Onion Sauce!

Still Life with Onions, 1889
Vincent van Gogh, 1853 – 1890

If you need a startling insult, how about the expression hurled by "the impatient and contemptuous Mole, who trotted along the side of the hedge chaffing [teasing] the other rabbits as they peeped hurriedly from their holes to see what the row was about. "Onion-sauce! Onion-sauce!" he remarked jeeringly, and was gone before they could think of a thoroughly satisfactory reply. Then they all started grumbling at each other. "How stupid you are! Why didn’t you tell him—" "Well, why didn’t you say—" “You might have reminded him—" and so on, in the usual way; but, of course, it was then much too late, as is always the case.

from The Wind in the Willows (8 - 9, emphasis added)
by Kenneth Grahame
illustrated by Arthur Rackham

Mole's taunt implies either that the rabbits are country bumpkins or that, if they are not careful, they are likely to be caught and eaten with a side of onion sauce. Either way, it'a good dismissive remark to have in your repertoire. Onion sauce!

The rabbits' response -- or lack thereof -- is similar to John Steinbeck's experience of being detained at the American - Canadian border and having to endure a pile of hassle. He doesn't sass back, but later . . .

"Before I went to sleep I went over all the things I wished I had
said . . . and some of them were incredibly clever and cutting"

from Travels With Charley (69)

[cf. L'esprit de l'escalier]

Tears & Crying

“Life is like an onion; you peel it off one layer at a time, 
and sometimes you weep.” ― Carl Sandburg 

Facebook & Fortnightly
More Van Gogh: FN ~ KL ~ QK

Holiday Barns

Thanksgiving

Harvest Sunset

Red gold of pools,
Sunset furrows six o'clock,
And the farmer done in the fields
And the cows in the barns with bulging udders.

Take the cows and the farmer,
Take the barns and bulging udders.
Leave the red gold of pools
And sunset furrows six o'clock.
The farmer's wife is singing.
The farmer's boy is whistling.
I wash my hands in red gold of pools.

A few more favorites
from Tammy Sandel's
"Barn Heart Series"

Christmas

Improved Farm Land

Tall timber stood here once, here on a corn belt farm along the Monon.

Here the roots of a half mile of trees dug their runners deep in the loam for a grip and a hold against wind storms.

Then the axmen came and the chips flew to the zing of steel and handle the lank railsplitters cut the big ones first, the beeches and the oaks, then the brush.

Dynamite, wagons and horses took the stumps--the plows sunk their teeth in--now it is first class corn land--improved property--and the hogs grunt over the fodder crops.

It would come hard now for this half mile of improved farm land along the Monon corn belt, on a piece of Grand Prairie, to remember once it had a great singing family of trees.

Both poems by Carl Sandburg (1878 – 1967)

Neewollah

Lots of places have Halloween,
but Independence, Kansas,
has Neewollah --
the largest annual celebration in Kansas!

Theme in Yellow

I spot the hills
With yellow balls in autumn.
I light the prairie cornfields
Orange and tawny gold clusters
And I am called pumpkins.
On the last of October
When dusk is fallen
Children join hands
And circle round me
Singing ghost songs
And love to the harvest moon;
I am a jack-o'-lantern
With terrible teeth
And the children know
I am fooling.

By Carl Sandburg (1878 – 1967)

And many more Halloween Poems

P.S.
I just love this essay for Halloween!
A Blessed Samhaim to All

Shine on, O Moon of Summer

~ facebook ~ post ~

Back Yard

Shine on, O moon of summer.
Shine to the leaves of grass, catalpa and oak,
All silver under your rain to-night.

An Italian boy is sending songs to you to-night from an accordion.
A Polish boy is out with his best girl; they marry next month;
to-night they are throwing you kisses.

An old man next door is dreaming over a sheen that sits in a
cherry tree in his back yard.

The clocks say I must go — I stay here sitting on the back porch drinking
white thoughts you rain down.

Shine on, O moon,
Shake out more and more silver changes.

by Carl Sandburg (1878 – 1967)
[also Autumn / and more]

Full Moon ~ Paula Belle Flores

June Moonrise

I see them in the Evening
Go slowly, softly, through
Deep hedge-ways where the thrush sings late
And on the stile or at the gate
The coming of calm moonrise wait,
As we were wont to do.
Far up the land of brightness drawn
On dew-starred fields by that gentle dawn
Their young eyes see
Days that shall be,
And mine days that are gone.

from The Crowning of the Year (1937)
by Loyd Haberly (1896 – 1981)
[also May]

My Front Yard Photos

Summer Solstice:
June 20, 2024 ~ 4:51 pm EDT

Full Strawberry / Rose / Hot / Honey Moon:
June 21, 2024 ~ 9:08 pm EDT

The Hydrangeas Keep on Giving

It seems that for the past six months or so,
everywhere I turn,
stunning hydrangeas have been on view!
Above, in England ~ below, in my own backyard:

Hydrangeas

Dragoons, I tell you the white hydrangeas
turn rust and go soon.
Already mid September a line of brown runs
over them.
One sunset after another tracks the faces, the
petals.
Waiting, they look over the fence for what
way they go.

Carl Sandburg (1878 - 1967)
beloved American writer, editor, poet
winner of three Pulitzer Prizes

Spring 2023
Out with the old; awaiting the new

Our Hydrangea Paniculata
aka "Fire & Ice"

Flourishing in the traiffic island
in the middle of our road
August 2023

One of our lovliest
October 2014 ~ Indiana

An even longer season in England
December 2021

England ~ October 2023

More Hydrangeas:
Sadness & Potpourri & Oakleaf

And Fuchsias!

Moonrise

Waiting for the Harvest Moon
to Rise Above the Treeline

Under the Harvest Moon

Under the harvest moon,
When the soft silver
Drips shimmering
Over the garden nights,
Death, the gray mocker,
Comes and whispers to you
As a beautiful friend
Who remembers.



Under the summer roses
When the flagrant crimson
Lurks in the dusk
Of the wild red leaves,
Love, with little hands,
Comes and touches you
With a thousand memories,
And asks you
Beautiful, unanswerable questions.

by Carl Sandburg, 1878 - 1967
beloved American writer, editor, poet
winner of three Pulitzer Prizes

Thanks Carl Sandburg for reminding us that
Summer and Autumn are both full of memories.
Summer whispers to us of Love, Autumn of Death.

Guess It!

Between living and dreaming
there is a third thing.
Guess it.

Antonio Machado (1875 - 1939)
Spanish Poet

As with the proverbs posted on
April 7, April 10, April 13, & June 4, 2014
these lines from Antonio Machado 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!

When I was photographing the above irises in our front yard,
I accidentally broke off a still-closed flower, so I took it inside
as a "rescue blossom" and was so thrilled when it opened perfectly!

***************
P.S.
What is the third thing?

My friends Jan & Diane guessed "Blooming" & "Becoming"
[see first comment below]

My friend Cate suggesed the concept of ~ Sati / Mindfulness ~
[the first factor of enlightenment & self - mastery]

Here are my literary guesses,
[based not on any direct connection to Machado
but on phrases -- some well - known to me, some new --
that have caught my heart in my recent reading and writing]

1. an explosive, soaring joy
see Joyce Sidman
What The Heart Knows

"But we still believe in the power of the words themselves. . . .
Finding phrases to match the emotion inside us still brings
an explosive, soaring joy."

2. "a rich soft wanting"
see Carl Sandburg

3. "the fire . . . hot within"
see Virginia Woolf

4. the Japanese concept of
~ Mono no aware ~

5. the Portuguese concept of
~ Saudade ~
[sau·da·de / souˈdädə =
a feeling or state of nostalgia
or profound melancholic longing,
supposedly characteristic of the
Portuguese or Brazilian temperament]

Seek Deep

Gerry Giving Sam his Diploma
"With Highest Distinction"
The following poem and song have both appeared on this blog before; yet I think they are perfect for Sam's graduation from Purdue, so I'm sharing them again and hope you agree:

What Shall He Tell That Son?
A father sees a son nearing manhood.
What shall he tell that son?
‘Life is hard; be steel; be a rock.’
And this might stand him for the storms
and serve him for humdrum and monotony
and guide him amid sudden betrayals
and tighten him for slack moments.
‘Life is a soft loam; be gentle; go easy.’
And this too might serve him.
Brutes have been gentled where lashes failed.
The growth of a frail flower in a path up
has sometimes shattered and split a rock.
A tough will counts. So does desire.
So does a rich soft wanting.
Without rich wanting nothing arrives.
Tell him too much money has killed men
And left them dead years before burial:
The quest of lucre beyond a few easy needs
Has twisted good enough men
Sometimes into dry thwarted worms.
Tell him time as a stuff can be wasted.
Tell him to be a fool every so often
and to have no shame over having been a fool
yet learning something out of every folly
hoping to repeat none of the cheap follies
thus arriving at intimate understanding
of a world numbering many fools.
Tell him to be alone often and get at himself
and above all tell himself no lies about himself
whatever the white lies and protective fronts
he may use amongst other people.
Tell him solitude is creative if he is strong
and the final decisions are made in silent rooms.
Tell him to be different from other people
if it comes natural and easy being different.
Let him have lazy days seeking his deeper motives.
Let him seek deep for where he is a born natural.
Then he may understand Shakespeare
and the Wright brothers, Pasteur, Pavlov,
Michael Faraday and free imaginations
Bringing changes into a world resenting change.
He will be lonely enough
to have time for the work
he knows as his own. [emphasis added]

by Carl Sandburg, 1878 - 1967
beloved American writer, editor, poet
winner of three Pulitzer Prizes
from his epic prose poem, The People, Yes (1936)

Rebel Son
performed by Survivor

You're still young, still so sure
So determined you can find a cure
You've always been the driven one
Speak your mind, rebel son

In your eyes, wildfires rage
You read between the lines of every page
Take your chances while you're young
Seek the truth, rebel son

Shatter the silence
Fill the night with your righteous defiance
While you've still got the will to run
Take your message to the streets tonight, rebel son

There's a restless voice that's callin' you
Through the darkest night, fight the fight, rebel son
To yourself alone you must be true, rebel son

Stand your ground, against the tide
The proof of history is on your side
Fight the cause for everyone
Dare to dream, rebel son

Shatter the silence
Fill the night with your righteous defiance
While you've still got the will to run
Take your message to the streets tonight, rebel son

There's a restless voice that's callin' you
Through the darkest night, fight the fight, rebel son
To yourself alone you must be true, Rebel son

In the dark, thunder in your heart
Can't you hear the sound and fury in the night
Feel the heat, risin' from the street
Passion runs so deep
To match the fire in your eyes
Take your message to the streets tonight - rebel son

There's a restless voice that's callin' you
Through the darkest night - fight the fight - rebel son
To yourself alone you must be true
Rebel son

by Jim Peterik, Frankie Sullivan, Jimi Jamison

Samuel Jerome McCartney
Bachelor of Science in Management & Finance

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!

Star Silver Pine Green

The Star Store, at the Christkindlmarket, Chicago 2012
[also 2011 & 2013]
My current Fortnightly post ~ "Wish Book" ~ includes the lyrics to Cris Williamson's nostalgic song "Wish - Book," which can be found on her CD, Snow Angel. On the same CD, she also recites this haunting, lovely poem:

Star Silver
The silver of one star
Plays cross-lights against pine green

And the play of this silver
cross-wise against the green
Is an old story . . .
thousands of years. [ellipses in original]

And sheep raisers on the hills by night
Watching the wooly four-footed ramblers,
Watching a single silver star --
Why does the story never wear out?

And a baby, slung in a feed box
Back in a barn in a Bethlehem slum,
A baby's first cry, mixing with the crunch
Of a mule's teeth on Bethlehem Christmas corn,
Baby fists, softer than snowflakes of Norway,

The vagabond mother of Christ
And the vagabond men of wisdom,
All in a barn on a winter night,
And a baby there in swaddling clothes on hay --
Why does the story never wear out?

The sheen of it all
Is a star sliver and a pine green
For the heart of a child asking a story,
The red and hungry, red and hankering heart
Calling for cross - lights of silver and green.

by Carl Sandburg, 6 January 1878 - 22 July 1967
beloved American writer, editor, poet
winner of three Pulitzer Prizes

Star Silver Pine Green

Photo by Jay Beets

Happy Bat - stille Day!

Pere Lachaise Cemetery Bat*

Private rites of magic . . .
An imaginary friend . . .
the Ancient Disciplines . . .

Unendowed with wealth or pity,
Little birds [and bats?] with scarlet legs . . .

~ W. H. Auden ~
from "The Fall of Rome"

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

Montmartre Grave Diggers*

"The woman named Tomorrow . . . takes her time . . .
and drawls: Well, what of it?
My grandmother, Yesterday, is gone.
What of it? Let the dead be dead."

~ Carl Sandburg ~
from "Four Preludes On Playthings of the Wind"

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

You can read the complete text of these
"Two Poems for Bastille Day"
on the
The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker
A fortnightly [every 14th & 28th]
literary blog of connection & coincidence; custom & ceremony

*Thanks to my friend Steven La Vigne
for sharing his Paris photography
~ Summer 2012 ~

"Altogether elsewhere . . . "

April Fools

That Was a Joke!

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

Some good advice for April Fool's Day
[Sandburg didn't mean to be sexist; this advice goes for girls too!]

A father sees a son nearing manhood.
What shall he tell that son? . . .

Tell him to be a fool every so often
and to have no shame over having been a fool
yet learning something out of every folly
hoping to repeat none of the cheap follies
thus arriving at intimate understanding
of a world numbering many fools.

~ Carl Sandburg ~

See previous post for entire poem.

What Shall He Tell That Son?

Collage design from my clip art phase in the 1970s
(click to enlarge)

A father sees a son nearing manhood.
What shall he tell that son?
************
Tell him to be a fool every so often
and to have no shame over having been a fool
yet learning something out of every folly
hoping to repeat none of the cheap follies
thus arriving at intimate understanding
of a world numbering many fools.
When Ben & Sam were students at St. Peter's School, Philadelphia, they were required to memorize and recite a poem every month. They became quite adept at managing increasingly long works, and I often urged them to choose this favorite of mine by Carl Sandburg. Of course I admired all of their choices and their smashing declamations, but neither one ever did get around to picking "What Shall He Tell That Son?"

Let me take the opportunity to post it here today, on the occasion of Ben's 20th birthday. [And subsequently, Sam's college graduation]

A father sees a son nearing manhood.
What shall he tell that son?

‘Life is hard; be steel; be a rock.’
And this might stand him for the storms
and serve him for humdrum and monotony
and guide him amid sudden betrayals
and tighten him for slack moments.
‘Life is a soft loam; be gentle; go easy.’
And this too might serve him.
Brutes have been gentled where lashes failed.
The growth of a frail flower in a path up
has sometimes shattered and split a rock.
A tough will counts. So does desire.
So does a rich soft wanting.
Without rich wanting nothing arrives.

Tell him too much money has killed men
And left them dead years before burial:
The quest of lucre beyond a few easy needs
Has twisted good enough men
Sometimes into dry thwarted worms.
Tell him time as a stuff can be wasted.

Tell him to be a fool every so often
and to have no shame over having been a fool
yet learning something out of every folly
hoping to repeat none of the cheap follies
thus arriving at intimate understanding
of a world numbering many fools.

Tell him to be alone often and get at himself
and above all tell himself no lies about himself
whatever the white lies and protective fronts
he may use amongst other people.

Tell him solitude is creative if he is strong
and the final decisions are made in silent rooms.
Tell him to be different from other people
if it comes natural and easy being different.
Let him have lazy days seeking his deeper motives.
Let him seek deep for where he is a born natural.
Then he may understand Shakespeare
and the Wright brothers, Pasteur, Pavlov,
Michael Faraday and free imaginations
Bringing changes into a world resenting change.
He will be lonely enough
to have time for the work
he knows as his own.

by Carl Sandburg, 1878 - 1967
beloved American writer, editor, poet
winner of three Pulitzer Prizes
from his epic prose poem, The People, Yes (1936)

Ben's Favorite ~ Chocolate Cheese Cake!
Happy Birthday to You!