a lucky star.

4.
When the high hour comes
Let there be a light flurry of snow,
A little zigzag of white spots
Against the gray roofs.
The snow - born all understand this as a luck - wish.

Carl Sandburg

Thanks once again to my perceptive sister - in - law - in - law
Nancy Allen for sharing her photographic talents!

Snow Was General

The New Year has begun with a great series of coincidences, all revolving around "The Dead" -- the final story in the sequence of fifteen stories that comprise James Joyce's Dubliners.

For the full sequence of connections, see my latest post:

"Snow Was General"

on
The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker
A fortnightly [every 14th & 28th]
literary blog of connection & coincidence; custom & ceremony
"A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the news­pa­pers were right: snow was gen­eral all over Ire­land. It was falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, fur­ther west­wards, softly falling into the dark muti­nous Shan­non waves. It was falling too upon every part of the lonely church­yard where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and head­stones, on the spears of the lit­tle gate, on the bar­ren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the uni­verse and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the liv­ing and the dead."

from "The Dead"
by James Joyce

Likewise, all I have to do is look out my window to see that
just as it was for the Dubliners, a century or more ago,
the snow this week is general all over Indiana.

Bloomsday & Father's Day

Cartoons for Father's Day

Happy Father's Day . . .

and Happy Bloomsday!

"For myself, I always write about Dublin,
because if I can get to the heart of Dublin
I can get to the heart of all the cities of the world.
In the particular is contained the universal."
~ James Joyce ~
"Heureux Qui, Comme Ulysse . . . "
Happy he (or she)
Who travels the day
Hopefully, and the
World without hope, calm,
A smiling stoic
Who savours what his
Life may bring. Happy
The day of birth, and
Happy our dying:
Without it, life will
Not be known. Let all
Be seen for itself,
For what it is! Do
Not fear the voyage
Towards the world's edge
And the final hour.
Take pity on time.
Welcome each event
Because it greets you
As the destined one.

by Edward Lucie - Smith
in Light Unlocked, 47

Happy Bloomsday to All!

in honor of James Joyce, Ulysses,
Leopold Bloom, and Bloomsday
Thanks to my son Ben for allowing me to share some of his recent Dublin photos and captions . . .

"We started south towards the river Liffey
passing the General Post Office on the way."


"Across the river we find Trinity College Dublin.
One of Gerry McCartney's alma maters."


"We continued South, down Grafton street,
and to the entrance of St. Stephen's Green."


"Chris stopped to take some pictures of ducks."


"We found a hat and sweater shop in Dublin and
couldn't help but try them on. Unfortunately I
look ridiculous, Richard's looking pretty good though."

"We saw a lot of beer being delivered around
the city. It was a clear reminder that Dublin
was the place to be for the freshest Guinness."


"Speaking of Guinness. We got some for lunch
and it was far and away better than the
canned American version. Chris was thirsty."


Happy Bloomsday to All
And to All a Good Night!

It's always Bloomsday somewhere! Right?

See also

1. my post from Bloomsday 2011:"Parallax"

2. what Stephan Dedalus has to say about "Never Fear"

View across St. Stephen's Green, looking south.
~ Dublin, Ireland ~ ca. 1900 ~

"Crossing Stephen's, that is, my green . . . " (186)
from Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
by James Joyce

Epiphany

An extra minute of light ~ January Sunset

"Haven't you noticed the days
somehow keep getting longer?
And the spirit - voices whisper in us all
Haven't you noticed the rays?
The Spirit Sun is stronger
And a New Day is dawning for us all."

from "Hummingbird"
by Seals & Crofts

Epiphany . . . according to James Joyce:
Claritas is quidditas
P. S. Must confess I haven't been writing much commentary lately, but I'll get back to it ASAP. For now ~ just letting the pictures & poems stand for themselves. The lazy [holiday] way, but sometimes less is enough, right?

Bloomsday

Update 2025:
The Forty Foot & The Martello Tower

In honor of Bloomsday, here is a passage from Joyce
to go along with King Lear's question:

"Who is it that can tell me who I am?"
William Shakespeare, from King Lear

"Think you're escaping and run into yourself.
Longest way round is the shortest way home."
James Joyce, from Ulysses

Is reading Ulysses still on your "to do" list?
Well, just for a bit of fun, you can watch this Lego Version.

My friend and fellow Modernist, Kathleen O'Gorman says:
"Happy Bloomsday, citizens, phenomenologists, throwaways, foreigners, gentlemen of the press, evermoving wanderers, weavers and unweavers, pedestrians in brown macintoshes, Wandering Soap, sailors crutching around corners, no-one, everyone! Hoping you're well and not in hell!"

Never Fear

View across St. Stephen's Green, looking south.
~ Dublin, Ireland ~ ca. 1900 ~

"Crossing Stephen's, that is, my green . . . " (186)
from Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
by James Joyce
In Little Women Next Door, by Sheila Solomon Kass: The shy cautious narrator, Susan, is watching the bold Alcott kids in admiration and envy as they climb a tall tree and swing from the branches. Watching Louisa May, Susan thinks to herself, "She seemed to know no fear. Her face was glowing with joy. . . I didn't care to tell them all how afeared I was of heights. . . She's braver than I am, I thought. I couldn't explain it. I wished I was different. . . . How did it happen that I was born scared? And they were born brave?" (50).

In Saffy's Angel, by Hilary McKay: The brother, Indigo, is reading a book about the polar explorers: "Nobody Indigo knew had such adventures. . . . They were none of them as strong as steel and brave as tigers, and the least strong and brave of all of them (as Indigo knew only too well) was Indigo himself. Indigo thought about it, and it seemed to him that he had been born afraid of almost everything. He made a list. He wrote down on a piece of paper all the things that frightened him most, and he set about to cure himself" (24).

I wonder what's the odds that I would come across two such similar thoughts in two such different stories? Did these authors create these characters to help "kids" like me deal with their inner coward? Is being "born afraid" (and carrying that cowardice with you into your adult life) a typical childhood worry that authors of adolescent fiction deal with in their novels? It has usually seemed the opposite -- that the kids are all so remarkably fearless, like Nancy Drew and Jo March and the Melendys and Harry Potter & his precocious friends.

But, now that I think about it, maybe I wasn't born afraid. I can't recall being either especially brave or especially cowardly as a kid. Maybe I was just somewhere in between; maybe I was just -- could it be? --normal!

I guess I was fearful of my swimming lessons at age 5 and fearful of my mother's disapproval by age 10 or so. And some real fear set in at age 15 when I took drivers' ed and saw those horrible movies and then had to actually drive a car and be filled forever with the anguish that I would cause another's death (therein lies the root of all my driving anxiety; and also the explanation for why I've never suffered from a fear of flying, i.e., because I'm not the one in the driver's seat, not the one responsible for all those other lives). Fear of driving was soon followed by fear of sex and fear of standing up for myself; and, before I knew it, I had carried all that anxiety from my teens right into my adulthood.

Maybe its still not too late to be brave like Louisa May Alcott / Jo March, Jonathan Livingston Seagull, and Stephen Dedalus, who names his only weapons, "the only arms I allow myself to use -- silence, exile, and cunning" -- and then declares: "You made me confess the fears I have. But I will tell you also what I do not fear. I do not fear to be alone or to be spurned for another or to leave whatever I have to leave. And I am not afraid to make a mistake, even a great mistake, a lifelong mistake and perhaps as long as eternity too. . . . I will take the risk" (247, from my very old edition of Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, by James Joyce).

Whatever Stephen says, I am intrigued by the possibility that, in manner of Cognitive Behavior Therapy, the declamation of his positive mantra is enough to increase his courage and confidence -- and nearly enough to convince his orbital frontal cortex that indeed he is not afraid. He enumerates the very things he fears the most and, by denouncing, conquers them. You know, it just might work.

Long live Irish lit and neuro - psychology!