In honor of Edward Estlin Cummings (1894-1962), whose birthday it is today, a painting and a poem.
—ee cummings
Tag: Poetry
Last Rose of Summer
Well, the last two roses.
Wild Geese
For the anniversary of September 11th, a painting and a poem.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again. Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting — over and over announcing your place in the family of things.
— Mary Oliver
Jim
This image is available as a high-resolution print on 8.5″ x 11″ archival paper.
This hope-colored sky
My Aunt Bett, who lives on Orcas Island in Washington State, has fallen and broken her hip, and probably will not be able to go home again. Ninety-three years old, still spunky and bright, still living in her house (with much help from her gentle and patient son and daughter-in-law), surrounded by beloved books and photographs, accustomed to feeding the songbirds and the stray cats that come to her door, she is taken aback by transplantation.
Formerly fiercely sociable and independent, she has found it very hard to grow old, to lose family and friends, to give up her dog, her car, and now her nest. We call, we send our loving thoughts, we hope it makes a dent in the sorrow.
Here is a sketch of Aunt Bett I made on our last visit. I post with it a poem she shared with me that I love. Thanks to Jason for finding its author for me.
With Caleb Age Two on the Porch
My weatherglass does not lie; This hope-colored sky Will again be gray with rain, But while the sunlight flows Honey-warm and honey-slow It is enough and more To simply sit and rock With this small and sleeping Grandson in my arms.—Ken Wood
Doug & Krissy
Rob
Anne’s Aunt KT
September
—John Updike
Elizabeth
La pensée
A painting and a poem for Sunday.
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Kind to others, brave and good
A poem for Sunday from our family dinner table verse book. These blessings sound so simple and straightforward yet are so extremely difficult in practice. Each day presents an opportunity to give it another try…
Father and Daughter
Here is a sketch from a past beach vacation, which is when our family customarily plays lots of card games. (We are all especially addicted to La Belle Lucie.) A doting father is so tolerant of a girl’s little foibles. Like cheating at Go Fish.
In honor of Ogden Nash (1902-1971), whose birthday it is today, I post his poem, “Song To Be Sung by the Father of Infant Female Children.” At one time my son wouldn’t have been amused by its depiction of boys. Now, as a big brother, he also has morphed into fatherly protective mode.
My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky; Contrariwise, my blood runs cold When little boys go by. For little boys as little boys, No special hate I carry, But now and then they grow to men, And when they do, they marry. No matter how they tarry, Eventually they marry. And, swine among the pearls, They marry little girls. Oh, somewhere, somewhere, an infant plays, With parents who feed and clothe him. Their lips are sticky with pride and praise, But I have begun to loathe him. Yes, I loathe with loathing shameless This child who to me is nameless. This bachelor child in his carriage Gives never a thought to marriage, But a person can hardly say knife Before he will hunt him a wife. I never see an infant (male), A-sleeping in the sun, Without I turn a trifle pale And think is he the one? Oh, first he’ll want to crop his curls, And then he’ll want a pony, And then he’ll think of pretty girls, And holy matrimony. A cat without a mouse Is he without a spouse. Oh, somewhere he bubbles bubbles of milk, And quietly sucks his thumbs. His cheeks are roses painted on silk, And his teeth are tucked in his gums. But alas the teeth will begin to grow, And the bubbles will cease to bubble; Given a score of years or so, The roses will turn to stubble. He’ll sell a bond, or he’ll write a book, And his eyes will get that acquisitive look, And raging and ravenous for the kill, He’ll boldly ask for the hand of Jill. This infant whose middle Is diapered still Will want to marry My daughter Jill. Oh sweet be his slumber and moist his middle! My dreams, I fear, are infanticiddle. A fig for embryo Lohengrins! I’ll open all his safety pins, I’ll pepper his powder, and salt his bottle, And give him readings from Aristotle. Sand for his spinach I’ll gladly bring, And Tabasco sauce for his teething ring. Then perhaps he’ll struggle through fire and water To marry somebody else’s daughter.
—Ogden Nash
Lucy
August
For this August day, a painting from a North Carolina beach house deck, one bright hot summer afternoon; and a poem.
The sprinkler twirls.
The summer wanes.
The pavement wears
Popsicle stains.
The playground grass
Is worn to dust.
The weary swings
Creak, creak with rust.
The trees are bored
With being green.
Some people leave
The local scene
And go to seaside
Bungalows
And take off nearly
All their clothes.
The sprinkler twirls.
The summer wanes.
The pavement wears
Popsicle stains.
The playground grass
Is worn to dust.
The weary swings
Creak, creak with rust.
The trees are bored
With being green.
Some people leave
The local scene
And go to seaside
Bungalows
And take off nearly
All their clothes.
—John Updike
Fish
The pond in the Bishop’s Garden, from a series of paintings at Washington National Cathedral. And a poem.
AA
The Name of a Fish
.
If winter is a house then summer is a window
in the bedroom of that house. Sorrow is a river
behind the house and happiness is the name
of a fish who swims downstream. The unborn child who plays in the fragrant garden is named Mavis: her red hair is made of future and her sleek feet
are wet with dreams. The cat who naps in the bedroom has his paws in the sun of summer and his tail in the moonlight of change. You and I
spend years walking up and down the dusty stairs of the house. Sometimes we stand in the bedroom and the cat walks towards us like a message.
Sometimes we pick dandelions from the garden and watch the white heads blow open in our hands. We are learning to fish in the river
of sorrow; we are undressing for a swim.
— Faith Shearin